RIP Greg...

We had The Allman Brothers “Eat A Peach” CD cranked up to “Wow” on our pilgrimage down to Hulls this afternoon. Not because Greg just died, we didn’t find that out until we got back home. But last week we caught one of the excellent interviews Dan Rather has been doing on Axis TV. Greg Allman was the subject and it inspired us to revisit one of my favorite albums on which we can still hear Duane’s inspired musical signature.

The gorgeous weather, not too hot, not too humid, a few scattered cotton ball clouds stuck to a fresh palette of deep blue, made the 55-minute drive down to Ormond Beach almost obligatory. Most of the drive is through Tomoka State Park, a tunnel of old oaks, intertwining their fingers protectively over the road, limbs heavy with Spanish Moss.

It’s worth the drive just to roll though that green tunnel. Hulls is always spot on too. They run their own boats and only serve fresh from the water, fish and seafood, offering excellent Southern cooking from hushpuppies to collards to a variety of chowders. I had the blackened Yellowtail.

We make it a point to stop by the Hull's retail store before we head back. Today we brought home live soft shell crabs. “Do you want me to clean them for you?” I told her no, I’ll do it myself. They have a few more hours to live that way. Nothing can be fresher.

On the return trip I sang along with Greg, and Dickie Betts too, pointing out to Carla the sound of Duane’s slide, running his glass encased finger up and down the neck of his lover. Greg moaned the blues as only he can do. Could do.

His death was the first thing we found out about when we got home, and went online. He was my age, 69 and certainly we shared an experience in the march through that incredible time of change and celebration that marked the late 1960’s and 1970’s. I first saw the man in 1969 when he played at my college, before he and Duane called themselves The Allman Brothers Band. That little school was only a few towns East of the legendary Mussel Shoals Sound Studios. He and his brother cut us a break, and stopped by.

Now Carla is off to work, I’m happily sated and left to wallow on my own, grateful for the memorable afternoon, always special regardless of how often we repeat it.

This thing with Greg may take me a bit to digest, though. RIP, Brother, I don’t know if I feel worse for you, or for myself.