Been a bit of time since I last posted something. If you want an idea of where I’m at, here’s a little recipe for you. Mix a cup and a half of Faulkner with two tablespoons of early Capote. Add a liberal dash of O’Conner and several ripe Carl Hiassen characters, whip until you have the consistency and color of Spanish Moss. Slowly stir in a quarter cup of dark memory until it runs like veins in the mixture and then immerse in a tub of water and bake at 90+ degrees. That will pretty well sum up where I’ve landed.

It’s been a long time since I’ve lived on this side of the continent, much less this far south, and in all those years I never thought I’d come back to this particular spot. The Dead had it right, a long strange trip indeed, and I’m not yet sure if this particular point along the way is the cherry on the sundae or the lump of coal in the solstice stocking.

The last time I was here, the gunshot over the Grassy Knoll had just begun its echo around the planet. Water fountains and bathrooms were designated “˜Colored’ and ˜White”. Black folks lived in their part of town, enduring the nightly terrorist tactics of the Rednecks of America Youth Corp. Wrap-around shades, Sam Browne belts and beer-bellies were de rigueur for the local law. Every town was a speed-trap. One town even had the stop-light lenses reversed to trip up the Snowbirds.

Confederate flags were everywhere back then; front license plates, flagpoles, arm patches, porch over-hangs. If there was room to put a symbol of a war that ended a century before, there you would find the Southern Cross. I mean, like, give it up, man. You lost. Get over it already and move on.

I, to my great misfortune, was a switchblade packing, “a little too tall, could’ve used a few pounds, tight pants, points, hardly renowned” Westside Detroit JD with Vasoline and baby oil slicked-back hair – waterfall, ducktail, sideburns and all – and sporting a black London Fog trench coat, a look not all that uncommon on my own turf but one that glowed like a neon red target down here in the Old South. To say my short stay here was unpleasant would be an understatement.

But, here I am back again, 45 years later. A lot has changed in that time and yet I find myself listening for the distant strains of banjo music. And me without a paddle.