History is always a lost turn in Trivia Crack.
Songs about the Civil War – that’s what I remember the most about many years of history class. Johnny Horton’s Battle of New Orleans, specifically, and while I appreciated and still do, knowledge more easily remember attached to music, I didn’t ever imagine songs like this as radio worthy.
Of course, I missed the fact that many like this were indeed played on radio stations. A little later in life, there seemed to be another significant round of historical story-telling. I lightening flicked stations when songs such as, “Calypso,” and “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” found their way into rotation. I didn’t care if I landed on sports or talk, as long as I wasn’t listening to a lament about a ship.
Unfortunately, when I wasn’t in my room, I wasn’t in command of the music. The ballad of the Edmund F would run straight through the car radio, the living room stereo. The fact that my older brother adored the song shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who knew him. He loved all things history.
Knowing the song by heart wasn’t really a choice I made. Yet, here I am, all these years later, with the words embedded in my brain. What’s interesting is that I never, in any of my future-forward plans, had any intention of moving to the Great Lakes state. I’ve been here 16 years and counting. The logistical relevance never once occurred to me. I never even considered the connection, and might have never made it on my own.
The reason all of this is relevant, is that I found myself at my regular hair salon last Saturday, a little bit early. I arrived with my own pictorial aim collage, but thought I’d check out the usual stash of hair magazines and books, in case there was something more fabulous.
There weren’t any, though. Neither hide nor hair of a hair book to be found. Instead there were a half-dozen neatly stacked children’s books on the under-rack of the tiny table near the three-seater sofa. Stumped, I figured I was looking in the wrong place. It was a salon! The hair-oriented periodicals had to be somewhere else. The only possible somewhere else, was cornered across the way, next to a single seat. On another tiny table next to the lone chair, was a lone book. “The Edmund Fitzgerald.”
My first thought was that it was a strange, not light-reading choice for a salon.
My second thought was the doomed stanza, “..the wreck of the Ed-mund Fitz-Gerrrr-aaaald” streaming on instant internal audio loop.
My third thought, wasn’t so much of a thought as a smile at the unlikely reminder that our loved ones never really fade away.
They leave us with memories we gladly connect to coincidences.
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