I’ve recently sprouted a beard, and much to my surprise, not a single dark hair dares to intrude upon my snowy facial wilderness: the scruffy testament to my frothy mirth matches the proud hue atop my head, a delicate white crown. As a son of Cherokee lineage, I stood astonished, finding myself transforming into an old man with pearly locks in my forties. This change, I suspect, is the handiwork of my father’s Scotch-Irish heritage—a rowdy clan of kilted revelers who seemed to navigate life with laughter and a touch of mischief. They must have commandeered a ship, setting sail for New York, then onto Pennsylvania, where the merry-making reached promising heights. My grandfather would neither confirm nor deny the wild tales of our kin. This speaks volumes about my love for Irish Whiskey, while the Cherokee blood in my veins draws me to large, sharp knives. Hand a drink to an Indian, and trouble isn’t far behind. History whispers of how Little Bighorn ended for Custer. Loose chatter suggests that Sitting Bull and Howling Wolf snagged a wagon load of drink the night before the fray, bestowing upon the braves a reckless spirit. Had they chosen an early night with a hearty breakfast of Buffalo tacos, perhaps the bloody disaster would have been averted.
As a boy of nine, I dreamt of writing like Twain. In my innocence, I thought I was his spirit reborn, dropped into a different time: September of 1949, the last year of the baby boomer generation. With a Big Chief Tablet and a number 2 pencil, I set out to capture the simple chaos of childhood mischief. There were four of us, bold and reckless, stealing cigarettes, hurling water balloons at police cars, and fighting with the tough kids across the tracks. The local papers laughed at my tales as if a child’s imagination could not hold weight. My aunt, wise and educated, introduced me to Spillane and Steinbeck. Spillane turned me into a wise-ass, insufferable child, resulting in numerous mouth cleansings with Lifeboy soap. Steinbeck felt right—my family had lived a life like Tom Joad’s, migrating to California during hard times of the Dust Bowl and the 1930s. I had stories in me, maybe even a book. A therapist dismissed it as a childish fantasy, saying it would fade. Yet here I am, much older, still tethered to that innocence. Now, I’m in my Hemingway phase, my looks echoing the rugged man who lived wild in Cuba, writing furiously while embracing the chaos of life.
There is more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top. I feel the end approaching. I do not wish to know the day or hour. I can only pray it is a good one, resulting in a trip to Heaven, which is better than the alternative. I am not the writer Twain, Steinbeck, or Hemingway was. They had talent, and they had time from youth to hone their craft and find their voices. Yet, I will still give it a try.
This is an oldie but a goody. If any of you knew who Brother Dave Garner was, you’d appreciate my bringing him back for an earthly bow.
This morning, I shuffled into the kitchen at 4 am, chastising myself for not getting enough sleep, which I will pay later in the day. I figure a nap will take me down around noon. But, when my country and our laws are under assault from evil men, I take it seriously, even though there is little I can do except pray for divine intervention or a selective lightning bolt from Heaven. My dreams were filled with political discourse, and sleep was fitful at best. I awakened sweaty and fearful of what lay ahead. “Our ship is foundering in seas of discontent, and the ominous rocks are within sight. The sails are in tatters, our rigging is failing, and we are destined to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of an unknown land.” I paraphrase that description; it came from someone important, maybe Mark Twain or Confusious.
Last night, Mrs. MoMo and I watched the final seasonal episode of “The Chosen,” the story of Jesus and his disciples. The program is filmed in North Texas and Montana, and the cast is exceptional as well, as the writing takes the scripture and uses it as real folks would have heard and spoken it in those times, making it realistic and not words printed in the Holy Bible. We are fans. It’s as if I am attending a church service without the peripheral distractions of bad music and wailing children. I assure MoMo that I am not a heathen knuckle-dragging Neanderthal chewing on a Brontisaures leg bone, but a bonafide Christian who seeks Biblical truths and inspirations differently. She understands.
I spent too many hours on the hard wooden pulpits the Baptists prefer to be anything else. I knew that just below my pew, Hell awaited, and raging demons could pull me down through the wooden floorboards by my small legs if I faltered in faith. I equated faith with fear. Folks today are not fearful of God. Doing good deeds is commendable, but they won’t buy you a stairway to Heaven. Maybe Led Zepplin was onto something?
My zealous preacher, resembling a frothing-mouthed Bulldog pacing the stage, arms waving, and holding a large silver microphone to his dripping lips, advanced the service to a dramatic interpretation featuring hysterical heights that made the congregation swoon with the vapors. He reminded me of Brother Dave Gardner, the preacher turned comedian. I heard a few soft chuckles from my father occasionally; he was a fan of Brother Dave. Lofty condemnations, browbeating, and blanket accusations kept the flock in line; Amens were as plentiful as the women’s Beehive hair du’s, and the basket, when passed, was always overflowing with dollar bills and personal bank checks. I proudly gave my dime, which my mother pressed into my hand at the last moment. I was a kid and had no currency of my own to tithe. The little money I got from selling soda pop bottles went to candy bars, comic books, and Dr Peppers, the staples of child sustenance. Those unsettling experiences are burned into my conscience and come to me in dreams when I least expect them. Perhaps our country needs some of that “old-time religion” to scare the hell out of us.
My grandfather, John Henry, possessed a mastery of storytelling that filled the room with warmth. When the rain beat against the windowpanes, or the ice or snow kept me inside, I’d perch myself on the floor near his rocking chair, mesmerized by the tales of his youth in rural Texas, his days as a soldier in the US Army, and the harrowing battles in France. With each word, he painted vivid scenes of the struggle and resilience of his family during the tumultuous depression years in 1930s California. Pausing only to adjust his fiddle, John Henry would then draw the bow across the strings, filling the room with a lively jig that seemed to echo the resilience and spirit of those days and family members long ago passed on. When my grandfather passed, my father, as any good son would do, took the helm, recounting those years in California and beyond. A few drinks of good scotch whiskey for us both lit up his memory and released his vivid imagination. The more scotch we consumed, the more colorful his recounts, so parts of this story may be a bit grandiose.
Bringing Blind Jelly Roll Jackson and Le Petite Fromage into the string band’s musical circle infused the fellows with newfound assurance. John Henry found himself utterly taken aback by their musical prowess.
Johnny and the string band continued to improve with each passing week. After six months of playing front porch shows, birthday parties, a few illegal chicken fights, and one funeral, W6XAI Bakersfield, the most influential radio station in California, came calling. The station approached the band with an offer to perform a thirty-minute live show. Le Petite’s Daddy, Baby Boy Fromage, used his questionable connections to secure the band’s spot on the show, as his own band, The Chigger Bayou Boys, were regulars on the hillbilly program hosted by Colonel Bromide A. Seltzer. The esteemed Colonel was famous for featuring the latest talents on his popular daily show, always staying on the lookout for fresh and promising acts he could sign to a strangeling management contract that left him flush with cash and the talent with a pittance. Blind Faith fitted his bill.
Baby Boy Fromage arranged for transportation to and from Bakersfield. The radio station had agreed to pay the boys $75. 00 for the show, which included four commercials for Father Flannigan’s Holy Healing Tonic, Sister Aimee’s Blessed Miricle Face Cream, and Puffy Cloud Lard. In today’s world, that kind of money might buy you a mediocre supper at an Olive Garden, but in the Depression years, it was a small fortune. Of course, Baby Boy would require a chunk for providing the transportation and a meager finder’s fee for getting the band on the show. All said and done, Blind Faith would make $40.00 cash to split six ways. Le Petite had warned the boy that her father’s deals can sometimes border on nefarious, so don’t cry like a freshly born titty-baby if the whole thing flushes down the toilet.
Around noon on Saturday, the stagecoach to Bakersfield arrived at the Strawn residence. Le Petite’s daddy had promised luxury transportation for the haul to Bakersfield. Baby Boy’s idea of a luxury transport was a converted Tiajuna Taxi, complete with no less than a hundred bullet holes along each side of the vehicle. Two church pews nailed to the wooden floor served as seating, and the big stain on the floor was likely blood. The driver was a Mexican chap who didn’t speak English and drove with a bottle of Tequila planted in his lap. His GPS was a ratty map with the route colored in red crayon. Le Petite was furious with her daddy and planned to smack his big head with a *cajun blamofatchy.
Arriving at the station, the band was led into a large room where the broadcast would take place. A small stage covered with short nap rugs and a half dozen microphones placed where each musician would stand. Another band, The Light Crust Doughboys, from Fort Worth, Texas, was packing up, having completed their live show for their sponsor, Light Crust Flour. They were in Hollywood to be in a Western movie with Gene Autry, and this was their last commitment before heading back to Texas. Johnny spotted their fiddle player, made a bee-line over, and introduced himself. The man, Bob Wills, a fellow Texan, wanted to hear youngsters play, so he stuck around for the live show, which was due to start in twenty minutes. The radio technicians placed each member in front of a mic, giving Le Petite her own microphone for singing. The band played 16 bars of music so the man in the sound booth could adjust the volume. Bob Wills sat in a corner, smoking a cigarette and drinking what appeared to be a pint bottle of hooch hidden in a brown paper sack.
The two announcers, a heavy-set fellow wearing a black cowboy hat and his companion, a boney, skittish little gal, also wearing a matching cowgirl hat and white boots, took their positions in front of a microphone next to a nervous Le Petite. The man told the band that when that light on the wall turns from red to green, that means we are live, and you start your theme song while we announce you and our sponsors. Jelly said he couldn’t see the light, but Pancho Villa would give him the queue. The announcer asked Johnny if that man was blind? Johnny said, “Yep, blind as a bat but he’s a pretty good driver and got us here in one piece.”
The boys had no theme song, so Jelly told them to play Red River Valley: You can’t mess that one up. The man at the mic counted down, the light turned green, and the boys let loose on their new theme song. All the time, the two announcers were jabbering about their sponsors.
The announcers stepped back from the microphones and gave the boys a thumbs-up to start their show. Le Petite counted off a cajun song about a “Big Mamou” and went into “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” and then “Cold Beer and Calomine Lotion.” The band played every tune they knew, finishing up with Johnny playing a fiddle tune called “Lone Star Rag,” which caused Bob Wills, with a big grin on his face, to rise from his chair and clap along. When the show ended, Bob gave Johnny a few pointers, telling him he had a bright future in country music and to get in touch when and if he returned to Fort Worth. Fifteen years later, back home in Texas and playing country music for a living, Johnny got in touch with Bob Wills, who became his mentor and close friend, gifting Johnny with one of his fiddles, which he is playing in this photo. I have that fiddle as well as my grandfather’s fiddle.
My father, Johnny Strawn playing twin fiddles with Bob Wills. Forth Worth, around 1952.
Young Johnny and the rest of the string band joined the Strawn family for Sunday church attendance. John Henry warned the boys that they were about to witness a religious spectacle, so hang on to your britches. He also told the boys that If Jelly Roll was invited to join their group, all four of them would be standing before him, even though he is blind, for revering one’s elders was of the utmost importance.
Bertha and the boys walked with John Henry to the orchestra dressing room, where they found Jelly Roll and Pancho Villa seated on a red velvet settee, likely the same furniture that Sister Aimee used in the soul-saving of Jelly Roll, who now embraced his savior with religious zeal. Each of the boys introduced themselves, shook hands with Jelly, and gave a guarded pat to Pancho Villa; the banjo player was the only one to get a vicious bite from the foul-tempered canine. After a brief, casual conversation, young Johnny inquired if Jelly Roll would entertain the notion of joining the string band. Jelly Roll pondered the request for a few minutes, then gave them a yes, but a young female singer from the choir he had recently befriended would come with the package. The boys agreed, and a deal was struck.
Jelly Roll produced a tidbit of dried bacon from a pocket and gave it to Pancho Villa; he then directed the pooch to hurry down the hallway and fetch Miss Fromage. Pancho returned with a smallish girl in tow. Jelly Roll introduced the boys to *Miss Le Petite Fromage from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Her daddy is Baby Boy Fromage, the famous Cajun singer, so her vocal abilities come from good stock. Miss Le Petite was a diminutive gal, measuring less than five feet, yet possessing the curves and form of a fully grown woman, except for her hands and feet, which were the size of a small child’s: she had little baby feets and hands. When she spoke, her heavy cajun-accented voice was as smooth as honey on a warm biscuit. Jelly Roll and Miss Fromage agreed to rehearse with the boys on Saturday at John Henry’s home. The group left with the boys feeling like something big was about to happen.
On Saturday, John Henry gathered up Blind Jelly Roll and Miss Fromage and delivered them to his humble home. The boys perched themselves on the front porch. They were as nervous as a cat in a dog show, and who wouldn’t be: this was their first foray into professional music. John Henry kindly assisted Jelly Roll and Pancho Villa to a seat while Miss Fromage opted to stay standing.
After assisting the boys in tuning up, Jelly asked, “Are you all familiar with Mama Mabel Carter’s tune, Will The Circle Be Unbroken?”
The lads nodded knowingly. He then tapped his foot, “In the key of G, one ana two ana three ana four-ahh.”
After a lively eight-bar introduction with Jelly Roll bending his guitar strings into a torturous sound and Johnny joining him with his fiddle, Le Petite took a deep breath, stood up on her tiny toes, and belted out the song with such gusto that her boisterous vocals nearly blew the boards off the porch floor. By the song’s end, neighbors had gathered in the front yard, their feet tapping and hands clapping in rhythm to the spirited tune.
Turning to the band, Le Petite declared, “The next ditty is from my dear ole Daddy, Baby Boy. It’s a G-C-D progression with A minor thrown in for color. It’s called Party On The Bayou: Cold Beer And Calamine Lotion.” Step it up, boys; it’s a rapide quick-un”
The band played for two hours, covering Cajun music, Dallas blues, and some Bakersfield Okie-inspired country. It was clear that Jelly Roll and Le Petite were professionals and were teaching these lads a thing or two. The rehearsal was a rousing success. But now, if they were to play for money, they needed a good name for the band. Johnny threw a couple out, as did the banjo picker, but nothing stuck on the wall.
Le Petite said, ” Monsieur Jelly Roll, being a blind fellow, and now a born again unto sweet Baby Jesus with the strong, unshakable faith, why not call this outfit **”Blind Faith?” They liked it, and Le Petite announced, “So let it be written, so let it be done.”
*Le Petite Fromage is a type of French cheese popular in the bayou country of Louisiana.
**Blind Faith was a 1960s supergroup consisting of Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker, and Ric Grech. My father couldn’t remember the name of his string band, so Jelly Roll, being blind and embracing his newly found faith, seemed to fit.
My grandmother hailed from a sizable brood: four sisters and a solitary brother. Their formative years were spent in the sun-drenched fields of south Texas, toiling on the family produce farm. The patriarch, Grandfather Duncan, regarded his children as mere hired hands and didn’t pay them a dime. Every child born saved him from hiring a lazy field hand to pick his watermelons and oranges.
Upon the completion of their high school years, one by one, the siblings, usually in the dead of night and with assistance from the others, embarked on a journey, whether by bus, train, hitchhiking, or on foot, seeking their own version of freedom from the farm. Miraculously, within a few years, they and their new spouses found themselves settling in Fort Worth, Texas, mere blocks apart.
The transition from Texas to California proved to be arduous. My grandfather, possessing the toughness of weathered leather and an insensitivity to female emotions, saw the move as a blessing and a chance for a new beginning. However, for Bertha, it felt more like a forced abduction. John Henry appeared oblivious to her distress, or perhaps he believed it would pass in due time. Yet her sorrow lingered until she stumbled upon a seeming panacea: alcohol, fashioned into the magical healing elixirs hawked on the radio and in the newspapers. From anemia to tremors, from insomnia to weight loss, from night sweats to antisocial behavior, there existed a bottled pharmaceutical remedy for every affliction, no doctor’s visit required. Countless bottles of happy juice lined the shelves of the local drugstore, catering to the myriad conditions that afflicted my grandmother, a certified hypochondriac.
When not self-diagnosing herself that she harbored every disease known to man and convinced that her death was mere hours away, Bertha was quite the letter writer. Every day, seated at her kitchen table, her fountain pen full of blue ink, she’d churn out missives to her sisters in Texas. Fueled by her newfound self-assurance courtesy of those magic elixirs, she didn’t see any harm in embellishing the truth a bit about her new life out in California: alone in a strange land, who could blame her? It’s not as if her family would ever drop by for a visit. As time went by, her letters became creative works of fiction, painting the picture of a grand Beverly Hills home in place of her modest stucco house and a swanky Duesenberg convertible instead of their old Ford. According to Bertha, even the legendary Clark Gable was a neighbor, and Sister Aimee McPherson, the radio firebrand preacher gal, became a dear friend, and the two of them often enjoyed lunch at Musso and Franks Grill, mingling with the movie stars. Bertha was dead set on landing an audition with MGM or writing a grandiose screenplay, all thanks to that magical elixir of hers. Not thinking of how she would explain her fabricated world when they returned to Texas, she continued, and the more she wrote, the more she believed her own stories.
When Johnny turned thirteen, he approached his father with a request to pursue a professional career in music. John Henry, harboring doubts about the practicality of such a proposal, pondered the unlikelihood of anyone hiring a boy for such a venture, much less paying him with real money. Nonetheless, three of Johnny’s older schoolmates had extended an invitation to join their string band, which often performed at birthday parties and school events for a small fee, which was usually a coke and a plate of food. Their need for a fiddle player in the Bakersfield-style hillbilly tunes they favored aligned perfectly with Johnny’s musical talents. That evening, seated on the front porch after supper, Johnny revealed his decision to his father — he had embarked on a professional journey with his newfound band. Despite his initial surprise, John Henry offered his warm congratulations to the young boy venturing into this new vocation.
Their first official rehearsal was an epic disaster. The guitar player knew four, maybe five chords on his out-of-tune instrument, the bass player, using a beat-up dog house bass fiddle, couldn’t get the beast anywhere near in-tune, and the tenor banjo picker was worse than the other two. After massacering a dozen or so tunes, Johnny floated an option. He knows of a genuine black blues singer who burns up a guitar when he plays. The other three were wagging their tails like a hungry dog and voted to bring this fellow into the fold. Now, Johnny had to convince Blind Jelly Roll Jackson to play with a bunch of borderline musicians.
Church on Sunday was a rousing spectacle. Sister Aimee, after singing a handful of beautiful songs and just enough preaching to make sure the offering plates were full, called for souls that needed saving to approach the altar and receive Jesus. This was part of every service; a few folks would come down to be blessed and saved. With the orchestra playing, the choir singing, and a contingent of Hollywood-style dancers on stage, a hundred folks rushed the front in need of salvation. Sister Aimee, not knowing how to handle a worked-up mob that scared her out of her witts, retreated stage right and hid in her dressing room. Her assistant preacher and a few ushers administered to the flock while Sister Aimee gulped a handful of Carter’s nerve pills, washing them down with “Father Flannigan’s Holy Healing Tonic,” which was around 80% alcohol and claimed to be brewed from the holy waters of the River Jordan.
Divine lightning has been known to strike twice, but only if it is directed by a Guardian Angel.
With a job in his pocket, the few loose coins that jingled in his khakis sounded like a hundred dollars.
John Henry made it a point to stop by, to offer up his thanks to Sargent and Sunny for their helping hand. Their kindness was the kind that stuck with a man, went deeper than any he’d known before.
Sargent asked John Henry to join him for a stroll down the sidewalk, just the two of ’em. They walked and smoked on their Lucky Strikes, talking about this new job that was waiting for John Henry like an open road.
They trudged along the sidewalk, the setting sun beating down on their gray fedoras, until they came to a halt in front of a small, weathered, stucco bungalow. A faded ‘For Rent’ sign hung crookedly from the porch railing, creaking lazily in the faint breeze. An older woman, around Sargent’s age, sat in a creaking swing, sipping listlessly at a glass of iced tea; she gave them a slight wave as friends do. The only sounds were the rhythmic groan of the swing chains and the growing buzz of cicadas, their evening song a mournful hum that seemed to vibrate through the very air itself as dusk drew near.
Sargent took one last drag on his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the dusk. With a practiced motion, born of countless battlefields, he field-stripped the butt and sent it swirling into the breeze. Beside him, John Henry echoed the gesture, the ritual of it a comforting reminder of days past and the unbreakable bonds of soldiers forged in blood and fire.
Sargent spoke up.
“I’ve already gotten the okay from the owners; they’re fixin’ to move up to San Francisco for a spell, maybe a long one, five or six years they say. The house is yours for the taking if you’re so inclined. I put in a good word for you, figured my vouchin’ would mean something to them. Hope our bond of friendship will be the thing that seals this deal tighter than a jug of moonshine on a hot summer day.”
John Henry let out a hearty laugh, the easy kind that comes from deep in the belly, at the mention of moonshine.
“I ain’t touched the white lightning in near 10 years, Sargent,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I’ll take the house, and you can bet your Justin boots our friendship is stronger than any gold or jug of ‘shine you can find.”
That evening, after John Henry shook on the deal for the house, he stopped at a butcher shop around the corner from Sergeant’s house. He counted out what little change he had left, just enough for three thick pork chops, a couple of fat red potatoes, and a sweet onion. Tonight, he’d throw the chops on the campfire, watch ’em sizzle till they were good and done, and bake the spuds in the coals. Bertha and Johnny, they’d eat like King Farouk. And Lady, she’d get her a big chunk, too, because this was a night for celebration if there ever was one. One thing he had learned in life is to take your blessings as they come and give thanks because they may never come again.
Ten or so miles past the Needles California border station, my grandfather, John Henry Strawn, encountered a stooped, raggedy-dressed black man and a small dog walking along the side of the road. The man’s attire resembled that of a poorly dressed scarecrow. Without hesitation, he slowed the Ford, performed a swift turnaround, and approached the traveler. After stopping the car, he offered the old fellow a ride. Without hesitation, the traveler gratefully accepted, ensuring that his dog was settled in first, followed by his knapsack, a guitar case, and then himself.
A few miles down the road, the man broke the silence, introducing himself as *Blind Jelly Roll Jackson from the Deep Ellum Dallas, Texas, and his seeing-eye dog, a Chihuahua named Pancho Villa, who is blinded in one eye. The result of a dog fight with a Coyote, so he wears tiny sunshades because the bright sunlight hurts his good eyeball. Jelly says he is a blues man and is headed to Los Angeles to stay with a cousin and find work in a juke joint, and he, by accident, shot a fella in Dallas four times over a pay dispute. He said it was all Pancho’s fault because the dog said the man had a knife, so what else is a body to do. He pulled a leather Bolla from his knapsack, took a jolt, poured a little liquid into his palm, and let Pancho Villa lick it up. John Henry was sure it was whiskey, and after the dog drank it, he fell over and started snoring. Jelly’s chin found his chest, and he slept the sleep of the weary.
On the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, they saw the first billboard, “No Jobs in California, Keep Out.” John Henry paid no attention to the sign; he was certain he could find a job on the docks in Long Beach. He was an artisan, not an Okie fruit picker. The next sign was for a migrant campground, $.25 per day, running water, showers, and clean grounds; John Henry took the turn off Route 66, drove a few miles, took two more turns, and found himself at a tidy campground guard shack. Unlike the border boys, the guard wore a clean, crisp uniform and was pleasant. The three-day fee was paid with small change from the small stash in grandmother’s purse. Their assigned camping slot was shaded by a tall Eucalyptus tree. This would do until a job was found. Jelly and Pancho Villa wandered down the main lane, stopping to let the children pet and scratch Pancho, who nipped a few fingers and chased the local feral cat.
Travel to the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, past the city limit sign. This is where a well-manufactured fantasy meets reality. Families living in tents or shanties of plywood and canvas. The city fathers, embarrassed to call them shanty towns, label them “migrant campgrounds.” Men walk the roadways for miles into the city looking for day labor or something better. These are hardworking, proud people who have been dealt a hand of misfortune. Los Angeles is becoming a city of “haves and have-nots.”
The Los Angeles of 1934 is a city unlike any other in the country. The motion picture industry paints it as larger than life. Hollywood, where dreams are made and shattered, is the engine that powers this city. Oil and shipping will defend their role, but Hollywood fuels the beast.
At first glance, commerce appears untouched by the depression. Polished cars parade on Santa Monica Boulevard. People fill the sidewalks as if on holiday, smiles on their faces, knowing they are fortunate to live in this unique land of opportunity. The manufactured facade so completely obscures the reality that, in fact, California suffers, but not quite as much as the rest of the country. It’s hidden so well that thousands of hopeful migrants genuinely believe this is the “Promised Land.”
At dawn, John Henry, with Blind Jellyroll, drove into Los Angeles to search for work. He and a few thousand others had the same idea. A long line of men and women walked in unison as if Moses were leading the Jews from Egypt along the dusty highway. Men wearing patched overalls, sewn-up khaki pants, and shirts as white as a wash tub could get them. A few wore a dirty Fedora or a worn sweat-stained Stetson. Some real Okies wore frayed straw hats and cracked work boots. Their clothes hadn’t seen a wash tub of water in months. It was an army made of misery. The cloud of roadside dust told the folks in town they were coming—”NO WORK HERE” signs went up in every window along their route.
John Henry drops Jellyroll and Pancho Villa at the downtown mission run by Sister Aimee McPherson, the celebrated firebrand radio preacher. Jelly’s cousin works for the preacher and has assured him that the good sister has a place for him. John Henry wonders how a blind man and a one-eyed dog made it from Texas to here. Perseverance and Moxy, some folks have it, but most don’t.
Lost and asking directions to Long Beach every mile or so, John Henry made a wrong turn and found himself on a residential street. Tidy bungalows with mowed green yards and colorful landscaping lifted his spirits. Back in Fort Worth, you only saw streets like this where the rich folks lived. He could tell by the cars in the driveways and houses that needed paint that these folks were plain working people, getting by better than most.
Half a block up, he sees an older man and woman losing the battle to unload a large chifforobe from the back of a pickup truck that should have been in a scrap yard. The rear end of the old truck sat on the concrete, and both leaf springs shot to hell. They are struggling and on the verge of dropping the piece of furniture when John Henry stops and, without asking, jumps in and grabs the end the woman is about to lose. The man thanked him for his help as they carried the furniture into their house. The home smelled like the fragrant gardenias growing around the front porch.
More in Chapter 3. * Note; My father couldn’t remember the name of the fellow or his dog, so I used the name of a character from an earlier story. A dog named Pancho could be nothing else but a Chihuahua.
My grandparents, my father, and my aunt migrated from Texas to California in 1934 because there were no jobs available in Fort Worth or Dallas. When reaching the desert town of Needles, CA, they were immediately labeled “Okie’s” by the border guards. My grandfather, a man of few but choice words, mostly curse ones, did his best to convince the guards that he was a Texan and had visited Oklahoma once for a funeral, which made the situation worse because the guards then labeled them Texas Okie’s, which was a double insult, and to boot, they weren’t welcome in the land of pleasant weather and movie stars. Grandfather turned himself into a poor man’s Will Rogers, with plenty of aw-shucks, dirt-kicking, and head-scratching, which made the guards laugh, so the family was admitted. He forgot to mention the three pistols, the sawed-off shotgun, and his pet Rattlesnake, stashed in a burlap bag under the front seat of his Ford.
It was quite a weekend for us average Americans. A former and possibly future president was almost assassinated by a twenty-year-old anti-social nut-job, the recipient of school bullying. Take note of anyone who was ever bullied, pushed, or spoken to in a demeaning manner in your high school days. Shooting people is not the panacea.
The present commander-in-chief hesitated for two hours before delivering a statement. When it finally came, it was a brief, confused jumble, possibly crafted by (not a medical professional) Jill Biden. It urged for a reduction in the aggressive language and insinuated that this was the result of America’s conservative faction. Now that’s damn sure taking it down a notch or two, Mr. President..keep it up.
You know those individuals on the right side? They are the regular, hardworking, blue-collar folks driving the pickup trucks they use in their trade. They build our homes and buildings, repair our plumbing and electrical, check out our purchases at the grocery store, pave our roads, support their kid’s little league and soccer teams, and tithe what they can to their church. These folks are struggling to afford basic necessities under Biden’s economic H-bomb. I highly doubt they have time for violence. Just getting by consumes all their energy and money. The welder with a family of five now has to saddle the debt of some woke child’s college loan for a worthless degree in Social Media Posting or perhaps Taylor Swift Music Theory. The parents want the dependent swindler out of their home; they require the kid’s room for their podcast studio. And let us not forget the ten million illegals that have invaded our country; they are living in luxury hotels and receiving hefty benefits for being criminals. All the Democrats ask is that they vote for their candidate when they are allowed to cast a ballot. Ask the homeless mother with a few children, living in a cramped shelter, or perhaps on the streets or in her minivan how she feels about the invasion of foreign grifters draining our social services when she can’t get a damn dime, a meal, or a room at Motel 6.
I’m an old fella turning 75 come September, and I ain’t liking it at all. Every joint aches, and the fear of major organs giving out is as real as can be. Momo, my missus, is a few years behind me and is dealing with many of the same issues.
We both grew up in the 1950s and were teenagers in the 1960s. I remember I was in seventh grade when Kennedy got shot in Dallas. The teacher wheeled in a portable black and white Zenith TV, and the class watched those news fellas with their sleeves rolled up, cradling a black dial phone to their ear, a cigarette in each hand, and a stiff drink of bourbon just out of camera sight, doin’ their job. They broke the news to the world that our president, John Kennedy, was deceased from a shot to the head. Our little 1950s happy-happy world was shattered. The innocence was gone in a blink, and Dallas, Texas, would always be known as the city that killed Kennedy.
In 1968, as a high school junior, I discovered the power of the written word might actually be used to facilitate change. This era sparked within each of us the belief that we could possess the strength to change the world. We all felt we had something significant to say. During this period, I began to approach my writing with a newfound sense of earnestness. I channeled my thoughts and ideas into not only opinions for my school newspaper but also into the creation of short stories, a pursuit that became my primary focus. I would never be a Steinbeck or Twain, but I could give it one hell of a try.
When Nixon ascended to power, politics ensnared my attention. Lyndon Johnson and his Great Society pipe dream left the country in turmoil, bitterly split by his failed policies and the Vietnam War. It’s no coincidence that Joe Biden idolized Johnson and patterned himself after the arrogant bully from Texas. The familial supper table transformed into a platform for deliberating the condition of our nation. My folks remained unwavering Roosevelt democrats while I vacillated like a reed in the wind, embracing liberalism one day and conservatism the next. My loyalty belonged to no single ideology. Politicians appeared nefarious and tainted; the entirety of the government left a bitter taste in my mouth. I was not a Hippie or a Yippie, or a Yuppie, or a Guppie. Then Martin Luther King was assassinated. The good work he had done vanished within hours of his death. The lines between black and white grew wider, and violence was in the wind.
Shortly thereafter, Bobby Kennedy, the Democratic candidate for the presidency, met his tragic end in the kitchen of the hotel mere minutes after delivering a triumphant speech. The perpetrator of this heinous act, an Arab kitchen worker wielding a 22-caliber pistol, answered to the name of Sirhan Sirhan.
The Black Lives Matter movement, Antifa, and the Palestinian protest movement are powerful forces of tension in today’s society. Their intemperate assaults on our cities and citizens are vividly portrayed on our 4K television screens. Yet, when measured against the tumultuous events of the sixties, these groups appear to be more petulant young college students than Marxist terrorists.
During that era, we witnessed the emergence of formidable terrorist entities like the Symbionese Liberation Army, The Weathermen (the Weather Underground), The Students For Democratic Society (SDS), The Black Panthers, and the Ku Klux Klan, in addition to numerous other fringe groups originating on college campuses across the nation. Tossing Molotov Cocktails didn’t require a degree. These folks bombed buildings and wielded guns against Police and citizens. Patty Hearst, once the beautiful and cherished debutant darling of the Hearst publishing empire, underwent a remarkable transformation following her abduction, attributing her radical shift to the influence of the SLA’s brainwashing techniques. No, Patty, you got off on the whole terrorist ideology. Today, she is a wealthy matron with more money than she could ever spend. It leaves me pondering whether she still possesses that automatic rifle and beret from her revolutionary days.
Daddy’s little girl
The upcoming Democratic Convention is scheduled to be held in Chicago, reminiscent of its 1968 counterpart. During that time, a multitude of protesters, guided by the aforementioned organizations, flocked to the city, turning its streets into a battleground as they engaged in confrontations with Mayor Daley’s police, igniting buildings and police cars. The majority of the demonstrators aligned themselves with the Democratic party, displaying discord within their own ranks. It seems that this forthcoming convention is on track to mirror the tumultuous events of 1968.
The whirling of the push mower blades sings a song of torment as I strive to advance the heavy beast forward. I missed cutting the grass by two days: now, it’s akin to whacking my way through a South American jungle. I’m eight years old, and it’s the 4th of July 1957.
Later this afternoon, folks and kin will come over for a backyard cookout and fireworks. A watermelon is chilling in the ice-filled tub, while a supply of Cold Pearl beer and soft drinks occupy another. Both tubs rest in the refreshing shade of our backyard Mimosa tree. My old man’s cherished Leonard Brothers all-steel Master Chef charcoal grill sits on the driveway, brimming with Mesquite briquettes freshly bought from “Little Bills Cookout Ranch” in Eastwood Texas.
Many of the kinfolk invited to the family gathering have long found themselves on my father’s “Naughty List,” but being a kind man, he extends the invitation year after year, including on Christmas Day. They always come, and before long, the reasons for their past banishments come to the fore. Cold beer, followed by a belt of Old Crow whiskey, seems to grant them the audacity to make a truly remarkable spectacle of themselves. They can be quite entertaining, but only for a short while. As a young one, their antics matter little to me. My mind is set on handling dangerous fireworks and causing grandiose explosions.
Folks start moseying in as the sun starts its descent. A few cousins near my age will make the shindig bearable. My tomboy cousin Ginger brings her bow and target arrows, while I tote a bag full of steel-pointed lawn darts. Ginger wastes no time in shooting my cousin Jok in his left buttock. My father yanks out the arrow, and a band-aid does the trick. Kids were made of sterner stuff back then. Only a speeding bullet might have given us pause. We then move on to firecrackers, cherry bombs, and sparklers.
Burgers are served along with “tater salad” and watermelon. Pearl beer gives my father’s uncle Orum the ability to talk like Will Rogers. His home-spun recounts of past family gatherings captivate the adults. Without the lubrication of beer, he is as humorless as a cardboard box.
Cousin Ginger finds her not so well-hidden bow and arrows in our garage and sends an arrow through a bedroom window glass. Her father, Jake administers a well-deserved butt whooping. It’s not often I see a girl get a spanking. Jok and I egg our uncle Jake on. Ginger does the one-arm escape dance, screaming for mercy, as her father delivers the blows.
I obliterate every ant hill in our alley using Black Cat firecrackers before launching a tin can into the stratosphere with a Cherry Bomb. Cousin Jok places a Cherry Bomb on the front tire of his older brother’s new MG convertible to gauge the velocity of the blast. The firework creates an outward dent in the fender, serving as a foreboding omen for Jok’s impending doom; he is well aware of the retribution that awaits him upon his return home.
Darkness comes, and we twirl sparklers in figure-eight shapes. Sticks of metal ablaze at 3,000 degrees. Children clutching a welding torch; what could possibly go wrong? Cousin Jok miscalculating the burn duration of a sparkler, singes his hand, leading him to release the little torch, igniting a yard blanket upon which his mother was seated, prompting her to drop her beer and hot dog. My father douses the blaze with a garden hose. Jok is surely on track to set a new standard for butt whooping’s when he gets home.
Ten o’clock arrives, and I’m lying in bed after my bath. The soft whir of my bedroom fan lulls me into La-La Land. The adults are still in the backyard. I hear their laughter and catch a few words of some dirty jokes.
Drowsiness comes; sleep is but a minute away; then I hear my mother singing God Bless America, and the others join in. It feels good to be a kid on the 4th of July.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 