Howdy, Y'all!

You can say a lot of bad things about Alabama, but you can't say that Alabamans as a people are duly afraid of deep fryers.

― John Green, "Looking for Alaska"

It’s been a few days since I last got the chance to write anything here.  In part I think that’s because the tempo of my trip has changed.   When I was traveling along the Pacific Coast at the beginning, it was a much more relaxed venture.  I told myself I’d spend no more than 2 or 3 hours between destinations, and I was staying in a spot for two or three nights at a time.  The past week or so I’ve been driving 6 to 7 hours a day across to get across the plains and the some of the first southern states (thank you Starbucks for keeping me awake on those drives!).  That has left me a little less time to explore and in each spot, and less time to sit down and write. 

Sweeeet! Corvettes!

So to catch up on the past few days, I could tell you about my trip to what I call “my own personal mecca,” the Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky.  I could also describe the Gomer Pyle look-alike ranger that led a tour through Mammoth Cave and the goofy stories he told about Indian mummies or feeding animal crackers to critters in the park.  I could write several paragraphs about the US Space and Rocket center in Huntsville, Alabama, with all the children on tours to see the cold-war era rockets or displays of robot insects. I could share stories about seeing two contrasting music styles in Skrillex and the Zac Brown Band at the same festival on the beach in Gulf Shores, Alabama.  But this would end up being a long blog entry if I did, so I’m just going to tell you about my impressions of the South in general so far.

1950's and 1960's Rockets

First off, there are an awful lot of stereotypes about Southerners.   And from what I’ve seen in the past few days, many of them are rooted in truth.  Granted, the only real Southern states I’ve been through so far have been Kentucky, Tennessee, and Alabama.  But, I feel like when I drove through the southern tip of Illinois and passed briefly through Iowa, I crossed some line of distinction where it got just a little warmer, a lot more humid, and I could feel the southern drawl just emanating from the low hills around me.

I think you can get a little bit of a characteristic feel of a place you are in just by looking at the signs alongside the road.  Signs, after all, are written with local language and customs.  Advertising on billboards and regulations on street signs reflect the values and culture of the people they are directed at.  In Tennessee I passed under a huge, lit highway sign that reminded drivers to “Buckle up, Y’all.”  That’s a bit more playful and friendly than the “Click It or Ticket” threat on signs in California.    In California, you’ll see billboards for things like Google and technology products if you are in the San Francisco Bay Area or you'll find ads for movies and TV shows if you are in the LA area since those are the major types of economic forces at play in each region.  In Kentucky, Tennessee, and Alabama the economic forces must be a bit different based on the signs.   A majority of the billboards I saw were for churches, gun shows, and Waffle House.  It guess it’s kind of a southern version of “Eat, Pray … Kill?”

The food of a region also gives you a flavor of the people as well.  One “southern delicacy” I sampled was boiled peanuts.  I bought them from a roadside produce stand that claimed to have the best peaches and freshest produce around.  It was a typical off-highway produce stand: a simple wooden frame with a corrugated tin roof, tarps on the sides to keep the wind and dust out, and tables piled with fruit, vegetables, plants, and baked goods of all sorts.  The air was thick and sweet smelling, and two cheery elderly ladies with wrinkled faces stood behind a cash register in the middle of it.  For some reason I didn’t want to look like I had just come in for boiled peanuts, so I also got a couple of Minneolas and a plum.  The boiled peanuts came in a quart-sized zip-lock bag, and I could see the pot behind their counter bubbling with more of them.  “Y’all come back and visit us again!” one of the ladies smiled warmly at me as she handed me my change.  I went out to my van, opened the bag of peanuts and took one out.  It was dark, wet, and soggy.  Strangely, this surprised me. I mean, it should be obvious that if they are boiled they are going to be wet, but I am used to crispy, dry peanuts that leave behind bits of powdery peanut shell on your fingers when you eat them.  I broke one open. 

Boiled peanuts -- it must be an acquired taste

Rather than the crispy snap of a roasted peanut, the two halves of the shell slurped apart revealing reddish, almost purple, wet and shiny peanuts inside.  I took one out of the shell and put it in my mouth.  It felt more like a salty lima bean than a crunchy peanut: it wasn’t quite completely soft and soggy, but it wasn’t crispy like a nut should be either.   I thought that maybe I just got a bad one, so I tried a second one.  It was no better than the first.  Now I know lots of people in the south seem to love these, but they just aren’t for me.  If I had a blind taste test between a boiled peanut and a salty rabbit turd, I don’t think I would be able to distinguish the difference.  I’ll stick with my roasted peanuts from here on out.  Not all food in the area was bad, though.  I did also try fried pickles which were surprisingly good and jambalaya which was delicious. 

Fried pickles tasted better than I expected

Finally, the culture and feel of a region of course comes from the people that populate it.  There definitely is an aspect of  “southern hospitality.”  People are generally sincerely friendly and warm.  When I registered at the campground in Kentucky, the lady behind the counter offered me fresh cookies and genuinely went out of her way to make sure I knew what attractions were in the area; the employees at the Space and Rocket Center were always smiling and offering to answer questions about the exhibits; and even the lady at the fruit stand—when she said “y’all come back and visit us again,” it was different than “come back and shop here again.”  The single word “visit” backed by her smile conveyed an honest down-home and welcoming feel. 

But then there is also the stereotype of the reckless, loud southerner.  That was definitely evident at the music festival.  When I got to Ed’s place, he said there was a large multi-day festival going on at the beach.  They had a huge line up of different bands on 6 different stages—names like Foo Fighters, Zac Brown, Beck, and Foster the People.  Tickets were normally $250, but he managed to get some for $50.  We headed down to the beach at about 8pm on Saturday night and stayed until about 11:00pm.  Ed introduced me to one of his friends, a large, friendly guy named Squeak (a nick name, obviously) who was perhaps 275 pounds and spoke with a hint of a southern drawl.  At the end of the night, we walked with Squeak and his wife to a nearby house where some of his friends lived.  We sat out on the driveway listening to Squeak play guitar and watching the remains of 50,000 screaming, drunk kids leave the beach. 

Y'all be safe now, y'hear?

There was a non-stop line of cars trying to make their way down the street just at the edge of the driveway with throngs of people walking, yelling, stumbling, and screaming their way alongside them and between them.  While we were sitting there, one of Squeak’s friends decided that he needed some cigarette papers.  He was barefoot, wearing camouflaged shorts, and no shirt.   He went into the garage and climbed into a dark green 4-wheel drive golf cart with oversized knobby tires. He began backing it out of the garage, turning to look over his shoulder with one hand on the back of the passenger seat and the other hand holding a cigarette and a can of beer while manipulating the steering wheel.   It had no lights of any sort on it, and it was about 11:30 at night. “Is that legal to drive with no lights on?” I heard someone ask.  Wait. What actually was said was something more along the lines of “Can y’all go drivin’ that f----n thing without no f-----n lights on it?”  I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember the concern was about the lights and not about the beer in his hand.  As he eyed the line of cars and people and tried to navigate his way onto the street, someone else yelled to him “Shoney! (not his real name) You’re an idiot tryin' to go like that!” 

“Finally, someone with some sense!” I thought to myself.  “Maybe the stereotype is not all true.”

And then the voice continued, “Park that thing and come back and have a beer until the traffic dies down!”
Oh well, the stereotype lives.

So these were just a few of my first impressions of the south.  I am staying here a few more days and will get to explore more.  Ed tells me that we absolutely have to visit a restaurant that has a famous fish-throwing contest that draws crowds of 20,000. Unfortunately the fish-throwing contest will not be held while I’m here though.  Perhaps I’ll have to come back for that one.

 This was just too funny to pass up.  At the Rocket center they had an exhibit on inventions and there was a little table where kids could write about what they would like to invent.  After a group of school kids left, I went to see what they wrote.  One kid wanted to invent a very expensive flying car. Another kid, apparently a basketball fan, just wanted to make "some fresh LeBrons."