The US South : Harry Crews

[tbradsim1]

We all have sameness and differences , My South is Louisiana, different, very different. My Fathers Father called everybody North of I-10 Les Americkan, didn't think he was an American till his son fought from Africa to Germany. One thing I"ve learned about people in my soon to be 72 years of life is Southerners are thought to be ignorant by East Coast people and Southerners think Yankees are rude, that is what is perceived. The South is a way of life, different areas of the South different ways. The hard fact is you can't judge people by how they talk, but you can sure judge them by how they treat people.

 

[fnord]

I love hearing where you guys are from, where you live and how you identify with the land.
Darwin pretty well nailed Lawrence with his description of "the Berkeley of Kansas." But around my house that town is known as The People's Democratic Republic of Lawrence. For a community that was burned to the ground by Quantrill, like the entire continent of Australia, it lost it's moral compass and appreciation of history by embracing liberal causes to a point of nausea: no petting zoos, no fireworks, the curtailment of military recruiters, oh, yeah - and this is a biggie in the PDRL - it's also a nuclear free zone. (Small matter we have a superbly run nuke power plant forty miles south that rejuvenated a hand to mouth agrarian region with hundreds of well paying jobs.)
Jarit, if you ever follow your friend's footsteps, you'll always have a room in my house. Bring some good bottles of Finnish vodka and I'll treat you to some swell Bourbon, a treasure trove of Latakia forward smokes and my wife's culinary skills. We both come from south of the Mason-Dixon line and were brought up right: at least well enough to know that politics is business and never interferes with friendship.
Fnord

 

[pipesinperu]

I'm originally from New Hampshire, but when it comes to American writers, you can't beat the South! I haven't read Crews myself, but I know, as elpfeife said, that he's well respected in literary circles.
Try some Barry Hannah (one of my absolute favorites), Flannery O'Connor, Charles Portis, Larry Brown, and of course, Faulkner.

Odd to think a very regional author like Crews would resonate with a European, Jarit. But, why the hell not? I've got a couple of German and French authors I've carried around with me for more than a few years.

I've heard that the "Southern Gothic" writers have had some success in France and elsewhere in Europe, too. Seems surprising to me, too, since one of the best things about them is how they capture the way people talk, which would almost definitely get lost in translation.

 

[Perique]

The South is a way of life, different areas of the South different ways. The hard fact is you can't judge people by how they talk, but you can sure judge them by how they treat people.

Excellent post, sir. Hat tip from Southern Appalachia.

There is a great deal of romanticization of the South almost all of which is complete bullshit unless one pines for the good ole days of chattel slavery, Jim Crow racism, poverty, and ignorance.

Doesn't sound like the South I know. You must live in town.

 

[portascat]

Texas born and bred. Wouldn't want to live any other place, although I would like to visit plenty of them. My son has become fascinated with California since being in the Navy. I don't understand it, but I ain't 19 and single anymore.
Being "Southern" or "Texan" is something to be proud of, but hardly anyone is "Southern" around here in any way that would be recognizable to someone in, say Finland, reading about it in a romanticized fashion. We can all put on an act, I suppose, but it fades away to the same old crap about 90% of the time.
My grandpa is Greatest Generation, and spent all his time (including his Army Air Corp) in the south. When he retired he and my grandma started traveling around, trying to hit all 50 states by RV. The thing that always amazed him was how polite people were across the entire US to people traveling in their state. Maybe it isn't so much Southern, or Northern, but somehow American.

 

[portascat]

Here is some sure nuff exclusive Southern Fried Poetry by your friend and mine. Don't mind the cussin, cause it ain't at you, and feel free to write it on any bathroom wall with full credit to the author.
---
An El Camino, rumbling and one tail light out on the highways and byways, sucking down gas and not letting it go, you know if it rolls up in your driveway it can mean only one thing, but it can mean all things. Pain, pleasure, confusion, or somebody needs to borrow twenty dollars and can you spot me a half bag a weed and a beer for the ride 'cause you know I am good for it and will get you back next Friday after I get paid. The dogs are barking in the back yard and Spark Plug is still tied up on the chain because he can't be trusted around those kids and somebody needs to bring in that pair of boots or take out the trash or take my mind somewhere other than this place where I cannot be the things that my momma didn't raise me to be.
White Trash religion is shittin and gittin with a cooler of beer in the back seat, give me a pack of Dorals, no make it two because I want the t-shirt and one of those lotto tickets, you know I just got to win this thing because I use my kids birthdays to pick my numbers, and why the fuck not give me ten dollars worth of scratch-offs, too, don't you know my old lady is going to be pissed.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, favorite sweatshirt and don't she look good in them shorts. Gunshots in the street at night, crawl out of bed and look out the window and get back in and hold her close and tell her it will be all right with one eye open and both ears listening for a sound, any sound, that will mean it is time to make war on the demons that haunt her. The truck starts up early morning crawl out of bed take a shower get your ass to work boy and don't forget who signs your paycheck you son of a bitch. Don't leave just yet, baby, hold me just a while longer, I don't want to go but the world ain't gonna wait on you and me.
There is a dream out there that will slip through my fingers just as soon as I find it, but only if I do, so I won't try to. Sweet soothing sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Freebird on a clock radio out in the shop turning tools and grease under your fingernails and blood on your knuckles and goddamn I hate the water pump on a fucking Chevy. I need a smoke and Joe bring me back a burger, cut the onions, and if you eat any of my fries I will cut your nuts off you sneaky bastard. Parole officer peeking from the street and boy where you been and have you been making your meetings and your counselor says you been late two times this month and you better get your shit together or you might find yourself living back where your kind belongs.
Twelve pack of beer and a damn fistfight out in the yard and Bobby Joe needs stitches because Freddy hit him a good one and knocked his head up against the car bumper and it is the second time it has happened this month and Bobby Joe keeps coming back for more and the blood is bad and getting worse and somebody is gonna kill somebody to make this one over.
Don't try to run and don't try to hide. El Camino with a blood red grin chasing you down in your dreams, glass packs rumbling and 4 barrels sucking the wind right out your lungs and throwing you in the back and leaping into the sky and taking you back, always back, til you can't see the horizon no more.

 

[crimsonrat]

Never heard of the guy, but I'm not what you'd call the literary type. I did smoke on the front porch of Rowan Oak, however, and drank some bourbon on the bench next to the owner: