“If I wanna honky-tonk around till two or three,
brother, that’s my headache don’t you worry about me.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business”
—Hank Williams
You had to hand it to them. On this Wednesday night in April, brought out by an ad hoc band of heavyweight players slinging country standards, there are a lot of enthusiastic dancers here at Rice Hall, at the VFW Post 1386.
“The guy’s name is Conor Kennedy,” says Post Commander Jack Straub. “ He’s sort of the lead dog on this. The deal was that we’re going to do every Wednesday in April and see how it goes. And that first week, I would say, they had 105 people here.”
Tonight sees an even larger crowd, the countrified pulse of Kingston a mile up the road from Lake Katrine.
Wide is the banquet room where everyone has gathered to soak in the music. Yellow and white fairy lights grow along the ceiling beams and float in the air like phosphorescent Spanish moss. A disco ball too hangs like the death star, scattering the lights.
It could be anywhere USA. Unselfconscious oldsters, youngsters done up, those in the middle wearing baseball caps and sucking down beer and cocktails, some sport wedding rings, some without. Arranged around the room sitting at tables pushed back to make room for the dance floor, and standing and cheering and whistling at the parts they liked, the crowd applauds the end of each song and watches the dancers all the while.
The older men and their ladies out on the dance floor mingle with younger couples, hot to trot, pulling moves that border on ballroom dancing. Intricate foot work, dancing apart as far as fingertips allow, and then pulling back together suddenly. One woman ends up dong a sort of crouched backflip over her partner’s embracing arm while another distinguished gentleman exhibits the spirit of a vaquero, button down shirt tucked into jeans, belt buckle, cowboy hat. He’s out there keeping time with two ladies. Same sex couples also mix it on the dance floor. No intolerance to report.
Playing guitar and singing, Connor Kennedy might be the lead dog but Cindy Cashdollar pulls focus. She plays a Remington steel guitar, made by Herb Remington, who hisself played steel guitar with Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys.
Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight”, Hank William’s “On the Bayou”, Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain”, “Honky Tonk Blues”. “Honky Tonk Angels”. “She Never Spoke Spanish to Me”.
The seasoned players sprinkle in the standards of honky-tonk canon between more obscure fare and unfamiliar instrumentals. Along with lap steel virtuoso Cashdollar, tonight’s line-up saw Will Bryant on keyboard and accordion, Lee Falco on drums, Brandon Morrison on bass and Ruthy Unger on fiddle.
And it’s a family affair. Connor’s mother takes your money at the door while Connor’s father takes no nonsense.
……………
VFW stands for Veterans of Foreign Wars and while all American wars are fought in foreign climes, not all service members of the United States Military see action. For those that haven’t there’s the Foreign Legion over on O’Reilly street.
“This was all done by the politicians in in Washington,” notes Straub. “Yeah, they come up with this, ‘Well, let’s make a distinction between the guys that were in the war and the guys that weren’t. Quite honestly, I am not in favor of that. I think if served you served. If the guys that are back in the states aren’t loading the planes and sending them over supplies, the guys doing the fighting would all be sitting ducks.”
As a civilian at the VFW Post 138, having neither consummated ones valor nor exhibited the intent to serve ones country in battle, if you want to drink in the bar adjoining the dance floor you’ll need the patronage of one of those who have to vouch for you, on foreign soil or in hostile waters, amidst a war, campaign or other military adventure.
Maureen MacArthur, drinking in the private bar, approves of country music, says she was raised in Florida, but that country music was all around.
“My first concert was Molly Hatchet, “ says MacArthur. “It’s more like rock-ish. But my favorite is actually Willie Nelson.”
Hailing from a military family and bearing a name like MacArthur, she has no problem being granted access to the VFW bar.
Technically a fraternal order on par with the rotary club or the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks, the VFW doesn’t hang membership on gender. The VFW has been admitting women at least since World War II when women were serving on the battlefield as nurses. The uniform is everything.
And here MacArthur mocks the Shriners. One flavor of the fraternal order of Masons, they still prohibit women.
So while the veterans of foreign wars bask in the exclusivity of their bar, the music is certainly loud enough to enjoy due to the canny placement of a service window between the bar and the dance floor itself which allows the free flow of commerce back and forth. Bartender Margie Miggins, herself the daughter of a Navy veteran of the Korean War, facilitates.
Coming from the beer window, looking on with memories conjured by the ghosts of VFW’s past, is musician Mark Shue. Back in Staunton Virginia, recalls Shue, shows were played at the Post 2216 VFW, “You could rent out the halls, for $100, $150 dollars.”
And more he is struck by the uncanny spirit of the night. It’s the lack of pretension, he decides. “Everyone’s dancing, everyone’s having a great time.” Which shouldn’t be unusual but there it is.
“Out at the VFW in East Nashville where a friend lives, where my guitar player lives, there’s a local honkytonk on Tuesday nights, hosted by Chris Scruggs, Earl’s grandson and it’s quite an affair.”
In a break between the music somebody shouts “Conway Twitty”!
…..
Buying drinks from the beer window, three young women – presumably unspoken for – have dressed up for the occasion. They stay close together, speak and laugh among themselves and move through the crowd like triplets. Just like the dancing on display – which tonight ignores latently obscene forms and possibilities – so did the night-out fashions of the young women recall a more conservative bent.
Perhaps like Mom-jeans, those high-waisted, bulging-hipped, ass-flattening, denim offerings which made a roaring comeback even before the pandemic, this was just the next logical reversion: blouses, high necklines, denim. Nothing flashy or scandalous. Attractive but muted.
Earlier in the night, they sat in chairs right at the edge of the dance floor but no one asked them to dance. Made conspicuous by their lack of numbers, maybe the young men of Ulster County just hadn’t heard there was a honky-tonk afoot, but with the lights not yet dim, the dance floor not yet full, and the room looking on, to approach one meant to approach all three. A formidable trial bearing much in common with military adventure, success in no way guaranteed. With the line eternally reinvigorating itself, the beer window at least does a brick business.
…….
Outside, patrons smoke cigarettes and gaze across the full-up parking lot over at an unlikely Eden cultivated there, the trees and plants of the Augustine Nursery. The band is playing and Connor Kennedy’s voice drifts outside. An empty bottle, a broken heart and you’re still on my mind.
It’s an 80-degree day tomorrow and a banger of a thunderstorm predicted after that, but for now the air is dry enough to make your nose bleed.
The air brings with it memories of Yuma, Arizona in the summertime, just over the California state line, or Albuquerque, New Mexico covered in the same dust with the same amorphous globe-shaped glow cast by streetlamps swarmed in flying clouds of winged locusts. Sweat is the only humidity and lightning doesn’t guarantee rain.
When the music stopped at 10, a white-haired man wearing a polo shirt went into action, armed with a broom, hustling along the guests foreign to the VFW, getting those sitting up and moving. Empty bottles and cans cluttered the tabletops that no one had bothered to bus.
This cowboy rite of spring, this pulling away from the memory of winter, the leaves still not unfurled on the trees, but the sap rising, it all happened out at the VFW on East Chestnut.
By the time this article prints, the drama of the Honky-Tonk will have played out once more, the penultimate cowboy party, dancing, cold beer and hot pickin’ as the flier says.
The last chance to honky-tonk in April will be Wed 26.
Arrive early to learn the two step. Pre-show dance instruction starts at 6:15. While belt buckles are not required they are highly encouraged. The white and brown cowboy jacket Connor Kennedy wears has leather fringe. Live a little.
A basically secular gathering hall, the VFW can be rented for anything. Punk shows, quinceañeras with mariachi dj’s, awards ceremonies, dance instruction. Manifestations are limitless. Contact Commander Jack Straub at (845) 802-3765.
Join the family! 
