Gram Parsons: A Requiem in Blue

Recently a friend reminded me Gram Parsons was buried in New Orleans and asked had I visited his grave. This friend knew I had a history with Gram so her question was a natural extension of conversations we have had. So today I drove to a Metairie cemetery, the Garden of Memories, and was directed by a groundskeeper to his grave. While sitting on a bench near the grave, I relived memories of Gram and his affect on my life at a crucial time.

Gram was a senior at The Bolles School in Jacksonville. At the time, Bolles was all boys. To say Gram was the big man on campus would be an understatement. He was handsome, smart, somewhat dangerous, a very talented singer but most strikingly, the coolest person I had, or would, ever meet. He was Sean Connery/James Bond cool. He was John Lennon cool. I on the other hand was a bewildered seventh grader, a middle class kid from the Lakewood neighborhood, thrown into a cauldron of rich boarder misfits (Gram), spoiled rich kids from Ortega and Avondale and just a few students who, like me, found their clothes were not the right brand or their parents did not drive the right cars. My Mother drove a Buick Special for God’s sake! I was lost and confused. A lost and confused seventh grader was an easy target. Taunts and beatings became something of a norm.

Enter Gram. He, for unknown reasons, plucked me out of an increasingly bad spiral. Simply stated, Gram adopted me. I was allowed a coveted spot, with Gram, in the senior smoking courtyard. If Gram was practicing guitar I could sit in his room as long as I didn’t say or do anything stupid. Just receiving this attention and the attendant protection greatly increased my ability to get through each day and each week of that school year. The beatings stopped.

The last time I saw Gram was one night toward the end of the school year. Bolles was hosting a dance and local secondary and high school girls swarmed the campus available to all except a certain seventh grader. I wandered around the school grounds looking for something to do and encountered Gram sitting on a parking lot curb. I said, “hey Gram.” Next to him was the head cheerleader, Sandy. Sandy was Brigit Bardot beautiful. In the street light I could see her face was a mass of wet, smeared mascara. When I realized she was sobbing I turned to leave.

“Andy!” Gram said. “Come over here. Sit down with me.” He motioned to a spot on his right. He put his arm around me and asked what was I doing. I cannot remember how long I stayed with Gram and Sandy but I hope for her sake it wasn’t long at all. I have no memory of what we talked about. Maybe from his perspective having me there relieved some of the tension of an ongoing heartbreak. If so, I am glad I could help.

The following September I was back at Bolles. Gram was gone. My days, however, were numbered at the school. The beatings resumed. The last was at the hand of a Mississippi sociopathic senior who kindly placed me, post stomping, in a bathtub so I wouldn’t bleed on the dorm room floor. At some point midway through the year I was called into the headmaster’s office along with my father and notified that I could finish out the school year but make no plans to return.

And Gram? He went on and made quite the name for himself in the world of popular music. After his death at 28 his body was hijacked by his manager and burned (poorly executed as it turned out) in the desert at Joshua Tree. Gram’s father, living in New Orleans, claimed the badly charred body and had him buried in Metairie.

Twelve or so years ago Julie and I stopped at The Joshua Tree Inn near Twentynine Palms, California for the night. The motel was straight out of a 1950s film noir. The clerk asked if we wanted the “Gram Parsons room.” She explained it was the room where Gram died after a morphine and tequila fueled extravaganza.

“Who is Gram Parsons?” Julie asked me. I turned to the clerk and said, “we’ll take it.”