A tale of two compounds: the swamp variations

You've seen the idyllic rural compound in the previous post. The rolling fields and old barns; that's where Gentleman Farmer Bubs might live. I might rise early and stroll the back 40, surrounded by my hounds, sipping coffee and marvelling at God's creation. Wellington boots and maybe even a tweed shooting jacket. Enough of that.

Here now, in all its feverish bourbon-soaked glory, is the swamp version of the rural compound. This is where Ol' Cranky Bubs would live. Sitting on the porch in a shabby seersucker suit, delirious from swamp fever and mint juleps. Clearing away the snake skins hanging from the railing to make room to stand up empty longneck beer bottles. Shooting those bottles off the porch, bullets flying out into the muskeg. Catfish. Cigars. Tabasco. Occasional forays into town for supplies, or to lay down a wager at the local cockfight. Maybe a couple side bets on some chicken bingo.

This is a real picture, taken by yours truly on the Pearl River in Louisiana, in an area known as the Honey Island Swamp. Our guide told us that the resident was prone to emerging from his fish camp and firing a shotgun at random to discourage tourists.