Guest Book

In honor the festivities tonight at Grant's Lounge, I thought I'd reprint this poem from HTN #13: A Time That Was Oh! What a time it was. The year is gone, man. Does it matter? It didn't then, it doesn't now. Only the memory. I went to Macon on a bus (VW), being kind of familiar with the town, having lived (and schooled) in Milledgeville, Georgia. Another (at the time) sleepy South Georgia town . . . only Macon was waking up. Grant's Lounge was the spot. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I followed Sharon back home. Her home. We worked and lived together in Atlanta. She tired of the city, and I tired of something, so I followed. Don't men always follow? Her friends became mine and Macon became home. A room in a big white South Georgia house with columns and a job as a bricklayer. We built the new WMAZ-TV station, and at night . . . Grant's Lounge. John and I would go into town for beers and visits. Grant always behind the bar and Webb always with ribs and fresh skins on the bar. But the music. You know, you've heard them. Gregg, Duane, Berry, Butch, Jai, Dickey—not all at once, but it formed. We'd meet at the bar for beers and talk. Some nights Duane's and Berry's choppers sitting on the sidewalk. Beers and talk. What a great time. Something made that town magic back then. Out at the lake house of Wet Willie's when they were a local band. Jimmy rolling and being a gracious host. Macon. A hot, steamy little town that opened up, just a little, to a time. The year is gone. It was a while ago. I remembered being back in Atlanta. Steve Parker and I were hanging out at someone's house when Dixie and Little Linda came in and said that Duane had been killed. Duane. Berry. Southern music. Those quiet days in Macon at Grant's. Southern music went on and my sister and Twiggs almost married and Twiggs bought her a cycle instead of a diamond, and then he bought her a diamond . . . and she said no. And the gentleman said O.K. And another gentleman died. From the sky. Fallen eagle. At my mom's with Kim when Twiggs's mom called with the news. Well, I guess the music lives, but I miss those boys. They'll always be boys to me, to the boy in me, in Macon on a hot Saturday night, having beer and talk at Grant's Lounge. I wish I could remember the conversation, but . . . we were having beers, and talk, and skins. Thanks to Grant, thanks to Webb, and thank you to all of the boys . . . for a time that was. Michael Simpson