Music | Friends | Petaluma | History
Petaluma Music
Once egg capital of the World
Missing a buddy
I can see him now, standing on a Petaluma street corner, messing with the boys from the in-crowd before they go and play. All I can do is wish them farewell when they know I’d rather stay.
What’s that strange music, that full rhythm, a little blue beat, down at the local. It’s the boys jamming, bomber jackets and blues jeans, their youthful embers faded, working out who is the vocal.
The Petaluma egg farmers too tired for tears, the grain silos long checked out and men drew their final pay that year. Men stare deep down into their beer, but not the music men, guitars, drums, and memories to cheer.
It’s never all over, because music is their faith, playing together as friends under a Petaluma’s historic music steeple. While in writing this, I realize it’s not the place I miss, it’s the Petaluma people.
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