Not my mother, but the Tupperware and the fridge look about right. Ain’t AI fun!
It takes guts to admit to a phobia. I have more than one, but this one will do for now. I can’t stand to touch plastic ware, mainly Tupperware or any brand that resembles that sturdy piece of American culture from the 1950s.
My mother, rest her sainted soul and bless her heart, was a Tupperware lady. During those years, she hosted numerous parties in our and her friends’ homes.
It wasn’t until years later I learned the truth about these parties. They were a front for gossip and cocktails. In her old age, she admitted it was a sham, and the girls used it as a front to get away from us kids and husbands for a few hours and get sloshed on Manhattans and Gin and Tonics. It was the perfect set-up. She made a small amount of money, had some good hi-balls, and caught up on the neighborhood gossip. They were the forerunner to ” girls night out,” which started in the 90s. I sometimes wandered into the room hoping to find a little finger sandwich or a Vienna sausage on a toothpick. Instead, I found a pack of “big-haired” gals holding a cocktail glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My mother was a world champion smoker and would have a ciggie in hand and one perched in her ashtray. Mothers back then were tough gals.
Our kitchen was stuffed to the point of bursting with the plastic-ware. It filled every drawer and cabinet and was neatly stacked to the ceiling on top of the ice-box. We ate on paper plates and drank from aluminum glasses. There was no room for real dishes or glassware; It was all Tupperware everywhere. The ice box was neatly arranged, with meals sealed in Tupperware. We didn’t call them “leftovers” in our home; they were called “future pre-prepared dinners.” Some of those dinners were on-call for a year or more. That’s the beauty of Tupperware: if properly sealed per the manufacturer’s instructions, the food will last for years.
Now, the explanation of the phobia. It’s complex and involves many layers of childhood anxiety. My therapist said it started with an incident when I was five years old. I don’t remember what I did, but it was severe enough for a butt-whooping from my mother. While trying to escape, she grabbed one arm, a classic move that only mothers use, and wielded the nearest object she could find, which was an 8×10 Tupperware slimline cake storage container. I had no idea plastic ware could hurt so damn much. The impression of the insignia on the bottom of the container lingered on my butt for days. Of course, I showed it to all my buddies, and they were pretty impressed and worried because their mothers owned the same Tupperware containers.
After that incident, I couldn’t bring myself to touch plastic ware in any form. That brought more punishment because when helping with the dishes, I would retreat from the kitchen sink when a dirty piece of Tupperware was to be washed. There was nothing that could make me touch that vile object. That plastic dish scared me as much as the monster under my bed. My father realized that his only son was becoming a child neurotic and stepped in to help my mother with the dishes, thus allowing me to enjoy a somewhat normal childhood.
Not much has changed in 65 years; I can’t touch the stuff. My wife, Momo, loves her some Tupperware. She has a beautiful assortment of colored containers that, when soiled, she puts in the dishwasher. That is another layer of my anxiety. I cannot take them from the rack. I use a set of tongues to grab the cursed piece and then lay it on the counter for her to put away. I don’t care to know where she hides this stuff as long as I don’t come into contact with it.
My therapist is a cheeky fellow. He told me that being spanked with a Tupperware dish and all the problems it caused me could have been worse. My mother could have grabbed a PYREX dish.
Keeping with the spirit of Christmas, I am posting a few tales of personal Holiday experiences growing up in the 1950s in Fort Worth, Texas.
The hundreds of hours I wasted thinking about Santa Claus, where he lived, and whether he was happy. Did Mrs. Claus make him hot cocoa and cookies? Does his reindeer live in a lovely barn? How do they fly? Is Rudolph the leader of the pack? Did he get my letters? Was I on the nice or naughty list? Is his spying Elves watching me? These were questions that required an answer. My parents were no help, they would smile and pat my little flat top haircut head.
Santa consumed my life from 4 years old until I turned 9. I was a true believer, a young pilgrim to the point of becoming a child Santa Evangelist. Anyone said something terrible about Santa; it was put up your dukes time or a come to Santa prayer meeting. My younger sister was also a firm believer, but then, she was brainwashed by me, and I was programmed by my parents, grandparents, and the rest of the family.
On Thanksgiving Day, the trickery commenced around our household. First, my mother, the master of deceit, would warn us about the naughty list and what would happen if we were on it. Then it was, ” The Elves are watching you through the windows to see if you’re good.” That’s the one that got to me the most. I had a plan to catch them.
After lights out, I slinked out of bed under the cover of my darkened room. Crawling on my belly like a soldier, I made my way to the nearest window. Back against the wall, I slid up and moved the blinds in a flash, hoping to catch the little guys. Failing to catch one spying on me didn’t deter my mission: I knew they were there and faster on the draw. Santa and his gang were tricky ones.
The annual Christmas visit to Leonard Brothers Department Store in downtown Fort Worth was the ultimate Santa experience. Toyland was akin to holiday Nirvana for us kids. A rocket ship monorail glided around the basement ceiling, kids packed in like sardines on a rocket train to nowhere. Parents rush to purchase presents while the kids are busy, hiding them under their coats or in bags and lying to their innocent children with straight faces.
Santa held his court in the middle of Toyland. His throne was 10 ft. off the ground, with stairs leading up and down. A majestic sight if there ever was one. Sitting in a velvet chair fit for a king while his Elfin helpers lifted the crumb crunchers on and off his lap, it was pure excellence. A line of snot-nosed kids snaked around the room, waiting for their chance to place their order, up the stairs, on the lap for 15 seconds, then off the lap, and down the stairs. The visit was over before you knew what had happened. It was the same routine for years, and I loved it. I could spit out my order in under 10 seconds. Santa and his helpers were impressed.
I asked Santa for a bicycle when I was 9 years old. A red and white machine with side mirrors, streamers, a headlight, and white-side-wall balloon tires. I also asked for a new BB Gun, a larger Cub Scout knife, and a Fanner 50 cap pistol with green stick-um caps. My sister asked him for a doll that was larger than she was and a dollhouse.
Christmas Eve arrived, bedtime rolled around, and we hit the sack. Hot Ovaltine and cookies put me out like a light. Then, sometime after midnight or later, I had to pee. I didn’t want to get up, but the Ovaltine was causing me some discomfort. Half asleep, shuffling down the hallway, I looked into the living room as I passed the doorway. With a Schlitz beer in his hand, my father sat by the tree, assembling a red bike like the one I expected from Santa. My mother was working on a cardboard dollhouse, and the giant doll my sister wanted was standing under the tree, looking creepy.
I convinced myself that Santa must have run out of time and had recruited my parents to complete his work. The reality of the sight escaped me.
My father looked up and saw me standing there; our eyes met, and he smiled like a raccoon caught in a trash can. The jig was up. The big lie was exposed, and my childhood imploded right there in the hallway. Daddy was Santa, and Mom was Mrs. Claus. I peed and made my way back to bed, not comprehending what I had witnessed.
I awakened at daybreak, our usual Christmas morning routine. I was thankful to be awake and away from the nightmare that had gripped me most of the night. I was relieved that it was all caused by the Ovaltine. The gifts were under the tree, and life was good. I loved the bike and the BB Gun, but my sister feared the enormous lifelike doll.
After breakfast, I was lying under the Christmas tree, building an army fort with my plastic soldiers. That’s when I found a Schlitz beer bottle, assembly instructions for a bike, and a few tools.
Tex Styles grilling in the backyard of his Fort Worth, Texas home
After sixteen-year-old Tex Styles is inducted into “The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge,” and gets his big write-up in the Fort Worth Press and a shout-out on the Bobbi Wygant Television show. His status as a “wonder kid” champion griller is increased by ten-fold. So, naturally, everybody wants a piece of Tex, or at least a plate full of his Brisket and sausage.
His face is on the cover of Bonn Appetite magazine and Sports Illustrated, thanks to Dan Jenkins. The Michelin Travel Guide lists him as the top meat griller in America and gives him a five-star rating. Julia Childs is fuming mad.
Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip are Texas BBQ fans from way back. So, they send Tex an invite to prepare a meat feast at Buckingham Palace; the boy lives in high cotton and cold beer and has not yet graduated high school.
Upon his graduation from Pascal High School in 1968, the Army drafts Tex and sends him to Viet Nam for a visit. His captain happens to be a Fort Worth boy who knows Tex’s hometown celebrity status, which, in turn, gets Tex a gig as the top generals’ chef. He won’t hold a rifle or fire a shot for his two-years tour. Instead, a smoker grill large enough for thirty steaks and ten briskets is his weapon. A color photograph of his boyhood grill instead of the usual Playboy fold-out hangs next to his cot. The general tells his men that he “loves the smell of smoking brisket in the morning.” Tex is an immediate rock star.
Tex used his time in Vietnam wisely by learning exotic cooking techniques from the locals.
For example, a shriveled up old Mama-San educated him on using “Vietnamese Death Peppers,” the hottest pepper in the world. If a man ate one whole, death would occur within twenty minutes, or so the Mama-San said. Tex nibbled a small end piece and was on fire for two days, unable to leave the barracks bathroom, so he figured she wasn’t bullshitting him.
A month of experimentation’s with the “Death Pepper” resulted in an edible and survivable pepper sauce. Tex called it “Davy Crockett’s Ass Canon,” since he is a “Son Of The Alamo” and all that.
He found a local business in Saigon to bottle the product, and a local artist produced an excellent illustrated label for the bottle. It pictures Davy Crockett with his buckskin pants around his ankles, torching Mexican soldiers with a massive fiery flame shooting from his buttocks. In addition, the label said it’s a marinade, a pepper sauce, a medicinal elixir, and a hemorrhoid eradicator. All of this is true, so it’s bound to be a huge hit.
In June 1972, Miss Piddle Sonjair was a nineteen-year-old winner of the “Miss Chigger Bayou Louisiana” contest. Although she is not the prettiest girl entered, she is the only one with a full set of straight white teeth, no baby bump, and doesn’t have a snot-nose kid hanging off her hip, making her the popular winner via unanimous decision.
Piddle holding her Chigger Bayou trophy and a plate of Tex’s brisket
As the newly crowned “Miss Chigger Bayou,” Piddle Sonjair makes her appearance at the “Shreveport Annual Crayfish, Sausage and Meat Smoking Festival,” where she meets handsome Tex Styles as she awards him the winner’s trophy.
She is bug-eyed- shaky-legged enamored with his triple-crusty-peppered Angus brisket and his ten-alarm jalapeno wild boar sausage smothered in his secret chipmunk sauce.
Marriage follows a few months later, then two sons and two daughters round out the Styles family. So naturally, all the kids take to grilling and smoking, just like dear old Dad.
Tex, Piddle, and the children travel the country in their two custom tour bus’s, pulling a 30-foot smoker and grill for the next twenty years. They smoke, grill, and serve the best meats in the south, winning competitions and elevating Tex to legendary status in the grilling world.
His Fort Worth boyhood home, listed in the state historic register, is a traffic-jamming tourist attraction. His first Weber grill is cast in bronze and displayed at Will Rogers Auditorium during the “Fat Stock Show.” Men worldwide come and pay homage to “the masters,” sacred covenant. It’s a moving sight to see grown-assed men weep while kneeling and touching the small grill. It’s one of the top tourist attractions in the south.
Tex is now seventy-two and retired from competitive cooking. The only folks that get a Styles brisket and fixin’s are his select clientele of fifty-plus years and Father Frank, the priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Repentance church of which Tex and Piddle are members in good standing. He has more money than King Faruk, a large home on Lake Granbury, and a cabin in Ruidoso, New Mexico, so he’s in the cooking game for fun.
Ten days before Christmas, Tex gets a call from his old pal Willie “the Red Headed Stranger,” Nelson.
Willie, his family, his band, their families, and numerous relatives and hangers-on have planned a “Santa Claus Pick’in and Grinn’in Christmas” shin-dig at Willies Dripping Springs ranch. Willie has a hankering for a Tex Styles holiday meat feast with all of Miss Piddle’s fancy fixins’.
Tex and Willie exchange the usual howd’ys, and then Willie drops his order.
Expecting around two-hundred-seventy-five people and assorted animals at the shin-dig, Willie needs enough food to satisfy a herd with possible pot munchies and other self-induced disorders.
Willie’s list is a booger bear, and Tex isn’t sure if he and Piddle can fulfill it in time, so he calls in his two sons and a couple of grandkids for backup.
Willie needs 38 each of Tex’s 30-pound “Goodnight Irene Ranch Briskets,” 45 each of West Texas spoon-fed bacon wrapped-beer can pork butts, 35 pounds of San Saba wild pig sausage, and 59 educated and certified free-range smoked chickens, with documentation attached.
All of the sides and fixin’s, are Piddles forte’, and will consist of 175 pounds of “Jacksboro Highway Red Skinned Tater Salad”, 175 pounds of “O.B. Jauns Canobi-Oil Mexican Macaroni Salad”, 120 pounds of high octane Shiner Bock Ranch Style beans, 235 pounds of Piddles special “Nanner Pudding,” 50 gallons of Tex’s secret sweet n’ spicy Chipmunk sauce, and one bottle of ” Davy Crocketts Ass Cannon” hot sauce.
Finally, to wash’er down, 135 gallons of Tex’s unique Dr. Pepper CBD oil-infused sweet tea and 5 commercial coffee urns of Dunkin Donuts Breakfast Blend coffee. The order is too big to ship, so Tex’s fifth grandson and granddaughter will deliver it to the ranch in the Styles family food truck. Money is not a worry for Willie, so he doesn’t discuss cost, which rounds out to be about $18,000 without taxes and tips.
Tex fires up his 30-foot trailer-mounted smoker and three custom-made “Styles Grills.” The next morning. Grandson number 3 unloads a pickup bed full of Mesquite, Peach, and Oak firewood purchased from the “Little Bobs” wood co-op in Eastwood, Texas. Tex won’t use wood or charcoal that doesn’t come from West of Fort Worth; if he suspects it may have come from Dallas or anywhere East of there, he throws it out. He is a Fort Worth boy to a fault.
At midnight, Tex pulls a tester brisket and carts it into the kitchen for a “slice and chew,” checking for tenderness, aroma, and flavor.
When he pulls back the foil wrap, he gasps and stumbles a few steps backward. Piddle hears this and bolts to the kitchen, where she finds a “white as a ghost” Tex sitting in a chair. Thinking he is having “the big one,” she dials 911, but Tex stops the call, assuring her he is alright.
He asks Piddle to join him next to the Brisket, telling her to describe what she sees. After a few seconds, she lets out a hound-dog yelp and crosses herself.
There, on the kitchen counter, resting in a tin-foil boat of succulent juices, sits a 20-pound brisket perfectly shaped like the Virgin Mary holding her baby Jesus. The contour of the torso, the flowing robe, her angelic face, and the little baby in her arms look as if a great master had carved that hunk of beef. Piddle gets all weepy-eyed and announces that this is a “Christmas Miracle Brisket.” Tex takes a picture with his phone and sends it to Father Frank, telling him to get over here now; we may have a miracle on our hands.
An hour later, Father Frank and two Nuns from the rectory view the miracle meat in the kitchen.
Father Frank is skeptical; these things usually happen in Latin America and tend to be the face of Jesus on a tortilla or a piece of burnt toast, not a 20-pound hunk of beef brisket.
The two Nuns intensely study the Brisket for a good thirty minutes. Then, finally, sister Mary and Sister Madgealyn, renowned experts in miracles of all things holy, inform Father Frank that this is the real deal and he should contact the Vatican, stat. So Father Frank dials the Popes’ secure red phone hotline. The Holy Father answers.
The conversation is in Latin and lasts for a few minutes. Then, finally, a bit shook, the good Father hangs up and tells Tex that the Vatican’s special investigation team will arrive tomorrow afternoon and to please hire armed guards to protect the miracle meat. Tex agrees.
Father Frank asks Tex if he might take a tiny slice of the useless burned fat home for religious reasons. Tex cuts a sliver from the back of the meat and wraps it in foil. The nuns, Father Frank, and the miracle sliver depart.
The following day is Sunday, and Tex and Piddle are too busy cooking to attend services. Then, around 1 PM, Father Frank calls Tex and tells him that “we have got a problem.”
Seems that the good Father couldn’t resist a tiny taste of the burned miracle fat before bedtime; he said it was the most Heavenly thing he had ever put into his mouth.
When Father Frank stared into the bathroom mirror this morning, he thought he had died and gone to Heaven. But he was still here, and, instead of a 70-year-old white-haired man in the mirror, a younger version of himself with thick jet black hair and perfect white teeth stared back. His hemorrhoids are gone, his gout is healed, his vision is excellent, his knee’s and hips don’t hurt, he took a dump like a big dog, his skin is as smooth as a baby’s bald head, and he has a woody so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. This miracle brisket is the real deal for sure. But, Tex senses there is more to the Father’s explanation. So, he presses him for the rest.
Father Frank comes clean and begins to weep like a teenage girl having her period, telling Tex that the experience is a flat-out-miracle, and he was compelled by the all-mighty to share it with his congregation during mass this morning. So, he told them the whole beautiful story. Tex murmured, sum-bitch, and hung up the phone.
Before Tex can get really good and pissed at the good Father, his buddy down the street, Mooch, calls and tells Tex to check his front lawn. “It ain’t good little buddy,” was all Mooch said. News travels like wildfire in a small town, especially if it involves religion.
A hundred or more people sit, lay, stand or take up space in wheelchairs, hospital gurneys, and walkers on the front lawn. The overflow takes up his neighbors front yard.
The block is a traffic jam, and two news trucks from Fort Worth are parked in his driveway, antenna raised and going live. Last night, the two Nuns accompanying Father Frank are now standing on Tex’s front porch, signing autographs and giving fake communion using Goldfish crackers and Sunny Delite grape drink instead of sacraments. The healing circus just hit town.
Two police officers show up. They demand to see Tex’s permit for a gathering of over fifty people and organizing an outside church service. Tex explains there is no church service, but the two nuns giving fake communion show otherwise. The cops write Tex a few tickets and leave.
As soon as the cops depart, the Vatican Special Forces arrive.
Five burly boys in black Georgio Armani suits wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and sporty Italian Fedoras force themselves into the house. So, naturally, they want the miracle meat. Two black limos with fender flags are parked in front of Tex’s house. The news folks go apocalyptic. Father Frank is curbside giving a live interview to Vatican Television News. It has officially hit the fan.
The main burly boy produces a document printed on expensive Vatican parchment saying that “All Miracles involving God, Jesus, The Virgin Mary, or any relative or likeness thereof on an article of food is the sole property of the Pope and the Catholic Church LLC.” It’s signed by the Pope and has a small picture of him glued next to his signature.
Tex claims bullshit and tells the Pope’s boys to hit the road. Piddle stands in the kitchen doorway, 9mm in hand. Her look says, “don’t mess with a Coon-Ass gal this Brisket ain’t leaving Granbury, Texas.”
The Vatican boys, muttering select Italian curse words, leave in a huff. Tex knows what he is meant to do with the Miracle Brisket.
Willie Nelson sees the news coverage down in Austin and calls Tex on his cell phone. ” I sure could use some of that Miracle Brisket when you deliver my order. The old lumbago and prostate cancer has been acting up and it hurts so bad I can hardly roll a joint or pack my pipe. I’ll be glad to donate a couple of hundred grand to any charity you choose.” Tex says he will send a piece if there is any left. Willie’s word is as good as gold.
Father Frank rushes into the house, arms waving, screaming like a fainting goat. ” What in God’s name have you done you backwoods cow cooking toothless hillbilly? I’m ruined!”
It seems the good Father made a sleazy back door deal with the His Popeness for a secret trip to the Vatican and a fancy appointment to some committee if he delivered the Miracle Brisket to Rome. So, Tex tells the good Father, in a non to gentle way, that the meat is staying in Granbury and will do whatever good it can here at home.
Father Frank yells, ” you double dog crossing sum-bitch,” grabs the two nuns, and they are history. Tex tells them, “don’t let the door hit you in the butt.” He had a feeling that Father Frank was never as holy as he pretended to be, and the nuns were a little flakey.
Tex goes to the kitchen, lays the meat on a cutting board, and slices the Miracle Brisket into tiny slivers, wrapping each morsel in a square of tin foil. He and Piddle then distribute the bites to every person in their front yard that is ill or has an apparent medical condition. He also gives a nibble to his fifteen-year-old dog, McMurtry.
Tex then sends his two sons, his two daughters, grandsons, and granddaughters along with himself and Piddle to every nursing home, mission, physician’s office, memory care facility, hospice, veterinary clinic, and hospital in town with pieces of the Miracle Brisket.
Having made the painful choice to journey back to Texas, Johnny found himself in a heart-wrenching struggle, surrendering the opportunities that lay before him—holdings that promised riches within a decade. With a heavy heart and resolute spirit, he cast aside dreams of wealth, fully aware that the path behind him had irrevocably vanished, leaving only the words of “what have been.”
The lots on the edge of downtown Honolulu vanished in a few days to a dodgy speculator, who offered a fire sale price. The used car lot was sold to a former commanding officer with a firm handshake and a promise that money would follow when the last existing vehicles found new homes. Now, he was left with nothing but the relic of a pawn shop fiddle, a token of better days. He returned the instrument to the old Korean man, who was less than friendly, still smarting from the failed romance between his granddaughter and Johnny. He offered a few dollars, which was silently rebuked. Confident that his father had cared for his prized violin, it would be waiting for the bow’s stroke across the strings.
Johnny made his rounds to bid farewell. The Royal Hawaiian staff had treated him kindly despite his being a Haole. The folks at the Pearl City News and the companions of his musical venture each received a heartfelt goodbye.
On his last night in paradise, Johnny dined alone. Over the years, The Brass Monkey Tavern and its delicious seafood had comforted him. Pika, the native Hawaiian bartender, produced a special bottle from the top shelf. Tonight, there would be no cheap hooch for his valued Haole friend.
The bitterness of his embattled relationship with his mother touched every part of his soul. He knew full well that forgiveness, if it ever came, would be a long, winding road marred by the shadows of contrived intent. Knowing that his father was faltering added to his haste in his departure.
The troop ship to California was packed with weary yet hopeful servicemen returning from their duties. A loud hum of excitement hung thick in the air. For many, it was a moment to rekindle the flame of old lives or to carve out new paths. Yet Johnny was lost to his sadness and felt no thrill. His thoughts drifted to Blind Jelly Roll, Sister Aimee, and Le Petite Fromage, now back in Chigger Bayou. Their presence in his life had brought him great joy. He felt obliged to give them one final visit, knowing it would be the last in his lifetime.
Blind Jelly Roll, aware that his days were numbered, was grateful for the visit. His humor was intact, and he asked Johnny if he would like to ride in his new sedan, touting that his driving skills had improved since their last visit. Pancho Villa, the tiny demon dog, had only taken a soft nip on Johnny’s hand, but his lack of front teeth made the nip more of a gumming affair. Sister Aimee, angelic as ever, had transformed into a maternal figure for Jelly and promised Johnny that the old bluesman would find a nurturing and loving home until his final hour. Even that cantankerous dog would be cared for. Johnny saw something in her eyes; the looks she cast on the old man were more than motherly; he detected an inner fire that fueled her commitment. Farewells were exchanged. There were strong hugs, a few tears, and some laughs. The final, out-the-door goodbye was punctuated by promises to write.
That evening, Johnny boarded the Super Chief bound for Chicago, with a stop in Fort Worth. The journey would take three days and arrive in the morning light. He kept his arrival a secret from his family, anticipating the thrill of surprise. He sat cradling a cup of coffee on a wooden bench in the train station. He had gotten it from the diner. The lady behind the counter, dressed in a waitress uniform, reminded him of his sister. He missed Norma and was troubled by her not writing in almost two years. He knew something was wrong and would make it all right today. The night stretched long. He had come to find peace in books. He thought of Thomas Wolfe’s words, “You can’t go home again.” But could he? Would he be met by a marble angel on the porch or find only a locked door at the end of his journey?
I was in Walmart a few days ago. The Christmas season is the best time to observe humanity at its finest and lowest and street-rat-crazy humans.
All the usual suspects were there. People dressed in bathrobes, onesie pajamas, and rabbit-eared bedroom slippers. One lady squeezed herself into an Elf costume four or five sizes too small. Her husband looked like Edger Alan Poe; all that was missing was the stuffed Raven on his shoulder. Another old lady had her grocery basket full of Mountain Dew and Pork Rinds, which is considered a food group in Appalachia and now in Granbury, Texas. Two little girls absconded bicycles from the toy department and were speeding down the isles terrorizing shoppers: their mother watched with an adoring smile as her little angels wreaked havoc: they likely received a small trophy when they got home. A crazed woman was ripping into the poor Pharmacist because he wouldn’t fill her prescription for Oxycodone; she clearly needed her medication; pulling her hair out in fistfuls didn’t help her cause.
One family, mom, pop, and the three kids pushed baskets with a flat-screen television for each member. What is the fascination with large televisions? Are we the only society that is addicted to electronics? The kids looked undernourished but had to have that TV instead of healthy food.
A lady and her young daughter, maybe five, passed by. They were both on their cell phones. Mama was engrossed in a personal conversation that should have been private, and the little girl was jabbering into her pink Barbie smartphone. I assumed the kid on the other end was about the same age since I couldn’t understand her words. Five-year-olds appear to have a unique language used to communicate with other children. When did giving a child barely out of diapers a smartphone become acceptable? As the song says, ” Only In America.”
Exiting the store, I looked for the Salvation Army and their red kettle. None to be found. The greeter lady said they should be showing up any day. I have childhood memories of my mother dropping change into that kettle as the kindly lady stood ringing her bell. In some years, it was a quarter; in better years, it might have been a dollar. She always had a change in her coin purse to help the less fortunate. I’ve continued that tradition every year of my adult life, stuffing a few dollars into that slot and hearing a “Merry Christmas and God bless you.” That’s when I knew it was Christmas time.
A friend of mine in the blogverse is a music historian. Max Gower has a blog on WordPress called PowerPop An Eclectic Collection of Pop Culture. Max and me have been trading emails and post for over two years and I greatly enjoy his side trips into the 60s music scene covering bands that maybe weren’t all that well known. Max has been writing about Texas rock music for a while now and found a few old interviews I gave many moons ago. I appreciate the shout out and hope you all enjoy his post as much as I do. Thanks again, Max.
A few weeks ago I posted about Mouse and the Traps, a Texas band formed in the 1960s. I thought my fellow blogger friend Phil from Notes from the Cactus Patch may have known them. He did…. so I thought…I would like to write about Phil’s 1960s band. I first heard of Phil from Hanspostcard… he sent me THIS link to Phil’s post about meeting John Sebastian in Texas in the sixties along with the other Lovin Spoonful. He also briefly met Janis Joplin when she cut the food line at the Texas International Pop Festival. ” I survived one-hundred-degree temperatures for three days and got to meet Janis Joplin one late night when this nice gal with a Texas twang asked me if she could cut in line as I was waiting to buy a hot dog. It took a minute for me to realize it was her, but I was cool; it was the sixties, man. That night, ole Janis “took a little piece of my heart, now baby.”
I’m get most of the info from this post. I urge you to read that because he tells a more complete story. Phil’s Dad, Johnny Strawn played with the Light Crust Doughboys so Phil was surrounded by music when he grew up. He went through a few bands on the way. He formed his first band in 1964 and they were called The Dolphins and in late 65 they became The Orphans. The Orphans lasted until 1967 and the members were Johnny Strawn, vocals and lead guitar – Jarry Davis, vocals and rhythm guitar- Danny Goode, lead vocals and bass – Marshall Sartain, vocals and keyboards- Barry Corbett, drums and vocals.
The music they played was all over the place and everything that kept people on the dance floor. The music they played was Soul Music, Beatles, Bee Gees, Rascals, Hendrix, Doors, Steppenwolf, Cream, Stones, Vanilla Fudge, and Jefferson Airplane. They played all over Texas and parts of Oklahoma…and some of the clubs he mentioned were The Studio Club, LuAnn’s, Strawberry Fields, Phantasmagoria, The Cellar, The Box, and more. This was when three of the band were still in high school.
Phil Strawn: We used to do a lot of double bills at The Studio Club and LuAnn’s; that was a big thing back then. I remember playing a lot of them with Southwest F.O.B. We were playing at LuAnn’s one weekend when during the Jimi Hendrix song Fire, our drummer put lighter fluid on his cymbals, lit his drum sticks, then hit the cymbals and ignited them. It got a little out of hand and it burned up his drums. That kind of stuff wouldn’t fly nowadays, but back then, we didn’t think of the repercussions. The crowd loved it, sort of like The Who, only with real fire and smoke. Miss Lou Ann was not pleased and banned us from the club for about six months. We eventually worked our way back into her good graces. Ron Chapman the famous DJ on KLIF and KVIL remembered us as the band that nearly burned down LuAnn’s. Some legacy.
They met a guy named Mark Lee who became their manager. After they signed with him their gigs increased. They even opened up for Iron Butterfly at a place called Strawberry Fields. The Orphans committed a cardinal sin by learning an Iron Butterfly song called Possession and nailed it while opening for Iron Butterfly. Lee put them up to it because he knew it would get under Iron Butterfly’s skin…and it did! They ended up swiping Phil’s Vox Wah Wah pedal and a velvet Nehru suit from their drummer.
In 1968 they had to change their name. The drummer, Barry Corbett, had a friend, Jerry Deaton who wanted to manage them but they were happy with Mark Lee. The guy went out and had “The Orphans” copyrighted and told the band he would sue them if they continued so they changed their name. Phil said: “We liked ATNT {Alice talks “n” talks} and Jerry’s mother was the inspiration for that name. Later, we found out that he had managed another band called the Orphans for a while, so that was the reason for all the drama. He copyrighted the name so we had to change.”
Check out this 1968 Flower Fair entertainment. ATNT played and look at the other artists as well. Spencer Davis, Jimmy Reed, Mitch Ryder, The Lemon Pipers, and Neil Diamond. The Doors were going to play but they had scheduling conflicts.
In 1966 they recorded a song that Phil wrote called “Leader of My Mind” which was a Byrds-type song with harmonica but no one can find any copies. In 1968 they recorded two songs called “No One Told Me About Her” with the flipside Cobblestone Street.
They also did a couple of appearances on Mark Stevens TV Show which they lipsynced to their songs. Phil quit in the late sixties because of a disagreement with the rhythm guitar player. He had to make a choice and his final exams were coming up and Phil decided to study rather than just practice with the band.
After that, Phil said he didn’t play much until around 1974 when he started to play in the progressive country music scene in Austin and Dallas. I played with various people around town and some in south Texas and did some pick-up and studio work. I joined the Trinity River Band in late ’79 and played with them until ’85. I also played with The Light Crust Doughboys from time to time and did some studio work on the five-string banjo. I was fortunate to play on the Light Crust Doughboys album, ” One Hundred-Fifty Years of Texas Music.”
Phil Strawn: The A side is “Cobblestone Street,” written and sung by myself and our drummer Barry Corbett. The B side is ” No One Told Me About Her,” written and sung by our lead singer and bass player, Danny Goode. The two producers, Marvin Montgomery and Artie Glenn, suggested we add horns to get a Chicago Transit Authority sound. Before the brass was added, Cobblestone Street was loud and raw with loud guitars and organs. After adding the horns, we returned to the studio and tweaked the cuts. I purposely untuned my Gibson 335 a bit to give the guitar break a bit of an out-of-tune carnival sound. Marvin, who went by the name of Smokey, was a member of the Light Crust Doughboys since the 1930s and played with Bob Wills. He produced Paul and Paula and Delbert McClinton. Artie Glenn wrote the famous Elvis hit “Crying In The Chapel” and many others; he was also a Light Crust Doughboy western swing musician. These two men were top-shelf record producers, so we listened when they suggested
Phil Strawn: It was absolutely the best time of my life. How could you not enjoy being a teenager in the ’60s and playing in a popular rock band? The people we met and played with, the experience that we will all carry with us the rest of our lives. It was just a part of life that helped shape us into what we are now – being part of that change in our country, that decade. It was a time of turmoil, but it was also the last year of the innocence we grew up with. Teenagers these days are so hardened. The music then was happy and said a lot. It would move you, whether you played it or danced to it. The music now has a meaner, harder edge, and reflects the times we live in.
Phil Strawn: I am a project manager in commercial construction, and do a lot of painting and artwork – mostly Texas art. After 35 years, Danny Goode, who I played with in ATNT and the Orphans, called me and asked me to be part of their group, The American Classics. I joined them about two years ago and that’s what we do nowadays. The band consists of Danny Goode, bass and lead vocals; John Payne, lead guitar and keyboards; Jordan Welch, drums; and me on rhythm guitar and vocals. We play about once a month or so around Dallas Fort Worth, mostly private parties. We recently played in Deep Ellum, and will probably be back down there soon. We stick to mostly ’60s music – it’s what we know well. It’s good to still be playing rock music at this age. You really never outgrow it.
I love the horns in this song but I would also love to hear what it sounded like with loud guitars as well.
Carl Benson, Jr.says:What a ‘bill’ that was! I would’ve gone to see Mitch Ryder & his band & Neil Diamond.Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:It does sound like a great one. That was the time to grow up for music…LikeReply
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Ya’, I was 4 years old then or going on 4 but I have always loved that era of ‘Pop’ music. I love that debate on what decade was the best & the 60’s are up there…I think the 80’s myself, but I’m biased lol.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I was weird Carl…I grew up in the 80s….turned 13 in 1980…I didn’t like the synth stuff and the fake drums….they still drive me up the wall… I was mostly listening to the 60s during the 80s….Now…thats not to say that I don’t like many songs from the 80s….I liked the Heartland Rockers like Mellencamp, Springsteen, Petty, and others…along with The Replacements, REM and Prince….in other words…bands and artists with guitars!Liked by 1 person
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Awesome…I think that I mentioned before that when I was a kid my Dad was in the music business when after we moved to Ft. Wayne in ’67 & my little brother was born later in that year. Both of my parents were college graduates from ’63 & ’64 so they were hip parents. They put a radio & a television in my brother & I’s room (bunk beds) so we could chose what we wanted to watch & hear. He had a television show on what became the PBS station which was a 1-hour music show (R&B) & he & a fraternity brother owned a nightclub & were managing groups. So I got to hear a lot of R&B as a young kid & meet some of those folks who did his show. But, I always had an earl for ‘Pop’ music & when we moved to Idaho in ’74 my buddies were into the other side of ‘Pop’ & of course guitar based ‘Rock & Roll’. I graduated from high school in ’82 & had been listening to a lot of 60’s music (& funk) my jr. & sr. years & then I got the bug for synthetic dance ‘New Wave’ music. Thompson Twins, The Human League, The Talking Heads, The Tom Tom Club, The B-52’s etc., I was always a ‘Minneapolis Sound’ dude. I always heard from my musician friends that they hated ‘Tech’ back then with the electronic drums & stuff & I can appreciate that Max. I generally loved the ‘Moog’ sound then…I was into dancing back then.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:See I liked The Talking Heads and The B-52s…so there were a few I liked…yea the Minnesota sound was huge…Prince, The Replacements and others came out of there. Also Carl…it’s normal for teens to like the era they grow up in….so like I said…I was wierd…I liked the timeless sound. You grew up in the perfect time Carl! You got to experience the best of the 60s – 80s in real time! Plus your parents sound great dude.Liked by 1 person
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Ya’, I remember that they had ‘hippie’ friends that were white folks before we moved to Idaho when I was 10 in ’74. My little brother & I had an unusual childhood for a couple of black kids in our era Max. That’s why my musical tastes are so eclectic Max.Liked by 2 people
Badfinger (Max)says:And that is a great thing Carl! I think it’s rewarding to be eclectic.Liked by 2 people
newepicauthorsays:One of your longer posts Max and I thought it was interesting learning about this obscure group.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yes I usually don’t go this long but Phil was in some interesting spots and bands. He knew a lot of those Texas bands that did have some hits…plus I was in one of those local bands two decades later…heck…may do mine one day!Liked by 1 personReply
glyn40wiltonsays:Light Crust Doughboys was a great name for a band. I liked the list of the groups they played songs of in their set.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Thanks Glyn…they were a country band legend.Liked by 1 personReply
Davesays:Great post Max! It’s so cool that one of our online friends has such a great musical history. I’ve heard that ‘Cobblestone Street’ before…it’s very ’60s but very agreeable. Sounds very British Invasion to me, I wouldn’t have pegged it as being from Texas. Phil makes a good point about how rock, and teens, then were so much more optimistic than nowadays. Phil, good job and if you have the b-side, hope you let us hear it!Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:I loved when they opened for Iron Butterfly and then played one of their songs! LOL. That takes guts and I’m glad they did it.LikeReply
obbversesays:Agree with all you say here Dave. And I really do believe for a lot of the kids teen years (these days) are more a journey of joy and learning than a rite of passage.Liked by 1 personReply
obbversesays:Sorry Dave, less joy, more passage! Doh! (Note to self; Proof read, O.)Liked by 1 personReply
randydafoesays:Well I knew a bit of Phil’s musical past and this post is a great enhancement. I agree with Dave on that British Invasion sound for sure.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:I played 2 decades later but I can relate to this…I mean every successful band usually starts out like this…sometimes it just works out but most of the time it doesn’t as far as the big time….but it keeps music alive in communities across the globe with local bands….yes it’s very sixties.Liked by 1 personReply
randydafoesays:Yes I am sure this is very close to home for you. I probably mentioned by oldest brother is a bass player and while he did play with some recording artists he never ended up on one himself. He has played in bands for over 50 years and still does, but he does it for himself, because he loves it. So these stories are in some ways a vicarious look that scene.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I tell people…once you learn music you keep it for the rest of your life. You don’t have to be famous…but no one can take it away from you. The only recording artist I played on the same bill with? The Royal Guardsman in the late 80s early 90s…lol…but hey it still counts! Our claim to fame was outdrawing Richard Sterban (singer for the Oak Ridge Boys) at a theater….we played a week later….lol.Liked by 2 people
obbversesays:Max mentioning the Royal Guardsmen- Christmas and ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’ must be on the horizon!Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:It’s gotta be! I never thought of posting that one…but I must now.Liked by 1 person
obbversesays:Love these ‘I was there’ bits of history. Phil sure got around, and what a great decade to grow up in. And as for Phil- letting Janis grab what should have been his hot dog, rubbing shoulders with John S, rubbing Mike Love the wrong way- great stories.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yes they are… I can’t imagine meeting those people especially Janis…he said she was really tiny in person… Opening up for Iron Butterfly…pretty cool and having your wah wah pedal stolen by their crew…not cool!Liked by 1 personReply
obbversesays:Well, with Iron Butterfly, they weren’t exactly your easy-going peace love and pass the reefer 60s band, or so I’d imagine, going by their sound. (PS, I’ll be mentioning ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’ in an upcoming musically related post soon. Music and Christmas carols based? Yes. Harmonious and in the best spirit of Christmas? Nooooo.)Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:Cool… I will soon echo Snoopy… I would not expect any other from you…I would be quite dissapointed if you showed too much cheer…obbverse sellout? Never.Liked by 1 person
cincinnatibabyheadsays:I’ll echo Dave and say “Great post”. Phil covers a lot of territory (He’s from Texas. Makes sense). I’m sure I could spend an evening hanging with Phil and be entertained on a lot of levels. Lots I like, his sense of humor not the least. Enjoying the listen. Blue ribbon post Max and PhilLiked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Thanks CB…it’s much longer than I wanted but to get everything in it had to be. Hanging out with Phil for a while would be really cool.Liked by 1 personReply
Christian’s Music Musingssays:It sounds like Phil Strawn has met many interesting artists and has some intriguing stories to tell. “The Cobblestone Stone Street” is a great song. Perhaps not surprisingly, I had never heard of A.T.N.T. before.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yea…Phil has some great stories… his story about meeting the Lovin Spoonful is great…and opening up for Iron Butterfly was really cool as well.Liked by 1 personReply
Phil Strawnsays:Max, thank you for the great write up and kind words. It does my old heart good to hear from so many of your followers that dig the 60s sound. I happened to be in the right place at that time and it all fell into place. My friend, Danny Goode who I played with back in the 60s and again in the 2000s lives in Granbury too. We hung up the axes in 2019 after a 19-year run with The American Classics Band, doing much of the same music we played back in “the day.” Thanks again, Max.Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Phil, I just hope I got it mostly right for you. I want to thank you for letting me do it. I had a good time writing it. We might not have been in huge bands that had a lot of hits, but we entertained a lot of people and that is what matters plus the the adventures we got out of it. Thanks again, Phil.Liked by you and 1 other personReply
Phil Strawnsays:You are welcome kind sir. We all have to admit that after doing live shows for a while, it brings out the hambone in all of us. I can’t recall a time that I was nervous onstage except the time my Fender amp blew a fuse and I didn’t have a spare, now that was scary.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I wasn’t nervous either except for my first gig but it went away quickly. THAT would be scary. Our lead guitar player’s amp went out so I plugged him into mine and we shared…not a great sound…but the show went on.Like
Nancy Homlitassays:Your music bio of Phil Strawn was a thoroughly enjoyable read, Max. Of course, I’m partial to 60’s music and can appreciate how good “Cobblestone Street” is compared to other songs in that genre. You did a good job making Phil appear to be a focused and serious musician. We both know he’s a crazy fun-loving hoot! 🙂LikeReply
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Foreword: Usually by anotherwriter or friend. Excuse the breaking of tradition. These chapters reveal my struggle with the truths of my family. As a child and later as an adult, I saw the darkness of alcoholism and how it grips every soul within a household. I wished for families like those in a Norman Rockwell painting, gathered at the table with Grandfather carving the turkey, but life shattered that image. AA was just beginning to rise, and the word “enabler” had not yet marked the shadow of alcoholism. Bleeding in a public arena is not pretty.
The island of Hawaii held its charm, still untouched by the war. A year after the conflict with Japan, a few tourists arrived by boat, drawn to its beaches and emerald water. The men and women in uniform returned home, demobilized from the military. Johnny chose differently. He stayed, nurturing the holdings he had acquired over two years. Luck had favored him; he owned land in downtown Honolulu, not the best area, but one that would grow over the years and be worth hundreds of times what he paid. California held no interest, Texas even less. He would again be under the veil of his mother’s demands and secrets. The more time away he had, the more he saw that the extended family of her sisters and cousins was more toxic than nurturing. The arrangement with the old Korean had soured; there would be no marriage to his granddaughter, a relief to Johnny. He would take his chances to either flourish or fail in Hawaii.
Near the end of his first year after leaving the Navy, once again, the missives from home arrived almost daily. They were often the same—repetitive and sharp. Nothing had changed; Sister Aimee’s cures were lost like smoke in the wind. His father did not write, making Johnny feel like he was not there or had no strength to fight. The family had returned to Fort Worth. He now knew that something dire had transpired.
A letter from his sister Norma came with bad news. His beloved dog, Lady, had passed peacefully in her sleep at the age of eighteen. John Henry was not doing well; a depression had set upon him soon after they returned to Texas from California. His leaving a prestigious job and salary and returning to the furniture shop, working for a pittance of his former wage, caused him great stress. He would go days without speaking to anyone, lost in his sadness, reluctantly accepting the fact that he was now an older man and he had left his best life out west. PTSD was not yet diagnosed, but his behavior had all the signs of the illness. Killing another human, even in the ugliness of war, will take a piece of a man, leaving him un-whole and susceptible to the whispers of the Demons that await. John Henry had many to fight.
Johnny’s mother had become a mean, spiteful woman full of hatred for anyone other than her precious sisters in arms; they were all swimming in alcohol for the better part of each day. The reality of life was a concept they didn’t grasp; the party came first, and to hell with the rest of it.
Norma was planning to leave and join her brother in Hawaii but was reluctant to leave their father in his fragile state. Guilt washed over Johnny for not being there for his dog, Lady; she had been his faithful companion for his entire life. He was ashamed that he was more broken up over her death than the tribulations of his parents; they were adults who occupied their own prison. They could deal with it themselves. He wanted nothing to do with any part of their perils. Still, the missives came daily, now more frantic and cruel than ever. He was teetering, trying to stay positive and not give in to the dark web woven by his mother’s disease. It was impossible to fight. In anguish, he gave into her cruelty, hating himself for his weakness. Arriving in Hawaii, a boy, then becoming his own man, now again, a boy dragged across the Pacific Ocean by a three thousand-mile umbilical cord.
My father, Harold Johnny Strawn, Pearl Harbor 1942. When war comes and our country is set upon, young men and women will sacrifice themselves to stop evil.
I came into this world in 1949, a mere flicker of life amidst the portal to the West, Fort Worth. The good nuns who ran the hospital, those stern guardians of order, chose an unconventional method to usher me into my first cries, with a 12-inch wooden ruler upon my fragile backside rather than the customary spank from a soft hand. From that day forward, I held a quiet disdain for nuns, a sentiment my mother echoed with an understanding heart. I emerged into stark confusion—bright lights glaring above, towering figures in black robes scuttling about. A tiny stranger in a bewildering land devoid of any plan, I only wanted to know what the hell just happened and where I was.
I was a happy kid, or so I’m told. My routine was breakfast, playing until lunch, eating a baloney sandwich, washing it down with Kool-Aid, playing some more, eating fresh-baked cookies from Mrs. Mister’s kitchen, watching afternoon cartoons, taking a bath after supper, and going lights out—pretty mundane stuff.
My family rallied behind Roosevelt in the 1930s, their hearts giddy with hope for a better tomorrow. They believed with every fiber of their being that Franklin Delano Roosevelt pulled this nation from the dark abyss of despair during the Great Depression, and perhaps he did in many ways. Pushing the buttons that led the country into World War Two with the Nazis and giving the checkered flag to spank the Japs. The Works Progress Administration sprang forth from his dream, and thousands of men and women found temporary refuge in constructing parks and carving streets in Fort Worth; each brick laid a testament to earning a paycheck. My father had a lovely singing voice, so he filled our home with a constant tempest of musical disdain aimed at Dwight Eisenhower from the first light of dawn until the sun sank low and I was fast under my covers. Eisenhower was a gentle figure, a soft old soul cradling a golf club like a weary king holding his lost crown tightly. Later in life, when I took to the sport, I learned he was a 3 handicapped and was a certified bad-ass who commanded our troops on D-Day.
I was too young to grasp the significance then, but amidst the familiar shouts and wailing, I began carving my political identity. To belong to this raucous, somewhat heathen brood, I learned to hurl adult insults at Eisenhower and shake my tiny fist in solidarity with my kin. It is a truth held dear — a family that goes full bore batshit crazy together stays together. We were a close-knit brood, vowing to all enter the mental hospital together if need be to prop up the sickest of the clan. My father was the first. Politics and his alcoholic mother got the better of his mind, and he was tied down and shocked like Ready Killowwat. He came out of the procedure a Republican, which caused his extended family to shrink back in disgust and horror. The doctors had taken a witty lunatic Democrat and turned him into a pipe-smoking, tweed-jacketed professor of Ryan Street. His demeanor hadn’t changed much, but the burn marks on his temples never faded. I viewed him as a now sophisticated Frankenfather.
Thanks to my electrically converted Pop, I eventually forgot about old Dwight. I learned to read and write and took to my Big Cheif Tablet, hoping to make a mark, or at least a permanent stain, on this planet. Politics went by the wayside, and I lost interest in gnashing, wailing, and blaming fault. I was becoming a writer thanks to my favorite aunt, Norma, who diligently taught me to read and write before entering first grade. I was a bored child prone to fidgeting while daydreaming about Mark Twain and Micky Spillane while sitting at my tiny desk. I had no interest in the little people around me, uneducated booger eating feral children with no purpose.
When John Kennedy was elected president in 1961, I began reading Life Magazine, my mother’s favorite slick-paged rag. He was a nice-looking fellow with an elegant wife. My mother and her friends went limp, noodle-wobbly-legged when discussing Mr. and Mrs. Camalot. I didn’t get it until the Cuban missile crisis came about. He was willing to risk the population of America just to give Castro and Krushev a butt-whooping and the middle finger; “here Jackie, Hold my 80-year-old Scotch and soda and watch this shit”. JFK had some big ones, as attested by Marylin Monroe. All of us school kids knew we were about to be ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Teachers stepped up the nuclear drills, and we spent the better part of each school day hiding under our desks. Why? If the bomb incinerated our school building, then our tiny desk wasn’t going to protect us. That’s when I realized teachers were as stupid as the rest of us Neanderthal knuckle-dragging children.
When the lovely gentleman with the perfect hair took a headshot in downtown Dallas, Texas, I was like most of my kin and friends. We all felt terrible and mourned for a few days, but then it was “back to the basics of life;” Luckenbach, Texas, didn’t exist then, so we made do with Fort Worth.
My cousins and I were heavily into Brother Dave Gardner, the preacher turned comic. His albums were a bulging bag of witty, logical, and borderline racist comedy. America hadn’t learned quite yet to be so easily offended. Brother Dave’s favorite targets were Lyndon Baines Johnson and James Lewis, a fictional black character from the Deep South. LBJ was perhaps the most excellent Politicasterd crook in history, and by damn, he just had to be from the great state of Texas. We agreed; the lumbering goon from the hill country was as slimy as they come.
Around 1965, I began to form my own political beliefs. I was neither a lib nor a conservative, But a white flag on a long stick, wafting in the breeze. Heavily into surfing and playing rock music on my cheap Japanese guitar, I began to listen to the Beatles. I was told that some songs held mysterious political messages. When Sargent Pepper‘s Lonely Hearts Club Band debuted, My bandmates and I recorded the album on a Reel Reel tape machine and played it backward. After that, I was sure the four lads from Liverpool had been sent by Beelzebub to corrupt our nation’s youth. That’s around the same time our drummer, Little Spector, bought into the Hindu religion and found solace in Ravi Shankar and his melodious Sitar. It seemed I was the only one in the band with enough political knowledge to hold a riveting conversation with an adult.
The 1960s found me non-committal to a political party. The long hair and playing in a band were my disguise. Most of my friends and bandmates were in the bag for the liberal side of life; I was a relic, an uncommitted poof in the wind, although I dug Robert Kennedy and was just getting into his mantra when he followed his older brother to the Spirit In the Sky. Now, there was no choice, but “Little Richard” Nixon and his “Five O’clock World” beard shadow and sweaty upper lip creeped me out.
In 1976, I took a direct hit to the head from the mast while sailing my Hobie Cat 16-foot catamaran sailboat in the Gulf of Mexico off the island of Port Aransas. I was sailing by myself, which is not recommended, and was jibing downwind, which is also a no-no, when the mast caught the wind and reversed position, knocking me off the boat. I was wearing a diaper rig attached to the main mast, and that saved my life. What I do remember after the initial shock from that experience was that, like my father and his electrical conversion, I was now a Republican and have been ever since. I wonder if there is voting in Heaven?
After two months in Hawaii, homesickness crept in. Johnny missed his music and his string band, Blind Faith. His prized fiddle stayed behind, locked away in the hall closet. His father assured him that it would be well cared for.
Norma, his sister, wrote each week; her letters were either sharp with bitterness, primarily toward their mother, or filled with hilarity about life at home. His dog, Lady, lingered in his thoughts, her absence a weight; she is old and might not be alive when he returns.
Once again, in the clutch of her elixirs and perhaps something more potent, his mother continued her assault by missives. Johnny read a few, sensing something wrong. She sounded unsteady, lost. Her words were jagged, and he promised himself no more. He would not carry the burden of the guilt she heaped upon him. Her pen was poison.
A music store sold him a fiddle for ten dollars. The owner was an old Korean man who made a few adjustments, adding new strings and setting the bridge and sound post just right. It did not sound as sweet as his own, but now he had a fiddle, giving him a spring in his step. He needed musicians. His commanding officer, walking by the barrack, heard Johnny practicing. Whenever he had spare time, he sat on a wooden crate under the shade of a Koa tree behind the barracks, entertaining the birds perched in the tree. The officer from the South Texas town of Corpus Christi offered to connect him with musicians he knew. True to his word, two sailors came to Johnny’s Quonset Hut the next day. One was a guitar player named Jerry Elliot, a fellow Texan, and the other was Buzz Burnam, who played the doghouse bass fiddle. Buzz, a Western Swing musician from Albuquerque, knew a few other musicians who might be interested in jamming. They set a practice day and time to meet under the Koa tree. Johnny’s homesickness eased a bit.
A letter from Le’Petite Fromage gave Johnny another lift. She and her husband, Montrose, the trumpet player from Sister Aimee’s orchestra, had a baby child named Savon, an old Cajun family name. They planned to stay in Chigger Bayou, and she would sing in her father’s band if and when he returned from California. Her mother, Big Mamu, said life was better without him underfoot. She had told Johnny many times that girls in the Bayou are expected to be married with a child on each hip by the age of eighteen. Tradition got the best of her. Blind Faith was finished. It was a good run while it lasted.
Sunday was a day for rest, even amid the chaos of war. The sailors moved through the day with light duty on the Sabbath, their shoulders eased, and their spirits lifted after a good dose of religion found in the island’s many churches. After lunch, the two musicians arrived, bringing two more as promised, one bearing a saxophone, the other a snare drum with one cymbal. They played, and the music flowed—Western swing, big band, island tunes. It went on for hours. They were asked to play at the Officers Club in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel a few days later. The pay was meager, but they were musicians, and they knew the worth of their work was in the joy it brought, not the currency it earned.
A letter came from Sister Aimee McPherson. It told Johnny about Blind Jelly Roll. He had been hit by a car. The new seeing-eye dog, following barking directions from the nearly blind Pancho Villa, led them across a busy street. They walked straight into the path of a vehicle. Everyone survived, but Blind Jelly Roll broke his left arm. His hand was crushed under the tires. It seemed unlikely he would ever play the blues again. She would keep him on as the music director and spiritual advisor. She loved that old black man and his ill-tempered Chihuahua deeply.
Sometimes, good luck strikes like lightning hitting the same ground. Johnny felt it. His C.O. asked him to help with the weekly base paper. This led him to work at the Pearl City News when off duty. He became the leading writer. Two sailors he knew were on staff, too. The pay was little, but he saved every cent until he had a decent stack of bills. He rented a lot in downtown. Then, he bought two used cars from an officer. They sat there for sale. The drugstore next door took names for those who inquired, and Johnny made appointments to sell. Two cars turned to three, then five, then ten. Two young Hawaiian boys washed them twice a week. Johnny sat beneath a small canopy that served as his office. He sold cars, saved money, bought more, and eventually acquired the lot and four more on that block. In a year, he owned a few small buildings and all remaining vacant lots—almost an entire city block in east downtown Honolulu. After his Navy discharge, he rented a room in a house owned by the old Korean man who owned the music store. He was taken aback when he met the man’s young granddaughter, who was the same age as him. They both sported arrows in their backs, shot by the mythical fairy, Cupid. Returning to Los Angeles was now out of the question.
Author
Notes From The Cactus Patch 