Tag: 1930s Depression

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Chapter 11 Westward Ho, The Movie Studio Comes Calling


With my grandmother, Bertha, now sober from her curious but legal elixirs, the Strawns greeted each day with the sun smiling through their kitchen window and robins launching into song like miniaturized opera stars: even Lady, the family Terrier, found a pal in the backyard squirrel named Little Nutbreath, a name that rolled off the tongue as easily as whiskey. Now, the one pesky habit Sister Aimee couldn’t shake was her ceaseless missives to the sisters and friends she’d left behind in Texas. Each innocent hello morphed into a screenplay or a short novella, bursting at the seams with bravado but lacking even a whisper of truth from her ink-stained fingers. That woman could ruin a nice Parker fountain pen faster than a sailor could down a rum, and her right arm took on the brawn of Popeye the Sailor Man, ready to box anyone who dared challenge her. Norma and Johnny intercepted as many as possible, but the lion’s share slipped out of California like a secret lover in the night.

John Henry gifted Bertha a well-used typewriter, cheaper than the dozens of fountain pens. One novella, typed out on that clunky machine, landed on the executive’s desk at RKO Studios like a drunken sailor falling off a barstool. Bertha, bless her heart, sent the same tale to every big studio and received naught but indifferent glances in return. But this executive, searching for a breath of fresh air amidst the stale smoke of Hollywood hype, passed her little novella around like it was a shot of low-quality whiskey, but it might be drinkable. They extended her a contract—five hundred dollars, cold and hard, American cash. The family thought it was a cruel prank, perhaps RKO was tipsy, or just mean to a poor soul like Bertha. John Henry, ever the practical one, sought his boss’s advice, and the wise man assured him the offer was the real deal. They signed their names, returned it, and waited like a fisherman with a line cast out on a lazy afternoon. Days shuffled by, and then a courier showed up at the door, handing Bertha a certified check—a blessing or a curse, it was hard to tell. Could lightning strike twice in the same spot? Her tale, a wild ride of a detective couple and their scrappy little terrier turned into a screenplay and a film, but my grandmother, wise yet weary, never pocketed a nickel more, caught in the trap of a contract filled with weasel words.

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California Ho!-Blind Jelly Roll Jackson Brings Home The Le’ Petite Fromage – Chapter 8


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.
The Journey to Bakersfield: A Lively Tale of Struggle and Triumph, Chapter 9
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Life In California, Chapter 5


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

California Dreamin’ Chapter 6

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Chapter 3- Wagons Ho, and Settling In California


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.

More to come in Chapter 4.

Chapter 4, Wagons-Ho, Leaving Texas Far Behind