I’m only a stranger looking to find better nature in my fellow man.

– Jordan Page

Well, Jordan should go to The Sportsman’s Paraise (Louisiana). That’s where I found it in the form of a proud army veteran named Joleen. (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly.  She goes by Jo).

When, through my blog, word reached, literally, almost a DOZEN, folks across this great land, one of them happened to be my buddy, Ethan.

He messaged me that he had a friend in The Crescent City (N’awlins) and that I should contact her for travel tips. I did. Even though I thought that the “friend of a friend” connection was kind of thin.

Jo invited me to her home as soon as I could get there. She informed me that she had other visitors in town from other parts of The Pelican State (Louisiana) and even some from way the hell up in Michigan. It’s almost like she likes people – even strangers. But, wait, she gets weirder.

Upon my arrival she fed me. And, I don’t mean snacks. I’m talking biscuits & gravy, Belgian waffles, something called Boudin (which looks like a giant snausage but is way better…pic related)

and a screwdriver (the cocktail).

During chow, Jo gave me tips on how not to be an asshole. This consisted chiefly of instructing me to quit pronouncing it “N’awlins”. It’s “New Orlins”. I grumpily complied.

Plans were made for me to accompany her and her gang when they hit the town on Frenchman St. At no point was I made to feel anything other than welcome despite being 2 or 3 decades older than the others. It was clear to me I would not be able to hang with the youngsters with their loud music, their skinny jeans, their ability to stay up past 9 pm and they fact that they “pre-game” more alcohol than I can handle in a month.

They were a fun bunch.

I went with them for a drink, then excused myself to visit the town on my terms.

I made for Bourbon St! But, I got lost and ended up on Rampart. The Voodoo Lounge. Bar and Ghost Tour Emporium. Open 24 hrs (pic related)

Well, I do love a crowd, you know, from a distance, and when I finally found Bourbon St I got that crowd (pic related)

There were street musicians and this one guy breakdancing (pic related).

This was really ironic because I hadn’t seen a breakdancer in about 25 years and then I stumble upon one, who is my age by the way, right when I am internally thinking about making the switch to Velcro because tying my shoes is too much effort anymore.

Bourbon St had all the charm of one those “exclusive” nightclubs where you have to stand with your hands above waist level because it is so crowded. It also has that loud music that allows for conversations like the following:

You: why do we come to these places? It’s too crowded, the drinks are way expensive and the music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think.

Your friend (giving a thumbs up): OK!

I sought succor in a little bistro. I could see they had the World Series on the tube. My dogs were barking. I could use a seat.

I approached the Maître d’, a youthful African American named, “Smooove” according to his name badge. I inquired about a seat for one. He discussed it with his underlings in a closed huddle. Then, one of them, who looked genuinely nervous and a tad gunshy, led me through a gauntlet of patrons (this will make more sense in a moment, I think). Finally, we arrived at the end of a bar that was set in the center of the room. I gave the fellow a buck. I dunno. It was packed.

I order a diet coke and a menu. The commercial break ended and my waitress scurried away.

It turns out that, of the perhaps 100 or so customers packed tightly into the dining area, we could be broken down into 3 parties.

There was me (pic related)

A family of 4 from the midwest, as I am guessing from the shirt of the dad – Royal Blue with a small “KC” on the breast (Go Royals!)

And 95 assholes from New York City who had left the Big Apple together to come down here and “cheer” for the Mets.

The thing is, anytime anything would happen – and, I’m talking ANYTHING. from a home run to a foul tip – they got up from their seats and jumped around like someone had called “all skate!” during an earthquake in a gorilla cage (Don’t be racist. They were predominantly white). It was pandemonium!

When the Royals took the lead, the only sound was Dad lightly clapping. Ballsy.

I had been wanting to try some authentic N’awlins cuisine so I ordered a burger. A Bayou Burger. The meat was deep fried. If that strikes you as maybe not such a good idea, then I’m sure you would agree, why stop there. It was topped with deep fried cheese, deep fried onions, and deep fried pickles.

The city itself is unique in many ways. For instance, the weather. It rains hard for about 30 seconds every half hour. This results in a climate that Hollywood portrays as “sultry”. But, in reality creates humidity levels that make it impossible to dress for comfort and as a result you often want to strangle the nearest stranger for no good reason.

The people are a bit different as well. There seems to be no racial tension that I could detect from either side. This might be a result of the city planners.

The roads are awful. Pitted and unpatched. Warped and narrow. And the people like it that way. It makes them make do without a lot of meddlesome rules and regulations. It is not uncommon to see a vehicle parked partly on a sidewalk. As long as he leaves room, folks can get by whether they are walking or driving. You do what it takes while letting everyone do their thing.

The ones I met seemed to have an attitude of doing what it takes to get along.

As I was making the 2 mile walk back to the Rambler, a fellow was openly urinating on the dark sidewalk ahead. When he saw me, he turned away and apologized. He didn’t think anyone would be coming.

I appreciated that and told him, “No harm done”, then vaulted his puddle without much effort.

I have considered staying another night but, I dunno, Halloween in N’awlins is just so touristy. I move on. Probably drive west just so I can be nearer Trixie.

Cracklins are fried pig fat with the skin still attached – lIke thick, hot pork rinds. When you couple that with the idea that they are something of a staple in the Delta region – a region known for it severe Christianity – you get the greatest named establishment I have ever seen (pic related)

There isn’t much to do when you are sightseeing in rural Louisiana – even less if you live here.

So, working on a rumor that one of the local denizens adhered to my credo, “A man can’t just sit around”, I went to see what he did with his idle time.

He built a giant mailbox (pic related).

I’ve included my head for scale. Imagine how big that thing would look if I had used a normal-sized head.

The fellow built this thing to honor the hard-working men and women of the United States Postal Service, who are fairly represented by the likes of Mr. McFeeley from “Mister Rogers Neighborhood”, Reba the mail lady from “Pee Wee’s Playhouse”, Newman from “Seinfeld” and most accurately, Cliff Claven” from “Cheers”.

I’m just kidding about the honoring and the hard working thing. I have no idea why he built it. Prolly cuz a man can’t just sit around.

It is out in the cotton fields, which are HUGE by the way. I don’t know how you could ever afford to staff enough folks to gather the crop. I mean seriously. I have no idea what they did before it was automated through machinery.

From wherever that was, I drove to Natchez, Mississippi because when Fletch inherited that mansion, he went to a biker bar and met a gang called that “Nazis from Natchez”.

I crossed the Mississippi again (pic related)

I went to Jim Bowie’s Tavern (there is an Alamo connection in here somewhere with the Pee Wee Herman mention earlier. Figure it out for me, will ya?)

I perused the menu. I asked for recommendations from the barkeep, who I will call “Bubba” because it fits my preconceived notions even though his name was really something boring like Ed. He said the wings. Please. If I want wings I will go to Buffalo.  Or, anywhere else in the whole wide world. I got the seafood gumbo (pic related…nevermind. I erased it. Hey, Trixie, post the pic of my gumbo I sent you last night. Will ya?)

I was hesitant to order it because, well, I didn’t know what it was, but for some reason I associated it with okra, which was served to me exactly one time…while I was in the army…in the field. I would describe it as, white in color, swimming in a thick clear sauce that, I supposed, consisted chiefly of the head cook’s ejaculate. I did not sample it.

But, after a few beers, one gets…experimental, shall we say. It was so good. I felt like Mikey from that old Life Cereal commercial (pic related).

After, I stood along the banks of the Mississippi and watched some of those Mark Twain style riverboats float lazily by. I was too tired to do any more driving so I climbed into the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and snoozed it up.

In the morning I decided it was time to make for the most haunted city in America, Nawlins, in time for Halloween. But, well, Roadside America said that Natchez had a “must see” in the form of a diner.

Built in 1940 to cash in on the “Gone with the Wind” craze that was sweeping the nation is Mammy’s Cupboard (pic related).

When it was erected the original color of the woman was black. This strongly divided the community into two camps:

1. Those who said that it was wildly racist, and…
2. Those who said it was just run-of-the-mill racist for this vicinity.

So, over the years, whenever she got a paint job, the tones became increasingly lighter until she looks normal (haha…just kidding. That would be Darryl Gates level inappropriate)

They are only open from 11 to 2 Tuesdays through Saturdays. This meant me hanging around Natchez for a few hours. I explained my predicament to Trixie. She insisted I wait. I am glad she did. I was dying to get a look under Mammy’s skirt (heh heh). Word on the blog-o-sphere is that the ceiling is lined with lace and petticoats and junk. It is not (pic related).

It is a tight squeeze getting in there (giggity), only about 10 tables, but well worth the effort.

The menu had few selections, but good ones. The food is all homemade out of real ingredients. Service was quick and friendly.

I got the roast turkey sammich on homemade sourdough, with (again, homemade) blueberry chutney, avacado and mayo. It comes with soup and potato salad.

The desserts are kinda messed up, cuz you want to try them all. I decided one slice of pie, banana caramel (pic related)

and a chunk of Hummingbird cake to go.

I crawled back to the Rambler with my doggie bag clenched in my teeth and stretched out hoping the good Lord might take me now in my state of bliss. Short of that I hoped my lunch would digest a bit so I could move enough to drive.

Now rested, onward to The Big Easy.

Smooch to Trixie :*

One of those things that is always funny until it happens to you is waking up in Louisiana. I woke up in Louisiana this morning.

I was in Mississippi,  crossed the mighty river of the same name and BOOM! Arkansas-ed! I have a friend in Arkansas. Somewhere. But, I only clipped the southeast corner and 8 miles later I was in the bayou. Actually, the whole delta region is comprised of bayous. I think. I’m not really sure what a bayou is. (I’m not really sure where the Delta is. I assume I am in it because everything in the tristate area is named Delta Self-Storage and such). Things that are labeled “bayou” look an awful lot like creeks to me. And, one thing is for sure, Roy Orbison was full of shit, ‘cuz, sure as hell ain’t none of them blue. Not even close.

I wanted to make my crossing of the Mississippi grandiose in some way. Like Lewis & Clark…or Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon or something. But, to be honest, it reared up out of nowhere and caught me by surprise. Before I knew it, I was skipping like a 45 mph stone across the sumbitch. Thinking lightningly fast  (one of my strong suits) I began singing as much as I could remember of “Old Man River” in the best basso profundo that I could muster.

All in all, I’m satisfied with it.

Louisiana is low and swampy and humid and the morning fog on my windshield is thicker than the glass (pic related)

And, that’s ok. That’s what I wanted. It’s the people that have me a bit down. They’re fine, though, really. It’s just that they aren’t…quirky and colorful and full of bayou wisdom. Sure, they eat a lot of catfish, but otherwise they are pretty much like the extras in TV shows.

My dread is becoming reality. We have been homogenized by telecommunications and corporate franchises. Which should be a good thing. Instead it is just a tool for social engineering. We are being divided into groups – groups that are all alike.

While waiting for my windshield to defog, I got to thinking about world peace. I decided I am against it.

I’m not against it because I want war and other forms of irrational hatred. I am against it because everybody who is for it, is for it only on their terms. They want everyone else to conform to their standard of right and wrong, to their religion, to their political affilliation, to their sense of humor, to their definition of what it means to be a real man, a real woman, a real marriage or a real human being. And, they are willing to fight and kill to achieve this Utopia. A Utopia in which we are all similar. We are the Borg Collective. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for hatred. It is one of our fundamental freedoms. If you want to hate, hate, I guess. I don’t want to stop you. Hell, you may even be right. And, unless I let you hate, how will we ever know. Enjoy your ways. Just quit demanding that everyone else conform to them. In fact, I demand you agree with me. But World Peace? Put me down as a NAY. One opposed.

But, the Delta region isn’t all deep brooding. There is still some roadside whimsey.

Last night, feeling a bit shortchanged by Arkansas, I drove back north to Crosset – Forestry Capital of the World. Seriously. I did not know that. I also did not know that Arkansas bills itself as The Natural State. Adding to my list of things I do not know. I do not know what the hell they mean by that.

Crosset has, for the last 80 years (about the time of the invention of the automobile headlight) enjoyed a phenomenon called “The Crosset Spook Lights”. Spectral floating orbs of light that are said to resemble automobile headlights in the undefined distance. WoOOoooOOo!

It was too overcast and foggy. I didn’t see any.

However, and hear me out on this, I THINK I spotted a UFO while waiting for the sun to go down (pic related).

It’s tough to say for sure because it wasn’t actually FLYING at the time.

My favorite alien life form is still Trixie.

When in comes to celebrities, you don’t get much higher than Elvis Presley and Kermit the Frog. Both are from Mississippi.  I visited their birthplaces on Monday.

Apparently, Elvis is kind of a big deal in Tupelo. Kermit, not quite as much in Leland.

When I made the turn onto Elvis Presley Dr, where The King was born I received a small surprise (pic related)

they don’t even have a chrome fire plug

My first thought was, “Huh. The King was born in the New Carrollton Public Library. I thought he was poor.”

Then I looked to the right and saw his actual house.

It’s about the size of a Hummer (the SUV).

That other building is so that people who didn’t do anything of note but hold the reins can charge exorbitant fees for allowing you to tour the grounds. I tease. Most of the money they take in is spent on signage that reads, “Don’t take any pictures…dick” or words to that effect.

I went into the gift shop and bought some incredibly overpriced, cheap Chinese-made swag because, that’s what you DO. But, I did not pay to see the exhibits.  I don’t have many principles but one of them is to not pay to view something that should be free if they won’t let you take pics.  It really pisses me off, frankly.

I needed to cool off. So, I went to the Tupelo Aquatic Center. It is a modern swimming facility (state-of-the-art, really. pic related).

It is just on the other side of Veteran’s Park from the Elvis House. They make it clear in every way that they can, that this is where Elvis would have swum as a child if it hadn’t been built two decades after his alleged death. Instead he swam in the crick under the bridge. And, got whooped for sneaking off to do that.

I paid 5 bucks and they didn’t even ask for ID. They are so backwards in Mississippi.  I could be a terrorist for all they know. Who doesn’t ask for ID these days? SMH. I changed into my swimming togs and jumped into the deep end.

Now, I don’t want to brag about setting any world records or being better at stuff than anybody but, I’ve heard that Michael Phelps can swim all day and not even break a sweat. Whereas I attack it with such intensity and ferocity that I am completely exhausted in under half a minute and need to be rescued by the geriatrics in the Aquacize class three lanes over.

I wonder how many medals he could win if he would put forth that kind of effort. Just saying.

Once the water was pumped out of my lungs I saddled up the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and headed west to the little town of Leland, Mississippi.  Childhood home of Jim Henson.

I arrived at the museum at 3:58. They close at 4:00. The nice lady there said there was no charge for admission and encouraged me to take as many pictures as I wanted. She would even stay late, but she might have to run out to make it to the Post Office before they close and, if so, would I mind shutting the door behind me when I left?

I said I would be as quick as I could. I say that to women a lot. (Ha! No I dont.)

There isn’t much there. One of the original Kermits, donated by the widow Henson (pic related)

It’s blurry

A big Kermit for posing with. (pic related)

An Ernie and a Fozzie (pic related)

And a gift shop. Proceeds go to keeping them open and maybe adding another room.

When I left, the lady said to me as sincerely as anything, “Thank you for being a fan of the Muppets. Have a blessed day.”

It was so nice to finally be recognized as a Muppet fan that I didn’t even mind that “blessed day” crack.

Tuesday looms like an ominous shadow. It promises another day of not being with the one I love. But, I stay the course and dream of that first kiss when I greet her at the Memphis airport. Until then…adventure may be out there, but so am I.

I am sitting in the chilly pre-dawn rain in Tupelo, Mississippi.  I’m nestled in the sleeping area of the Phantom Rambler where I am warm and safe and dry. The rain thrums against the tin shell of my quarters as my computer softly plays The King – “The Wonder of You” and I think about a girl back in Maryland.

My thoughts of her are punctuated with flashes of scenes from my life this past week – quite a week it was.

It began with the touring of a moonshine distillery in South Carolina, and ended, unofficially, with quiet reflection. The next will begin with the prospect of new sunrises and ever changing horizons. She will be the only constant in my vagabond existence.

Earlier this week I made my triumphant return to Ft. Benning, Ga.

A lot has changed in the 30 or so years since my discharge from the army. For one, Reagan is no longer president. Terrorism has been invented.  It is no longer an open post. They would not let me in.

Undeterred I made haste for somewhere west. Alabama and that haunted chicken house.

I made for Albertville (well out of my way,except I don’t really have a “way” exactly) to visit a nickel-plated fire hydrant  (pic related)

Did you know that Albertville, Alabama is the Fire Hydrant Capital of the World?

Of course not. No one did. Except in 1976, when they painted them to look like Minutemen, no one notices fire plugs.

I saw a space shuttle and a Saturn rocket (pic related)

I went to Cathedral Caverns and saw this thing (pic related)

I have no idea what it is, but I took my pic with it anyway.

The Caverns wanted $17 for admission plus another $1 for the ticket – I shit you not. Plus, even though they claim the floor is as smooth as the Mines of Moria before the revolution  (that was a LOTR reference btw) we had to wait 30 minutes for a tour guide. I said “Fuck it” took my pic with the rusty thing and left.

I drove to Muscle Shoals, you know, cuzza Skynyrd. There’s nothing interesting there. But, I did hear of a saloon that was a “must see”. It was off the beaten path, but then, so is all of Alabama. This one is called Rattlesnake Saloon and it isn’t really in a town, per se. It is just in the northwestern part of the state.

Well, it is Sunday. I could watch some of that American Football and drink a beer I guess. Off I went.

The roads became increasingly “country” the nearer I got to the destination set on my GPS. “This can’t be right.” I thought as I pulled into a horse ranch camp thing (pic related)

There were no cars to speak of. Just two ol’ fellas that were working. Their work involved one of them holding a bucket under the rear end of a horse to catch his poop (how he knew the horse was going to poop, I have no idea, but poop it did) while the other stood nearby watching and making helpful comments.

I approach.

Guy 1: Gaaaah!

Guy 2: He gitcha?

Guy 1 laughing good naturedly: Almost!

Me: Excuse me.

Guy 2: Well, hey there! What can we do you for?

Me (trying to copy the local dialect): I was told there was a saloon around these here parts.

Guy 1: Yeah. Yeah there is. Your standing on it! Of course it’s closed. What with it being Sunday and all.

Me: Standing on it?

Guy 2: Don’t pay no attention to him. He’s just funning.

Me: Whew. So it is open?

Guy 2: No. It is closed on account of today being Sunday and all.

Me (looking around): Oh. Well, where is it?

Guy 2: Well, he was right about that too. You are standing on it. It’s in the cave right beneath us. You can go on down and take a look around if you want. You gotta walk tho. Just take that trail and follow it down. (Gallery related)

Too bad it wasnt open. Maybe I will return.

I visited some haunted houses and several cemeteries. Perhaps the most impressive was this one (gallery related)

Deep in the backwoods, well off hwy 431, in a remote area is this one-of-a-kind cemetery.  Established in 1937, it is exclusively for Coondogs. One must apply for approval for burial. And, one must have been a coondog in this life to qualify for consideration.

The markers range from expensive and fancy to crude and homemade.

Almost all of the graves had loose coins set on them. I assume to pay the ferryman’s dog. I dunno. I looked. If any didn’t have coins, I placed one.

I guess the folks of Alabama take coon hunting pretty serious. This got me to thinking about what exactly is the deal with coonhunting. I decided without doing any actual research that its roots lie in another sport. Coon hunting has got to be the down home american version of the English fox hunt. The similarities are obvious.

Though each is engaged in by diametrically opposite classes on the socioeconomic scale, both involve large groups of men with funny accents who frequently marry within their families using dogs to chase a small frightened animal, that they don’t eat, across the countryside just for the “sport” of it. Even though all they really do is let the dog do all the work and then they try to find the dog.

Before leaving, I signed Trixie’s name in the guest registry (pic related)

Some wise guy before me signed a fake name (pic related)

I wish I had thought of that first.

Thusly, inspired, I made for Mississippi – birthplace of The King.

The drive back out from the Coondog  Cemetery was peppered with the sound of shotgun blasts in the not too distant distance. The road was in such disrepair as to be nonexistent in many places.

I passed this house (pic related)

It was in the middle of nowhere and had no power or communication lines running to it that I could see.

No big deal, I guess, except the lawn seemed fairly well maintained.

I drove along the wonderfully serene and scenic Natchez Trace Parkway. I stopped at this Indian Mound (pic related)

While stopped, I checked my provisions. It wasn’t easy because my view was blocked by my dirty laundry bag, which was roughly the size and shape of me – it even dressed like me. It was like looking in a smelly mirror.

I checked my calendar.  I meet Trixie in Memphis on November 26. I have 1 and a half pairs of clean socks and no underwear to speak of. Hmm. Could I make it until Thanksgiving?

It would be close. But, I decided not to risk it. There is a coin-op laundromat on Main St in Tupelo. Laundromats are notorious for being in bad neighborhoods and this one was no exception.

But,  I made it out none the worse for wear and ready to face the coming week.

It’s common knowledge that graveyards are haunted. Does this strike anybody else as kind of lazy?

I mean, the spirit finally shucks off the mortal prison binding them to this world – the cosmos are their’s to explore – and they stay within 15 feet of where they were dropped.

Don’t get me wrong, I champion the cause of the lazy. But, recently, I have found that even I have my limits when it comes to how much effort I am not willing to put forth, despite my wife Trixie’s repeated prediction that those were depths that would never be plumbed.

Take for example, Planet Fitness, my gym.  Ok, ok, technically I just use them to shower while on the road. Exercise is too much like hard work.

I welcomed the automatic sinks. I CHEERED the automatic flush toilets. I even liked the automatic hand dryers. Loud, but efficient.  Not so much the automatic paper towel things. They are too slow and don’t dispense enough at a time.  But now (and this is really too much) the automatic soap dispenser dispenses pre-lathered soap. Come on! I am going to the effort of washing my hands, I do not mind making my own foam. My motto has always been, “A man can’t just sit around.” We gotta have SOMETHING to do.

Anyhow, it is dusk. I am sitting in a playground that is on the grounds of a graveyard in Huntsville, AL  (pic related)

I shit you not.

Rumor has it that the playground is way haunted. It is creepy as can be. It sits in a small depression and is surrounded on three sides by granite walls and the fourth by the graveyard.

Local legend claims that a serial killer buried his victims here – children.

Strange noises are frequently reported by paranormal investigators. Also, the swings are said to sway as if propelled by an unseen force (“ghost of little kid” would be my guess). Floating orbs of light have also been reported by, what I am guessing are, those so petrified by fear at the other stuff that they couldn’t run for it thus were around to witness the orbs.

Officially the playground is called Drost Park, locals refer to it as, “Dead Children’s Playground”. Aww.

This is a big cemetery. Something like 80,000 buried here. That would make it the third largest city in Alabama if…you know…they LIVED here.

There are reports of a haunted horse-drawn coach driven by a former governor and sounds of an eerie squeaking noise coming from the grave of some young bride who accidentally poisoned herself on her wedding night. She was buried in her bridal gown and for some reason, sitting  upright in a rocking chair, which is said to acount for that squeaking sound coming from her grave.

Local troublemakers of Huntsville,  who, I am guessing, did not make the cut for Space Camp, sneak onto the grounds at night and press their ears to the bride’s stone slab to listen for the eerie sounds. I see no reason to question the veracity of their claims.

Finding the park was surprisingly difficult because, everybody who has investigated this place in the past who has posted on-line about their experience has remarked how easy it is to find. But none gave actual directions.

I circled the graveyard several times – leaving and re-entering the grounds on numerous occaisions.

Now, you know me – I love Halloween. And, I love people that love Halloween.

My current favorite is this person (pic related)

The view of their front yard includes a HUGE haunted cemetery, but they needed just liiiitle more dressing to give the house that spooky feeling. That’s my kind of people there.

Eventually I found the playground. Ok, now I need you to really get a picture of this – clear your minds and watch this unfold…

I park my VAN (the EM-50 Phantom Rambler). Matter-of-factly, my 50 year old pudgy self climbs out wearing cargo shorts, a short-sleeve button-up shirt, black socks with sandals, sunglasses and that big straw hat Trixie bought me. I grab my sling backpack and place it over my shoulder. I reach back into my van and grab my cameras (I want to capture any weirdness that occurs) one at a time I place the straps around my neck. I now turn and step toward the playground.

This is when I notice the little 5 year old blonde girl who is being rushed off of the swings by her justifiably concerned grandmother who is rightfully eyeing me suspiciously. I mean, the van with blacked out windows, the cameras, my attire – could I look anymore like a pedophile? I think not. (pic related)

why don’t you have a seat right over there Mr. Long.

In my defense, who the fuck takes their kid to play in a cemetery? I never dreamed anyone would be using this thing! Sonuvabitch! I stood there feeling like a creep while grandma shot twin rooster tails of gravel at me while she sped out of the lot.

Oh well. Back to work.

Sitting  here, I hear the buzz of insects, the chirping of birds, and the tongue-clucking of some wise ass beyond the woodline…I hope.

Two ladies show up. Ghost Chasers, of sorts. They’re  there to sense PKE valances. All is quiet and still. Until some 20 something douche nozzle roars into the lot and screeches to a halt. He is brash and irreverent, like all young men that don’t have crew cuts are. He has, in tow, two giggling females – one, whom he is trying  to impress by showing how brash and irreverent he can be. The other because it is obviously her BFF and she has been brought along so the other can demonstrate how she really never thought that this trip to Dead Children’s Playground on a Saturday night was in any way a ploy by the douche nozzle to capitalize on the rush of fear-induced adrenaline that can often be a precursor to recreational sex. No. She is that clueless and innocent. She goes to the graveyard at dusk to ride the swings. She is just that random! OMG! As if!

Otherwise it would mean she dragged her BFF along just to witness how much more attractive she is because the brash and irreverent douche, Butch, is so chasing after her while she is totally like…whatever.

Douche boy saunters with authority to the swings, not bothering to assist the girls as they exit the cramped vehicle. He’s a leader.

Soon they are swinging with abandon. Destroying any hopes of taking any readings.

Moments later they dismount and race back to the car. Ostensibly because youths today quickly become bored with all things, but in reality it is because night is falling and the brash young man felt the icy chill of doubt. “What if it really is haunted?”

It is the next morning now. Sleep came in fits. Mostly because I was laying on a rolled up pair of dirty socks that were pressing against the small of my back and I was too tired to reach in and dislodge them.

But, now it is another Sunday without the lovely Trixie. I must fashion a plan, a destination and a route to take me there.

One thing I can say about the south – the people sure are friendly. After a while that southern charm starts to rub off on even normal people like me.

It would probably do some of you asshole jerk-offs some good to spend some time down south.

Take for instance, my new buddy, JoJo.

We met after I left the elephant-shaped gas station and realized I was now in the Central Time Zone. I stared up at the miserable, glaring sun and thought, “Dammit, an extra hour of that bastard.”

I quickly set a course for as close to true north as the roads would allow to get me out of this heat.

Presently, I found myself on state hwy 431 when I saw this sign. (pic related)

Naturally, I turned down the dirt path to investigate.

I passed this. (pic related)

That’s the second most orange hearses I’ve seen in one place.

At the top of the hill there was a veritable beehive of activity. It was after 5 p.m. Central Something Time and festivities begin at sundown.

JoJo came over and asked how he could be of assistance. Nevermind that he had a thousand things to do and time was short. He was polite, friendly, patient, young and good looking with a certain  casual charm. He reminded me a lot of myself. You know, except for the polite, friendly, patient, young and casual charm parts.

Me: I’m travelling around the country looking for unique things. Haunted Chicken House? What’s that?

JoJo: It’s pretty much like a regular chicken house. ‘cept with ghosts.

Me (giving JoJo that same look people give me when they can’t tell if I’m serious, which I will represent like this: …

JoJo: We got rats,too. ‘course all chicken houses have those.

Me: …

Me: So, what is this? Like a Halloween thing? (Which might be the stupidest question I have ever asked)

JoJo, patiently even though it was such a stupid question and he was very busy:

Well, we were gonna keep it open year round but, you know what? There just ain’t much call for a haunted Chicken House ‘cept in October.

Me: … OK, so, why a chicken house?

JoJo (pointing, and deadpan as always): We were gonna use that barn there. But, heck, even the ghosts won’t go in there.  Gives me the willys. You’re welcome to go take a look around if you’d like.

Me: … So, you got anything else? Or just the chicken house?

JoJo, gesturing with his chin towards the woodline: We got a haunted trail. It’s about a quarter mile long.

Me: What’s on that?

JoJo (looking slightly embarrassed): Well, we’re not too sure. It’s awful dark, so’s you caint see much. And most of the folks that make it back, well, they stay pretty quiet for a time, if you know how I mean. I been meaning to check it out, but I stay pretty busy.

Me: …

In the few minutes that we spoke several people with business emergencies approached but we’re extremely hesitant to interupt because JoJo was talking to someone (me, pic related)

I decided to let these good people get on with their preparations and said my goodbyes. That’s when I noticed a TSHIRT stand and said I would like to buy one as a souvie for my lovely bride.

As an act of flagrant hospitality, JoJo refused to accept payment – it was his gift to me.

Ok, so, in short – I did not get to tour the actual attraction, but I can rate it based on the ilk of the people there. They take their fun pretty seriously and will want to make sure you folks get good entertainmemt value for your fun bucks.

If, somehow, you find yourself in Eastern Alabama on hwy 431, 8 miles south of Interstate 20, do not miss the Haunted Chicken House. I know I had quite a time. 

It is the Season of the Witch. As we approach All Hallowed’s Evening…Hallow’s E’en…Halloween! Hey, I just got that! The veil between this world and the next gets increasingly thinner.  I set out to find a good scare.

But, not a startling OK-you-got-me-now-move-so-I-can-see-the-TV kind of scare. No. I wanted a slow, creepy, ominous sense of impending doom kind of scare that will hang with me for a few days.

I’m sure we can all agree there is nothing creepier than those twins from “The Shining”…or the little girl from “The Exorcist”…or the little girl from “The Ring”.  Once I got to thinking about it I recall that between the ages of 5 and 11 there was nothing creepier in the world than girls. Right about the time I started looking past that to some of their other charms was about the time they started telling me that there was nothing in the world creepier than me. Go figure.

Anyhow, I headed for Lanett, Alabama, final resting place of Nadine Earles. She was 4 years old when she died in 1933.

She loved her dollies and was always playing with them. So, her father built a dollhouse over her grave. (pic related)

It is full of toys and pictures and even a little Xmas tree.

Reports from other travelers over the years have said that the site has an almost tangible creepy feel to it.

I dismiss these folks as ones who have talked themselves into that feeling.

I stayed open and honest with my feelings as I tried to sense the resonance of any lingering energy. And, it’s there. But it is an atmosphere of sadness and sweetness. For over 80 years this little playhouse has been meticulously maintained. It was built out of a sense of love and honor and perhaps as a coping mechanism for what must be the most painful of all of life’s emotional turmoil – the death of one’s child.

I questioned my own integrity. Was I a bad person for treating this little girl’s burial place like a sideshow attraction? Don’t get me wrong, I am not above acting like an insensitive jerk -we all have our moments. But, in this instance I’d like to think I was carrying on the intentions of the parents. To make their little girl the focus of attention. To make her special.

Those who know me well could tell you I am not much of a praying man. But, over the years I have examined the nature and intent of prayer. My studies in hypnosis taught me a few things about brain waves and the physical properties of the electical impulses we call thoughts. There is more than the five traditional senses. If you’ve ever gotten the feeling you were being watched, or been around someone who just gave you a bad vibe, perhaps your aura was interacting with another’s and feeding you information.

In case there is any truth to it, I stood there and did my best to resonate the feelings that would be associated with the thoughts about how much Nadine’s parents must have loved her to build and maintain this special place for her. Maybe I left an imprint of my energy. Maybe I didn’t,  in which case, no harm done.

I needed something light to help swing my mood. At first I thought it might be this idiot dog. (pic related).

But, nah. The driver never went faster than 35 mph.

So, acting on a rumor that about 20 miles away there is an old gas station that vaguely resembles an elephant I set out to see for myself if it was true. (pic related)

Yep. Its true. That resemblance is pretty vague.

Heading for Huntsville, AL.  Good thing I took up space in school..heh heh.

I may be deep in the heart of Dixie, bit Trixie is deep in the heart of me.

The freedom that the open road offers means more than just getting to wear black socks with my sandals because Trixie is not here to yell at me (pic related).

It also means that I can meander about without any set agenda.

On the downside, apparently, the combination of red clay and pine trees yields an increase in ambient temperatures.  I know, because I’m in Georgia and it is like a million degrees F.

It could probably solve the world’s energy crisis thing except, you know…Big Earl (that’s how Georgians pronounce “Oil”).

As a result, I have been driven indoors to (for the first time ever in my whole life) a Starbucks.

Now, before I tell you how I am not a coffee drinker let me first say this about the clientele:

This is the densest conglomeration of pretentious 13 year old pricks it has ever been my misfortune to stumble across.

And, I say that with love. Because I know the mere mention of this establishment has you turning to your mate and asking if they feel like going with you to get a coffee.

It seems the only reason people come here is to feel superior to another human being by bossing them around with the most fussy and useless set of detailed orders they can conjure up by combining partial products and services.

I feel like I am in a freshman psyche experiment. The goal is to see who can make the barista snap, quit his job and return to shoot the place up. Again …I say it with love.

But, it is air conditioned and has wifi. So, I’m down.

I am not a coffee drinker.

In my travels through Georgia I had the entertaining experience of visiting Harlem, Ga, birthplace of Oliver Hardy (the fat one). And, because of that, they have the Laurel & Hardy Museum. Stan Laurel (the thin one) is a stinking limey Brit – who knew?

Anyhow, Harlem is a small town. It is seriously off the beaten path. As such, there was plenty of parking and no line for the exhibit. According to the guest book, in fact, I was the first visitor in three days. And, the last few folks listed Harlem, Ga as their hometown.

The curator was a friendly lady, whom I suspect was Ollie’s babysitter or something. Bless her heart.

She said she would be happy to show me some of their short films in the screening room when I was done poking through the memorabilia.

I asked her to select one for me. She chose, “The Music Box” because it won the Oscar in 1931. She couldn’t get the confounded, new-fangled contraption (VCR) to work, so i pressed PLAY for her.

I enjoyed it.

Harlem itself is the very picture of small town America and they are quite proud of their favorite son (pic related).

In fact, it is the most like Mayberry RFD of any other place I have seen so far…and I have been to Mayberry RFD (Mt Airy, NC).

From there I went to Macon because of that movie that Jethro Bodine produced in the 70s that became a cult classic and is responsible for everybody being a NASCAR fan.

I didn’t care for Macon. Sure, it had strip malls and Wal-Marts and Applebee’s just like everywhere else but, I dunno, I just didn’t care for it. So, I invoked the Freedom Card and left. I took the backroads and just kind of drove for a few hours.

I had some mild excitement about 90 minutes into my excursion. My thoughts had kind of drifted, when out of nowhere another car passed coming the other way. They waved. I waved back. It was a nice break in the routine.

I saw a sign. Made a detour. The Auchumpkee Covered Bridge  (pic related)

And, proof I was there…

Since Upton County, where the bridge is located, is in a null zone, young couples in love have no way of going “Facebook Official”. Instead, they come to The Auchumpkee Covered Bridge and seal their intent by professing their misspelled but undying love for one another. It’s kind of sweet. (pic related).

The tradition is so strong that even the lonesome losers can’t resist getting in on the action, despite their inability to mate (pic related)

just breaks your heart…right?

And, then there’s this guy. I wanna give him a special shout out and half credit for this message…

He’s no fool. The same part of him that made him face forward for 6 hours every day in school was screaming: “BREAD” don’t look right, even tho that’s how it’s pronounced!

He went against his better judgement and with his gut. Kudos, brother. Well done. For the most part.

From there I took to, well, it’s not the backroads, it’s more like the ONLY roads toward Columbus and Ft. Benning. I “lived” there once in as much as I was stationed there for 3 years while in the army.

As I cruised along, my mind pleasantly adrift, I saw Pobiddy rd. I turned onto it. It was an auxiliary artery off of what was a very rural route. The road was ancient. The asphalt had been bleached of its color and the unrelenting heat had caused it to mold itself to the contours of the earth. It was not well-traveled.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder, at what point in the distant past did someone pore over the county’s budget in hopes of finding the money to finally pave Pobiddy rd. I do not know. But, dammit, they got it done.

I still miss Trixie.