Writes Tim McGraw:
Today, August 21, 2025, is the 54th anniversary of the day. Oh, it was a big day. It was the usual hot and humid August afternoon in Lincoln, Nebraska. We hippies, all boys born in 1952, had come together at our communal house, the Garfield House at 14th and Garfield Streets.
The Garfield House was a big two-story white frame house. It had a full basement that we’d insulated with egg cartons and blankets so our band could play loud music. The house had a large yard and a two-car garage that no one used. No one had a car.
August 21, 1971, was the day that a military poobah would pull our birthdates out of a lottery drum to see if we won a free, all expenses paid, trip to the Vietnam War.
The old black & white TV was in the bay window. We all had beers, joints, and/or cigarettes in our hands. If our birthdate was one of the first 100 drawn, we were fucked. There was laughter covering up the tension in the room.
My best friend, Mark, was sitting in his big leather chair. I was sitting on the couch next to his chair. I was drinking cheap Schmidt animal beer. Mark was drinking a can of Olde English 800 Malt Liquor in one hand and the usual Old Gold cigarette in the other.
Mark’s birthdate came up as #28. His face went white. His hands shook. He was fucked.
I got #279. My Irish luck came through.
Mark went on the lam to a farmhouse in South Dakota. He eventually was caught, arrested, and did two years of community service in Lincoln. When Mark received his pardon from Jimmy Carter, he had it framed and hung it over his toilet so that he could look at it every time he peed.
Yeah, August 21, 1971; helluva day.
