The brisk autumn air wafting with alcohol fuel, roasted peanuts, metallic brake dust and cigar smoke. I miss the stock car races on the old quarter mile asphalt track. I would wait out in the driveway for Uncle Morgan to pick me up. Phillips Field was probably six or seven miles away but I could tell by the sound if it was a six cylinder Chevrolet engine or a V-8 warming up. I'm pretty sure I could tell the difference today.
Standing in line with my mom I could hear the band warming up inside the Armory. Yeah, I was embarrassed to be standing there with her but I was only eleven years old. We were waiting to pay a buck to get our tickets to see Sam Cooke. Oh, he had some support on the bill. Little Willie John. LaVern Baker. Hank Ballard & the Midnighters. Marv Johnson.
The memories are fading a little in detail now. It's not so much that I'm forgetting anything. It has more to do with all the newer memories piled on top.
I've got stories for you. I've known love. I have memories.
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