It was a great time in Richmond, when Shockoe Slip was small and the folks working there were close; and Page Wilson played, and sometimes his buddies would sit in at Sam Miller's and often Sunday nights at the old Warehouse Restaurant upstairs lounge — both places where I bartended ("Amazing Grace: Remembering Page Wilson," Street Talk, March 23). Page and his voice, and his breaking strings all the time with his pounding style on the guitar — a great time. A genuine fellow, a great talent and back then, having Page in the house made a night behind the bar just about the best place in the world to be.
Page and I took a ride in his old panel van one time, in the late '70s — he heard from a friend in Nashville that had a song the guy had written for Bobby Bare go gold — there was going to be a party at the guy's home, in Madison, just north of Nashville (sorry I don't remember the songwriter's name), and after work one night, Page says, hey Franko, what-cha doing for the next few days? Next thing I knew, we'd hopped in that old van, and gone-gone like a turkey through the corn we were westbound and living the life. ...
Although those days passed, and I would see Page only when we happened to bump into each other at some show or other, his friendship was a constant. We'll all miss that big smile and that bigger voice.