I heard on the news yesterday that Paul Harvey passed away.
Paul Harvey is part of my childhood memories. My parents owned their own business, an upholstery shop, and when I was little and wasn’t in school, I went with them to work. For a few years, they worked out of a small house in a neighborhood that was mostly commercial with a few die-hard homeowners hanging on to memories and rental property. Most of the time, I was the only kid in the area. I spent hours and hours using my imagination to create worlds in which to play. Any wonder I became a writer?
Back to Paul Harvey.
I remember eating lunches in that little house with my parents. The house didn’t have a refrigerator — I didn’t realize it at the time, but my parents’ business was never going to make them rich, and I’m sure there were months when the bills far out-distanced the money — so lunches were always sandwiches that would keep without being cold, instant milk mixed with powdered chocolate mix to make it palatable, and Paul Harvey on the transistor radio.
For years afterward, every time I heard Paul Harvey, I could taste that chocolate instant milk concoction my mom made, and I’d be right back in that little kitchen, just my parents and me, their late in life, unexpected child.
God speed, Mr. Harvey.
What I’m listening to: The Road by Cormac McCarthy.