Despite the reformers’ endless efforts to encircle mankind, there are those who persist beyond the broad extent of their casted nets. In the backwaters of the Republic, for instance, the distant rumble and flicker of Saturday night hootenannies still befall yonder the mighty oak groves.

In defiance of all things good and proper, the unconsecrated gather under the pale moonlight and jig step to zydeco washboard rhythms while downing tipples of corn syrup and fermented grain. These barn stompers certify that, even in this era of big government and mass fentanyl addiction, there remain places in the lower forty-eight where freedom reigns.

Across the planet there are pockets of liberty where individuals can use gas burning stovetops while safely out of the reach of the long arm of the law. These places are uniquely exceptional with their own distinct rhythms and rhymes. But, in common, they’re places where people’s only demand of government is to be left alone.

Similarly, the backwoods of the old world, rare as they may be, have not been entirely defamed. Continue reading →