Tennessee Doldrums

A long drive across the State of Tennessee can make one go mad.

I was driving through Tennessee when the car’s radio started acting up. I was just out of signal range.

I turned it off. It’s amazing how much company a radio is on a long drive.

After a short while, I came across a small truck pulled over and the driver standing at its door with a gas can raised. He was kind of youngish and somehow looked familiar. The thought in my mind was that this was the last place anyone should run out of gas, but when he told me the nearest gas station was seven miles away, in the same direction of travel, I told him to hop in.

He did so, resting the empty gas can between his knees.

After a short while, he said, “Do you like country music, sir?”

“Yes,” I replied as the young man reached toward the radio knob. “My radio is unable to receive a signal.”

To my astonishment, the radio came alive and sounded clear, without any static interference. Charlie Pride was singing All I Have to Offer.

“Who's this singing, mister,” he asked.

“Charlie Pride, lad.”

“Sounds good, I never heard of him.”

“Well,” I said, “he’s a bit unusual, a black person singing country music. We associate blacks with rhythm and blues, jazz, etc.”

In a few more minutes, I pulled into a three-pump gas station. The lad got out, filled the can at a pump, and then went into the little convenience store to pay. I didn’t know how long he’d have to wait for a ride back to his truck, but I had told him I’d take him back before he filled the gas can.

I would take the opportunity to have a pee and went in ahead of him.

The place was fascinating, like going back in time. There was a Wurlitzer jukebox blaring a Hank Williams tune, Cold, Cold Heart. its mournful melody filling the air. When I came out of the restroom, the young man asked if I wanted a drink.

I told him a Coke would be fine. He nodded and went over to the coke machine. The whole décor was set in the fifties.

“Now there is the great granddaddy singing,” the lad said, returning with the Cokes.

“Yeah, he was a great artist,” I said and sipped from the glass bottle.

The lad looked at me like I was suffering a breakdown.

“Was? He’s singing at the Grand Ole Opry tonight.”

I couldn’t explain it but I felt that something was terribly wrong with the lad's mind.

“Hank died seventy years ago!”

He looked me straight in the eye like I was nuts.

The lad roared with laughter, got up, and went across to a stand with newspapers on it. He shuffled around a bit and returned.

“Look here,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Here, see for yourself.” He handed me the newspaper and looked at me as if there was something odd about me.

I took the paper from him. Sure enough, there was a photograph of Hank and his Drifting Cowboys dressed, smiling for the camera with a caption beneath saying, ‘Hank Wiliams and the Drifting Cowboys will be performing at the Grand Ole Opry tonight at 8 pm sharp. I couldn’t believe it. I checked the date, and it read: 2/ 8/1952.’

I almost dropped the paper in disbelief; a cold chill ran through me.

“Are you okay, sir?” With concern in his voice.

“Yes,” I replied. But it wasn’t true.

“I’m a tad bit confused,” I said.

I looked at his face; the feeling that I knew him had returned.

“What’s your name, lad?” I asked.

“Elvis Presley, sir,” he replied.

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