We’re not from here. That’s a fact well-established with readers of Ubi Libertas Blog, and it’s (probably) pretty obvious to lifelong locals whose paths cross ours. We don’t pretend otherwise — like all honorable immigrants, we choose to assimilate a culture that was here long before we showed up.
As a result, we’ve been welcomed warmly. We’ve never felt more at Home. The South, as it manifests in Ozarkansas, suits us.
It’s been 35 years since Shenandoah scored a #1 Country hit with “Sunday in the South.” The Alabama-based band recently re-recorded the song, adding the voices of Jason Aldean and Luke Bryan, and a couple of days ago released a simple, evocative music video.
The first time I watched that, it struck me as just right. To my eyes and ears, it crystallizes the essence of The South and many of the reasons we love being here.
It also occurs to me that some will see it as an anachronism — unsophisticated folk bitterly clinging to ways that vanished generations ago. Predictably, we’re already seeing that reaction from the Left (yeah, Rolling Stone, I’m lookin’ at you), notably to these lines:
A ragged rebel flag flies high above it all,
Poppin’ in the wind like an angry cannonball.
Now the holes of history are cold and still.
They still smell the powder burnin’, and they probably always will.
Apparently, you’re not allowed to say that anymore. Honoring the heritage of The South, much less embracing it, departs from The Holy Narrative and violates The Rules of Political Correctness.
Folks ’round here aren’t inclined to give that perspective the time of day, beyond perhaps a “Bless your heart” delivered with a smile. It simply doesn’t matter.
Far from bygone, Southern culture is alive and well. It’s changed some since the ’60s, sure, and it’s worn thin in urban areas and “woke” enclaves. But what defines The South has never gone away.
It never will.
We love it here. Let me count the ways….
Yes, I was born and raised in The North, in Ohio. My upbringing, quite frankly, including my schooling, reinforced not only the division between North and South, but the inarguable superiority of the way of life on our side of the Mason-Dixon.
And that well-intentioned indoctrination might’ve stuck, too, if not for annual family vacations in Florida every spring.
We always loaded up the family wagon and drove down. In the ’60s, before I-75 was finished, the trip took three days. Our first overnight stop was Harrisonburg, Virginia, the next Orangeburg, South Carolina. I looked forward to the second and third legs especially, because they traversed a world very different than the one we left.
The Carolinas. Georgia. I loved the drawl, the easy hospitality, the bright faces and the slower pace of things. Even as a kid, I perceived everything to be more honest, more real. I noticed the shirtsleeves, the near-absence of pretense or airs.
In later years, blasting down the Interstate, the trip was reduced to two days. We’d stop for the night in Calhoun. Most of the second day’s drive was in Georgia, but it wasn’t the same — I missed the eastern route, the two-laners, the small towns.
I missed The South. That’s where I felt most at home.
Now it is Home. All of the things I came to love during those family vacations are now in my grasp.
Honestly, that’s one of the greatest joys of my Life.
Ozarkansas took its sweet time warming up this morning. Bouncing off the overnight low of 18°F, the temperature didn’t claw its way above 32°F ’til after 11am. After returning to the mid-20s tonight, it looks like we’ll stay above freezing for the next 72 hours.
(I’m pleased to report that our winterizing measures have been performing just the way we want them to. Better than last year, actually.)
I gave myself permission to wait for conditions to be less frosty before beginning my morning rounds. Today’s chores included running two bags of trash to the county transfer station. I dropped by the bank to visit with Deb before returning Home.
I noticed while driving that a bunch of leaves had collected on the cowl of my truck, which could block the ventilation intake. When I got back to The Mountain, I popped the hood to clear away the debris.
I found this:
It had been a couple of cold weeks since I’d been under the hood of the Silverado. Sometime between then and today, critters (mice, presumably) had built themselves a cozy little condo.
I served the eviction notice.
Having the woodstove in operation now, naturally, it’s possible to work in the cabin in cold weather. We don’t burn all the time, but I fire it up when we want the warmth. Such was the case this afternoon and evening.
This would be our first fire using a flue thermometer. It doesn’t replace the handheld laser thermometer, but it’s fixed (by a magnet) to the stack about 18 inches above the firebox and gives us an at-a-glance read on how hot a particular fire is burning.
The lowest flue temp to avoid creosote is generally considered to be 300°F. The highest temp before risking over-firing is 550°F to 600°F.
Today’s burn pushed an ice-cold flue to 300°F in just under 15 minutes. It got as hot as 500°F before I closed the damper some, and I was able to keep the needle between 425°F and 450°F with little effort.
Very controllable. Very satisfying.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB