[GrandviewGloria]

I was only fourt'teen years old, and had barely started having babies. Me an' Ricky had been datin' for a while, and I, pregnant with my first kid with him, had stepped onto the entrance deck, in front of are brand-new Fleetwood 'The Royalty' doublewide, to inhale a Camel Lite and sip on a Bud Lite, in the fresh air. The County Health Nurse had advised me to avoid smoking and drinking while pregnant. My sisters, Darla and Jacqui, had explained that this meant I should go outside to smoke, and switch to lite cigs, lite beers, and vodka, since these were purified.

Well I sure ditt'n won't my third baby to turn out like Chad and Rhiannon, the babies I'd had with Randy and Tony. I was careful with my diet, like 'Miss Joyce', the Health Nurse had told me. "Avoid salt, Gloria!" Darla and Jacqui said this meant that we should add the salt AFTER we cooked. "If you add enough salt, AFTER cooking, it tastes almost as good." Well, that was easy, since, as an efficient cook, I saw no need to peel back the foil on a still-frozen TV dinner, anyway. It might mess up my press-on nails. I'd always added the salt, AFTER, anyway, while I was pouring the ketchup. Why peel off that foil TWICE? But I dittn't let-on, and let everbody thank that I was new to healthful eating.

Little Chad was with me on the Entrance Deck, as we gazed out toward are new chain-link enclosure for Ricky's Pit Bulls (best dogs, EVER!). I was thinking how lucky I was, to have caught Ricky, who was making all my dreams come true. Chad was actin' restless, an so I let him have a couple drags off my cig, which always calmed him down. Nothin' helps with "Those Terrible Twos", like the cooling vapors of a freshly-beaten menthol.

I glanced over at my new Z-28 Camaro, in that Firethorn Metallic, with its tastefully color-coordulated Firethorn interior, and thought how my friends must envy me, now that I was rich and sophisticated. I was even learning French, and could already say that "Chablis", and also that "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?". And I was sure that, given enough time, I would master the words to, 'Witch Queen o' New Orleans'.

A cig on my lip, a baby on my hip, and a Camaro on the gravel parking pad. My life was good, and I expected it to keep on gitting better. But then, at that very moment, our lifes changed, forever.

I heard the deep rumble of Jerry McJeter's cherry bomb glasspack mufflers, as his hot-lookin' T-top Trans-Am roared up the dirt road toward our trailer. I hiked-up my halter top, "for added-allure", just as the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog's "tips & hints" section advised. Jerry liked coming around, whenever I was pregnant. It sure did excite Ricky, to watch our moments of togetherness. I thought that's what this surprise visit was about. The fingers on my cig hand went up to my forehead, to be sure my Farrah Fawcettt Bangs was arranged just rite.

But that's not what happened. Jerry runned up into the trailer without even admiring the swelling in my bare midriff. I followed him in. Lynyrd Skynyrd's new song, 'That Smell', was throbbing on the radio. In the dim light of the blacklight bulbs, the Lava Lamp, and the grow-lite for Ricky's "plant", I saw Ricky's eyes go, as usual, in the direction of Jerry's belt buckle. Ricky'd just fired one up, and it hung on his lip, as he looked up at Jerry, expecting to hear something good.

Instead, Jerry blurted-out, "They's DEAD. Thur plane done crashed, an' they's DEAD!" Well, I didn't know why he was so upset. I assumed he was talkin' about some Yankees up in Washington, DC, so I let out a "Yaaaaaaaay!" But Jerry turned around, his eyes lookin' crazy, and said, "No, Gloria. Lynyrd Skynyrd. They's dead. Thur gone, GONE, GONE!"

Next we knowed, Ricky had inhaled that lit smoking material, and was chokin' on it. He started buckin' around in his recliner, like the Devil had a hold on him. "Whut'll we do?", I was screaming. "Stick a newspaper in his mouth, an' it'll keep him from chokin!", yelled Jerry.

But by the time I'd found the newspaper, and we'd pried-open his mouth, Ricky was gone - just sitting there in his new earth-tones plaid Herculon La-Z-Boy, with the Rebel Flag tacked to the Sunset Cavalcade Walnut Masonite wall paneling behind him, dead as a doornail. It pains me to think that his last thoughts must have been that he would never hear 'Sweet Home Alabama' again - that THE WORLD would soon be deprived of all that wonderful Lynyrd Skynyrd music - that the radio would stop playing "What's Your Name?", "Mister Saturday Nite Special", and all the other songs we loved so well. It would be over, forever.

Well, we draped that Rebel flag over Ricky's coffin. A friend pulled his El Camino with the outside speakers, up near the grave, and put Lynyrd Skynyrd's 'Pronounced' album in the 8-track. And as 'Free Bird' played, Ricky's coffin was lowered into the ground.

Like I said, my life was changed forever. The bank took back the Z-28. Then, the credit union took the doublewide. And while I had a lot more babies, I never had another meal ticket as good as my Ricky.

But I'm glad to say that we was wrong about Lynyrd Skynyrd's music being gone-for-good. He lives on, forever, in Mississippi, where the 1970s will never be over. Go to that fancy 'lifestyle center', up in Ridgeland, and you'll hear Lynyrd singin' from the fake rocks in the shrubs. Go out to eat, and it's like a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert, most nites. Go to a casino, and you may hear the actual band - or a tribute band. Or, just listen to Skynyrd thumpin' inside, as any tricked-out F-250 drives by....

Now that I'm a 52-year-old Great-great-grandmother, I've learned there's two things in life that's true:

1) As my seventh child, Brittnaye-Faye, the smart one, says, "You never graduate from Ole Miss".

2) They'll never stop playing Lynyrd Skynyrd, in Mississippi.



(Many thanks to Dowager Soybean Empress, for helping me remember the details)