Killing A Day in Macon

     I have always wanted to see the legendary music city of Macon - home of Otis Redding, The Allman Brothers Band, and Capricorn Records. I could already feel the magic while driving through downtown, looking for a place to park. Beautiful, old buildings with architecture that unveiled its long history. Outdoor bistros seemed to be on every corner. I wondered to myself,
"Why doesn't Atlanta have this kind of southern charm?" Then it occurred to me that Macon was spared when Sherman burned a trail through Georgia, leaving much of the architecture of the time period intact.


     As Mark and I stepped out of the truck and into the street, he commented, "I bet those museums cost money. What else can we do?" "Walk," I replied. We were in town to complete a painting job  at a local Sam's Club and we couldn't start work until after it closed. I knew we would later regret the all day exercise but I didn't care to pay money being confined indoors on a day like this. It was the day before the Cherry Blossom Festival and people were already bustling through the streets. I could feel the anticipation thick in the air and I was struck with spring fever. A toasty warm sun, a cool, swirling breeze, and cherry blossoms dancing through the streets. As we strolled along, we heard the sounds of jazz and people deep in conversation, sipping on craft beers and martinis while sitting at outdoor tables covered in white linen. I was glad I had my camera because it was a photographer's dream.


     As we reached the outskirts of town, I expected Mark to say "I guess that's it." I had plans to keep walking, though. I was not stopping until I found Duane Allman's grave. I've always been a huge fan of the slide guitar blues man and I am fascinated with old cemeteries. I'm not sure why I am. I think it's the spirit of the past that I feel as I realize my own sense of direction. I may have changed my mind if I had known how large the graveyard was at the end of town. After getting some idea where to go from a local, we journeyed up and down hills of tombstones, stopping at times to marvel at the statues of angels and poetic epitaphs. I gave up following the tiny paths and steps that led from one garden to another and headed straight toward the valley where the railroad tracks were.

     Mark spotted it first. It was much cleaner than I thought it would be. I guess I imagined homage and vandalism of fans who had made the same pilgrimage as Mark and I did. Cherubs watched over the granite slabs marking the place where Duane and his band-mate Berry Oakley rests. A tall, wrought-iron fence fortified the memorial and seemed to take away a bit from the well-manicured landscaping. The bars were greased to prevent vandals from climbing over the fence.


     We walked the tracks back into town and as we approached a highway overpass, I noticed a very organized community of homeless people camping nearby. I began to sing to myself the song "Melissa" by the Allman Brothers Band--

 "Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah...
...Crossroads, will you ever let him go, Lord, Lord?"