Anatomy Of A Photo: Gram's Grave, My Pick

Gram Parsons was a musical pioneer, multi instrumentalist, and fellow Georgian. The creator of Cosmic American Music left a strong impression in his short career, and the music he made continues to inspire. I visited his grave in New Orleans some years ago (getting directions to his grave site from a lady assisting at a funeral, who saw him perform with the Flying Burrito Brothers - opening for the Grateful Dead at the Avalon Ballroom in San Francisco, no less - was an experience I'll never forget). It was decorated with shells and small keepsakes from fans, and this time I brought my own: a pale blue guitar pick I'd had since the late 80's when I was bassist in a garage band. Not sure where to place it, I went for the most natural choice, between the thumb and index finger on the marker. It fit perfectly.

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Regarding Keeslyn

In January 2020, a young lady named Keeslyn Roberts disappeared from a fuel station near my home. The case remains unsolved. This post will examine the actions, and lack thereof, of those in authority, and how this contributes to the case remaining unsolved. But first, a little backstory. As a teen, I lived in the same neighborhood as the Roberts family. Keeslyn's father, Eric, is older than I, and I don't recall the two of us having much interaction. His sister, on the other hand, is the same age and we've been friends for over 40 years. It was she who told me about Keeslyn's disappearance and the family's frustrations with the lack of police action. To learn more of the specifics of the case, numerous podcasts and news stories are available online. To my understanding, the police reaction to the disappearance has thus far been little to no reaction. After no word from his daughter for several days, Eric went to the fuel station where her car was parked. He th...

The Willowdale Bridge

During my childhood, when I-75 was a divided four lane and Highway 41 was still the main road through town and smaller roads snaked over and between the hills, the Willowdale bridge crossed Mill Creek along one of those side streets. That is, until The Day The Truck Tried To Cross. On that day in the late 70s, a truck driver tried to drive too large a truck over too small a bridge, causing a collapse and putting the truck in the creek below. My dad insisted we go have a look, so into the car and on the way we went. It was quite a sight for my young eyes and the memory still feels fresh. My wife, who lived nearby, remembers the event well, as I suppose all who saw it did. Willowdale is also the site of a train derailment many years ago. Here's the story as told by Norman Blake: The bridge was decommissioned long ago and has fallen into disrepair. A walking trail has replaced the road, but the remains of the bridge still stand.

Progress!

In a previous post, I mentioned I have resumed writing. It's good therapy and a fine creative release. Here's an update on my efforts: I've completed one story and submitted it to the William Faulkner Literary Competition. It's a short piece and I don't expect anything to come of it, but I'm pleased with the story and submission. A new short story has been started, a ghost story set in the South. This is quite natural, as I'm a Southerner who loves a good ghost story. It's set in a nearby town with Civil War history. What began as a short story is now looking more like a novel. The idea is simple but as I was making notes, it dawned on me that this is much more than a short story. I plan to finish the aforementioned story before jumping into the longer piece. Lastly, I'm taking notes furiously as ideas come. I'm very much enjoying the return to writing. Unlike during previous attempts to write, I...

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