Go, Gators

 

It took Dad eight years to go through college.

Pop would have a nervous breakdown and he would

have to go home and run the family business for a year.

Also, he waited tables in a fraternity for his room and board.

Sigma Phi Epsilon.  He lettered in track.  He sang in

the Glee Club.  Being in a fraternity at Florida helped Dad

later in life, if knowing business leaders and politicians

in every town around the state could be a help to

a resident of Delray Beach.  I know he watched

the SEC football games on television

and listened to the Florida game

on the radio.  Go, Gators.

When I saw Yulee’s Gold, in Atlanta,

the 4x4s cruising the IGA parking lot

on Friday night, I hollered, “Go, Gators,”

the Wewahitchka High School football mascot.

Nobody caught the joke.

That’s the history of my life.

Esoteric references nobody catches.

It’s like I’m talking to myself, and Brenda.

Friday night in America.

Friday night in Wewahitchka.

Wild, screaming sex in Brenda’s trailer.

Near the prison.  The stock-car races.

Fastest dirt track in the south.

The Tupelo Honey Festival.

Watch the bees make honey.

Listen to the paint dry.

Dead Lakes State Recreation Area.

 


 

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