No seat belts, no air-conditioning, only the AM radio for a soundtrack: family vacation in 1965. We’re driving the big blue Impala from Fargo to The Cities, where we will tour the wonders of the world: Met Stadium, where the Minnesota Twins played, and Southdale, the first enclosed shopping mall in the country. We stop in a roadside restaurant, and me and my cousins get our own booth with its individual jukebox. One of my cousins — probably Bruce — plays “Henry the Eighth” and explains its lyrical complexities to seven-year-old me. (Bruce was always wise to the ways of these things.) See, he married a woman who had been married to seven Henrys, so he’s the eighth. Got it now?
Second verse, same as the first!
Comments