Who says there’s no surf in Texas? Dude, we got plenty of waves to groove on, even in the Big Bend Chihuahuan Desert.
As Momo and me departed from Marfa, Texas, traversing the desert and mountains, an SUV with two long surfboards on its roof overtook us. I gestured the timeless sign of approval to the occupants, and they reciprocated in kind. Perhaps they were bound for the Gulf Coast or returning from a journey to California. The vehicle captured in the photograph belongs to Moon Doggy Dan, a seasoned Texas surfer who ventured to Marfa in pursuit of life’s purpose and all the contemporary spiritual nonsensicality.
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 Flannigans Holy Healing Tonic,” which was around 80% alcohol and claimed to be brewed from the holy waters of the River Jordan.
New friends, a fresh vocation, and a fine abode for an extended stay. The Strawns couldn’t reckon their good fortune. Were they in the midst of a reverie, or was it a heavenly intervention from on high? My grandmother continued casting glances over her shoulder, half-expecting to glimpse the Guardian Angel who was running this show. Sister Aimee and her mammoth church would require some acclimatization, at least on John Henry’s part.
After the church service, which was more of a Hollywood show than a religious sanctuary, John Henry ambled backstage in search of Blind Jelly Roll Jackson. He rapped on a door marked “orchestra,” but receiving no response, he turned the unlocked knob and proceeded inside. There sat Jelly Roll on a red velvet setee while Sister Aimee fervently laid her hands on his cotton-top head, offering a vigorous prayer of salvation. Pancho Villa stood behind her, firmly attached, growling like a small lion and tugging hard at the bottom of her satin robe. Upon catching sight of John Henry, Sister Aimee hollered,
“Clear out, sinner! Can’t you see I’m rescuing this wretched man’s soul?” John Henry promptly shut the door and made his way back to his family, wanting no part in the strange affairs of that place. This church wasn’t through with him quite yet.
Two weeks into his new job, John Henry felt comfortable enough to open the case of his fiddle. During his time in Texas, he had earned the reputation of a “campfire fiddler,” skilled enough to keep up with any string band in Fort Worth. Nevertheless, this was not the path he aimed to follow. For nearly two years, Young Johnny had shown a deep interest in mastering the art of playing the instrument. The time had come to pass on this skill to the eager young man.
A visit to a local pawn shop produced a fifth-hand fiddle. It wasn’t much of an instrument, but for $5.00, case and bow included, it was good enough for the boy. Johnnie, when given the instrument, almost keeled over from joy. He took the fiddle to his back porch bedroom and began to torment every dog and cat in the neighborhood with his playing, which was more screeching than music.
Miss Angel Halo, a retired high school music teacher, resided a few houses away. She recognized that sound, having heard the screech of strings from her students for most of twenty years. Her Basset Hound, Baby Dog, cowered beneath the back porch while her feline companion, Miss Greta Garbo, made a hasty exit to escape the noise. Miss Halo made her way to the offending house and exchanged pleasantries with the Strawns. Over a cup of coffee, some neighborhood gossip, and a large slice of warm bundt cake, she offered her aid in schooling young Johnnie in the ways of musical notation and the art of the violin; she was a cello player herself. If the boy would mow her grass twice a week, and pull any pesky weeds in her flower beds, she would instruct him in learning the instrument.; no charge. The pact was sealed, and harmony was restored to the neighborhood.
Six weeks into his son’s tutoring, John Henry, not having heard the boy play, was curious if he had learned to play the fiddle. At his teacher’s insistence, Johnnie’s practice sessions were daytime only, and he was confined to the garage, door down, so as not to upset the neighbors.
Saturday evening found John Henry on the front porch, nursing a cold beer and coaxing a few tunes from his beloved fiddle. He asked Johnnie to fetch his instrument and join him, and in a swift instant, the boy returned, fiddle in hand, eager to display his skills to his father. To John Henry’s amazement, as he played an Irish jig, his son effortlessly intertwined harmonious notes with his own, giving the old man a partnership in the form of twin fiddles. A father’s pride has no bounds, and he played on, ignoring the tears on his cheek. In time, that instrument and the dreams of a child would take young Johnnie to the pinnacle of country music.
Moving day from the migrant camp fell on a Saturday. There wasn’t much to transport apart from the car and the personal belongings they had brought from Texas. Knowing that John Henry had very little, the landlord had left behind some furniture: a kitchen table, an icebox, two beds, and a well-worn couch. The screened-in back porch extended across the entire width of the house. In one corner, a roll-away bed and a standing lamp stood, and it was there that Johnny made his claim to the porch as his bedroom. Meanwhile, Lady ventured out to explore the expansive backyard, complete with an Eucalyptus tree that was home to a resident squirrel.
My grandmother Bertha had come across newspaper stories about the firebrand woman preacher, ‘Sister Aimee, ‘ holding court at her downtown church. She aimed to grace the Sunday service, eager to unravel the mysteries that had stirred up such a commotion among the camp folks. Ever the agreeable sort, John Henry consented to accompany her and young Johnny, perhaps harboring a hope to cross paths with Blind Jelly Roll Jackson and Pancho Villa.
The faithful congregations formed a line that stretched down the block, twisted around, and continued for another block. It seemed this preacher lady possessed a special magnetism to draw such a crowd. As they reached the doors, they discovered the church was once a theater with a plush red carpet and a winding stairway leading to the balcony. Climbing the stairs, they found seats near the balcony’s edge. With an eagerness to feel the Holy Ghost passing through her, Bertha was in stark contrast to John Henry, who simply yearned for a cup of black coffee and a nap.
The house lights dimmed, and the red velvet stage curtains slowly drew back to reveal an orchestra and a singing choir, all adorned in purple velvet robes. The orchestra boasted horns, a piano, violins, and a drummer, and right up front sat Blind Jelly Roll holding a shiny black guitar. His seeing-eye dog, Pancho Villa, was seated on a chair next to him, wearing a small matching robe. In a moment of confusion, Johnny, unaware of his surroundings, called out Pancho’s name, causing the dog to excitedly tumble off the chair. Jelly, recognizing the voice, offered a warm smile and a friendly wave as he reseated Pancho.
A slender woman with short blonde hair stepped into the center of the stage, enveloped by the spotlight’s glow. She was draped in a white silk robe, and a sizable golden cross hung at her breast, casting a mesmerizing reflection across the congregation. In that divine light, she took on an ethereal quality, almost angelic, as if transported from the pages of a biblical tale.
The singer, whom everyone now recognized as ‘Sister Aimee,’ suddenly turned into a musical whirlwind, belting out a heartfelt religious hymn that could make even the angels jealous. How did this powerful voice project from such a small woman? The orchestra performed as if they were on a mission from above, and the choir sounded so otherworldly that even the congregation wondered if they were in the presence of celestial beings. As tears flowed freely and some brave souls rose to join her in song, Bertha found herself on the verge of a melodramatic meltdown; young Johnny was bored and on the verge of sleeping, while poor John Henry remained steadfast in his pursuit of a good nap. It seemed like the lengthy two hours ahead were shaping into a divine comedy of sorts.
After two more songs just as rousing as the first one, Sister Aimee spoke.
” Dear Hearts, recently, a lost soul came to our church. He had wandered in the wilderness for years. Blind since birth and led by his small seeing-eye dog, he came to me seeking repentance and personal guidance. He is now walking the straight and holy path of our Lord. A formidable blues guitarist and singer, he has agreed to share one of his songs of atonement. Please welcome Blind Jelly Roll Jackson.” The crowd applauded.
A stagehand stationed a large silver microphone before Jelly. The spotlight shone on his hair, white as an East Texas cotton field. He tugged and twisted his guitar through eighteen bars of mournful blues without a moment’s pause. The audience was spellbound, the majority never having encountered a blind black bluesman. Leaning towards the mic, he growled deeply as he sang,
” I gots me a woman, haw-haw-haw-haw, she don’t mean a thang, squeezes my lemon picks my peaches from my trees, gonna go see that gal and get my hambone greased, haw-haw-haw-haw.”
Sister Aimee lunged for the microphone, but a stagehand beat her to it. He grabbed the microphone and carried it away. Jelly Roll was still singing and playing when the stage curtain closed. Blind Jelly Roll Jackson’s official California debut was history.
Don’t touch that dial or turn that computer off; there is more to come in Chapter 6
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.
Being in the right place at the right time can lead to life-changing events. A bit of prayer added to the mix produces wonderful things.
From what I was told, my grandfather was willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed one. He was kind to a fault and was often taken advantage of by family members and close friends. I can’t use them in this chapter because their families are still alive, they know where I live, and everyone is so touchy. I was ten when my grandfather passed on. He made sure I learned numerous lessons from his mistakes. Being the great poohbah recounter in the family, he left me with enough oral history to fill a book. I remember most of it from his stories and yarns, of which he could spin some tall ones. No one thought to write anything down, so for now, I’ve been blessed with a good memory, but only for a while.
John Henry helps the man carry the heavy piece of furniture into the house and places it in a small bedroom that appears to be that of a girl. Pink ruffles and stuffed animals is a sure sign.
With the furniture all squared away, the two men stood on the front porch, taking a break to enjoy a smoke. John Henry offered one of his Lucky Strikes to the other fellow, and they both lit up with a flick of the Zippo John Henry still carried from the war. The man introduced himself as Sargent James, said that was his real name, and he never rose higher than corporal in the Army. That got a good laugh out of them both. He told John Henry about his wife, Sunny, and their daughter Cloudy, away at school in Sacramento on some kind of scholarship, studying’ to be a doctor no less.
After lunch, the two men traded stories and discovered they served in France at about the same time, 1917-1918, in the big war against the Germans.
Veterans become fast, tight friends; the probability of dying from a bullet or an exploding shell bonds them in a way only they understand. It’s a brotherhood for life, formed on the battlefield.
They had both been wounded in battle; John Henry having but half a left buttock, compliments of shrapnel and had been gassed twice while fighting in the muddy trenches. His new friend was shot in the leg and the arm but recovered enough to continue fighting until some shrapnel sent him to a hospital in England and then home for good. Both showed their scars like kids on a school playground trying to outdo the other.
John Henry is no saint; he will own up to killing men in battle, some with his rifle, a few with a bayonet, one with a large rock to the head, and one stabbed through the heart with his side knife. He regrets them all, especially the young German boy, no more than a teenager he stabbed during hand-to-hand fighting before the soldier got the better of him with his sidearm. His face is the one in his worst dreams. The boy’s face looks as if he knows he is a dead man, as he is within seconds. It took years for the brutality to catch up to him, and now, late at night, when the ticking clock is the only sound in the house, his demons come for him.
Both men dance around the worst battle stories but share memories of their friends, living and dead. It’s easier that way. John Henry’s half-a-buttock won the competition. The prize was a large slice of apple pie with melted cheese topping. He feels comfortable enough to ask his host if he might know of any work a man could find. Sargent mulls the question a few moments, then says,
“I’ve got a cousin that works at the docks building shipping crates, I’ll give him a call and see if he can get you an interview. Swing by here in the morning around seven and I’ll have you an answer. I can’t promise anything, but he has the ear of the owner. ”
Good on his word, Sargent had John Henry an answer, and it was the one he had hoped for, an interview for a job. He thanked Sargent and gladly took the biscuit sandwich that Sunny insisted he eat before his interview.
Six-thirty finds John Henry standing on the sidewalk in front of the business, 808 Shipping Row. The docks are half-block away, and the noise of men and equipment moving heavy crates onto ships carries in the cool morning breeze.
Two doors are marked “Entry,” so he takes the one on the left. Down a short hallway into a large office, he finds a man sitting at a desk drinking coffee and writing in a journal. The man invites him to sit and have a cup. John Henry thinks this must be the shop foreman or the interview man. After drinking coffee for a few minutes, the man asked him about family, church, drinking, accountability, and his time in the service. After a thirty-minute visit, with a few laughs, the fellow stands, shakes John Henry’s hand, and tells him to start tomorrow morning at seven am sharp, and by the way, he is the company’s owner. Augustus Petrillo, and welcome aboard.
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.
Being in the right place at the right time can lead to life-changing events. A bit of prayer added to the mix produces wonderful things.
From what I was told, my grandfather was willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed one. He was kind to a fault and was often taken advantage of by family members and close friends. I can’t use them in this chapter because their families are still alive, they know where I live, and everyone is so touchy. I was ten when my grandfather passed on. He made sure I learned numerous lessons from his mistakes. Being the great poohbah recounter in the family, he left me with enough oral history to fill a book. I remember most of it from his stories and yarns, of which he could spin some tall ones. No one thought to write anything down, so for now, I’ve been blessed with a good memory, but only for a while.
John Henry helps the man carry the heavy piece of furniture into the house and places it in a small bedroom that appears to be that of a girl. Pink ruffles and stuffed animals is a sure sign.
With the furniture all squared away, the two men stood on the front porch, taking a break to enjoy a smoke. John Henry offered one of his Lucky Strikes to the other fellow, and they both lit up with a flick of the Zippo John Henry still carried from the war. The man introduced himself as Sargent James, said that was his real name, and he never rose higher than corporal in the Army. That got a good laugh out of them both. He told John Henry about his wife, Sunny, and their daughter Cloudy, away at school in Sacramento on some kind of scholarship, studying’ to be a doctor no less.
After lunch, the two men traded stories and discovered they served in France at about the same time, 1917-1918, in the big war against the Germans.
Veterans become fast, tight friends; the probability of dying from a bullet or an exploding shell bonds them in a way only they understand. It’s a brotherhood for life, formed on the battlefield.
They had both been wounded in battle; John Henry having but half a left buttock, compliments of shrapnel and had been gassed twice while fighting in the muddy trenches. His new friend was shot in the leg and the arm but recovered enough to continue fighting until some shrapnel sent him to a hospital in England and then home for good. Both showed their scars like kids on a school playground trying to outdo the other.
John Henry is no saint; he will own up to killing men in battle, some with his rifle, a few with a bayonet, one with a large rock to the head, and one stabbed through the heart with his side knife. He regrets them all, especially the young German boy, no more than a teenager he stabbed during hand-to-hand fighting before the soldier got the better of him with his sidearm. His face is the one in his worst dreams. The boy’s face looks as if he knows he is a dead man, as he is within seconds. It took years for the brutality to catch up to him, and now, late at night, when the ticking clock is the only sound in the house, his demons come for him.
Both men dance around the worst battle stories but share memories of their friends, living and dead. It’s easier that way. John Henry’s half-a-buttock won the competition. The prize was a large slice of apple pie with melted cheese topping. He feels comfortable enough to ask his host if he might know of any work a man could find. Sargent mulls the question a few moments, then says,
“I’ve got a cousin that works at the docks building shipping crates, I’ll give him a call and see if he can get you an interview. Swing by here in the morning around seven and I’ll have you an answer. I can’t promise anything, but he has the ear of the owner. ”
Good on his word, Sargent had John Henry an answer, and it was the one he had hoped for, an interview for a job. He thanked Sargent and gladly took the biscuit sandwich that Sunny insisted he eat before his interview.
Six-thirty finds John Henry standing on the sidewalk in front of the business, 808 Shipping Row. The docks are half-block away, and the noise of men and equipment moving heavy crates onto ships carries in the cool morning breeze.
Two doors are marked “Entry,” so he takes the one on the left. Down a short hallway into a large office, he finds a man sitting at a desk drinking coffee and writing in a journal. The man invites him to sit and have a cup. John Henry thinks this must be the shop foreman or the interview man. After drinking coffee for a few minutes, the man asked him about family, church, drinking, accountability, and his time in the service. After a thirty-minute visit, with a few laughs, the fellow stands, shakes John Henry’s hand, and tells him to start tomorrow morning at seven am sharp, and by the way, he is the company’s owner. Augustus Petrillo, and welcome aboard.
June arrived with a dreaded heat wave forming in the southwestern desert and creeping into Texas. The Mexican province, formally known as the state of California, is experiencing the hottest weather in history, and that adds to the folks getting out of Los Angeles and Sacramento and moving to my state, which has done nothing to stop the influx of unwanted refugees. U haul and Ryder are out of trucks, so folks are building their own trailers or tying furniture to the tops of their cars. Yesterday, I saw a Tesla with luggage and home decor tied to the roof of the poor EV. Of course, the car had California plates, and the occupants were likely looking for a home to buy in my little town. All that was missing was Granny and Eli Mae sitting on the roof.
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 Rattle Snake, Bubba, stashed under the front seat of his Ford.
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 immediately bit a couple of them.
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 hard-working, proud people who have been dealt the cards of misfortune. Los Angeles is becoming a city of “haves and have-nots.”
The Los Angeles of 1934 is a city like no other in this 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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 