It was the third of June—another sleepy, dusty day in the Delta, but a hot and sunny one in Oxford. I was tightly tucked in the southwest corner of The Balcony, in search of as much shade as I could find. Coming toward me, hop-scotching across the obstacle course on Van Buren, aka, “The Crosswalk,” was my young friend, the boyish Chaz. He took a left turn and was about to walk under me when I called out.
“Chaz!” I shouted.
“Hey, Randy!” said Chaz. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yep, it sure has,” I replied. “Why don’t you come up and let me buy you a drink?”
Chaz was on a mission but he detoured long enough to sit a spell and have a glass of water.
I’ve known Chaz and his family for over twenty years. They’re good ole Delta folks who would give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it—literally. Even though we both live in Oxford, Chaz and I hadn’t run into each other in nearly two years. We had some catching up to do.
As we talked it became apparent that Chaz was taking the high road in his collegiate career, faithfully applying himself to his academic pursuits. I admire and respect that. I also hope he’s having his share of a good time, but I doubt I need to worry about that. If you grow up in the Delta, good times are in your genes.
In the middle of our conversation my bud, The Sheik, butted in.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Some terrorist just drove a van into a crowd of people on London Bridge.”
Even though we Balcony People take pride in our sacred space being known as a No Google Zone, news like this supersedes any disdain for electronic devices upstairs. This was no game of Who-Played-Maracas-on-the-Fifth-Track-of-Bob-Marley’s-Second-Record.
My bud, The Sheik continued.
“Looks like four or five people are already dead. The Bobbies are trying to chase down the scumbags who did it.”
Everybody shook their heads in disbelief. Even with the plethora of savage attacks over the last few years, you simply cannot get used to hearing news like that.
Chaz and I just looked at each other. What do you say at a time like that?
Chaz broke the silence. “The world’s gotta make room for love.”
“The world’s gotta make room for love,” I thought. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
At this writing we know that three people were killed when the van the terrorists were driving mowed them down. Five more were stabbed to death and forty-eight others were wounded. Police killed the three terrorists within eight minutes of the strike. Seven others believed to be involved in the plot have been arrested.
The terrorists weren’t able to cause as much havoc as they had hoped. They never got to use their supply of Molotov cocktails, nor were they able to secure a big, flat-bed truck to plow over the innocents. You may recall that on July 15, 2016, terrorists drove a truck into crowds in Nice, France, killing 86 people. No one has to tell us that life is uncertain and that there are no guarantees.
As a Baby Boomer, images of the Viet Nam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and the protests that surrounded them flashed in my mind. Those iconic images are indelibly linked to a score of songs like Four Dead in Ohio; Abraham, Martin, and John; Eve of Destruction; and We Shall Overcome.
(Honorable mention goes to the brilliance of one of the most poignant and powerful scenes in a movie ever—EVER: Louis Armstrong singing It’s a Wonderful World as the ravages of war are played out on-screen in Good Morning, Viet Nam!. If that scene doesn’t make you to rethink war, then it’s time to break some windows and rattle some walls.)
As I mulled over Chaz’s words of enlightened frustration, I heard singing in my ears—a distant echo of times gone by. The singers were The Beatles, the voice was John Lennon’s, and the echo?
All you need is love, all you need is love.
All you need is love, love. Love is all you need.
Cliché? Not on your life. Real truth is never cliché, but it’s often simple. Not easy, but simple.
Unfortunately, Chaz, the world does not have to make room for love. But if we don’t we’re going to find ourselves singing “London Bridge is Falling Down” a lot more often, and to a brand new tune—a bloody bad one, at that.
And that’s the view from The Balcony. 
