In a faint remembrance of mind, I sat beneath the shattered glass of a sunny night, elusively veiled with the souls of Spanish moss draped Cypress trees. The air was murky in it's humid glow, surrounding a bank of muddy waters. All was silent except for the faint lament of a river's song, and the picking of a banjo accompanied by an old tattered guitar's strum. We had traveled as far south as possible that night, leaving the Mississippi Delta just a place on someone's map. The rings from our smoke ignited the urge to drink our whiskey until daylight peered through the sullen moss. The Bayou in the summer months of 1937 was my rambling ground.