Although Halloween is not a holiday per se, it’s my favorite of them all. Partly this is because somebody in the family was always critically ill or newly buried at Thanksgiving and Christmas while I was growing up. Mostly, though, it has to do with my Scots-Irish heritage; I have long histories on both sides of the family of psychic abilities and paranormal phenomena. Also, I live in a haunted house, within walking distance of a haunted cemetery and a haunted patch of woods, and I attended two haunted colleges.

Willard also lives in a haunted house, has two long lines of haunted family members, and actually saw a ghost on one of those haunted campuses. (I’m envious as hell.) So between the two of us we plan to bore you—or perhaps delight you—senseless for the month of October with ghost stories and spooky music.

And if any of you have stories of odd things to share, we’d love to hear them; hillbillies love nothing better than a ghost story. Till next time, fair thee well.

To my little sister, mother of the Princess and Bubba. And no, I will not tell her age. Mainly because only a totally crass person asks a lady her age, and Sis is more of a lady than me. And yes, she IS my baby sister.

Otherwise it's still dry as dust here in Hillbilly Heaven. A 70% chance of rain Thursday produced a three-minute shower--about the same amount of water some Hollyweird types use to do their bit for the environment.

Only other news to report is that Keith Olbermann FINALLY used a classic country quote in an appropriate context the other night--but no, that pleasant coincidence was not sufficient to convince to be a surrogate mother for his children. It only means that my continual moans, complaints and gripes on his messageboard may finally be bearing fruit. (Ouch.) Willard says hello. Me too. Luv Fairweather

Last night I was thrilled to see Ralph Emery interview Marty Stuart on Ralph's show on RFD channel. They were talking about an exhibit of items at the Tennessee State Museum that Marty has collected over the years that were once owned by the late greats of country music. I cried as I listened to stories of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Merle Travis, Marty Robbins (for whom Marty Stuart was named), mainly because if it weren't for Marty Stuart, those stories would be lost forever. Country music began to lose touch with its past in the mid 1970s, when in a single year the simpering Olivia Newton-John was named female vocalist of the year by the CMA and John Denver, who was a great folk-pop singer but NOT country, was named Entertainer of the Year by the same organization. I remember cringing at the time over the story that someone happened to play some of Hank Williams Sr.'s great classics for Newton-John, and she "expressed an interest in meeting him": Ol' Hank had already been dead more than twenty years then.

Every year we lose more of those who remember country music from back when it truly was country: we've got Little Jimmy Dickens still living and performing at the Grand Ol' Opry, but Stonewall Jackson was recently fired from there; Eddy Arnold is alive, but living in retirement, while many others from the golden age no longer live in Nashville but have relocated to Branson, MO. I was angry this year when I learned that Vince Gill has been inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, ahead of such greats as Stonewall, the Wilburn Brothers, and many others. I'm not suggesting that Gill should not ever go into the Hall of Fame, although I'm less inclined to regard him as a great country singer than as a 1990s hit machine; I merely think that his induction should be delayed until ALL--and I mean ALL--the late greats are there: Johnny Horton, the Wilburn Brothers, etc.

I just would like to say thank you to Marty and Ralph and those who remember. Just means I'm not totally shut out by the Nashville moneymaking establishment after all. Till next time, fair thee well.

This past week my older niece, Miss A, had her seventeenth bday. She was, I'm proud to say, ornery from birth. Born six weeks early, by c section when her mother developed toxemia, wieghing barely over three pounds, she kicked off a wet diaper and screamed herself blue in the face when she was barely thirty-six hours old, prompting her dad-- my guitar-playing brother-- to pronounce her "already a hellraiser."

Because her mother had had problems with addictionto prescription drugs on and off ( thankfully, now off), things haven't been easy for Miss A. She struggled to find where she fit in the world until she reached her teens and suddenly found she loves to write; poetry, Sci-Fi, satire, music criticism, environmental issues. An article she recently wrote about how an iconic local waterfall has dried up in our current drought, and its possible reaction to global warming, has landed her her first paying job, an internship at one of our local "rags" as we affectionaly call them.

Our ornery Miss A roughly four feet ten bare-foot, and we think this rag will eventually lead her to a place that's her perfect fit: Helen Thomas's front-row seat at White House briefings, nose to elbow with people like David Gregory. There Miss A will harass any president, no matter what his party affiliation-- because She's ornery. And Aunt Fairweather and (adopted) Aunt Willard will be cheering her on.

Happy Bday, Angel.

Willard here for a brief forward. Yesterday was Hank Williams' bday and the following blog was supposed to be posted but I was a day late, dollar short and fighting an allergic reaction to fireant stings. Fairweather is mad enough at me so please be kind.

And now to the featured blog---

Ol' Hank

There was a man from Montgomery, lonesome to the bone
He only stayed awhile, this world was not his home...
"King of Dixie," recorded by Marty Stewart

He was Hank Williams, SR., born September 17, 1923.
Never mind his biography; as his son once remarked, if you know his songs, you know him.

Bocephus is right. Ol' Hank put everything into his music. There was humor there; listen to "Howlin' at the Moon," "Move It On Over," and the Luke the Drifter masterpiece, "Everything's Okay." There was anger; it vibrates through "Mind Your Own Business," allegedly inspired by a nosy neighbor. There was spirituality, cruising a fine line between transcendent joy and joyless morbidity exemplified by "I Saw the Light" and "The Angel of Death."

And there was love. To Hank Williams, though, love's twin was sorrow. It's said he was asked once why he wrote so many sad songs, and he quipped. "I always was a saddist." Part of the sadness came from the bottle; his binges are legendary. More of it came from his marriages. His first, tumultuous at best, inspired such weepers as "You Win Again," "Cold Cold Heart," and "Alone and Forsaken." The second one, short-lived, might have inspired more, had it not ended with his lonely death on the back seat of a Cadillac in the wee hours of New Year's Day 1953. On the charts at the time, incidentally, was the blackly comic, prophetic "I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive."

Hank eclipsed all those singers who came before him, and none since have ever quite stepped out of that mighty shadow; not even Bocephus, who sang in "Hank" (1973):

Some say he was the greatest one yet I don't know
But I wouldn't be surprised at all if that ain't so.

Happy Birthday, Ol' Hank.