Mississippi Chris Sharp
Just glad to be here!
Just glad to be here! |
| The Picking Contest Here's a contest story for you. I hope you'll indulge me. This is a true story. What I don't know: What I don't know is about myself. In retrospect, what seemed so easy in the face of the loss of a can of guitar polish and a set of strings might have been extremely difficult had the winner's prize been more. I do know that I'm glad it wasn't a hundred dollar bill! What winning or losing that $100 might have cost me is incalculable. ©2006 J. Christopher Sharp
Granddaddy and the Bakkers My grandfather took Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker very seriously. He just absolutely loved everything about them. From Jim’s fat-cheeked, squint-eyed smile to Tammy Faye’s singing and over-the-top makeup, he was delighted with every minute he spent watching the PTL club. Of course, Granddaddy wrestled with demons, as we all do, and one of his particular ones was his penchant for alcohol. He’d wrestled with this for many years, and was doing well at the moment. He’d come through the office of the family business, spilling his coffee as he waved his arms while talking (which my wife says I do just like him! “Look at this coffee trail you left everywhere you went,” she says to me, just like my grandmother said to Granddaddy!). “You boys need to get serious about serving the Lord.,” he’d say, “and quit all that drinking and carousing y’all do at night, and start watching that Jim Bakker on that PTL club, and get yourselves right with the Ol’ Master!” “Yes, Granddaddy,” we’d all reply back. Tragically for us, this happened every day he came to town, which was nearly every day. A causal comment would send him on a two-hour tirade about our behavior, and how the PTL Club and “that” Jim Bakker had helped him. “Why, I’ll have you know that I send money to them so they can do the Lord’s work, and even have bought two of those condominiums at that place they’re building in South Carolina,” he told us every day. “Maybe I can get y’all to drive me up there and stay for a few days. It’d make a big difference in y’alls lives if I could just get y’all up there for a while. That Jim Bakker would straighten y’all out.” He always referred to Jim and Tammy Faye as “that” Jim and “that” Tammy Faye. We never knew why. “Ever since I started with that Jim Bakker, I haven’t touched a drop of liquor. I haven’t had a drink in over TWO YEARS. Y’all should take all this for a good example and quit all that. Quit it, watch the PTL Club, and send that Jim Bakker some money so he and that Tammy Faye can continue to do the Lord’s work.” As much as we loved Granddaddy, this was all rather tedious to our young, cool, and worldly ears. But you had to indulge Granddaddy. He was going to talk and spill coffee, and you were going to at least act like you were listening while you were fetching the mop. Granddaddy made several trips to his condo(s) in South Carolina. He met that Jim and Tammy Faye several times. He also was simply crushed when the Bakkers met with their share of misfortune, and the real estate development in South Carolina went belly up, taking both of Granddaddy’s condos with it. More than the condos and the loss of his investment, though, it was the personal hurt he felt at being betrayed. Though he never said so, we could see it. As he struggled through this period, we unmercifully poked and prodded at him with sharp retorts. “Hey Granddaddy, where is that Jim Bakker now?” we’d ask. “Where’s that ol’ Tammy Faye?” “Y’all ought not to say things like that,” he always sadly reply. “Well, she ought not to wear such outrageous makeup, and he ought not to be such an idiot!” Those were the words I heard come out of my own mouth, shameful now they seem, but so smart and clever at the time. “I’m tellin’ y’all that that Jim Bakker helped me when nobody else could, and I’ll support him if it takes my last dollar!” “It’s your last dollar he wants, Granddaddy,” said his clever, witty, and cunning grandson, “And he means to have it any way he can get it.” Granddaddy walked off, coffee cup askew in his hand, looking at the ground and I’m sure mumbling a prayer for his heathen grandson. He got in his truck and left. We did not see him in town again for a few days. Granddaddy liked to stay home on Thursdays. It was his day to make a big pot of soup. Sometimes chicken, sometimes vegetable, and sometimes my favorite, ox-tail soup. Granddaddy put anything and everything in his soups, and simmered them all day long. I never declined an invitation on Thursday to walk across the pond dam from my house and up the hill to the great house (which is what we called it) and enjoy my simple, Granddaddy made soup. I miss it to this day. He called me that Thursday morning and said that he had a pot of soup on, and to come eat when I got off work. I told him he could count on me being there. I left work early, and as Thursday was Grandmother’s day at the beauty parlor, Granddaddy was at home by himself when I arrived. Walking through the door in the den, as was my custom, I found Granddaddy asleep in his easy chair. When he failed to respond in a coherent manner to my attempts to awaken him, and having seen him this way before, I realized that he had drunk himself into a near stupor. It would not do to have Grandmother see him like this. I got him up, got him undressed and got him in the bed. I then went to the kitchen and checked on the soup, which was simmering along quite nicely. I set the oven and finished making the cornbread he had started. Only then did I look up and see that he had been watching his favorite channel, only his beloved PTL club was not on the air. That Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker were gone. I guess it was more than Granddaddy was prepared to deal with without the assistance of his old allies. When Grandmother got home, I told her that Granddaddy was not “feeling” well, a euphemism she understood, and that I had put him to bed. “I’ll carry him some soup back after we’ve eaten,” I said to Grandmother. “That’s the only way he’s going to get something to eat,” she said. The soup was delicious! I fixed a bowl and carried it back to Granddaddy, but he was out for the evening. As it turns out, it was more than the evening, because Granddaddy was not “feeling" well for about a week. A man does not look his best after coming off a week long drunk. Granddaddy made one trip to town to take care of some business, and looked rather haggard and shopworn, but he was sober. While he was fixing himself a cup of coffee, I stole out to his truck to see if he had his stash behind the seat. In “other” times, he’d kept a six-pack of hot Pabst Blue-Ribbon and two pints of Kentucky Tavern there for “emergencies.” Nope, it was not there . . . a good sign. After that day, Granddaddy did not come to town for a couple of weeks. He was on sabbatical, wrestling with the demons that always stayed after him. When he did re-appear, he looked as good as I’ve ever seen him. He came strolling through the door, and as he was fixing his coffee, he said, “You boys need to be more like me, and stop all your wicked ways. Why, I haven’t touched a drop of liquor for almost TWO WEEKS now.” Though I was chomping at the bit to make some witty remark about that obvious fact that he did not think that we had a memory, something inside me made me bite my tongue. I suppose that that day was the day I began to learn about the benefits of withholding witty remarks that might be painful to others. I’m still learning that. There were other TV ministers Granddaddy found to replace that Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. They were all anxious to fill in for that Jim and Tammy Faye, and were ready recipients for those funds that had formerly gone to the PTL club. Is this about failure? If it seems so, it’s because I purposefully mislead. So far I’ve told you about the ignominious and very public failures of that Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, of the very personal and private failures of my Granddaddy, and of the more subtly poisonous failures of my youthful cynicism. But things are not always what they seem to be. The victory here?? Granddaddy continued to struggle with his demons for the rest of his days, but in my observance of that struggle, I finally learned to recognize that the victory is that he never gave up the struggle. He fought those demons and resisted them with every fiber of his being. When he was exhausted, he finally succumbed to those demons, but the times of resistance got longer and longer, and those times in the valley got shorter and shorter. I am thankful for every minute I got to spend with him as he wrestled with powers that have overcome many men to the point of their death. I witnessed it. I watched it with great joy and thanksgiving once I learned what it was that I was being privileged to observe. The lessons have not gone unheeded, though my Granddaddy and I share the same clay feet, as we do so many things; so important an influence he was to me. Life is a daily struggle. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose; but the struggle is always there. Only when we abandon ourselves to those things that seek to overcome us do we lose. This is the lesson my Granddaddy taught me by example. Before he departed this earth, I saw his complete victory. Others, younger and wiser might simply say, “Well, he was old and when you get old, why of course you’re going to get all religious and stuff!” I hope I live to be so old. I hope they do, too. What about that Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker?? They are off doing the things that they need to do. They are involved in their own struggles, wrestling with their own demons, just like you and me. I wish them great success. I do know this. Somehow, that Jim Bakker and that Tammy Faye got through to my Granddaddy in a way no one else could. Perhaps he needed something that seemed garish and artificial to me to get through to him. Perhaps they were able to get him still enough long enough so that he could hear the Lord’s voice over the din of the other voices that called out to him. Perhaps it was things I can’t know or understand. Perhaps it was all of these things. Perhaps it was none of these things. The money that he sent to them?? I think he got a bargain. What he seemed to get in exchange for his money certainly served him longer than the money served the Bakkers. What he got still serves others, as I am being served today by it. What they got is long gone. Who actually did the giving here? Who was the wiser party? Me? I am the real winner. To closely and intimately watch a man you love so much struggle with the dark passions we all have inside of us is to get a glimpse of the judgment we deserve and the mercy we receive. I am so thankful to my Granddaddy for letting me be that close to him, for being so charged and recklessly filled with humanity and human frailty, for allowing me to see him in all of his glorious fallibility, and for letting me see that the race is always won by those who continue to run it until the end. I am continuously amazed at how much like him I am. I am also thankful to that Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. The irony of that cannot be measured. ©2006 J. Christopher Sharp
Letter to Rabbi Weinstein Rabbi Barry Weinstein Congregation B’nai Israel 3354 Kleinert Ave. Baton Rouge, LA 70806
October 12, 2006
Dear Rabbi Weinstein:
I was just googling around on my office computer this afternoon while I was waiting to receive a phone call from a business associate, when I decided to see if I could locate some news about my friend Richard Kober. I was shocked and deeply saddened to learn of his untimely death.
I first met Richard at his family’s business, Kober’s Rent-all. At that time, I was the salesman who called on the Kobers for Yazoo mowers. I had just moved to Baton Rouge from Mississippi when I decided to pay a call on the Kobers. Mr. Lewis Kober was still alive then, and I’ll never forget how stern and firm he and Mrs. Kober were. Although Richard wanted to be a dealer for Yazoo products, Lewis and Beryl Kober were having none of it!
I continued to call on them, though, and, with Richard’s help, finally wrote an order for Yazoo. After that, I spent many enjoyable hours there, visiting with Mr. Kober, Mrs. Kober, Mr. Kaufman (Mrs. Kober’s father) and Richard. I learned early that when I arrived at Kober’s Rent-all, the FIRST thing to do was to go straight over and speak to Mrs. Kober. It would not do to allow a distraction to keep me from that duty. She expected it, and would let me know in no uncertain terms if I failed to live up to her expectations. She would ALWAYS make a fresh pot of coffee, for me, and then sit down in the kitchen and have a cup with me. Only then could I get to business with Richard. I spent many a rainy Louisiana winter afternoon enjoying the best coffee in town, and the some of the best conversations I ever had. I love Beryl Kober.
I remember when Mr. Kober died. He was always firm and businesslike, but gracious in every way to a visitor. Though I was younger than Richard, I invited Mr. Kober to call me Chris, but he wouldn’t; he always called me Mr. Sharp. What a gentleman he was.
Mr. Kaufman (Mrs. Kober’s father) was also a wonderful person. I was sitting talking with him in the Kober’s kitchen one day while Mrs. Kober had gone out to tend to a customer, and Mr. Kaufman, in the course of conversation, mentioned some place that he and his wife used to go together. He then asked me if I would like to see a picture of his wife. When I said yes, he very gently and tenderly pulled out an old black and white photo of Mrs. Kober’s mother, showed it to me, and then began to weep, very softly at first, then more vigorously until he finished his weeping in about two or three minutes. He then took out his handkerchief, dried his eyes, put away the photo, apologized to me for his weeping, and explained that even though it had been 30 years, he still mourned the loss of his beautiful wife. We then continued our conversation as if nothing had happened. In a nutshell: it was the most powerful display of passion, pain, romance, nostalgia, love, and healing I have ever witnessed. Nothing else has ever come close to this. I am so glad I got to know Mr. Kaufman and see this most touching display of genuine human emotion. I will never forget it.
I only saw Richard’s first wife twice. The second time was at her funeral. I respected and admired Richard for the way he looked after his step-children. It spoke volumes about Richard’s character in that those children chose him after their mother died.
I met Richard’s second wife a couple of times before I moved away from Baton Rouge. Richard seemed very happy. I hope she is happy now, even in the midst of her grief.
I even met you once there, Rabbi Weinstein, and enjoyed our brief conversation, always hoping to see you again for another.
Several years ago, after I had been gone from Yazoo a few years and back in Meridian on a cold, rainy winter day, my telephone rang. It was Richard Kober. After a quick exchange of “howdys” he said for me to wait, that his mother was also on the line. The next voice I heard was Beryl Kober. She said, “I made Richard find your number and call you.”
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Kober.” I said, “That was very thoughtful.”
She said, “You know that we miss you, don’t you?”
I said, “Yes, Mrs. Kober, I miss y’all, too!”
She said, “You know that we love you, don’t you?”
A big lump started in my throat, but I managed to croak out, “Yes, ma’am, and I love you all, too!”
She then asked me, “You know where the best coffee in all of Baton Rouge is, don’t you?”
“You bet, ma’am!”
“Well, it’s always there for you, you just have to come get it,” she said in a voice that to this day is one that I will always associate with angels.
She then left Richard to speak with me. We spoke about lawnmowers, chainsaws, the rental business, competitors of his that I also knew, Tibb, Ray and Mrs. A (employees of the store), politics, LSU and Ole Miss football, his wife, my wife, his kids, my kids, our families, and continued to do so until Mrs. Kober fussed at him to get off the phone and come and help out with some of the customers who had come in the store.
It was the last time I ever spoke to any of them. For that, I am so sorry. How I allowed the circumstances of daily life to cheat me of their company and friendship! I shortchanged myself!
In just a few short years of knowing them, the Kobers had made a permanent and positive impact on my life. The way they dealt with life, and the way they dealt with loss were all lessons in life made easier for me by their grace and everyday demeanor. How fortunate I am to have been able to call them friend.
The store phone is disconnected. I suspect it is no longer open. I do not know the status of Mrs. Kober, and would not think of disturbing her at her home. I hope she is well and enjoying fussing over her grandchildren. If so, please tell her that I love her and I’m coming to get a cup of Baton Rouge’s best coffee, soon!
Thank you for your time and best wishes to you.
Shalom Aleichem!
Yours very truly,
Chris Sharp
Hank Locklin Comes to Town Commander Bob Wright (USNret) and his gracious wife Jean stayed in Meridian after Bob’s retirement from the Navy. They were great friends with Grand Ole Opry great Hank Locklin who regularly came to visit them. I was fortunate enough to meet Hank a time or two when he visited in Meridian since my Uncle Son and Aunt Fleta were friends with the Wrights. In about 1979, maybe 1980, my cousin Al was going to have a big shindig to entertain his business associates at his friend Bill Stallworth’s big old house. Al hired me and my band to play for the event, at which no expense was to be spared. It was going to be an event to be reckoned with by all of the would be party-throwers in Meridian, and doubtful that anyone was going to be able to match it. No one could put on a show like Al. The band at that time was me, Jetson Neal, my friend Paul Birch who now lives on Richmond, Virginia, and a couple more whose names and faces escape me now. The name of the band at that time was the Southern Foothills Revue, and we had a rather large following among the local young'ns since we played a hot-rod bluegrass, heavily influenced by the Newgrass Revival, which sometimes migrated itself over into a sort of bluegrass rock-n-roll. Whatever it was, it was far removed from classic country, as I was soon to find out. Sometime, during the course of the party, ol’ Hank showed up, and a buzz went through he crowd as this GOO legend made his apperance. After a while, he made his way to the environs of the band. Having been pressed by his friends and acquaintances to do so, he agreed to do a couple of numbers. After graciously introducing himself to me, who was rather unimpressed because, after all, he was NOT Bill Monroe, he asked if we might know his two most famous tunes, SEND ME THE PILLOW THAT YOU DREAM ON, and PLEASE HELP ME I’M FALLING. At that time, I knew the former, but was only vaguely familiar with the latter. He told us what keys the songs were in, and we arranged how we would do them, then he said he would be back later. In the meantime, during our breaks, which seemed to be frequent and long, the boys in the band (and me!) had sneaked into some of the high-dollar liquor that Cousin Al had provided for his guests (turns out that that was our only form of compensation for the services we rendered that day, but that is another story!). While I don't know what ol' Hank may have been up to while he was visiting with his friends at the party, the band, having a weakness for single malt scotches, particularly FREE single malt scotches, were indulging with reckless abandon. They were all there – Glenlivet, Glenmorangie, LaPhroaig, and (my oh my) MacCallan! We had to try them all, then sample them again! Well into the next set, ol’ Hank came up and stood next to the corner of the stage. That was my cue to announce him after we had finished that song, and get him up. I did my best Grant Turner imitation and got ol’ Hank right up to the center mic. So far, so good! While Hank was fine, I suspect his band was probably inadequate at best, and maybe intolerable at worst, but being the pro he was, ol’ Hank belted it out on SEND ME THE PILLOW. I think we played pretty good for the minor leagues on that song, but the next song was to prove a little less cooperative. Instead of the slow country shuffle Hank wanted, I kicked off PLEASE HELP ME way too fast. I got a glare from Hank that would stop a horse in its tracks, and he got his hand out to his side trying to wave for the band to slow down, but apparently I was the only one who saw it, or recognized what he was trying to do. Try as you may, if some members of the band won’t slow down, particularly the bass player, then you pretty much have to stay at the same speed, which is what we did, for too fast os FAR better than the band members all playing at different speeds, but ol’ Hank didn't like it one bit. During a break between verses, ol’ Hank turned around, with a snarl and scowl, and actually SLAPPED my right hand as it was strumming the guitar and said to me in sort of an away-from-the-microphone-hushed holler, “Stop playing that Bill Monroe stuff!” I was simply livid . . . but no more so than he, who was probably hurt to the core by our unresponsive attitude towards him and his music. He was, after all, Hank Locklin. I think ol' Hank wanted us to be more aware of that fact than we were. We should have been. I’m sorry we weren’t. We made it through PLEASE HELP ME, even though it was at about double speed from where it should have been. Hank survived, and so did we. I don’t think the crowd knew there was anything wrong, though Hank may have a different opinion about what the crowd may have sensed, and I suspect he does. Now? Now, PLEASE HELP ME is in my regular rotation of the few cover songs that I do. I think it is one of the greatest country songs of all time. I’m sure ol’ Hank does, too! And he should, cause it is! My anger at having been rebuked by Hank on stage, and him slapping my hand and insulting me for playing that Bill Monroe stuff? Well, other than the free single malt scotches we had sampled so precipitously, all I got out of that musical engagement was this story. What a wonderful story about a wonderful entertainer. I’m so glad it’s mine to tell. It’s priceless. I think that ol’ Hank would like the way Clint Jordan and I do his song as a duet now; a sort of a mournful, more Everly-esque than Louvin-esque duet, though the latter is how I normally approach one. I could never sing it like ol’ Hank, though. His tenor range far exceeds my capability. I may slip down to Brewton, Alabama, where he lives and sit and pick with him. Perhaps he’ll remember the young long-haired scotch-drinking hippies that played his stuff in that Bill Monroe style in Jimmie Rodger’s hometown of Meridian, Mississippi. He’ll remember Meridian, of course, but I suspect that his memory of that party is long gone. Thanks, Hank, for that slap on the hand. I’ll never forget it. One day, I'll tell the story of how the great Bob Fowler also slapped me on the hand on stage, too! It seems in my younger years, I got my hand slapped a lot. I believe this was good for me
Mrs. Elsie Rebukes Me Elsie McWilliams is one of America’s greatest songwriters. She has penned such songs as MISSISSIPPI MOON, YOU AND MY OLD GUITAR, EVERYBODY DOES IT IN HAWAII, THE LULLABY YODEL, THE SAILOR’S PLEA and WAITING’ FOR A TRAIN. She wrote most of these songs for and with her brother-in-law, Jimmie Rodgers, the Legendary Singing Brakeman. I’m not the only one who believes this, since she was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1979. She, Jimmie and I all share the same hometown. Mrs. Elsie was a member of East End United Methodist Church in Meridian. So was my Aunt Rubye and Uncle Wallace Lang, their son, Skeeter, and their granddaughter Sylvia. My mother and I joined that church in 1975, and she played the piano there until December of 1979, when she married my stepfather, Ike, and they moved off to Dallas. My wife Debbie and I were married there in January of 1980. Mrs. Elsie came to my wedding. Our pastor there was Ken Morrison. Ken was a great songwriter himself, and I enjoyed his music. I was playing in a rock-and-roll band as well as a bluegrass band, when one day, Ken asked me if I might care to entertain the folks at a Sunday night pot-luck supper at the church. I readily agreed, since my Sunday morning music skills were lacking, and Ken had told me that I would be able to play anything that I thought was appropriate for the venue. When that Sunday night got there, I was glad enough to go to the pot-luck supper, because the food was always good and plentiful. After the supper was near about complete, Ken Morrison got up and introduced me to the folks as their entertainment. While I knew all these people, and they knew that I played music, they had never heard me play. Those were all virgin ears for me. I don’t remember what I played, but it was probably a harmless folk type tune or two, and perhaps an old bluegrass standard thrown in. When I got through, the folks all clapped, and I smiled and looked forward to returning to my seat because I had spied some left-over pecan pie, and I sure wanted another piece. I knew who Mrs. Elsie was, but the significance of that had escaped me, for I was completely ignorant of such things as how important to the history of American music she and Jimmie Rodgers were. I had heard all the stories, and of the millions of records sold back during the 20’s and early 30’s, but none of this seemed to be of any significance to ME, since I was smarter than anyone else that had ever lived. Being that smart, I just knew that if it wasn’t significant to me, then its significance was also overlooked by the world at large. I suppose that was just about as wrong as a person can be. As I was returning to that seat, my mouth salivating excessively over that brown-crusted pecan pie, the kind that had the WHOLE pecans on the top, and another row underneath that; not the kind with the stingy, thin, single layer of pecan chips sparsely spread on the top; but with enough syrup in it that it was thick, and sticky, and just absolutely delightful, and I just couldn’t wait, and as I walked past Mrs. Elsie, oblivious to anything but that pie, she grabbed my right arm and spun me around. I had been very rudely awakened from my pecan-pie dream, and was somewhat put out about it. “Play us a Jimmie Rodgers tune,” she demanded, but more of a plea than a demand, really. “I don’t know one, Mrs. Elsie,” I replied, thinking that was the end of that. There was a long pause as she gazed into my eyes. She seemed to be hunting for some sign of real intelligence. I suddenly realized that through that gaze she was trying to find the real me behind the façade we all carry around. Apparently she found it, or at least I think she did. When the real me, not the cool me, not the cocky me, not the smug-smarter-than-all-these-old-folks-glad-I’m-21-and not-old-like-you me came to the surface, my head dropped and I was embarrassed. My face flushed, my head dropped even lower, and all the starch just seemed to melt away like it had been seared with an iron that was too hot for the fabric. Only then did she speak again. “You mean to say that you’re a musician, born and raised in Meridian, Mississippi, and you don’t even know ONE Jimmie Rodgers song?” “No ma’am,” I said, far louder than I meant to, and even more embarrassed at the sound of my own admission. A muffled, but nevertheless quite audible gasp went through the crowd in the room. The folks were trying to let me off the hook, but they could not muffle that gasp. In fact, my ears had locked on that frequency in such a manner as that gasp is still audible to me today. It rings and it stings my ears just as it did that day at East End United Methodist Church. That gasp, and the pain of seeing that Mrs. Elsie saw that I did not grasp her significance, nor the significance of her brother-in-law are frequent memories, once harsh, but not so any more. They are just a powerfully poignant reminder of a real event through which a young person must grow so that they can LEARN. I learned that lesson well. The in-rush of air into the people’s lungs seemed to go on for hours as that gasp got louder and louder, though they tried to conceal it. Perhaps it was my mind speeding up that made it seem so. They say that when your life flashes before your eyes in that near fatal accident, that it is because the adrenalin released by your own body has made you speed up so that time seems to pass slower. It seemed like an eternity to me. “Mrs. Elsie, I don’t know any Jimmie Rodger’s tunes, TODAY,” I said, recovering a little bit of the charm and wit that had fled at the first sign of a real challenge, “But I promise you that the next time you see me I’ll know one.” That seemed to satisfy her, as she relaxed her death grip on my right arm and I was permitted to return to my seat, having been glad to escape such an awkward situation without even more damage having been done to my over-inflated ego. I was as good as my word. I went home that night and learned PEACH PICKING TIME IN GEORGIA, which I sang for Mrs. Elsie several times afterwards. She forgave me of my youthful ignorance and was always gracious enough not to mention that PEACH PICKING TIME IN GEORGIA was a song SHE did not write, but seemed genuinely satisfied that I at least knew one. They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Mrs. Elsie seemed happy that I had taken that step, though I suppose she thought that due to her age, others would watch over my progress on my journey. Mrs. Elsie, they have, they have. I've had many teachers and guides along my way, but few who literally stopped me in my tracks. Nowadays, I know far more than one Jimmie Rodgers tune. In fact, I know dozens; some written by Mrs. Elsie, some by Jimmie, some by the pair of them, and some by the Tin-Pan Alley writers who wrote for Rodgers late in his short, brilliant career. Mrs. Elsie? She’s long gone off to her reward in heaven. She was probably eighty when all this occurred nearly thirty years ago. Me? I’m still singing Jimmie Rodgers songs, and enjoying the fact that I can tell this story, and that it’s a true story; that people from all over the world are fascinated by the fact that I went to CHURCH with Elsie McWilliams, and knew her, and that she once rebuked me for not knowing any Jimmie Rodgers songs. Folks from other continents seem to enjoy this bit of information that adds to the mental picture they already have of this great, great American songwriter. The significance of that does not escape me now. I never did get that extra piece of that good, mouth watering, double-layered pecan pie. My appetite had abandoned me like a gardener who, previously, had defiantly stood his ground in the face of real danger, and with his hoe killed a water moccasin, and just a few short minutes later, recklessly and precipitously abandoned that same hoe after disturbing a small but unseen yellow-jacket's nest; his weapon now utterly useless and completely unable to protect him from this new, unwelcome onslaught. Had I got it instead of the rebuke from Mrs. Elsie, I would not even remember that pecan pie now. It and its memory would have been long consumed with not even a wisp of that memory left. To this day, I still think about that pie. It seemed so good, but perhaps it seemed better than it really was because of the crow I was forced to eat, instead. Perhaps it seemed so sweet because of the bitterness left in a young man’s mouth due to the chewing down of a much-deserved comeuppance. Last year, I told this story to Nolan Porterfield, author of Jimmie Rodgers: The Life and Times of America's Blue Yodeler, when he was at the University of West Alabama, and a guest on the SUCARNOCHEE REVUE. He said I should write it down. Dr. Porterfield, here it is. I still think about Mrs. Elsie. I still think about that pie, and wonder who made it. Perhaps it was Mrs. Elsie. Maybe not. Probably not. But I like to think so, and after all, it is MY story.
©2006 J. Christopher Sharp All Rights Reserved
The Room Next Door I dreamed that I was in a hotel room that was familiar to me. A room of warmth and comfort. A room of calm predictability. A room with no danger. It seemed that I had been in that room forever. It seemed that it was the only room I had ever known. The room was plenty large, but its boundaries were known to me, for I had traveled every inch of that room. I had sat in every chair, I had slept well on the comfortable bed, I had opened every drawer and found them all filled with my things. I had enjoyed the feel of the carpet under my bare feet. It was a nice room. It was a comfortable room. I knew what to expect there. I had occasionally opened the door of this room and peered out into the hall, wondering where the hallway might take me. There was a sign at each end that said exit, but in my dream, I did not know what lay beyond the exit. I had heard speculations about what lay beyond those doors, but I dared not look, in fact, I dared not do so much as take but a few steps down the hall before I turned and came back to my safe, comfortable, predictable room. This room, though of finite boundary as I said before, also had in it everyone I had ever known, though some that I had known were no longer there. Others said that those missing persons had gone down the hall too far, and had entered one of the other rooms on the floor, but I dared not go and look for them. It is thought by some that these missing people actually went all the way down the hall and out the exit doors, but these things were said in whispers, and no one really believed that it could be true. I enjoyed the company of every one that I knew, mostly, but there were a small few people in the room that I did not particularly like. It seemed embarrassing to me that I did not like some of these people, but I did not know what to do about it. Perhaps no one else liked these people, either. I rather smugly suspected that that was the case, but I immediately felt bad about thinking that way, and knew that I was fooling myself. I knew that the real answer was one of two possibilities: Those people were the exact opposite of me, or those people were exactly like me. I preferred to think that they were the exact opposite, but the answer much closer to the truth is that they were a lot like myself. I did not like to think about this too much, because the thing I saw in them that I did not like were things I saw in myself. I remembered thinking that I must not think about that any more. The ones who had gone on, and were not to be found, could not be reached by any means of communication, because no communication extended farther than the boundaries of the room. How could we find out what happened to them? How could we learn where they had gone? No one had any idea, and while we mourned their absence, after a time, that mourning became a fond, wistful remembrance. There were many other rooms on the floor of the hotel, but I had never so much as dared knock on one of the doors. Each door was identical, leading me to assume that each room was identical on the inside. My assumptions were based on what I knew to the point. Based on my experience and my speculation with others, but no one knew for sure. Surely, some of those missing had gone into those other rooms, or even out through the exit doors, but none had ever returned to tell us about it. Of course, there was a story about one who had gone into the other rooms and returned to tell about it, but that was just a myth from long, long ago, all the experts told us. No one really believed it. Everyone wanted to, but no one really did. The whole idea was just too preposterous and the story just too old. The writings of others who had witnessed the return of this person were just too suspect for the modern, scientific mind. While I knew about this story, and was skeptical like everyone else, to the point where I thumped my chest and bragged about the fact that I could not be taken in by fables and ancient fairy tales, something in my heart always nagged at me about it. Something tugged at my self-assurance. Something always whispered to me that what I knew was not the whole story, and that the facts I held so dear were not so factual. All the while, this gnawed and tugged, but my public front was tough, steel-reserved, and unabashedly modern knowledge-based. I could not be fooled! One morning I awoke and my room seemed particularly small, when it has always seemed so large, and adequate for everything around me. Today it was stuffy, loud, and much too close. It suddenly dawned on me that I had been feeling that way for quite some time, but I had not really noticed it until that day. Suddenly, this room seemed entirely too small. Though it was too loud in the room, and everyone was talking to everyone else, saying thing that made no sense, or if it had sense, had no point, I could not seem to strike up a conversation with anyone. They would hardly look at me, but would seem to look right through me and not notice me. I heard someone whisper, or it seemed I heard someone whisper, “No one is looking or noticing . . . go out into the hall!” I never minded a step or two out into the hall, because I had done that many times. I tip-toed over to the door and cautiously opened it. Everyone was so bust with their conversations that no one noticed a thing. I glanced out into the hallway, looked both ways to make sure no one else was out there, and stepped out into the hall. I was careful to extend the bolt on the door so that it would not close shut so that I could be sure to get back in. It was so quiet in the hall. I cautiously wandered down the hall, all the way to the exit door at the West side, though I dared not open it. I walked back to the East, past my room, to the exit door at the far end, though I dared not open it either. On the way back, I stopped and paused at each door, noticing how similar each door was to my own, the only difference being the room number. One door shy of mine, I stopped. I pressed my ear to the door to listen. I strained to hear, but I could hear nothing. Just silence. Feeling bold, I placed my hand on the door latch and felt the knob yield to my immediate touch, and the door opened. Expecting to see a similar sight as my room, I was astounded that this room was completely dark. I could not peer past the doorframe and see anything. It was the darkest dark that I could imagine, darker that the blackest black, than the blackest night. Like a new moon and a rainy night in the country. Absolutely no light. For some reason, this made me fearful. Intellectually, I knew that the lights were off in the room, and I knew that just inside the door there was a light switch which I could flip and the lights would come one, but for some reason, I was fearful to proceed . . . gripped with some irrational, paralyzing fear, so I slammed the door, far too loudly, not knowing what I might disturb in the blackness, and literally jumped the distance to my room, and was back inside my own room, within the boundaries of what I knew, understood, and was pleasant. I was sweating and shaking, and thinking that someone might ask why I was in such a state, but no one noticed me, and I went and lay down on my comfortable bed, and was soon fast asleep. Though the noise in the room still seemed loud, it was not as loud as before. When I awoke, the lights in my room seemed somewhat dim, and the noise from the day before was nearly gone. People were still talking and jabbering, but I could not seem to hear what they were saying. The day before, I could plainly hear what they were saying, and it was far too loud, buy it didn’t make any sense. Today, I just could not hear them. All I could hear was a low mumble. I tried to ask one of my friends what this was happening, but I couldn’t seem to get his attention. He just looked right through me. I sidled up next to him and shouted in his ear, but he just fanned his ear like he was shooing away a mosquito. I could not get his attention. It was almost like I had gone clear; like I was not a clear spot that one could not look AT, but merely saw THROUGH. This fact, coupled with the fact that no one could hear me, and though I could hear them but could not understand what they were saying, had me more than a little perplexed. While I did not seem to be fearful of this, I was more than a little concerned. Concern passed into perplexity, which soon passed into boredom. I’ll go out into the hallway again, I thought. Being impossible for anyone to notice me, I boldly walked over to the door and opened it. As I started to step outside, the mumbling of the conversation suddenly became clear. I heard everyone asking everyone else where I had gone. I answered as loud as I could, standing in the hallway, shouting back into the door, when someone bumped against the door, and it shut tight. I heard the latch catch. I had forgotten to extend the bolt this time. For the first time in my existence, I was locked out of my own room. I beat on the door, but no one opened it. I beat, I shouted, I hollered, I pleaded, but the door to my room did not open. No one could hear me. I was locked out in the hall. What do I do now?? I dared not, still, go to the exit doors, so I went to the room next door that I had tried to peer into the day before. Just like yesterday, the door yielded to my slightest touch, and again, standing in the hall, I was peering into a room as dark as before. Of course, I knew what those rooms looked like on the inside, but I could not bring myself to go in and flip on the switch. I stepped back into the hall, quickly. I looked all around that hallway, and went to a door across the hall. I grabbed the handle, hesitated, and then opened the door. The door swung open to reveal a room that was the mirror image of my own room, but completely empty. The furniture was all the same, the carpet, the layout a mirror image, and peaceful solitude. I closed the door, latched it, and lay down on the bed and was soon fast asleep. I awakened the next morning, and all was still peaceful in the room, but there was no one, no voices, and even my own voice stopped at my lips, with not enough echo to get it to my ear it seemed. Just devoid and sucked up by the heavy air of the room. IT was not oppressive, it was just nothing. I knew, suddenly, that I could not stay in that room another minute. I did not know what else to do but get out of that room, so, back in the hallway. I tried knocking on the door of my own room again, but no one would open the door. I shook the handle, but it was locked and would not open. I was drawn back to the dark room. Once again, I opened the door, and once again, the oppressive darkness greeted me. I stood there trying to see through it, but I could not see. I took a deep breath, mustered my nerve, and stepped through the threshold and reached for the light switch, found it and gave it a flip. I started falling. I gasped as I accelerated and accelerated, and continued accelerating at 120 feet per second per second, until I reached maximum velocity. I seemed that I fell for hours, and after the terror of falling left me, I started to feel as if I was flying; an exhilarating, joyous, rapturous feeling of flying, though I knew that I was flying straight down, but there seemed to be no bottom. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I began to notice the slightest bit of light, at first faint, but even the faintest of light in darkness seems very bright. The light grew brighter and brighter, and bigger and bigger, until I realized that it was soon going to be so bright that I would be blinded by it. I covered my eyes. I began to hear music. It was the most delightful music, it was stereo, it was surround sound, it was everywhere. It was loud and soft at the same time, but it was not distracting. As the music increased in volume, I began to slow down. I was coming to the end of my flight, and everything was sweet music, and bright, and green and yellow, and red. When I realized that I was outside, I passed out in terror, having never been outside before, and not knowing that such a thing even existed except in fairy stories. It seemed that I slept for ages. In my dream, I dreamed that a young man, far wiser than his tender years, came to me and told me all about where I was. In my dream’s dream, I was sitting with him beside a small stream, and the sound of the running water was as sweet as the music, or perhaps it was the music. I opened my eyes from my dream, and there was the young man seated beside me. He was holding my hand, and the stream was right there, and the sound of the running water was so soothing. The sun was rising in the early morning sky, and the sky was the deepest blue, and the grass, swaying in the light breeze, was the greenest green, peppered with the prettiest wildflowers, things I had only seen in pictures of other’s ideas of what the old fables told about. I looked into the young man’s kindly eyes and saw that he was not so young. He had the appearance of youth, but something in his eyes let me know that ancient mysteries was beheld by these knowing eyes. As he spoke to me, I realized that the sound of the water I had heard was his voice. It seemed to be the stream, but now the rushing stream was a lazy river, crystal clear, and his voice was the sound of rushing waters. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “I was beginning to think that you’d sleep forever.” “Where am I?” I asked. “Heaven!” “How’d I get here?” I asked. “You came through the door and stumbled right on in.” He replied with a smile. “I had been waiting for you for a long time!” “But, it was so dark, and I was so frightened. I tried to turn on the lights and the floor just seemed to vanish. I fell for so long!” I said. “Yes, you fell for an eternity and beyond.” He replied. “Where is heaven?,” I asked, “Is it ‘OUTSIDE’?” “No,” He said, ”This heaven is in the room next door!” “That’s impossible!” I said. “If that were true, then this room would be bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!” He smiled a knowing, kindly smile, and at once I knew that there could be no hint of untruth in the voice I was hearing, and like a grandfather speaking to his precious grandchild, he said, “Well, welcome to Heaven! It’s bigger here than you thought it was. There’s a lot for you to see, and a lot of people want to see you.” “Who could I possibly know, here?” I asked. He just smiled that smile again, and said not a word, and pointed to the East. I started walking. A distance out, I stopped and turned around to ask him a question. He was gone, but off in the distance I saw a man in a white robe, his white beard flashing in the sunlight, brighter than the sun itself, I gasped in delight when I beheld him against the sky. “What do I do?? Where do I go??” I cried out. “He stopped and turned, and again pointed to the East. Though he did not speak, these are the distinct words I heard, and there was no mistaking them. Keep going farther in to the East. You will find them for they are all here, and they’ve been expecting you. Everyone you’ve missed and wondered about is waiting. Don’t be afraid, because it is larger here on the inside that it appears from the outside. Though there are boundaries on the outside, there are no boundaries in here. It is all yours, every square inch, every square mile, every square universe.” He smiled and turned back toward his way. I turned to the East and continued walking, when I heard him call out to me, and turned toward him again. “If you enjoy walking, you can certainly continue your walk, but there is another way.” He said. “What would that be?” I asked, wondering. “Well you could fly, of course!”
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