Despite the reformers endless efforts to encircle mankind, some persist beyond the broad extent of their casted net. 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 knees-ups certify that, even in this era of big government, there remain places in the lower forty-eight where freedom reigns. Across the planet, no doubt, there are pockets of liberty where individuals can use whatever light bulb they want without fear of the pokey.
These places are uniquely exceptional with their own distinct rhyme. But, in common, they’re all places where the air smells sweet, the water flows clean, and the people can hold their chin up.
Similarly, the backwoods of the old world, rare as they may be, have not been entirely defamed. Continue reading
