Johnny

I don't know exactly why the story of little Johnny Miller strikes such a chord with me, but it does. His recollections are of growing up in the eighties, but his memories have rekindled mine, and mine would have come from the fifties and early sixties. Everyone called me Johnny, too. I can almost smell the kitchen, see my great-Uncle Solon and his wife Aunt Fanny Lou at the table, feel the languid summer Tennessee air and hear the clutch grinding away on the old Chevy pickup. Boy, that's a long, long time ago and far, far away on some distant and nearly forgotten planet. I want to thank the author for taking me back. You don't need a ticket; go to http://armadillocreek.blogspot.com/. I'm sure you'll be invited in, to have a big glass of ice tea and sit a spell.