This time yesterday, the “Holy Day” for any red-blooded American, the Fourth of July, we were packing up Miller’s ‘65 Ford Farlaine wagon for the ride up to his gig in Alachua, just north of Gainesville. I’d made the decision to accompany him on a whim, for ashamedly, I’ve never been a big fan of this starred and striped holiday. Not for my lack of patriotism or national pride, mind you, but for my intolerance for traffic, obnoxious drunks, and the unending array of debris revelers strew along my beloved beach sands.
The excitement of the impending road trip was upon me, for I was no stranger to that most American of all pastimes. But this was something special. The fact that we were riding aboard such a classic vessel, sans A/C, and without any semblance of power, along with the shuttle’s return to flight, made the day feel especially patriotic -- even though we had a large Frenchman riding shotgun. We slowly made or way across the Beachline, where the masses had congregated along the banks of the rivers awaiting the greatest firework display of the year. The windows were down and Big Momma Thornton was shouting about some “no good man” and we turned off onto I-95. It was then that we heard it. Over the gentle rumbling of the “Fairlady,” the distinct thunder coming from the direction of the Cape drowned out our tunes. Over the tree line we were treated to a great view of the shuttle hurling itself into infinity. It was Big French Tom’s first shuttle launch and I could see the awe and amazement in his gaze. I too thought it grand that such a magnificent spectacle takes place right here at home. I sat contentedly in the back seat enjoying the scenery and the ride. It was a truly American way to spend a true American holiday; three friends in a classic American wagon blaring the American-born Blues on the day of America’s independence. Even the Frenchman felt its significance.
As they were doing what they do best, the Frenchman and I went on a wee safari to explore the surrounding festivities. Much to our surprise, amongst the tents festooning the tree line, nary was one of the beer purveying variety to be found. We forgave them in saintly fashion and mingled among the locals admiring the skills of the local hair stylist and other fashion trends which apparently haven’t yet hit the beachside. We returned to the stage shortly thereafter just in time to see “the Alachua Racoonettes” (the local school’s cheerleading squad) take the stage for a welcomed bow as all twenty or so of them were introduced with a smattering of half-hearted applause. This was truly a small town. After the boys finished their set, we packed the gear back into the Fairlady and were off to a BBQ. As we drove to a friend’s house for the feast, the sun slowly dipped behind the trees and we pulled off onto a dirt road. The Gainesville area is truly beautiful. The serenity of the majestic oaks whispered of an old Florida that still exists if you venture far enough for it. The little farmhouse where our repast was to unfold was set far back in the woods flanked by a spacious field of grass and a couple of happy horses. We supped and drank well, and when the glow of the fading sun had finally disappeared, the lighting of the fireworks commenced. With a full belly and a long day wound up, fatigue fell upon me like a felled oak. We dipped back to Redbone’s and after some idle chatter and a gallon of water, I made my pallet on the floor and dozed off to an Albert King record playing on Redbone’s old phonograph. As peaceful as my slumber began, it was not to last, for when Miller began to snore, the ground shook, the walls creaked, and the dead awoke from their graves. My only solace lay in the ten minute intervals when the small A/C unit would chirp on and weakly drown out his unconscious roars from the next room. And just I’d reach the cusp of slumber, the little wall unit would reach its desired temperature and shut itself off. Grumpily, I arose, splashed some water on my face and got dressed. My only task of the new day was to find a nice pub where I could watch the World Cup Semi-Final pitting France against Portugal...and possibly murder Josh Miller. I stepped out into the living room where Big French Tom lay peacefully on the lone futon, oblivious to the world. Josh offered to take me into town while he worked at his buddy’s garage. I thought of different ways of killing him, but only after some breakfast and some much-needed coffee. He dropped me off on University Blvd. right in the heart of Gainesville. I had three or four hours to kill, so I wandered around the UF campus loafing under the royal oaks with their silver moss hanging down like the gray hairs of noble sages. Students walked and biked by briskly on their way to classes or lectures or whatever it is they do in college these days. I pondered my own decision not to attend college, but my belly soon grumbled for lunch, so as I passed cafe after diner after taco stand I found myself looking into the past. The sign read “Wise Drugs,” but inside was not only your neighborhood drug store but a honest-to-God soda fountain. I had recognized them from Rockwell paintings, but didn’t know if they still existed. I went inside and seated myself at the counter. People around were smiling and chatting away. There were construction workers slurping on giant shakes flirting with nurses crackling on salads and suits munching burgers exchanging financial advice with soda jerks. I ordered a BLT and a chocolate malt and marveled at the good vibes and quaintness of this unassuming college town. I took a few pictures and exchanged pleasantries and walked back out into the cruel world. I decided to walk off my malt all the way downtown before doubling back, for it was game time. I found a small pub, “The Shamrock,” and got myself two good seats in front of the big screen and waited for Big French Tom to show up and cheer on his homeland and their hero, the Great Zindane. It was a wonderful game altogether and a victory for the deserving French team. Tom and I celebrated with pints and waited for Miller to scoop us up in the Fairlady. When we arrived at Redbone’s house nestled back in the pines, we were greeted by the sight of smoke billowing from his Weber grill. Ribs! Being a self-proclaimed BBQ connoisseur, I had previously discussed various cooking methods, spices, and temperatures best suited for the pork rib with our host. Redbone had always assured me that his were top-notch, and after my sixth meaty rib, I couldn’t argue. That night I had made arrangements to sleep elsewhere and I was in heavenly peace. The next morning the Fairlady was outside to pick me up and soon whisked me to the Gator Garage where Big French Tom and the fine mechanics were gathered for another afternoon BBQ. Redbone ambled over from the garage across the street and the greasefest began: greasy mechanics pawing at greasy brats and pork chops wrapped in bread. I managed to choke down an oversized brat and a cold Coke. After all the stories
and traded jokes and jibes, we huddled into the wagon for the
trek home. Florida storm clouds shaded our way back, sparing us
from the blazing afternoon sun. The trip was a great one and rejuvenated
my fading zeal for this American holiday. We did it all by the
book: good friends, good music, great BBQ, a classic ride, and
an open highway, all done right -- the American way. |
By
noon we were set to go as was the launch of the Discovery shuttle.
Traffic was sure to be thick, but thankfully our cooler was full
of iced-down beverages and fresh double batteries were nestled
in the belly of our outdated boom box. Before I knew it, we were
on the road. 
We arrived in Gainesville some hours later and pulled up to Redbone’s
place to pick up some more gear for the impending gig. Redbone,
Josh’s right-hand man and bass player/mechanic, was waiting
for us, and we quickly headed out to set up for the show. Josh’s
performance, which was to take place on the fairgrounds in Alachua,
turned out to be the arranged on the town’s small baseball
field on a tiny stage. After the town’s star karaoke singer,
Josh and the boys tuned up, ready to give the folks a healthy
dose of some authentic Chicago Blues. To my surprise, Miller and
Redbone were only to play backup for “Little Mike and the
Tornadoes,” with Josh, Redbone, and John (the drummer) as
“the Tornadoes.” 
Comments, questions, concerns? click here