Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The Things You Remember
I can remember the day Elvis died as if it happened yesterday. I'm not a great fan (although I've probably seen all of those awful movies of his), but the day of his passing is one of those days that is etched in memory.
I was in Glenwood, Georgia at my great-grandfather's house. That year (1977) the family reunion was in Washington DC and after the annual meeting, we continued on down the road to visit the folks that wouldn't leave the state under any circumstances.
August 16, 1977 was a hot dry day in Glenwood. Arid is the very best word to use to describe it. Everything was subsisting from the residual moisture of the last rainfall, which was probably the day before, but air was sucking the life out of everything pretty fast.
I sat on the front stoop, tormenting one of those tiny lizards that seem to thrive in desert heat. A small transistor radio sat near the kitchen window where my great-grandmother was making preparations for the evening meal. As the radio announcer shattered lives across south Georgia with the news of the king's death, I listened with disinterest, acutely aware of the fact that I really wanted to go home.
Posted by Rodney ::
10:10 PM ::
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