My brother Don is three years older than me. We have mutual childhood friends our respective ages, George and his younger brother Fred. We had a lot in common as kids. We all grew up on a farm, and Fred and I shared a mutual love of music since “the early years.” Still to this day, Fred is the only person to whom I can say “They just don’t make music like they used to,” and know he feels my same pain.
It’s the autumn of 1966. Football season is winding down, while basketball season is in full swing in Small Town Texas. Camaraderie is fierce during this time of year, with parades, floats, band practice, and giant homecoming mums. So it doesn’t take long for word to spread among the small town community that there has been an “accident.” Continue reading