Boys Life

terribly, and I thought I was going to lose her, too. But in 1983, on a cruise to Alaska with a group of friends from her church, Mom met a widowed gentleman who owned a horse breeding farm near Bowling Green, Kentucky. Two years later, she became his wife and she lives on that farm still. He’s a great guy and is very good to my mother, but he’s not my dad. Life goes on, and the roads always lead to unexpected destinations.
    ROUTE TEN, reads a sign pocked with rust-edged bullet holes.
    My heart is starting to beat harder. My throat is dry. I expect change, but I’m afraid of it.
    I’ve tried my damnedest not to get old. This in itself is a tough job. I don’t mean age old, because that’s an honorable thing. I mean attitude old. I’ve seen guys my age suddenly wake up one morning and forget their fathers forbade them to listen to those demonic Rolling Stones. They’ve forgotten their fathers demanding that they get out of the house if they’re going to wear their hair down on their foreheads. They’ve forgotten what it meant, to be the bossee instead of the bosser. Of course the world is tougher now, no doubt about it. There are harder choices to be made, with more terrible consequences. Kids need guidance, for sure. I did, and I’m glad I got guided because it helped me miss making a lot of mistakes. But I think parents aren’t teachers anymore. Parents-or a whole lot of us, at least-lead by mouth instead of by example. It seems to me that if a child’s hero is their mother or father-or even better, both of them in tandem-then the rough road of learning and experience is going to be smoothed some. And every little bit of smoothing helps, in this rough old world that wants children to be miniature adults, devoid of charm and magic and the beauty of innocence.
    Well, my last name’s neither Lovoy nor Blessett, so I ought to get off my pulpit now.
    I’ve changed somewhat since 1964, of course. I don’t have as much hair, and I wear glasses. I’ve picked up some wrinkles, but I’ve gained some laugh lines, too. Sandy says she thinks I’m more handsome now than I ever was. This is called love. But as I say, I really have tried to hold off the attitude aging. In this regard, music came to my rescue. I believe music is the language of youth, and the more you can accept as being valid, the younger your attitude gets. I credit the Beach Boys with getting me interested in music to begin with. Now my record collection-excuse me, my CD collection-includes artists like Elvis Costello, U2, Sinead O’Connor, Concrete Blonde, Simple Minds, and Technotronic. I have to say, however, that sometimes I feel the classics pulling at me, like Led Zeppelin and the Lovin’ Spoonful. But with all this choice on my platter, I have a feast.
    I drive past a weeded-up road that cuts through the woods, and I know what ruin lies at its end fifty yards away. Miss Grace and her bad girls folded their tents right after the Blaylocks went to prison. The house’s roof was blown off during a windstorm in July of 1965. I doubt if there’s much left at all now. The kudzu vines around here have always been hungry.
    Ben started college at the University of Alabama the same year I did, majoring in business. He even stayed to go to graduate school, and I would never in a million years have thought that Ben would actually enjoy school. He and I got together from time to time at the university, but gradually he was more and more involved with his business fraternity and I didn’t see a whole lot of him. He joined Sigma Chi social fraternity and became vice president of the chapter. He lives now in Atlanta, where he’s a stockbroker. He and his wife, Jane Anne, have a boy and a girl. The guy is rich, he drives a gold-colored BMW, and he’s fatter than ever. He called me three years ago, after he read one of my books, and we see each other every few months. Last summer we drove down to a small town near the state line between Alabama and Florida to visit the chief of police there. His name is John Wilson.
    I always knew Johnny had the blood of a chief in his veins. He runs a tight ship in that town, and he accepts no nonsense. But I understand that he’s a fair man, and everybody there seems to like him, because he’s in his second term. While we were there, Ben and I met Johnny’s wife, Rachel. Rachel is a stunning woman who looks like she could easily be a fashion model. She hangs all over that guy. Though they have no children,