Rockin’ Ranch “Just Feels Like Home”

The Rockin’ Ranch (http://www.rockinranchnightclub.com/) is one of my favorite spots – a slice of the redneck south just a few steps from the ocean.
Several months ago, I was leading a diverse group of a dozen folks from across the country seeking a real honky tonk. We’re a few miles south of Daytona Beach, and while there are a couple of true Southerners here, our posse includes Michelle, a New Jersey radio personality; two gays from New York City; an African-American local; and a French-Canadian couple. We also had just been to dinner at a nice restaurant, so we were a tad overdressed for honky tonking.
My friend Georgia is the reason we’re here. Georgia lives nearby and passes this place often, “but I’ve been afraid to stop and go inside.” (This is a woman who grew up in rural Alabama and worships NASCAR). “I think this would be a great place for your book.”
We park in what appears to be an old shopping center parking lot. The drive-in marquee sign outside indicates there’s live music tonight at the Rockin’ Ranch, so we head into the one-story concrete building.
Inside, I quickly realize we’ve struck pay dirt. There’s a live band mixing country Top 40 hits with their own compositions, coaxing a core group of line dancers onto the polished hardwood floor. Neon lights over both the bars spell out the establishment’s name, and there’s an electric mix of beach and Western decor. It’s a slow Wednesday night, but there are still at least 50 regulars gathered around the bar or congregating at their own tables.
We order a bucket of longnecks from a waitress who still has most of her teeth and settle in. The Canadians decide they want to play billiards, so they head off to the pool tables. They return a few minutes later, a little confused. “We had to put down a $10 deposit,” one explains. “Apparently there had been a problem with pool cues being broken and balls disappearing.”
After the first beer, I head into the men’s room. There’s a plumber down on his knees in front of a row of urinals, installing new fixtures. A couple of urinals seem to be broken, so I’m assuming it was a rowdy weekend.
Back on the dance floor, the traffic is sparse until the band takes a break. When contemporary dance music starts blasting out of the speakers, a group of maybe eight locals file out and start line dancing. Their leader is a large woman in jeans and a cowboy hat whom we dub “Ponytail Girl” because of the dark brown hair flowing behind her. I’m not sure what type of dance they learned at the free lessons offered earlier that evening, but about every fourth beat, they stomp hard enough to make the floor shake.
A couple of folks in my group – Michelle and Tangela, our local host – decide they want to dance as well, so a few of us start our own line. For reasons I don’t quite understand, we keep lining up at right angles to the Ponytail Girl’s group, so within a few beats, our lines cross and we start bumping into each other. Ponytail Girl is obviously getting irritated, as the stomping gets louder as the song goes along. We finally give up and sit down, leaving Ponytail Girl to mark her territory by stomping a serious of savage blows to the dance floor.
Later I wander around meeting locals. I’d been sent to Ponytail Girl’s table to meet Bobby Lee, whose band plays here on other nights. When I explain we’re from out of town and I’m writing a book on honky tonks, Ponytail Girl said, “Yeah, we knew right away y’all ain’t from around here.”
Bobby Lee tells me he used to work at the Rockin’ Ranch. Even on nights he doesn’t play here, he still hangs around, he says. “This just feels like home to me.”