One hot late-August evening, I finally found my antebellum Santa Claus in a post-Confederate world. And honestly, I found him to be quite fetching, this Pappy of the Southern Wood. Because, really, who’s to tell me that a portly, white-bearded man between the ages of 60 and 100 dancing silently in the darkness of the Smoky Mountains isn’t “my type.” I’m only human, aren’t I? And as far as I can remember, he was wearing a fitted, striped overall ensemble complete with a white cowboy hat, wasn’t he? And, sweet God almighty, there is no mistaking that this man called Pappy was wearing his dancing shoes that night. No sir, the clicks of Pappy’s leather pointed boots could be heard all the way from the government-owned, wooden mountain-shacks of Tennessee to the sprawling, gold-plated palaces of rural Tunisia. Kind of.

As I sat and watched in quiet awe, Pappy continued to move with the grace of a southern belle. A southern belle who was obviously a late-bloomer with an ill-temper and abnormally large feet all throughout her embarrassed teenage years, but who later blossomed into a stout, yet strikingly handsome woman and married a well-to-do man who not only butchered the bacon, but brought it home and done did most of the child rearing, too. And much like the big blue cow-eyes of the hypothetical Miss Jessica “Bessy” Brown (later to become Mrs. Dale “Barnyard” Huckles -worth), Pappy’s eyes told the tale of a woman in woe, only from a male perspective. Just by looking into those soulful orbs, I saw that this grizzled woodsman carried the weight of the modern world on his shoulders. Just by looking at his dancing figure, I saw that he carried the weight of his moonshine in his abdomen. I wanted to join that man in his mono-leg tapping jig, but to him I was only a face in the crowd. Quite literally, I was just one member of the richly diverse audience that had come to Smoky Mountain National Park that evening for a free Bluegrass concert and for a free ride down to Square Dance Avenue, with Pappy as the dressed-for-the-occasion conductor. All aboard!

This particular audience ran the gamut from a group of mustached men in form-fitting jeans and cowboy boots (tight shirts were popular, but flannel definitely took first prize), to small children rumored to have Attention Deficit Disorder who wandered too close to the flaming fire pit, to my personal favorite, a branch of happy Amish couples celebrating life, love and the great outdoors with their favorite of kin and most faithful of brethrens. While I would have loved to be seated next to the Amish in the hopes that the kind children of Jeremiah and Midge (party of 12) would offer me some of their delicious hand churned butter and home-made wheat and liver patties, Murphy’s law had me seated beside a young ragamuffin, sporting a pair of dark unabomber shades, jeans a la acid wash with holes in them, a James Dean attitude, an exposed, hairy chest and a do-rag resting atop a long, bushy pony-tail. He told me that he was a rebel. If anything, he looked like a drug-induced squirrel-man traveling back in time from the Van Halen era, with a song on his heart that he’d been waiting to sing to anyone who’d give a damn. He sang off-key, however, and loudly enough for me to hear. He sang about wrestling a bear with his own two hands. Some time later, he muttered to me of his adventures on the road, this young man – his days traveling through the U.S. of A. on his fashionable motor-cycle, taming the land, while at the same time letting himself go buck-wild. But I dared not listen. Rather, I pretended not to because this chap was certainly giving me the heeblie jeeblies, and I wanted to enjoy my self-proclaimed hillbilly music and watch my southern soul mate rhymthically stomp his feet. I was in a free country, if not on free territory. And I wanted to watch some free country music, damn it. I wanted to fly away from my inbred weirdo friend. My salvation came in the form of Pappy. And what an awkward form it was.

I myself am no native of Smoky Mountain acreage, though seeing the abandoned cemetery and the now government-owned pre-Civil War mountain shanties that pepper the area certainly made me wish I were. Sitting at that concert, I felt somewhat like an adolescent boy at an all-girls slumber party. While I went through all of the metaphorical motions the pillow fights, the makeovers, dinners at the local Chi-Chi’s and, most importantly, crush confessions—there was still something inherently different about me that set me apart from the others. It was obvious to them, and it was obvious to me. I wasn’t Amish, I wasn’t from the South, I wasn’t even an angry bumpkin who wanted to share stories of wrestling donkeys and cruising for chicks. I was simply out of place and I desperately wanted to be in it. I was a hideous neurotransmitter that couldn’t find an appropriate receptor site. Perhaps it was exactly that feeling, perhaps it was my foreign naïveté, or maybe it was simply my trusty woman’s intuition that led me standing center stage with Pappy later that night, laughing nervously and trying to keep up with his a-tap-tap-tapping. Maybe that’s just the way they do it down therr. I guess there’s more to life than hearing Tanya Goldman confess her love for Andrew Salster over a plate of seasoned Onion Blossoms and steaming steak Fajitas. Not much more, though.

At any rate, the banjo-pickin’ band rocking the camp grounds that night had a guitar strummin’ lead singer (who, in a side note, showed an uncanny resemblance to the original Queen of Comedy, Ms. Ellen Degeneres). She sang a mean tune, this pseudo-Ellen, and she told a great anecdote. But I wasn’t laughing when she said that she hoped to see every last member of the audience up and dancing by the end of the next song. It isn’t that I was born with two left feet, it’s just that sometimes I wish I had been. I didn’t know what “dancing” meant to these mountain folk. This wasn’t middle school anymore, and they sure as hell weren’t playing the reliable beats of Nelly. Nor was there a DJ giving me specific orders to “do something” and/or “shake my tail-feather.” Hell, nobody told me what to do at all. Instead, I watched in a mixture of horror and delight as darling Pappy began making rounds from the first row up, and as a line of people began forming what appeared to be a Caravan.

While this particular Caravan consisted namely of the afore-mentioned chitlins and a spattering of hammered mothers, I knew that I would be among them shortly. As Pappy and his joyful procession approached, I grew increasingly nervous. I giggled like a little schoolgirl and could barely contain my excitement as I sat and waited. Lo and behold, Pappy in all of his Southern glory came beckoning to my aisle, and with the lightness of euphoria I gladly accepted his invitation. I also lost any common sense that I could ever claim to have had. It appears that, at that moment in time, I had less reason than any toddler or drunken homemaker in that link. Instead of grabbing the hand of the last person of the dancing caravan, I grabbed the rough and rugged hand of Pappy. Sweet, silent, befuddled Pappy.

It appears Pappy wasn’t quite sure what to think of me. But in the spirit of a gentleman, he didn’t criticize, he didn’t complain. And thus we danced, hand in hand – he a silent elderly type, me a neurotic and spastic giggling type. As we reached front and center of the stage, Pappy and I separated from the rest of the caravan. It was the first time that gentle Pappy showed any sign of confusion or irritation. But, to this day, I can’t help but think that… maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe Pappy wanted to dance with me and me alone. Or, perhaps, it was I who, unbeknownst to my conscience, hogged Pappy to myself and led him astray like the glass of a Ouija board. So I stood: Before the judgmental eyes of Smoky Mountain campers and residents, trying desperately to mimic the ju g band affiliated movements of Pappy to my left. I couldn’t help but feel incredibly mortified and stupid. But maybe that’s just what love feels like. And in a heartbeat the song was over. Reluctantly, I went back to my seat ready to have low self-esteem and draw little attention to myself for the rest of the evening (I then proceeded to take annoying flash photographs of the band… but mostly of Pappy).

That hot late-August evening was the last time that I saw Southern Pappy in person. But, as the sweet Lord would have it, I came to my cozy college dormitory only to find a Canadian Pappy living on my floor. He also has a roommate, Adam. Much like Adam of the Bible. Coincidence, my friends? Only if you call having the lead singer of the Bluegrass band looking like Ellen Degeneres a coincidence also. I beg of you homies, keep it real.