Walking in Clovis

Every morning, I walk across Grand and up Main, past the city hall, the police station, the VFW, and a dozen dead businesses, with a few living ones sprinkled in, and I’m charmed. I can see it, what it looked like, back then. This is the town that gave the world Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Waylon Jennings, and half a dozen other roarin' rockabilly bands. Can you imagine? Not Memphis, Clovis.

And I wonder, what the Hell happened? How’d we let it get away from us? 

A hundred miles down the road, in Pampa, was where Woody Guthrie spent his teens and early adulthood. These tiny, tiny towns and the pathetic, dusty little piles that people called ranches, produced artists, goddamn artists. How’d that happen? 

We can play the urbane liberal and pretend we don’t understand, but we all know what MAGA really means, we just can’t get it back. Nobody can. 

Physically, it’s an easy stroll, mentally, it’s a little exhausting.