Fried Baloney Sandwiches

Sometimes while watching the evening news I stop and ask myself "What's happening to America?" Political corruption, moral decadancy and religious apathy. It is enough to make even the most optimistic person turn to Prozac and Paxil.

It is during those times I thank God for motorcycles, backroads and rural Americana. Today was one of those days. Sunny with temperatures nearing 70 degrees and a good stretch of open road. Without traveling anymore than 25 miles from my home I was blessed to encounter the real America, the America that rarely appears on the CNN or even FOX news. Let me share it with you.

It started with a short ride out the backroads to Pucket's Grocery in Lieper's Fork, TN. As I arrived there were two telling signs that America is still strong: 1) There was this old guy sitting on the bed of his pick-up truck selling hand-carved walking canes and 2) there must have been 75 motorcycles parked 1/4 mile on either side of Pucketts. While this lifted my heart the real treat was going into Pucketts and deciding what to eat. It wasn't easy with fresh barbeque, fried okra, sweet potato fries and homemade biscuits, but I opted for an all-time favorite, a fried baloney sandwich and IBC root beer. Yes, I spelled baloney correctly. This is America and that thick, fat slice of meat containing all the questionable parts of a hog sizzled and popped in that wrought iron skillet while the smell permeated my senses.

After leaving Puckett's Grocery, I headed down the Natchez Trace Pkwy to Fly, TN. Now for anyone who truly wants to return to America the way it is supposed to be, you have to stop in Fly. First there is the Fly cemetery and you better not miss the Fly Grocery (pictured to your left). I thought I had been sent back in time to the days of my youth. Ice cold Coca Cola (yes so cold bits of ice where forming in the bottle), a cash register from another era and the crippled old man that must have walked back and forth between the register and counter 10 times before completing one transaction.

My favorite part of the trip was short trek from Fly to Santa Fe. I decided to get as far off the beaten path as I could. Uncertain as to where the roads would take me I simply decided to go east, then south, east, then south until I once again hit civilization (truth is - civilization is what I was experiencing on those lost roads).

Not far out of Fly I passed  Bobby's Beer Stop. Bobby's was nothing more than an old single-wide trailer with a bunch of good-ole boys sitting on the porch throwing back their brews. Hard to tell while doing a drive by, but it looked like a group of locals (no one else could find this spot), enjoying the sunshine and swapping lies.  Somewhere between Fly and Santa Fe was a real display of American entrepreneurship. Creativity that couldn't be matched by Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Fred Smith combined. Where else in the world would you find Jones Goat Farm and Hair Salon. I am not sure if they shampooed, styled and colored goat's hair, or if you could order fried goat cheese while Betty Lou was doing your tease and comb.

I wasn't more than 15 minutes from home when the last vestage of soveriegn America was unvieled - the Maury County Coon Hunters Club. Like I said, it was a good day in America. If I can find these little treasures of America's past just outside my own back door - imagine what is hiding in the hills and holers across the continent. Do yourself a favor - take a day, or even an afternoon and soak up the riches America still has to offer.

Turn up the radio . . .

It was an  open air pavillion in an unobscure village in Nigeria. I could hear a small generator running out back and the speakers cracking and popping as they prepared for the service that evening Then, with a deafening assualt on my ears the speakers began to blair the message at sound decibles that would rival any rock concert I had ever attended.

My limited understanding of mixers, microphones and public address systems was more than adequete training to know that my African brethren were seeking maximum auditory exposure. Yes, every villager within a 50 mile radius of Ukpom was going to hear the message of the evening whether they had planned to or not.

With churches here in the United States using fancing mixing boards and state-of-the-art sound and video systems, this may seem like odd behavior - at least I thought so until I arrived home. There in solice of my suburban home was the stateside equivalent of an African sound system - teenage girls blaring Justin Beiber at volumes that resonated against the windows of my nearest neighbors. Listening over and over again to "baby, baby" at volumes that would make a rattlesnake retreat had me longing for a 3 hour sermon in any remote village on the continent of Africa.

At 51 I am suffering from progressive hearing lost after years of Bob Seger, Led Zeppelin and the Who. Now as I enter the the golden years of life, I have become my parents - railing against the obnoxiously loud pop icons and girls who talk at a pitch and volume that would shatter a champagne glass.

How easy it is for us to criticize other cultures - I am sure that visitors to my home would return to their native lands with stories that would shock and amaze their peers.