After the last encore, George never stayed long. He’d thank the band, hug the crew, and drive himself home — no chauffeur, no convoy. Just him, a thermos of coffee, and miles of Texas highway. The crowd’s roar would fade into static, replaced by the low hum of a radio playing his own voice back to him. “You ever get tired of the road?” a hand once asked. “Never,” he said. “It’s where the good Lord does most of His talking.” The headlights swept over endless fields, and somewhere between the asphalt and the stars, he’d think of Norma waiting, porch light glowing like a promise. Some men chase the road for glory. George drove it to remember who he was.
“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction I remember the first time I heard…