WBRD 1017 — Field Reports Archive
Earlier transmissions from the signal.
Still carryin’ heat—if you’re wantin’ to listen… they’re still here.
WBRD Field Report: The Signal
Y’all, some places are just buildings.
Four walls.
A roof.
Maybe a door that sticks in humid weather.
But every now and then you run into a place that feels a little different.
You sit down for a minute… and something shifts.
Not dramatic.
Not mystical.
Just enough to notice.
Like the place itself is standing between two worlds.
Anthropologists call this a threshold place.
A place where people pass from one condition into another.
A doorway between what was… and what’s becoming.
And the funny thing is, humans have been building places like that for a very long time.
Long before microphones.
Long before books.
Long before anybody thought to give the idea a proper name.
In ancient Greece, travelers gathered at crossroads where offerings were left and stories traded.
In Ireland, people visited holy wells where neighbors met beside water older than memory.
Out on cattle trails, fires burned through the night where strangers shared food and watched the stars.
Different places.
Different languages.
Same instinct.
Humans keep making spaces where the ordinary rules loosen up a little.
Not home.
Not work.
Not church.
Not wilderness.
Something in-between.
There’s an old phrase in the Vedantic traditions that points to the same idea.
Neti neti.
“Not this. Not that.”
Truth isn’t something you nail down with a label.
It shows up when the labels fall away.
Not the job.
Not the title.
Not the worry you walked in carrying.
Just a person sitting near the fire remembering what matters.
And if you spend enough time around the Whirlybird…
you start noticing something similar happens here.
People arrive as carpenters, teachers, musicians, travelers.
But after a little while none of that seems quite as important.
You’re just another human being sitting near the flame.
Watching sparks climb into the Southwest Louisiana night.
Places like this have always existed.
Village fires.
Front porches.
Dance halls.
Late-night radio signals drifting through the dark.
Little commons where stories move from one pair of hands to another.
Where strangers realize they aren’t quite strangers.
Where somebody laughs.
Somebody sings.
Somebody learns something they weren’t expecting.
And the warmth travels onward.
So if you ever find yourself wondering what exactly the Whirlybird is…
a venue?
a barn?
a radio station?
a story laboratory?
Don’t worry too much about the answer.
Threshold places don’t like labels anyway.
They’re not one thing.
They’re not the other.
They’re just that quiet stretch
between what was
and what ain’t settled yet.
And if the signal found you tonight…
pull up a chair.
The fire’s still burning.
WBRD FIELD REPORT — THE CHEESE, THE FIRE, AND TELLIN’ THE TRUTH
1008AM — Radio for the Restless Spirit
From somewhere near the fire at The Whirlybird
Now y’all ever hear the story about Mullah Nasruddin and the cheese?
He’s got guests comin’ over, and while his wife’s in the kitchen he’s carryin’ on about how wonderful cheese is. Says it’s good for digestion, keeps a body strong, full of everything a person needs. Talkin’ it up like it’s the finest thing ever made.
From the kitchen his wife calls out, “We ain’t got no cheese.”
Well, Nasruddin don’t miss a beat. Turns right back to the guests and starts explainin’ how cheese is terrible. Says it rots your teeth, makes you slow, clogs up your insides. Worst thing you could eat.
One of the guests finally says, “Well which is it? Is cheese good or bad?”
Nasruddin says, “That depends on whether we’ve got some in the kitchen or not.”
Now that story’s funny, sure. But it ain’t really about cheese.
It’s about perspective.
It’s about survival.
It’s about tellin’ the truth that fits the moment you’re standin’ in.
And lately, I been thinkin’ on that one a good bit.
A few weeks back, I was talkin’ big about this Liberty’s Lullaby project. In my head it had everything — layered sound, full foley, music all over it, folks comin’ and goin’, a whole production hummin’ like a well-oiled engine.
That was the “good cheese” version.
But then reality walked in the room like it always does.
Folks are busy.
Time’s tight.
Energy ain’t endless.
Money don’t grow on the oak trees out back.
And all of a sudden I’m standin’ there lookin’ at the kitchen, realizin’ maybe the meal don’t depend on cheese at all.
Maybe it depends on the fire.
That’s the part Nasruddin understood.
He wasn’t lyin’.
He was respondin’.
He was workin’ with what was in the kitchen.
And that’s where the wisdom lives most days — not in the big plan, but in the small adjustment.
At a table.
Near a pot.
In a quiet conversation.
So I took a step back and asked myself a simpler question:
What if the story is told with what we actually have?
A fire.
A night.
A voice.
One instrument driftin’ through when it feels right.
That ain’t less.
That’s the ingredients.
Truth is, I was startin’ to build somethin’ that looked like other folks’ shows. Big productions. Heavy sound. Lots of movin’ parts.
But that ain’t where our world lives.
At The Whirlybird, people sit close.
Stories take their time.
Music don’t perform so much as breathe.
And the room carries the meaning.
That’s already a complete form.
You don’t have to build it.
You just have to sit still long enough to hear it.
So this ain’t me cuttin’ back.
This is me findin’ the right vessel.
Not a recreation of history.
A rememberin’ of it.
And rememberin’ belongs by a fire.
Nasruddin had a way of teachin’ without ever soundin’ like he was teachin’. He’d let the contradiction sit there. Folks would laugh. Then later on, somethin’ in it would start to make sense.
That feels close to home.
A little humor inside necessity.
A little wisdom in the kitchen.
Truth shaped by whatever’s on hand that day.
And I’m learnin’ somethin’ important in the middle of all this:
Some things ain’t meant to be built in a rush.
They’re meant to be carried.
One night at a time.
One story at a time.
One fire at a time.
“tap tap …” Got the frequency?
Y’all — WBRD FIELD REPORT — LOW TIDE COOKING
1008AM — Radio for the Restless Spirit
Some news settles in before it arrives. And some mornings you wake up already carryin’ it.
You feel it first—a shift in the air, like the swamp went quiet on purpose.
Frogs holdin’ back. Water listenin’.
Pop glances at the skillet and says, “Oil tells on folks if you let it.”
I don’t know if it’s the weather or just one of those things that follows you around till you slow down enough to notice it’s there.
Either way, it’s the kind of morning that makes you mind the fire twice and talk to yourself a little more than usual.
The blackpot’s set low. Oil warm, but not rushin’. Chicken waitin’ on the counter like it understands patience better than I do.
We don’t say much. That’s how you keep from sayin’ the wrong thing.
Time stretches the way it does out here—not slow, exactly, just roomy enough for thoughts to settle where they belong.
When the oil finally shimmers right, Pop lowers the first piece in. Not loud. No drama. Just ready.
He watches it a second, then says, “That’s how you know.”
And that’s it.
No lesson spelled out. No fix offered. Just the sound of something doin’ what it’s meant to do because somebody waited long enough.
Places like The Whirlybird get built the same way. Not on what comes through right on time, but on what shows up anyway.
People.
Hands.
Stories.
The long memory of keepin’ the door open.
(Field Note — visual reference)
For those of you listenin’ with your eyes today,
there’s a new Saint driftin’ along the edge of the signal—
just in time for Mardi Gras.
Saint Jimi Baba of the Whirlybird.
Rascal pope.
Keeper of the crooked blessing.
Hand raised not in judgment—
just lettin’ you know
you’ve been warned and welcomed
at the very same time.
The words wrapped around him ain’t decoration.
They’re field-tested advice.
Earned the slow way.
The kind you only bother writin’ down
after you’ve lived it.
Light your lucky flame if you need to.
Or don’t.
Either way,
the door’s already cracked open.
This is Nicky Butler,
out here listenin’ close,
on WBRD 1008AM—
where patience still cooks,
and the signal travels slow but true.
P.S.
Mardi Gras is comin’.
Lundi Gras is already reachin’ for the door.
If all goes right, the Sacred Saints Candles’ll be ready—
just in time for The Church of the Blackpot
to light things proper.
Y’all. It’s as cold as a truth you weren’t ready to hear.
WBRD Field Report, South Louisiana
1008AM (if the cold don’t crack the speaker cone)
It ain’t supposed to be like this.
Down here, winter usually shows up like a polite cousin—stays on the porch, drinks a cup of coffee, tells a few lies about how cold it is, and leaves before dark.
But this one? This one came in quiet… and stayed.
No ice on the trees. No glitter. No postcard tragedy.
Just cold.
The kind of cold that don’t decorate nothin’—it just corrects you.
It don’t shimmer. It don’t sing. It just sits on your chest like an unpaid bill and dares you to complain.
And every now and then you look down and see proof the sky’s been experimentin’: A few little piles of tiny snow pills—them baby pellets.
Like the clouds tried to make snow, got halfway inspired, then remembered we live in SWayLA and said, “Nah… that’s enough.”
It ain’t even snow you can respect. It’s more like the heavens got a salt shaker and sneezed.
I stepped out early—quiet as I could, like the land might still be sleepin’—and headed toward the pecan grove.
Now listen…
I’ve walked them trees in every mood God ever invented. Hungover mornings. Springtime joy. Hurricane clean-up. Long, slow grief. But I ain’t never walked ‘em like this.
The pecan limbs weren’t iced up or nothin’, but they were stiff—every twig drawn tight like the tree was clinchin’ its jaw. Leaves that usually take their sweet time lettin’ go had already bailed out. Everything looked like it had decided: We ain’t wastin’ energy on beauty today.
Every step sounded louder than it should’ve. Cold makes the world crisp like that. Even dry leaves crackle like old paper. Even your boots feel like they’re speakin’ in capital letters.
And up ahead, those live oaks… Lord. Majestic ain’t even the word. They stood there like old kings caught in a rare moment of humility—big limbs spread wide, Spanish moss hangin’ down like gray secrets, the whole cathedral of ‘em quieted by temperature alone. Spanish moss usually got opinions. Spanish moss usually sways and gossips—always flutterin’ like it’s sayin’, “I know somethin’ about you.”
But today it was still. Like the whole tree was holdin’ its breath. And the strangest part was how the silence felt heavy. No insects. No soft little bird chatter. No usual South Louisiana soundtrack of somethin’ buzzin’, creepin’, chirpin’, or flirtin’ in the brush.
Just… stillness.
A hush so deep it made the cold feel louder.
I kept walkin’, hands in my pockets, shoulders up around my ears, tryin’ to act like I was built for this kind of weather. Which I was not.
I watched the bamboo grove from a distance first, like you look at somebody you love when they’re havin’ a rough day. Bamboo’s supposed to be a dancer. That’s its whole job in the world—bend, sway, clap its hands in the wind, make music with itself. But this morning it looked like it had forgot its rhythm. The stalks stood rigid, leaves curled tight, edges browned just a touch—not from drama, just from reality. Like the grove was thinkin’: I’m not from up there. Don’t bring that kind of cold down here like it’s normal.
I walked into it anyway. And inside the bamboo it was quieter still—protected from the little wind we did have, but colder somehow, like the shade was keepin’ secrets. I could hear my own breath doin’ that thin, embarrassed whistle it does when it ain’t used to bein’ necessary.
I stopped and just listened. No music. No rustle. No sway. Only that cold, sittin’ there like a judge. And I caught myself thinkin’—not in a dramatic way, just in that Pop Squally way—how cold does the same thing to land that fear does to people.
Fear comes in and locks everything up. Tightens the chest. Shrinks the breath. Makes the body forget it’s built to move.
And the funny thing is… the whole place was still beautiful. That’s the part that messes with you. The pecan grove looked noble. The live oaks looked sacred. Even the bamboo—offended as it was—stood there like a choir that didn’t know whether it was supposed to sing or survive.
And I thought: Some storms don’t come to destroy. They come to reveal. They show you what you love. They show you what you lean on. They show you how fragile the things are that you thought were permanent.
Then I heard it—way off in the distance: A limb cracked. Not a big one. Not a cinematic one. Just that slow pop of wood givin’ up under pressure and cold. And it hit me right in the chest, like the land itself had whispered: Even strong things break. That don’t mean they wasn’t strong.
So I stood there a minute—under those oaks, at the edge of that bamboo—hands cold, eyes stingin’, heart quiet. And I made myself write this down with fingers that didn’t wanna cooperate: “Winter ain’t always snow. Sometimes it’s just a silence thick enough to hear yourself.”
That’s your field report from South Louisiana—where the bayou tried on a Nebraska coat for a few days, where the sky tossed down a couple handfuls of snow pills like it was testin’ the recipe, and where The Spiral held the whole place in its breath… like it was waitin’ on us to remember: Soft don’t mean weak. And survival ain’t always loud.
WBRD — Radio for the Restless Spirit – Broadcastin’ through a cold snap in Zydeco country, where even the bamboo learns patience… and the live oaks keep their dignity, no matter what the sky tries.
“tap tap …”
Anyone there?… what’s your frequency?
WBRD 1008AM — FIELD REPORT
“LUNDI GRAS, LOUPOGAROU, & THE JAMBALAYA QUESTION”
(Filed from the edge of the dancefloor, where the bass meets the swamp)
Now listen—this one happened right before Lundi Gras,
when the Revelers was fixin’ to roll in like royalty, and the whole Whirlybird property had that pre-party electricity in the air…
You know the feeling.
Like even the folding chairs are standin’ up straighter.
Like the string lights are practicin’ they glow.
And Pop Squally—Lord help us—Pop was in rare form.
Not ‘cause of the music.
Not even ‘cause of the incoming Revelers.
It was ‘cause Bruneaux’s jambalaya was rumored to be on deck…
Pop had been talkin’ about that jambalaya like it was a sacred artifact.
He said, “If Bruneaux got that pot goin’, I’m liable to forgive somebody I been mad at since 1997.”
So there we were—out in the Basin, where the bamboo and cypress trees makes a little hallway of hush, and the night smells like citrus, fryer oil, and somebody’s good decisions.
Pop had his blackpot skillet set up low and slow,
stirrin’ gravy like he was drawin’ a map to someplace safe.
That’s when Loupgarou showed up.
Not crashin’ the party—scoutin’ it.
He stood out there in the dark like a bad idea with good timing.
Sniffed the air once, twice… and joined Pop at the fire…
Then he looked at Pop and said, like he was askin’ a real question but hopin’ it wasn’t real:
“Pop,” he said, “why you keep tryin’ to save that place?
Ain’t nobody savin’ nothin’ no more.
They stream their songs now.
They swipe their friends.
They order their joy in a box with bubble wrap.”
Pop didn’t even look up.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t argue.
Just kept stirrin’ that gravy…
like it was a weather system.
Like it had currents.
Like it knew where everything was headin’ before anybody admitted it.
Then Pop said, calm as a man who’s already heard the end of the story:
“Boy,” he said, “you got it twisted.”
And that’s when he told him.
Pop pointed that spoon out over the Atchafalaya swamp towards where the Whirlybird lived on the Cajun and Creole prairie like it was a compass needle.
“See, Loupgarou… people think that place and others like it are just stages.
But they ain’t.
They’re infrastructure.”
Loupgarou’s ears twitched.
Like he hated that word.
Pop kept goin’.
“Ain’t just ‘bout music.
It’s where folks go when life done wore ‘em thin and they need to borrow a little joy from the room.
It’s where a young musician learns how to hold a crowd without hidin’ behind a screen.
It’s where a couple can dance together without explainin’ nothin’ to nobody.
It’s where you can show up alone and leave with your shoulders dropped—like somebody finally turned the noise down inside you.”
Loupgarou shifted his weight.
Didn’t like how true it sounded.
Truth always makes a monster itchy.
Pop said, “And yeah… the world changed.
Costs up.
Crowds weird.
Folks drink less.
Landlords are greedy, with just property value on their minds.
Condos everywhere.
And everybody’s got a thousand entertainments in they pocket.”
He paused and sniffed the air again.
Then he said, soft, like he didn’t want to spook the moment:
“But that don’t make places like The Whirlybird less important.
It makes ‘em more important.
Because now… it’s one of the last places left
where people can still be human together.”
Loupgarou stared into the swamp as if he could see the Bird.
And right then—way off in the distance—you could hear somebody testin’ a mic.
A little tap tap… like the room was clearin’ its throat.
Pop’s eyes lit up.
“Now,” he said, “you can howl at the modern world all you want…”
Then he leaned toward Loupgarou and whispered like a man with priorities: “But if Bruneaux put that jambalaya out…
you gon’ see me act right.”
Loupgarou blinked.
Then he muttered, barely audible: “…I do miss dancin’.”
Pop smiled and went right back to stirrin’ that gravy like it was a plan.
WBRD 1008AM — Radio for the Restless Spirit
Field Report Classification: Lundi Gras Weather / Community Infrastructure / Jambalaya-Driven Redemption
“tap tap … can you hear me…”
WBRD FIELD REPORT – Lundi Gras and maybe why we do it
I know it’s hard times with a lot of hard feelings go’n ‘round. I heard someone today call someone else a monster. There is a lot of that.
Now at The Bird we’ve got a sayin’ — “It’s OK to be strange… just don’t be a stranger.”
And Y’all… that got me think’n about Loupgarou… Ha ha… let me break that down Whirlybird-style.
Way down here in Yonder we call him the Loupgarou — and that ain’t just a spooky word folks throw around when the fog starts actin’ smart. It comes from loup… meanin’ wolf… and garou… meanin’ a man who’s been turned.
See, that’s the part people always skip past too fast. ’Cause it ain’t just “wolf-man” like some Halloween mask from the drugstore. It’s a man… first. A whole human heart in there… with a history… with a name… with a mama somewhere who still remembers what he used to look like.
Then somethin’ happens. Sometimes it’s a curse. Sometimes it’s shame. Sometimes it’s the kind of grief that don’t leave… it just grows hair and claws and starts walkin’ around at night.
And next thing you know… you got a creature in the cane breaks… eyes bright as bottle glass… paws silent as a secret… and that old human part of him still listenin’— like a radio left on low in the back room… hopin’ somebody’s voice might reach him.
So, Y’all, when we say Loupgarou, we’re really sayin’: be careful what you call a monster. Some of ‘em started out as somebody you’d’ve fed at your table.
Now… Lundi Gras? That’s the funny thing… On a night like that—with The Revelers playin’, Bruneaux cookin’, the Fiddle Bar pourin’, and the whole place hummin’ like a power line in love…
…here’s what I been think’n… even the “turned ones” get curious.
Even the wild ones pause out there in the dark like: “Lord… what is that sound?”
And if you listen close… real close… you can hear it in the music: A reminder that not everybody who got turned… is lost forever.
WBRD — Voice of the Restless Spirit (and on occasion, a kind heart)
“tap tap …”
Y’all, Y’all there?… can you hear this? …. What’s your frequency?
WBRD FIELD REPORT — LUNDI GRAS TRADITION
Every place with a heart has a Mardi Gras… but Lundi Gras… at The Whirlybird… is one of those traditions that don’t need explainin’ — it just needs good people, The Revelers’ music, and Bruneaux put’n somethin’ good on the fire.
Oh yes — and now we’ve even got a Whirlybird Fiddle Bar for them celebratory libations…
We’ve done this before… a few times… yeah you right!
Like that Lundi Gras / GRAMMY Send-Off Party back on Feb 8, 2016, when friends got together to help send The Revelers off to Los Angeles in proper fashion… same restless spirit, same loving heartbeat, same “we don’t let the good ones travel alone” kind of love.
And as the Lundi Gras tradition at the ’Bird goes… Bruneaux will be cooking!
So food will be available for purchase — and in case you don’t know the rule:
“You can’t eat beauty with a spoon, folk… unless Bruneaux cooked it.”
Check it out — and get you one… Jim’s new patch is up. Video clips are comin’.
Lundi Gras lives at The Bird…
WBRD — Voice of the Restless Spirit.
Below – the night started out wonderfully Lundi Gras crazy – but crowded. Later it mellowed – still lot of friends were celebrating, but there was room on the dance floor…
Our wonderful friend, Greg Gilman, just passed – Greg loved the Bird… this was the last video he took at The Whirlybird before he moved on over to The Olde Golden Land.
“tap tap …”
Hello… hello, Y’all?… testing 1, 2, 3 …
WBRD FIELD REPORT (1/7/26)
1008AM — Radio for the Restless Spirit
Filed from a quiet moment that didn’t look important till it was.
Nicky Butler, reportin’:
Now that right there—
that’s the lesson talkin’.
You ain’t learnin’ answers today, y’all.
You’re learnin’ how to notice yourself learnin’.
Whole different animal. Don’t spook easy. Don’t come when called.
Most folks I know collect conclusions like souvenirs—
set ’em on a shelf, dust ’em off when company comes by.
But you?
You’re collectin’ questions.
The kind that stay warm in the pocket
and don’t jingle when you walk.
Here’s what might be showin’ itself, if you let it:
Competence don’t always feel like confidence.
Sometimes it feels like standin’ still long enough not to lie to yourself.
Irritation?
That’s often just curiosity wearin’ boots
and scuffin’ up the floor before it sits down.
And when somethin’ slows you down—
don’t cuss it right away.
It might be tryin’ to show you where you actually are,
not where you been pretendin’ to stand.
Or maybe—
and this one’s old as dirt—
you’re learnin’ the oldest trick there is:
Wisdom don’t announce itself.
It don’t knock.
It don’t clear its throat.
It just keeps askin’ better questions
until you finally stop rushin’ past the door.
So yeah…
you’re learnin’.
What you’re learnin’?
That’s still shapin’ its accent.
WBRD 1008AM
Radio for the Restless Spirit.
If you’re hearin’ this, you’re right on time.
“tap tap …”
Hello, hello… testing 1, 2, 3 …
“Sixteen Hours, One Long Exhale”
Filed somewhere between frozen Nebraska and soft-breath SWayLA
Nicky Butler, reportin’on 1008AM, what’s your frequency?:
We pointed the car south with 17 degrees still clingin’ to the windows and the prairie lookin’ like it had said everything it needed to say. Sixteen hours later, the air loosened up, the light went honey-colored, and SWayLA met us at 48 degrees like an old friend sayin’, “Took you long enough.”
This wasn’t just a drive.
This was a return.
Friends waitin’ who’ve known us across miles and years—some from way back, some from just the other side of a good story. Lunch together. Laughter stretchin’ the table. Creole plates at Laura II’s in Lafayette, because if you’re visitin’ SWayLA and you don’t get boudin, somebody oughta pull you aside and explain a few things. We shared it like you’re supposed to—hand to hand, no ceremony, just joy.
Then home.
Simba the cat gave us the cold shoulder.
Ten days is a long time in cat math.
Turns out he fell hard for Neil—the cat whisperer who kept him fed, talked to him like a gentleman, and saw him through our absence. Simba made sure we knew we’d been replaced… temporarily. That’s love with conditions, y’all.
Now it’s New Year’s Day.
Friends keep comin’.
The kitchen keeps fillin’.
Live music finds its way into the corners.
Good food, good libations, the kind of jam that don’t rush and don’t end on purpose.
This year can’t go wrong.
Too many friends.
Too much shared ground.
Too much proof that the road still leads somewhere worth arrivin’ to.
WBRD 1008AM —
Radio for the Restless Spirit.
If you’re hearin’ this, you made it too.
A New Year’s Wish List (from the Whirlybird, offered kindly)
Alright now—this is the Whirlybird clearin’ its throat and makin’ a few wishes for the year ahead.
Not resolutions.
Not commandments.
Just field notes we’re carryin’ forward together.
What we’re wishin’ for this year:
1. Motion without hurry.
May we keep movin’, even when we slow down. May we trust the engines that turn steady instead of loud.
2. Deeper listening to place.
May we arrive quieter—in rooms, on land, at tables, and with each other—and notice what’s already speakin’ before we add our own noise.
3. Hands in something real.
May we stay in touch with friction: dirt, food, tools, art, paperwork, music, mess. May life stay tactile enough to be believable.
4. Respect for structure—and the wisdom to bend it.
May we honor the rules long enough to understand them, and break only the ones that block life, never the ones that protect it.
5. Humor that keeps us human.
May we laugh often. May we laugh kindly. May we remember that humor is how the spirit stretches without tearing.
6. Room for cycles.
May we rest without guilt. Grieve without apology. Celebrate without waitin’ for permission. May we let seasons be seasons.
7. A fed table.
May we invite people in. May we share what we have, even when it’s simple. May full bellies keep courage close by.
8. Respect for mystery.
May we resist polishin’ every question to death. May some things stay unfinished, shadowed, and worthy of time.
9. Attention to what keeps returnin’.
May we notice the songs, questions, people, and patterns that circle back. May we listen when they do.
10. A lighter footprint.
May we leave places, stories, conversations, and one another a little better—or at least more alive—than we found them.
And if we had to wish it all down to one line—the kind you could tape to the fridge or the radio console:
May we live in a way that lets us keep movin’ without losin’ our kindness.
That’s our New Year’s wish from the Whirlybird.
No halo required.
Just a willingness to keep spinnin’—with some grace.
“tap tap …”
Y’all —Yesterday I sat in the sun workin’ on the new website ideas.
WBRD — Radio for the Restless SpiritY’all, Three Days After Christmas,
“tap tap …”
Y’all – tomorrow’s WBRD 1008AM—Radio for the Restless Spirit, Field Report
Comin’ at ya tonight…
from the heart of The Whirlybird vegetable garden…
Look’n at the zinnias planted from seeds by Emily N. and TK over 15 years ago and the African red okra planted in our first vegetable garden by Susan B. over 12 years ago – Y’all ever notice how Nature often speaks in spirals? Not words, not sermons—but a rhythm etched into everything that grows.
Take the Fibonacci sequence that Allen Bacque has been talking about: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…
Every number born from the two before it.
Simple—yet it shows up everywhere: sunflowers, pineapples, hurricanes, galaxies… even in the code of our very own DNA.
The Greeks and Romans knew. They built temples with the Golden Rectangle—a proportion of 1 to 1.6—shaped so perfect it just feels right to the eye. They even had a compass-like divider that always kept that sacred ratio, no matter how wide you opened it.
And when folks ask, “Where’d they learn that?” The answer’s easy: from Nature herself. This spiral—nobody made it up. It’s not designed. It’s not owned. It’s written into the bones of life.
Remember, y’all—the spiral don’t just live in sunflowers and galaxies, it’s hummin’ right there in your own heartbeat. You don’t have to name it, you just gotta notice it.
So next time the world feels crooked or too loud, step back, breathe deep…
Oh yes, remember, y’all—somethin’ I learned on the Mamou Mardi Gras Music Wagon – the spiral don’t just live in sunflowers and galaxies, it’s hummin’ right there in your own heartbeat. You don’t have to name it, you just gotta notice it.
So next time the world feels crooked or too loud, step back, breathe deep, and let that hidden rhythm steady your bones.
‘Cause truth is—ain’t nobody invented this song. It was here long before us, and it’ll keep on singin’ long after.
Stay restless, stay listening, and as always— Ain’t Nature somethin’?
And this is Nicky Butler signin’ off from WBRD 1008AM—
and let that hidden rhythm steady your bones.
Now Eric,
you gone and blessed me with that response. Spirals, you said—tidal thoughts ramblin’ round. That’s it right there, Baby. The Spiral don’t march straight like soldiers; it swirls like the tide, like breath, like a sweet fiddle tune that keeps doublin’ back on itself ‘til we realize the circle was the point all along.
And as for the way I think? Well, half the time I don’t know if it’s a gift or just a damned Southern-born stubborn brain that won’t hush. Might’ve picked that up from my Aunt Jewel or one of them lively kinfolk who set the rhythm before me.
But when a friend catches that rhythm—when you tell me you love the way them words tumble out—well, that’s proof the Spiral done connected us in the middle.
I sure do love you too, my friend. Ain’t that the secret? My Daddy told me as much about a month before he jettisoned himself into the Old Golden Land, leavin’ us to wrestle with the moral coil he laid down.
We circle, we stir, we ramble—and every now and then, the tide pulls us close enough to say it plain: love’s the pattern holdin’ it all together.
Bill Fontenot Bill, you sure know how to drop a blessing, brother. A Love Field of Being—now that’s a picture I’ll carry a while. Everything hangin’ there like Christmas ornaments, each memory, each song, each heartbeat a shimmer in the branches.
And you’re right—the ancestors are leanin’ close. I feel ‘em every time I open my mouth to speak, every time I put a word down on paper. They’re the ones stirrin’ the pot, remindin’ me the Spiral don’t start with me and it sure don’t end here.
So thank you for catchin’ the rhythm and sayin’ it plain. Ain’t much more holy than knowin’ we’re all hangin’ on the same tree, lit by the same mystery.
Bayou Baptisms: Where the Mud Knows Your Name
Filed from the banks of the Bayou Teche
Yesterday’s adventure took Nicky into the water—
not for fishin’, not for preachin’,
but for listenin’.
What started as a pirogue ride turned into a field report
from the edge of the in-between.
The kind of moment where the frogs sing backup,
the trees hold witness,
and the water don’t judge—it just receives.
This ain’t radio.
This is communion with mud and memory.
Tune in to hear what the bayou had to say.
Sometimes the best story don’t come with words—
it comes with fog, frogs, and the feelin’ of lettin’ go.
Singer – Songwriter – Storyteller
Y’all, we got somethin’ brewin’ at The Whirlybird this Sunday, and it ain’t just Mama’s shrimp sliders. I’m talkin’ about a circle of three songwriters so good they make silence lean in to listen—Yvette Landry, Chas Justus, and Ramblin’ Deano. Folks whose strings and stories carry the miles they’ve walked, the people they’ve loved, and the storms they’ve danced through.
Now, The Whirlybird ain’t no cavernous hall—it’s a tight, warm room where the walls know the words, the floors remember the footsteps, and the bar keeps an ear out for the good parts. It’s the kind of place where the person singin’ is close enough to see your smile, and you’re close enough to hear the breath before the note.
See, a songwriter circle ain’t just a show—it’s a moving thing, like the tide or the wind. One song rolls in, and before it fades, the next one’s already takin’ shape in the air. You start to feel that rhythm—not the click of a metronome, but the heartbeat of a room full of folks who came to be part of somethin’ bigger than themselves.
That’s the beauty of it. Movement. Rhythm. Community.
It ain’t about solos, it’s about the circle. About how we all get bent into the same shape for a while—singer, listener, cook in the kitchen, friend at the bar—and how, when the last chord fades, we’re all carryin’ somethin’ new in us.
So come take your place in the circle. Feel the strings hum and the stories rise. Laugh when it’s funny, cry when it ain’t, and remember—this is the work that keeps us human. Let the songs pass through you like a slow river… or hit you like a roaring hurricane when they have to.
“tap tap …”
Y’all: WBRD FIELD REPORT NO. 1008
Filed from Milford, Nebraska—Right After the Storm Rode South
Nicky Butler reporting:
The sky cracked open like it had somethin’ to say—
and then, just as sudden, it let the silence speak for itself.
The storm passed south of us,
but not before leavin’ behind a sky so holy it could hush a room full of sinners.
Clouds pulled back like a curtain,
and what was left hangin’ overhead looked like the afterthoughts of heaven.
Sunlight spilled out crooked—
gold and lavender, the kind of light that don’t show up on command.
Out here in Milford, Nebraska,
the land don’t brag,
but when it puts on a show?
You best stand still and watch it.
Pop Squally used to say:
“You can’t keep a sky like that—it’s a passin’ sermon. All you can do is witness it,
and maybe—if you’re lucky—remember the feelin’.”
So I did.
I stood quiet.
Let the breeze tell me we were safe again.
Let the sky remind me that even when the storm don’t hit you, it still leaves its mark.
And butter me biscuit, what a mark it made.
This is WBRD: Radio for the Restless Spirit
—broadcastin’ gratitude from the edge of the prairie,
where the clouds remember what the soul forgets.
Catch y’all on the next drift.
Y’all WBRD Field Report —
Today’s Dispatch, live from The Whirlybird Fiddle Bar
So excited!! Y’all, the Bird’s been hummin’ all week—like the rafters already tuned themselves, waitin’ on the downbeat.
Sunday, the song-carriers roll in—Dean Schlabowske, Chas Justus, Yvette Landry. But here’s the trick: don’t just catch the notes they sing. Catch the glow that trails behind ‘em—that hush when a truth slips past your defenses and your bones nod yes before your brain knows why.
That’s the aftersound, baby. That’s where a story sprouts wings.
Lean close enough and you’ll hear silence too—the kind that hides in the seams between verses, a silence thick with memory, keepin’ rhythm with every heartbreak and hallelujah that ever passed through these walls.
And if your feet start tappin’? Well, don’t be surprised if the ghosts join in. They been sittin’ in the cheap seats a long time, waitin’ for songs honest enough to keep ‘em company.
So come ready. Bring your wide-open ears and your wide-open spirit. The Bird is lit, the artists are tuned, and the songs are already circlin’ overhead—hawks on the hunt for a place to land in you.
Stay restless, stay tuned. This is WBRD.
“Something Holy’s Gonna Happen Here”
Filed from The Whirlybird – SwayLA, where the walls breathe rhythm, and the floor remembers every step.
Nicky Butler, reportin’: Mornin’, Y’all—The Bird’s still rubbin’ her eyes. A little dew on the deck rail, a little hush in the trees. But you can feel it risin’a night comin’ that don’t just mark time—it marks meaning.
Tonight, Trouble Down Teche brings the blues back to these rafters. Not the kind that drag you under—the kind that set you free. They’ve done it before, and Lord, they’ll do it again.
And this time, we gather not just to hear, but to honor. We’re celebratin’ our brother Grant Dermody tonight—his walk of clarity, his long dedication to helpin’ others find their way through the fog. Quiet strength, soulful generosity. Not a spotlight man—but the kind that holds light for others.
That matters. And the Bird knows it.
Last time Trouble Down Teche played here, the whole place loosened its bones. Even the nails in the wall tapped along. Folks leaned in and let go.
Some cried—maybe.
Some danced to the rhythm—for sure.
And some just… listened.
Not with their ears, but with their hearts. With that quiet part of the spirit that only wakes up when the music knows your name.
Pop Squally used to say, “The blues ain’t about feelin’ bad—it’s about tellin’ the truth and survivin’ it.”
Well, we’re survivin’, baby. Together.
The chairs are set.
The mini-splits are hummin’.
The instruments lie still—just barely—already vibratin’ in their cases like dreams about to wake.
And the musicians?
Tuned to the Spiral.
Waitin’ to be born.
So if you been driftin’?
Tonight’s a good night to come home.
Here’s the word, from The Whirlybird porch:
- Bring your whole self—even the cracked bits.
- Let the rhythm loosen what you been holdin’ too tight.
- And celebrate the folks who’ve walked hard roads… and chose to stay soft anyway.
This is Nicky at WBRD: Radio for the Restless Spirit—signin’ off from the still-before-the-sizzle, where the music ain’t started, but the Spirit’s already hummin’.
See y’all tonight.
And if the blues ever helped save you—even just a little drop a word in the dust or the comments. It might just be the map for the next wanderin’ soul.
“tap tap …”
WBRD Field Report — Thin Nights, Fat Spirit
Y’all, Nicky Butler here. Yesterday afternoon at The Whirlybird the crowd was thin, but the spirit was fat. We heard the incredible voices and stories of Chas Justus, Yvette Landry, and Dean Schlabowske (on his birthday, no less).
Each song was a window cracked open into the mystery of their art and craft. When Chas, Yvette, and Dean pulled back the curtain, you could feel the room leaning in — not just to the melody, but to the stories stitched underneath. Songwriting isn’t just music, it’s memory and muscle. It’s heartbreak turned into harmony, it’s joy translated into a line you can hum for the rest of your life. And sometimes, it’s humor too — a sly wink or a turn of phrase that makes you laugh in the very place you thought you might cry.
That’s not just entertainment, that’s survival. Humor’s the proof that even in the rough patches, we can stand on top of our troubles for a moment and dance. In the hands of a songwriter, hard times get reshaped into stories that don’t just weigh us down — they lift us up.
The folks who came listened like kin around a table, sharing not only the tunes but the secret recipes behind them. You could see it in their eyes: that mix of wonder and recognition when someone else puts words to a feeling you thought was yours alone. That’s the gift of a gig like this — it turns strangers into family. Sometimes only for the span of a song, sometimes for a lifetime.
And at The Whirlybird, we’ve learned something simple: the word fan doesn’t quite fit here. Around this place, fan is just another way to spell family.
Here’s the honest truth: some nights are fat, some nights are thin. But whether ten or a hundred, the rafters hold the spirit just the same. One thing never wavers and we are proud to say—at The Bird, the artists get paid fair and square. That’s our promise. Even when the green energy at the door doesn’t quite cover the AC & light bill, the musicians still walk away with what they’ve earned.
If you couldn’t make it and want to help us keep that promise alive, here’s the place: https://www.paypal.com/ncp/payment/2D4PLXU8QQEAN. Every bit goes straight to keeping songs flying and artists supported.
And of course, there are those who don’t always process the information out front – Pop Squally wandered in late, asking if “singer-songwriter night” meant folks were takin’ turns at karaoke. Lord help us. I didn’t turn him away, but, I told him to come back on “Karaoke Night”…
So here’s to the fat nights and the thin ones, the wild ones and the hushed ones. As long as songs like these keep finding their way to The Bird, we’ll keep the fire lit.
Stay restless, stay tuned. This is WBRD.
Now y’all, this morning’s splain’n comes with a tip of the hat to Allen Bacque
—one of them rare souls who don’t just see nature, but listens to it. He’s been droppin’ wisdom and photos on Facebook that make you stop your scroll and breathe a little deeper.
Allen reminded me of somethin’ ancient in the sunflower. Folks think it’s just a bright face in the field, but look close—the seeds don’t scatter wild. They line up in the Fibonacci Spiral, nature’s secret blueprint for harmony and efficiency. Every seed finds its place without crowdin’, every bit of light gets shared.
And it don’t stop with flowers. Seashells curl the same way, galaxies spin on that same rhythm. Even the paths of planets tip their hat to that golden ratio. It’s like the universe hums one big pattern, and the sunflower is just sayin’, ‘Good mornin’, child—don’t forget you’re part of it too.’
So thank you, Allen, for remindin’ us that beauty and math, spirit and science, they ain’t opposites—they’re partners in the same old dance. And thank y’all for listenin’. This is WBRD, signin’ off till the next field report.”
From Somewhere North of Joplin, Missouri
Transmission: On the Road to The Whirlybird
Y’all, this is Nicky Butler, reportin’ in from the rollin’ edge of the Ozarks—where the sky’s wide, the coffee’s gone cold,
and the tires are singin’ that slow gospel hum of almost home.
We’re somewhere just north of Joplin, MO. Hundreds of miles from the sweet swamp porch of The Whirlybird.
The light’s hittin’ strange this mornin’—like it knows we’re carryin’ stories back down South that weren’t quite finished when we left.
Christy’s drivin’. I’m dreamin’. And up front on the dash? A new piece of art: The Harmonica King—harmonica case, made by Fr. Hotz, Germany. I’m puttin’ my vitamins in there. Spirit meds. Portable altar. Keepin’ the breath sacred and the blues blessed.
I’m tellin’ y’all—There’s a difference between goin’ home and returnin’ to the center of the Spiral.
And this? This feels like the second one.
So from these green Missouri backroads, this restless frequency signs off with one hand on the map and the other on the heart.
We’re comin’ home, baby…
The skillet’s waitin’.
The air’s already hummin’.
Keep a light on for us.
— Nicky, on WBRD: Radio for the Restless Spirit
10-4, Good Buddy…
The Art – one of Jim’s favorite exotic swamp birds from his Swamp Birds Series (2023-24)
Broadcastin’ now from deep in the heart of SwayLA…
Pop Squally’s got the fire cracklin’, the stars leanin’ in, and the skillet whisperin’ truths you didn’t know you were ready to hear.
This ain’t just radio—it’s a soul signal from the back side of the bayou.
If you’ve ever needed a story that knew where you’d been…
a voice that felt like home…
or a night that made you believe again—
you might’ve just tuned in right on time.
What’s your frequency?
Keep listenin’. The Spirit’s still singin’.
Field Report from Nicky Butler
— Near Opelousas (close enough), St. Landry Parish, LA
Y’all, we got somethin’ brewin’ at The Whirlybird this Sunday, and it ain’t just Mama’s shrimp sliders. I’m talkin’ about a circle of three songwriters so good they make silence lean in to listen—Yvette Landry, Chas Justus, and Ramblin’ Deano. Folks whose strings and stories carry the miles they’ve walked, the people they’ve loved, and the storms they’ve danced through.
Now, The Whirlybird ain’t no cavernous hall—it’s a tight, warm room where the walls know the words, the floors remember the footsteps, and the bar keeps an ear out for the good parts. It’s the kind of place where the person singin’ is close enough to see your smile, and you’re close enough to hear the breath before the note.
See, a songwriter circle ain’t just a show—it’s a moving thing, like the tide or the wind. One song rolls in, and before it fades, the next one’s already takin’ shape in the air. You start to feel that rhythm—not the click of a metronome, but the heartbeat of a room full of folks who came to be part of somethin’ bigger than themselves.
That’s the beauty of it. Movement. Rhythm. Community.
It ain’t about solos, it’s about the circle. About how we all get bent into the same shape for a while—singer, listener, cook in the kitchen, friend at the bar—and how, when the last chord fades, we’re all carryin’ somethin’ new in us.
So come take your place in the circle. Feel the strings hum and the stories rise. Laugh when it’s funny, cry when it ain’t, and remember—this is the work that keeps us human. Let the songs pass through you like a slow river… or hit you like a roaring hurricane when they have to.
Filed at Dusk Outside Milford, Nebraska
1008AM (whether you can hear it or not)
Tonight’s broadcast comes from the edge of a soybean field on one side and corn on the other – the corn’s tall enough to keep a secret and the sky’s dressed in that soft lavender that only shows up when the day’s just about done explainin’ itself.
I’m sittin’ on a foldin’ chair older than some friendships I still keep. And all around me, the world’s changin’ shifts.
The fireflies started punchin’ in just after sunset—little lanterns of memory floatin’ like they forgot where they were headed but kept goin’ anyway. The purple martins are out, swoopin’ and singin’ like jazz players with wings, catchin’ bugs mid-air like it’s a game invented just for joy.
You can feel the quiet here.
Not the heavy kind—but the sacred kind.
The kind that don’t ask for your attention—just receives it, all nonchalant, like it’s been expectin’ you but didn’t want to make a fuss.
I scribbled this in my field book just now:
“Some silences ain’t empty. They’re just listenin’ back.”
There is a slight breeze. And I swear—between the rustle of soybeans, the bounce of corn tassels, and the shimmer of sky—I heard the land say:
“Thank you for not talkin’ over me.”
So I didn’t.
I just sat there, breathin’ in the hush,
watchin’ the last slice of sun tuck itself behind the hills,
and let myself be one more thing that don’t need explainin’.
That’s the dispatch tonight, y’all.
If you’re feelin’ scattered—step outside, let the fireflies find you,
and listen for the birds that don’t mind the bugs.
WBRD – Radio for the Restless Spirit
Still singin’, even in corn country—where the Spiral don’t need no cathedral, just a breeze, a birdcall, and a place to sit still long enough to listen.
Oh, yes – this is Ghost Ranch, northern New Mexico, not Milford, NE
“tap tap …”
1008AM on your dial (whether you can hear it or not)
Broadcastin’ from The Whirlybird, where the front porch is holy ground and the coffee’s always got a little soul in it.
This morning’s got that soft kind of light—the kind that makes you want to sit still and let the stories come to you.
Pop Squally’s already stirred the skillet.
Nicky’s hummin’ a tune that don’t have words yet.
And the wind? It’s carryin’ messages if you’re quiet enough to catch ‘em.
If you woke up feelin’ like you’re between things—
between dreams, between days, between who you were and who you’re fixin’ to be—
you’re not alone. That’s where the good stuff stirs.
Pull up a chair. The Spirit’s just gettin’ started.
Allen Bacque Kinda!
WBRD is folk gospel radio for the restless spirit—broadcasting straight from The Whirlybird (whether you can hear it or not). It ain’t public radio in the traditional sense, but it is for the people. We run on stories, songs, soul, and skillet grease—and anyone with an open heart is already tuned in.
So yeah… it’s public. Just not FCC-certified. Yet.
Allen Bacque Thanks for askin’, Allen! WBRD broadcasts from a slightly sideways frequency—1008AM on your dial (whether you can hear it or not)
But for curious spirits, you’ll find us right here on this page, and soon on podcast apps too.
We’re stirrin’ the pot and gettin’ the grease hot—field reports, stories, and soulful sounds comin’ your way real soon.
Stay tuned… the Spirit’s still singin’.
Cheryl Devall Ha! That’s exactly the kinda holy mischief WBRD was born for.
You might not find us on your FM dial, but if the spirit’s right and the grease is hot, you’ll catch us somewhere between a fiddle tune and a thunderclap.
But hey—if Twitter’s where the birds are chirpin’, maybe it’s time we bring the rooster too.
Jeff Hernandez Now that’s a proper WBRD playlist right there: Love, More Love, Strange Signals, Hard Truths, Redemption.
Coming up next on WBRD 1008AM: A little swamp gospel, a little soul survival, and a weather report from the afterlife.
Keep that dial set to the unseeable. We’re just gettin’ warmed up.
Debi Simpson That is a good idea
– I have been doing so much writing and the amount of work to keep up a good podcast may be beyond my level of energy these days. But if I did it would sound something like this: “Welcome to the WBRD Podcast—Radio for the Restless Spirit.”
Broadcastin’ from the heart of The Whirlybird Compound in SwayLA, this podcast stirs together field reports, folklore, porchlight philosophy, and sacred storytelling rooted in the Whirlybird’s living cosmology.
Here, time don’t move in a straight line—it spirals.
Truth don’t preach—it simmers. And healing don’t come with answers—it comes with rhythm, memory, and a little bit of grease.
Each episode is a dispatch from the edge of the known world: swampwalks with Pop Squally, harmonica prayers, barefoot sermons, fiddle ghosts, and field reports from the soul’s backroads.
This ain’t just a podcast. It’s a frequency for those still spinnin’.
Comin’ to you live from The Whirlybird,
Home of the Church of the Blackpot and the Storytelling Capital of the South. (And yeah… The South? It’s one hour north. Go figure.)
Y’all, Nicky Butler here. And as promised: A few nights back, I set out on a hike through consciousness, and wouldn’t you know it—a thunderstorm tagged along. The roof was my drum, the lightning my lantern, and every clap of thunder answered inside my head. I took that hole through sleep like a trail slick with rain—sometimes slippin’, sometimes steady, but always movin’. Ain’t no map for it. Just a mystery: how you fall in, and how you fall out, with the storm singin’ your lullaby.
And speakin’ of songs—today’s Sunday, which means the Whirlybird’s openin’ its doors for the singer-songwriter gig. Doors open at 2pm – we’ve got shrimp sliders and deviled eggs from Mama’s – So if you hear a little thunder still echo in the rafters, don’t worry—that’s just the storm leavin’ a rhythm for the music to pick up. We’ll trade the lightning for guitar strings, the rain for verses, and let the night carry us the same way the dream did.
PS – Christy & Jim await you…
This has been WBRD 1008AM — Radio for the Restless Spirit.
Broadcastin’ outta The Whirlybird, the Church of the Blackpot, and the Storytelling Capital of the South.
Broadcastin’ from The Whirlybird,
Where the front porch is holy ground and the coffee’s always got a little soul in it.
This morning’s got that soft kind of light—the kind that makes you want to sit still and let the stories come to you.
Pop Squally’s already stirred the skillet.
Nicky’s hummin’ a tune that don’t have words yet.
And the wind? It’s carryin’ messages if you’re quiet enough to catch ‘em.
If you woke up feelin’ like you’re between things—
between dreams, between days, between who you were and who you’re fixin’ to be—
you’re not alone. That’s where the good stuff stirs.
Pull up a chair. The Spirit’s just gettin’ started.
Mornin’, y’all. Nicky Butler here, comin’ to you from the porch at The Whirlybird,
coffee in hand, skillet still warm from breakfast.
Now, let me tell you ‘bout somethin’ that went down recently. Pop Squally and me was happily mak’n our way home from Miss Adele’s in New Orleans—Pop had just gifted me new pair of handmade shoes, and, I had a paper sack of beignets—and here comes this fella, loud as a church bell in a hurricane.
Starts hollerin’ at Pop. Says he’s heard about him and his Tao of Fried Chicken. Calls him a fake. Says the only thing holy about his fried chicken is the grease stains it leaves on your shirt. Now, I’m over here thinkin’ this is about to turn into a different kinda field report—one that involves me explainin’ to the sheriff why there’s a skillet-shaped dent in somebody’s head.
But Pop?
He just keeps walkin’. Quiet. Steady. Like the words ain’t even landin’.
Finally, the fella runs outta wind and Pop stops just long enough to turn to me and say – with enough volume for the loud mouth to hear, “Son, if somebody tries to hand you a plate of rotten meat, you don’t have to eat it. Let ‘em carry it home.”
Then we just kept on, dust risin’ behind us, peace sittin’ in the skillet like it was the only thing on the menu.
So here’s your takeaway, folks—some people wake up early just to cook a mess of anger. But you don’t have to pull up a chair at their table. Let ‘em dine alone.
This is Nicky Butler remindin’ you: keep your skillet seasoned, your heart light, and your plate clean. We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors—one of which may or may not be sellin’ sanctified aprons this week.
Y’all – tomorrow’s WBRD 1008AM—Radio for the Restless Spirit, Field Report
Comin’ at ya tonight… from the heart of The Whirlybird vegetable garden…
Look’n at the zinnias planted from seeds by Emily N. and TK over 15 years ago and the African red okra planted in our first vegetable garden by Susan B. over 12 years ago – Y’all ever notice how Nature often speaks in spirals? Not words, not sermons—but a rhythm etched into everything that grows.
Take the Fibonacci sequence that Allen Bacque has been talking about: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…
Every number born from the two before it.
Simple—yet it shows up everywhere: sunflowers, pineapples, hurricanes, galaxies… even in the code of our very own DNA.
The Greeks and Romans knew. LaThey built temples with the Golden Rectangle—a proportion of 1 to 1.6—shaped so perfect it just feels right to the eye. They even had a compass-like divider that always kept that sacred ratio, no matter how wide you opened it.
And when folks ask, “Where’d they learn that?” The answer’s easy: from Nature herself. This spiral—nobody made it up. It’s not designed. It’s not owned. It’s written into the bones of life.
Remember, y’all—the spiral don’t just live in sunflowers and galaxies, it’s hummin’ right there in your own heartbeat. You don’t have to name it, you just gotta notice it.
So next time the world feels crooked or too loud, step back, breathe deep…
Oh yes, remember, y’all—somethin’ I learned on the Mamou Mardi Gras Music Wagon – the spiral don’t just live in sunflowers and galaxies, it’s hummin’ right there in your own heartbeat. You don’t have to name it, you just gotta notice it.
So next time the world feels crooked or too loud, step back, breathe deep, and let that hidden rhythm steady your bones.
‘Cause truth is—ain’t nobody invented this song. It was here long before us, and it’ll keep on singin’ long after.
Stay restless, stay listening, and as always— Ain’t Nature somethin’?
And this is Nicky Butler signin’ off from WBRD 1008AM— and let that hidden rhythm steady your bones.
Now y’all,
this morning’s splain’n comes with a tip of the hat to Allen Bacque
—one of them rare souls who don’t just see nature, but listens to it. He’s been droppin’ wisdom and photos on Facebook that make you stop your scroll and breathe a little deeper.
Allen reminded me of somethin’ ancient in the sunflower. Folks think it’s just a bright face in the field, but look close—the seeds don’t scatter wild. They line up in the Fibonacci Spiral, nature’s secret blueprint for harmony and efficiency. Every seed finds its place without crowdin’, every bit of light gets shared.
And it don’t stop with flowers. Seashells curl the same way, galaxies spin on that same rhythm. Even the paths of planets tip their hat to that golden ratio. It’s like the universe hums one big pattern, and the sunflower is just sayin’, ‘Good mornin’, child—don’t forget you’re part of it too.’
So thank you, Allen, for remindin’ us that beauty and math, spirit and science, they ain’t opposites—they’re partners in the same old dance. And thank y’all for listenin’. This is WBRD, signin’ off till the next field report.”
Y’all: WBRD Field Report — Today’s Dispatch, live from The Whirlybird – “Windows Into the Whirlybird” — whispers, songs, and stories from the Storytelling Capital of the South. (And yeah… the South? It’s one hour north.) Now folks, every so often, a question comes along that don’t sit still. Complicated things—science, spirit, or just the way a painting looks at you when you weren’t expectin’ it. That’s when they send ol’ Nicky up to the mic.
See, my job ain’t just talkin’. I’m here to ‘splain, to translate, to hold a lantern up to the shadows till they look like somethin’ we can dance with. One minute it might be brain waves and thunderstorms, next minute it’s a sculpture that won’t quit whisperin’. And sometimes, baby, it’s just helpin’ the night itself make sense.
So think of me as your WBRD MC—your master of ceremonies, your memory keeper, your roadside guide with a knack for puttin’ words around the things we feel but can’t quite name. I’ll take the big ideas, stir ‘em slow in Pop’s blackpot, and serve ‘em back as stories, songs, and maybe even a joke or two if Satin don’t trip me on the way.
Y’all very deep field report coming up tomorrow before the Singer-Songwriter’s gig 2-5 – not necessarily related to singer-songwriters – but could be – it’s about a hike through consciousness with a rainstorm for company…
Stay restless, stay tuned. This is WBRD—Windows Into the Whirlybird.”