I’ve been suffering from nostalgia as of late.
And I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the end of summer—a summer I barely knew. Maybe it’s because back to school pics make me sentimental about my own kids and those crammed packed days that nearly choked the living daylights out of me, yet drifted by in the puff of a dream. Maybe the pain meds I’m taking make me all mushy, inside and out. Really and truly, I think it started with Glen Campbell. When I heard he died, I felt such loss. Glen Campbell was not only a great talent, but he represented another lifetime, a lifetime that seems as distant as common sense and kindness these days.
Daddy was a fan of Willie and Waylon and Linda Ronstadt. But he also liked Glen Campbell. At least I think he did. Or, maybe he was simply relieved that for a short time during the Tate Summer Road Trip of 1975, my sister and I were stuck on a song not being crooned by Tony Orlando and Dawn. Regardless, he humored us by turning up the volume every time Rhinestone Cowboy came on the radio.
He was from Arkansas, you know. And every station from Memphis to McAllen played his song on repeat.
It was the summer we drove to Old Mexico. Not to be confused with New Mexico.
