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"The Sucarnochee Revue Presents" MISSISSIPPI CHRIS SHARP AND THE JANG-A-LANG STRING BAND Available at: and just about any record store on the planet, but try CD BABY, FIRST!
Above photo courtesy of Wayne Rawson. ©2006 Wayne Rawson
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My First Vote In 1975 I turned 18 years old. Being the political animal I was (and still am) I immediately went and registered to vote, looking forward to casting my first vote as a responsible member of the nation’s electorate. I intended to take this responsibility seriously. I was fresh out of high school, was enjoying my new-found freedom, my long hair, the ability to walk into any store in Mississippi that sold it and buy beer without a fake ID (yes, 18 was the legal age then), or resorting to the bootleggers who would sell liquor to anyone if they had the money. I was looking forward to going to college and hanging out with all my musician friends and enjoying the bohemian lifestyle, but I was also going to enjoy the statewide elections that were being held in Mississippi that summer and fall. Enter my Granddaddy into the story. Granddaddy had served as an elected official from Lauderdale County since before I was born. I think, in total, he served 6 terms as a county supervisor from district two, where we all made our home. I have lots of stories about Granddaddy. He was a very colorful character, and a person who had a tremendous influence on me, sometimes, not always for the best, but ultimately profound and enduring There was to be a political rally in Meridian that August, right before the primary elections. Grandaddy had purchased a large bottle of helium and some colorful balloons that said, “Re-Elect R.N.McElroy, Supevisor, District 2,” to hand out to the kids and needed someone to do this work for him. I was drafted though I was not too happy about it, wanting to schmooze with the politicians and be a big shot because I COULD VOTE. Instead, I painted my face and dressed as a clown, and went to the political rally at Highland Park. Now on this hot day in August, let me tell you that the only people who took a clown handing out helium balloons seriously was the toddlers, the elementary kids, and their mothers. I did not get a chance to speak to any politicians all day long, and they were all there: candidates for Governor, Representative, Senator, Supervisor, Sheriff, you name it. Granddaddy was the only politician who spoke to me ALL DAY, and of what political significance was that for me? The only politician I spoke with was the one I already knew. I certainly spoke with lots of kids, and their mothers, as this balloon act was the only form of kiddie amusement at the rally. Late, late in the evening, in the hottest part of the day, hot as only a late August afternoon in Mississippi can be, as all the politicians were dashing off to other venues, and as the crowd was thinning out and running to find the nearest air conditioner, as I was beginning to pack up the left-over balloons and secure the helium tank, and beginning to think about wiping off the sweat-smudged clown paint from my face, a friendly looking man walked over to me. He came with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Hello!” he said. “My name is Jim Herring, and I’m running for Lt. Governor.” We shook hands. I suppose I told him my name but can’t remember. We chit-chatted for a minute; him wasting time in a sincere effort to build rapport which had already been established the minute he walked over in my direction, and me trying to think of something politically clever to talk about. He saved me from that embarrassment by getting down to the business at hand. Jim asked me, “Are you old enough to vote?” “Yes,” I said, “I turned eighteen last month.” “Have you registered to vote, yet?” He asked, wanting to confirm that he had found a qualified voter, which is, of course, natural for a politician. “I registered the day after my 18th birthday,” I gushed, so proud of this moment when as a voter I was being taken seriously. Beaming, he handed me a brochure with his biographical information and platform for his candidacy, which I gratefully and hungrily received. I tried to talk intelligently about politics and to sound like I was properly informed about the duties and the high responsibilities of the Office of Lieutenant Governor for the Great and Sovereign State of Mississippi. Had I actually been so informed, who was going to take a clown seriously? He very kindly and politely listened to me, nodding and smiling, like every word I had to say was of great political significance to him. He allowed me to indulge myself in my first moment of political sophistication. “I sure would appreciate it if you would vote for me,” Jim said. “Can I count on your vote and support?” And there, at that moment now frozen in time and memory, I made the first non-Granddaddy political commitment of my life. Jim gave me several of his brochures and asked me to use as much of my political influence as I could spare to get my friends to vote for him. I promised to do all that was within my power, which I did. I then told him that I had been waiting ALL DAY for this moment. He seemed genuinely glad to have made a friend. When election-day came and I was escorted to the voting booth, I promptly searched and found the name I was looking for. The first lever I ever flipped on a voting machine, my virgin vote, my un-cynical-everything-to-be-hoped-for-un-jaded vote, my my-vote-is-the-most-important-vote-in-the-world vote, my world-is-filled-with-promise vote, was proudly, earnestly and confidently cast for Jim Herring. Sadly, to me, and no doubt more so to Jim, he did not win that election. But all my political hopes were not dashed, as Granddaddy won his re-election by a landslide. Granddaddy thought that the helium balloons had helped. Though Jim did not win that election, he has faithfully served the State of Mississippi and its people from a number of posts and positions, particularly as a judge on the Mississippi Court of Appeals. Over the years, I listened with great interest to every report I got as news would filter in from time to time. The very mention of that name has since drawn my attention like iron filings to a magnet. I learned, today, as I was doing some internet searches on Jim that his daughter is one of my favorite singers, Caroline Herring. She and I have many mutual friends, as at one time she was in the band THE SINCERE RAMBLERS with my friends Dave Woolworth, Wendell Haag and Bryan Ledford. Caroline also was a student of one of my very best friends and mentors, the illustrious Ed Dye. Ed is in my band, today. I wish I had known that Jim was her father when I got the chance to perform with her at the Southern Food Symposium at Ole Miss a few years back. She was a guest and Ed and I were performing. Caroline sat in with us and we sang old folk songs and hymns with the most delightful harmonies. Had I known then that she was Jim’s daughter, I would have told her this story. Not knowing, the story waited yet longer for the telling. It didn’t have to wait forever, though. Last Saturday, February 24, 2007, a meeting of the Kemper County Republican Party was held at Timberview Lodge. It had been put together by Ike Hopper, my step-father, who is the county chairman. My mother and wife were serving the food, and I had been asked to take photographs. You see, we all live at Timberview Lodge and were there serving the guests as hosts and fellow Republicans. The featured guest at the meeting was the state chairman of the GOP, the one, the only, Jim Herring. At my home, serving him while he was serving others, I got to tell Jim this story. I was delighted to be able to do so. I was surprised that as I was telling him emotions suddenly welled up inside me and a lump in my throat grew bigger and bigger as I struggled with this thing I had longed to say to him for so many years. Thank you, Jim Herring, for taking the time to speak to me that day so long ago. I have carried the inspiration of that moment with me all these years; I carry it with me now, for it was, and still is, IMPORTANT to me. I regret that all of my influence and political savvy at the time could not help you win the election for Lieutenant Governor. While you did not win the office that you sought, what you did win was the sincere respect and admiration of a young man on his first political adventure. That respect and admiration has not wavered all these years. At 50, my political savvy is certainly greater than it was at 18. If Jim were a candidate for some public office . . . and in the midst of a heated campaign he asked my advice . . . I'd be able to recommend, without any reservations, based on my years of participation in the political arena . . . that he hire himself a clown and get some helium balloons.
"Nation-Wide Investigation Targets Thousands For Royalty Theft" (AP) Washington, D.C. January 23, 2007 In a press conference today, The U.S. Department of Justice announced the completion of a decade-long investigation into the thefts of royalties by small and independent recording artists, primarily those operating in the Bluegrass music category. Senior DOJ investigator Dan Jackson reported in the press conference that a team of investigators had been working for nearly a decade to identify and bring to justice those who have been recording and selling music written and published by others without acquiring the proper licenses and paying royalties. Jackson indicated that, “Our field investigators have collected the names of thousands of individuals and groups who have been identified via their websites, myspace.com, nowhereradio.com and youtube.com as those who have improperly used the intellectual property of others for their own personal gain.” Citing complaints filed by the American Songwriter’s Association, an industry watchdog group, and other industry groups, Jackson said that an initial investigation begun in 1997 revealed that this theft was widespread and ongoing, resulting in the losses of millions of dollars worth of royalties to those to whom they rightfully belong. Clive Edwards, the executive director for the American Songwriter’s Association (AmSA), contacted at his office in MacLean, Virginia, shortly after the press conference, said that AmSA represents the fiscal and legal interests of American songwriters who have been denied the income of their intellectual property by those who have improperly appropriated it for their own financial gain. “The software piracy known to exist in China and other countries, which has recently precipitated congressional trade legislation and sanctions within the WTO, pales in comparison to the theft that has been revealed in this investigation,” said Edwards. Unnamed sources later revealed that the American Songwriter’s Association operates under the aegis of its parent organization, the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) which filed a flurry of lawsuits against NAPSTER and several of its individual users, and users of similar file-sharing websites a few years ago. In a related development, Bluegrass band leader Junior Smith, of “Junior and the Wiley Mountain Boys” was to be arraigned today before a federal magistrate in Virginia’s 6th district federal court after being arrested by the FBI at his rural Virginia home. U.S. Attorney William Able said that Smith had been charged with Wire Fraud and Mail Fraud in connection with his scheme to sell improperly licensed music across state lines using the mail, the telephone and the internet. Smith is expected to be released later today. More as this story unfolds.
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
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UPDATED 2/13/08
