The Spirit That Made America

It's been a while since I embedded a music video on this blog. I had begun to depend too heavily on them for a time, and I felt uncomfortable with that, so I made a conscious decision to cease, but with the overwhelming bombardment of material from Washington these days, I once again sought the brief refuge of music, and rekindled my rebel spirit.

I was born in New York, but moved to Georgia shortly after I graduated high school. I was terrified on the way down, expecting the worst as a result of my exposure to the South from the cinematic sources I had witnessed as a youth. Once I arrived, I soon discovered that I was "home", the place I really belonged. I fit in Georgia like peas and carrots...or Forrest and Jenny.

One of my best friends was a fellow from the real country, and he was wary of me at first. Just as my premonitions of the South betrayed me, so did his of folks like me, Yankees from the North. It wasn't long before we became fast friends, though our previous prejudices lingered as a source of taunting humor, especially for an audience of locals and usually at my expense. I didn't mind, however, because I felt perfectly at ease with my friend, and wonderfully welcome.

My stay in the South was short-lived, especially in retrospect, as advancing age has that effect. Nevertheless, I still believe that it was an experience that cemented my conviction in the spirit of freedom in America. While my childhood was that of a rural Long Islander in a time when New York and Georgia were not nearly as dissimilar as today, I'm convinced --at least in theory -- that my early development may not have taken the path to where I stand today had I not escaped for a brief spell into the land of the truly-American.

With that in mind, Desert Skies struck me tonight as a poetic anthem to the spirit that made us all what we are today, despite the erosive properties being applied by politicians on a daily basis. Many of us, particularly the Tea Party members, have that same spirit embedded in our souls even more deeply that Janet Napolitano would like to embed electronic tracking chips.

I maintain my belief that most Americans would like to be "buried with [their] chaps on" even to this day. I insist that we retain that right. And I demand that our elite politicians respect that right.

If you haven't listened yet, keep these words in mind as you do. If you have already listened, then you already have an understanding of my intent. May God keep America, and may we survive the domestic attack under which we now suffer.

And may we all eventually be buried with our chaps on so that we may watch the moon hiding 'neath the desert skies. Enjoy, and God bless.

Sphere: Related Content

This is Our Identity

My greatest fortunes have been my upbringing in a relatively Conservative enclave in what is now surrounded by a sea of electoral blue, and the parents who raised me with common sense. It still took me twenty years to discover that I lived amongst the enemy.

That's right, I said it. If President Barack Hussein Obama can call true Americans "the enemy" on TeleMundo, I am perfectly comfortable in turning the tables, revealing the nefarious intent of those among whom I now reside. That residence may have been my genesis, but I did manage a brief escape in which I experienced life amidst real people and true Americans. I learned much, and discovered my values as a very young man.

Antithetical to my geographic proximity, I'd always harbored an affinity for classical music and, even more strangely, bluegrass. Being born and raised in New York, a mere sixty miles from Manhattan, one would naturally assume that I would absorb the mentality of the Lib City, but that never happened. Out here, we remained insulated from the insanity of our urban neighbors, and for that I shall be eternally grateful.

It didn't hurt, either, that shortly after graduating high school, I moved to Georgia for six years. Even though I was certainly no city boy, the move terrified me, coming on the heels of the movie Macon County Line. I was convinced that my cousin and I would get pulled over on I-95 and brutalized in a southern jail just for the crime of being "Yankees". That didn't happen, and I was more at home in the South than I was up North. And one of the best friends I had there was a bonafide country boy from way out in the woods.

What was funny about Steve at first was that he assumed I'd have one of those hard-core New York accents, which I never did, even as a child. I, on the other hand, automatically assumed that he would be knowledgeable about pickup trucks and shooting guns - which he was - but he was also a very intelligent man  and a deliberate thinker. The only cliché that could possibly be applied to Steve was the slowness of action renowned in the South.

I learned much more during my time in Georgia about the American fiber than I probably would have by remaining sequestered on Long Island, as many of my classmates and friends did. I have no doubt that I would have learned it eventually through age-acquired wisdom, but I benefited from Georgia - and Steve - at a very early age. The lessons stick with me to this day. It is probably one of the reasons I get so annoyed when limousine Liberals denigrate "fly-over" country as inhabited by stupid people. When the lights go out, we'll see who needs whom the most.

I have another cousin who grew up here in the Liberal bastion of the Empire State, and who permanently migrated to the deep South many years ago. He has been a birdie in my ear for a few years, warning of the imminent collapse of our society and the resultant exodus of starving, helpless Liberals streaming out of the big cities - like so many mindless, voracious zombies - in search of sustenance.

It is a shame that the people of this country have allowed themselves to become so segregated by their government that they may eventually end up killing one another over something that was once taken for granted; food. It must also be noted that food is still plentiful in this country, so long as one knows how to hunt it and prepare it for consumption. The tragedy lies in the fact that nearly half of our population - perhaps more - have lost that basic skill through the soothing reassurances that government would always provide.

And so I return to my point about bluegrass music. Inner city denizens may roll their eyes and giggle at the very mention of it, but the music is a wonderful celebration of our original frontier spirit. The lyrics are pure inspiration, and the melodies are a delight even when no vocals are necessary. Choctaw Hayride is a prime example. If you can sit perfectly still while listening, please let me know. Enjoy.

Sphere: Related Content