Now here is my South.
Fred's feed n' seed,
owned and sat in by Fred for forty two years
and counting,
and he's got a beard like no other, and fingers that pluck strings and pull them
and woo them into sweet sweet melodies.

but tonight the barn was filled with a hundred slurring Southerners
dancing their bare feet on the dirt padded floor to the Blue Mountain stringband.
i danced with strange old men, with white beards and pony tails down to their knees.
the place was full of sweat, and plaid, and smoke, and beer
and sweet sweet melodies.

night of fury and dancing and pipe smoking and some marlboros
and ohh i don't like marlboros
but i do like Uncle Jem, who smokes two packs a day
and is a lesbian trapped in a man's body, so he says.

none sense and dancing and smiles across the room, and harmonicas and banjos
and fiddles and mandolins,
and steel drums and old gibsons
and screen prints and oil paintings
and old saddles and the smell of old dust and wood.

sweet summer air, wisteria and honey suckle
blooming
and we even fried kudzu and ate it
and old faces and old bodies
and newer shoes and less than classy ladies

alabama may not be the city, but i danced with hundreds
in a bar full of fiends and characters and mostly good ole boys
and i could never be prouder to claim this as my own.

Fred hugged and kissed me on the cheek tonight as i left, all 67 years and ten inch beard of him.