Tag: Los Angeles California

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California And The Magical Elixers… Chapter 7


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.

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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