Where the Southern crosses the Yellow Dog!

From khandu

One part of Moorhead is a trip into times past...it just feels bluesy. I lived there briefly in '63. The town had a bit of a Mayberry feel to it. I remember lying in my bed on the summer nights with my window up, watching the black folk come alive. It seemed they were more relaxed in the cool night time than in the day. One side of the street I lived on was white, the other black. There was no fear, no hate...we were all poor & that weighed heavier than the difference of skin color.

But the night-time brought about a change. I'd see the black guys dressed as slick as they could afford, walking down the sidewalk with a dapper step. I could hear them talking, but they were not loud nor disruptive. They were easy & carefree. No doubt, going to see their ladies.

And, around 10:30, I could hear the freight train in the distance letting that lonesome whistle blow.

That is my clearest memory of Moorhead. There was some kind of magic in the air that summer. One year later, the summer of '64, the summer of hatred, of fear. The summer I became aware of the cruelty, the summer my innocence & naivety died. Maybe it was the summer of 64 that made the summer of 63 seem magic.



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