Are we sposed to wait five years between blog posts??

I am a Cracker.  I have no doubt.  I can read and write, but I abhor the snobbery of an Emerson.  I can till the earth, and even grow things; but it does not last long.  The most I ever did with my first garden was to stake it out.  There is a nice little troy-bilt under the house.

My share of drinking I completed at middle-age, but I still had enough in my internal organs, blood and brain to qualify as a Southernized Celt or a Celticized Southron.

Not much of a fighter, but I will fight over tyranny and oppression, and vehemently over oppression of the feeble or timid person of color. Makes my Cracker blood boil.

What I want to see in the New South is a culture of folk who get along just fine without getting into each others' business, who help one another along the way, who are not ruled by money or possessions, who may still be moving about but willing to settled down after a couple of dozen domiciles.

Merry Maids

They're coming. Deep cleaning. That's what they call it. How deep can they get? The owner lives in the next neighborhood from us...he probably has the cleanest house in town. I wonder what ours will look like when they leave. They're coming. They don't smoke, listen to ipods, or talk on the phone. Those are their rules. They don't open anything that is closed (closets, cabinets) which leads me to wonder: can you open something if it is not closed? I like the name "Merry Maids." It sounds very Disney, and very 1950's. I loved the 50's, the decade of my childhood. The maidens riding in our car said "he looks just like Perry Como." They were actually the high school girls in my mama's Sunday School Class. Merry Maids. The time has come.

That Mason Dixon Line

I can spot it almost as if I were the original surveyor. I see it in the eyes, I hear it in the accent, I feel it in the energy, I taste it in the food, I try not to touch it -- just say a prayer and keep moving. There used to be safety in Georgia. Dade County, where my daddy got married to my mama, is probably still the safest place to be. How far is it from I-75 -- the loudest highway in the world. Damn Yankees. If they could only change the tune to that Glory, Glory song. I have to confess that it was on I-75 up near Resaca I somehow convinced that beautiful brown girl to give me her Spartan practice jersey. Every Dawg has his day.