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"Huecos"
Chapter
2 of a novel by Claude Hall
I don't know which of us
was the most surprised when
that rabbit leaped out of some sagebrush just as I was
crossing the dry bed of an arroyo. It sat there on
its haunches trying to figure out which way to run. I
drew my gun and had it lined up in my sights when I
realized, quite reluctantly, that I didn't have any
bullets to waste. So, I shoved my gun back into the
holster, backed over to the side of the draw and found
a rock about the size of my hand and finished that
rabbit off as quick as I could before he decided to
tuck tail and run.
A few moments later and I had opened my pocket knife
and made fast work of that rabbit.
I guess you've heard of Jim Bowie. Yeah, the one that
died at the Alamo a few years back with Crockett and
that crowd. Some fellows will tell you that the Bowie
is the best knife to carry, but I've always reckoned
that the blade was too wide for real in-fighting and
the knife was a mite heavy for lugging around on your
waist. The Arkansas blade, on the other hand, is
narrow enough for you to stab someone with a direct
thrust and long enough to do some damage. I found out
with a little practice, too, that I can throw the
knife a lot easier than I can a Bowie and I always
thought Jim exaggerated quite a heap when he talked
about chunking his Bowie all those yards; it's just
too heavy.
But when you're traveling light, it's a pocket knife
every time.
It wasn't all that far back to the tree. I hung the
rabbit meat out to dry on a limb under the stare of
the Indian.
"Dinner," I told him, wondering at the time whether
he'd be able to join me or not or whether, as was more
likely, he'd be chasing his own rabbit in the happy
hunting ground wherever that was. Now that he was
conscious I gave him a few more drops of the water,
capped the canteen, and headed off again toward the
southwest.
By now, the sun was a pure ball of hell. My sombrero
is not one of those gigantic hats you sometimes see
the Mexicans wearing on their way to a grand fiesta.
The brim isn't as wide and it isn't all that fancy.
Matter of fact, it's also gray. It fights off the sun
about as well as you can expect, but even a good hat
doesn't mean a lot in this kind of heat. The ground
becomes an oven. Even the sagebrush and catclaw
reflect the heat. And there's no escape.
After a little more than seven miles, just about the
time I was ready to give up, I almost walked into a
nest of six or seven comancheros. A huge dab of luck
allowed me to see them first and I was able to hide
quickly before any of them looked up and spotted me.
And they had the water. Lots of it. And trees. The
mesquite, when it has water, will grow fairly tall and
is a pretty good looking tree except for the thorns on
its branches. In any case, it provides good shade as
long as you don't have to climb it. But the area was
also surrounded by palm trees and palm trees make a
mesquite look plumb ugly.
I had just swung over a low ridge decorated by some
rocks etched and carved over the years by the wind and
saw several palms and mesquite trees huddled in the
rocks by a spring. Water bubbled up maybe a foot
above the surface of a fairly good sized pool and
flowed off down a narrow draw. The comancheros had
the pool virtually surrounded. And they didn't seem
to be in any hurry to leave. A couple of them were
sprawled on blankets in the shade. They'd built a
small fire on the sand beside one of the boulders and
had strung up a pot of beans to cook over the fire on
some sticks.
I've heard it said that the only good Indian was a
dead Indian. That leaves out the comanchero, of
course, because there isn't any good comanchero, alive
or dead. They're mostly a breed, part Indian and part
Mexican, and all of the time they're downright mean
and ornery and had rather drink than eat, steal than
work for a living, and have been known to kill just
for the hell of it. Because of the stealing, the
comanchero has more or less drifted into trading as a
profession, which helps them buy more whiskey when
there isn't any whiskey around to steal.
The Indians will sometimes deal with the comancheros,
but they don't necessarily like them any more than you
or me. Or the other hand, I've never seen a fight
between a Comanche and a comanchero; they may go toe
to toe now and then, but I wasn't there at that
particular time. As far as I know they sort of let
each other alone.
I'm usually the kind of person who follows that same
kind of policy. People don't bother me, I don't
bother them. However, a philosophical policy doesn't
mean much when you get thirsty and these particular
comancheros were sitting literally right on top of
some water that I desperately needed. Because by
now I'd finished off the rest of the water in the
canteen and walking back seven miles in the blazing
sun was not only impractical, but probably impossible.
And I'd have nothing to drink once I got there.
There was something else quite interesting about these
particular comancheros in addition to their great
fondness for the only spring in maybe fifty miles. I
heard a horse neigh back behind some boulders.
I know you may not admire the idea that instantly
popped into my head, but I realized real quick that
riding back would be a lot easier than walking back.
Please don't misunderstand; I've never been one to
steal horses. Done a lot of things during my life
that would cause even a Methodist preacher to frown,
but I've never stolen a horse except one now and then
that was brand free and running loose on the prairie
and more than likely didn't belong to anyone but God
and I never considered that stealing anyway.
When you get right down to it, I didn't even know how
to steal a horse. And I seriously doubted that it was
a profession for amateurs. Certainly, not at this
particular moment. But, remember, I was desperate.
So, I dodged off in the direction of the boulders,
keeping as low as I could and being as quiet as a
mouse.
Horses now-most of them anyway-don't care for
strangers and they'll throw a ruckus sometimes at
unfamiliar faces. Especially if you surprise one of
them.
I was more worried, of course, about surprising a
stray comanchero than surprising a horse. But, still
and the same, I was as careful as I could be as I
sneaked off that direction, going round about. The
boulders were a good forty yards from the spring and
the rocks more or less provided enough shade for the
horses. Anyway, there were at least half a dozen
horses tethered to a rope thrown between two large
rocks. I'll say this about the comanchero: He knows
good horse flesh and steals only the best. A paint
mare with a black patch over half her head immediately
caught my eye. A paint is a good horse and will take
you there and back just about every time. All six of
the horses were still saddled and a few canteens hung
from some of the saddle horns. Two of the horses even
sported rifles in scabbards alongside their flanks.
That was just as dandy as I could have hoped.
As far as I could tell, all of the comancheros were
back over by the spring where it was cool and
comfortable. But I was still very careful about
approaching the horses. All one of them had to do was
throw a fit and I'd suddenly have more comancheros
roaring down on top of me than was absolutely
necessary. You do not want to be caught and held
captive by the comancheros. Very few live to tell
about such an experience and none of those stories
make pleasant listening.
So, I took my time. First, I let the horses get used
to my smell. They knew I was around somewhere even if
they couldn't see me. Horses are like that. They can
sense things they don't see just like a dog or a cat.
Then I stepped gently into view, but leaned back
against the side of a rock just as casual as I could
be. Actually, the rock was pretty hot and my attitude
wasn't really casual at all, but, hopefully, the
horses didn't know that. I didn't bother to look
their direction. Instead, I kept my head still and my
hands at my side so as to not alarm them.
After a few minutes, though, I figured I'd done just
about all of the pussyfooting I could stand. Without
making any sudden moves, I drifted away from my rock
and walked slowly over to the end of the tether rope.
In a moment, I had it untied. I kept hold of that end
and went over and untied the far end. Very slowly, I
led the horses in the opposite direction of the spring
and went on as pretty as you please for about a
quarter of a mile before unhooking my paint from the
tether rope, mounting, and leading the other horses
off at a gentle gallop for a couple of miles to the
north before cutting at an oblique angle away from my
real destination-the tree. This little ruse was not
done with great expectation of deluding those
comancheros if they decided to try to track the horses
down on foot, it was to discourage them. Remember,
they'd have a few canteens of water with them, maybe,
but on the other hand that sun would be soon playing
havoc with their minds. And you take most fellows
like those probably aren't wearing boots made for
walking. More than likely, they would turn tail
toward the spring after a while. By that time, maybe
I'd double back and be sitting up in the rocks above
the spring with one of the rifles waiting for them to
show up.
That was my general plan. But plans don't always work
out. Instead of being carved in concrete, heck, mine
were sometimes carved in butter. And now seemed like
one of those times.
Because when I got back to my tree and got off my
paint to give the Indian some water from one of the
canteens, he tried to stab me with his knife.
Fortunately, he was weak and his jab at my neck wasn't
all that swift. I was able to grab his wrist and bend
it back and shake it enough to make him drop the
knife.
Untying his hand had been just a simple trick, of
course. But crawling as wounded as he was off into
the brush and finding his knife was a real trick you
had to admire. The pain from his wound must have been
terrible. He'd found the knife and crawled back to
his shady spot with the knife tucked alongside his
body. When I leaned down with the canteen, he took
the knife in his right hand and swung at me. Pure
carelessness on my part. That kind of carelessness
can sometimes get you killed. Now that I had a
moment, I could see the evidence of him crawling over
to that clump of brush in the dirt. After his little
crawl back here to the shade of the tree, he'd placed
his hand into a makeshift loop of the string so I
wouldn't notice and then waited.
First, I untied him since it hadn't done much good
anyway and placed the cord away in my shuck. Then I
reached over and picked up his knife and jammed it
into the ground just about two yards away.
"There's your knife," I said. "Save you from having
to crawl so far next time. But I've got to tell
you-and I know you probably don't understand a word
I'm saying-if and when you reach for that knife you'd
better be real slow and real careful because otherwise
I might just accidentally get real nervous and shoot
another hole in you."
I took out my pistol and patted it. I then pointed at
the Indian and at the knife and then at the gun in my
right hand.
He didn't say anything. Just stared at me. So, I
picked up the canteen of water from the ground where I
had dropped it. Some of it had spilled. Of course,
it hadn't been full in the first place. But as I
knelt to hold the canteen up to the Indian's mouth it
occurred to me that a couple of canteens of water
wasn't going to be enough and eventually, even with a
dangerous Indian on my hands, I was going to have to
go back and meet up with those comancheros.
For the moment, though, I decided I needed some food
and I needed some rest. Stealing horses is rather
fatiguing. Almost as bad as digging those post holes
for the Broke Snake fence.
After I gave the Indian some water, I set about
getting us something to eat.
Unfortunately, my rabbit meat wasn't dried yet.
Before I went to all of the trouble to cook it, I
thought I'd prowl through the saddlebags of the
comancheros and see what I could find. I got lucky.
The first saddlebag I opened not only had a couple of
cans of pinto beans, but a spoon. The spoon, of
course, was dirty, but I got that cleaned up pretty
fine and then there was the problem of opening the
cans. So, I fetched the Indian's knife and cleaned
that up, too, and used it on the cans. And stuck the
knife back in the ground.
Those beans, I've got to tell you, tasted mighty good.
I don't know how to compare them with the beans I'd
turned down back at the Broke Snake, but I'd like to
point out that I was a bit more hungry at the moment.
After I had at least half a can, I cleaned up the
spoon again and then fed the rest to the Indian. It
was something like feeding a baby except that I kept a
close eye on his good hand. If he reached for my
throat, I was going to be prepared. But he didn't
have a whole lot of fight left in him at the moment.
Because he had begun to sweat a few minutes ago.
He was really sweating by this time. Fever. A
gunshot wound will do that sort of thing to you as a
rule. But both him and me figured out-silently
without saying a word-that he had to eat something and
so he managed as best as he could. Between us, we
only spilled a little of the beans and only slightly
messed up his face.
With a rag, I used some of the water to cool him off,
washing his forehead and then leaving the damp rag on
his brow. Whether that helped much or not, I don't
know and I'm really not sure that I cared. Helping a
person is one thing, even an Indian who'd now tried to
kill me twice, but worrying about that same Indian
just wasn't in the cards. However, since I had to
round up some wood for a fire, I scouted around and
came up with a rock just right to fit under his head.
The tree had shed some branches over the years. Some
of these had rotted on the ground. Other pieces here
and there provided enough wood for a small fire, which
was soon ablaze without giving up any smoke to attract
attention. A small pot from a saddlebag quickly came
to hand. I fixed up a little stove, I guess you could
call it if you were loose enough with your
description, with some rocks and soon had some of that
rabbit meat simmering low.
While the meat cooked, I rummaged through all of the
saddlebags, coming up with a treasure house full of
stuff, including some extra bullets for my revolver.
Best of all, however, was six cans of tomatoes.
The first time I saw a cowboy when I came west was
over near Waco, Texas. He was a curmudgeon older than
the wind and I thought at the time that he'd missed
last Saturday's bath; later I figured out that old man
Albright probably hadn't got that close to water in
years. He certainly never drank the stuff because he
usually had a quart of whiskey in his left hand. I'd
just gone to work on a ranch. Yeah, I was a
tenderfoot and a half. It was old man Albright who
helped me work off some of the rough edges; he allowed
me to do most of his work as well as my own share of
the chores.
But he taught me a lot. A cowboy on the range always
has a can or two of tomatoes in their saddlebags.
First, a tomato is decent enough food if you aren't
too particular. Second, they're always packed in a
lot of water which can come in handy out on the
prairies that flowed like dust across the western
territories.
My problem had been recently that I didn't have a
horse and thus no saddle and thus no saddlebags.
I went over and used the Indian's knife to open up a
can of tomatoes and poured the contents into my rabbit
stew along with the other can of beans.
While my stew was cooking, I searched through the
remaining two saddlebags. That was when I discovered
the bad news. Gold.
The gold was in some small leather pouches in one of
the saddlebags beneath some old socks. The socks
smelled about like something dead. Maybe that was to
discourage anyone looking for the gold. But me, heck,
I sort of figured that the socks might come in handy
one of these days after they were properly washed.
The gold, however, scared me and I was soon sweating
just about as much as the Indian laying over in the
shade of the oak tree.
The gold coins represented more money than a cowhand
could ever earn. Pay on a ranch was only fifteen to
thirty dollars a month and found. When you could get
it, which meant the life of an ordinary cowboy was
sort of shiftless. Frankly, I'd been thinking about
quitting the Broke Snake for more than two or three
months. Not because I'd earn any more money anywhere
else, but just because now and then I had the urge to
see what the country looked like up around Denver. Or
maybe I'd drift on toward New Orleans; I'd heard a guy
once talking about the women down there who strolled
on Canal Street come a Sunday and some of them seemed
to be, according to the way this guy told it, prettier
than Venus de Milo.
Two things worried me about that gold. First, the
comancheros were not about to get discouraged and give
up the hunt where I was concerned. The gold would act
like an incentive to keep them on the trail until they
found me and got it back.
Second, while I don't know a whole lot about the
comancheros, I'd bet just about everything I owned
that the gold hadn't been come by legally. They'd
probably killed and robbed someone to get it. That
meant someone was chasing the comancheros and might
also end up chasing me. I'd have a rough time
explaining how I not only came by the gold, but all of
these horses.
I thought about the situation for a moment, growing
increasingly nervous. In this state, even the stamp
of the hooves of the tethered horses caused me to
jump.
The Indian saw this and I thought I saw him smile.
That made me angry and I was all for killing him with
his own knife and I grabbed it up by the handle.
But he wasn't smiling at me. Indians, I guess, never
smile. He just stared at me as I stood there with his
knife lifted half over my head. I felt pretty
foolish.
"You've got to move over a foot or two," I told him.
"I've got to bury this gold somewhere and that spot
right there looks pretty good to me."
It took a few moments for him to get the idea. I used
sign language, but I really didn't know sign all that
well and it was like a foreign language to him as well
as me.
Finally, by shoving a bit and dragging a bit, I got
him over just enough to dig me a small hole about two
feet deep with that knife. I chunked the pouches of
gold into that hole and filled it back up with dirt.
Then took a fallen branch and dragged it hither and
yon to hide the evidence that I'd been digging there.
It was a lot harder to get the Indian back where he
had been. I guess he thought the gold was poison or
something like that. At the very least, bad luck.
Because he didn't want to move at first. But I
rustled up some leaves and made him a nice little bunk
on the ground and eventually he made up his mind it
was all right and, with both of us working pretty
hard, we got him back so everything was disguised.
Frankly, at the time I was thinking that no one would
bother looking for buried gold under a dead Indian.
He was sweating even more now from the fever, but he
still never complained. Not even a small whimper.
I drove the Indian's knife once more into the ground
just a couple of feet out of his reach and then soaked
the rag on his forehead again so he'd be a little
cooler. Out here in this desert air, things dried out
quick, but that made anything slightly damp even
cooler. While working on that fence line for the
Broke Snake-a particular job that looked pretty good
to me at the moment-I kept a canvas bag of water slung
over my saddle horn. The water on one of those bags
seeps through just a little and the evaporation from
the sun makes the water inside the bag really nice and
refreshing sometimes. That caused me to think about
the spring commandeered by the comancheros. Spring
water was usually nice and cool.
After I counted up the booty from the various
saddlebags, it appeared that I had about four full
canteens of water, enough bullets for my pistol to
fight a small war, two rifles, five cans of tomatoes,
two cans of beans, a small bottle of tequila, and a
few other odds and ends that might come in handy at
some point, including a shirt and a pair of jeans.
I'm not much of a drinking man except when I'm
drinking. Otherwise, I leave the stuff fairly well
alone. Right now, I had a better use for the tequila.
I soaked a small piece of cloth and dabbed it on the
Indian's wound.
First, though, I had to take the knife away from him
again. This I did by wagging my pistol at his head
and holding out my hand.
You might ask why I didn't just tuck the knife into
one of the saddlebags or something out of sight. I'd
thought about it. But I had come to the conclusion
that I didn't want him to think even for an instant
that I was afraid of him. I was, of
course...especially if he had a knife in his hand.
But the major reason is that a man in a fight will
usually reach for the closest weapon at hand, in this
case, the knife. With him going for the knife, I
didn't have to worry about other weapons. If the
knife was gone, he more than likely had it and I
didn't have to worry none about a second knife or a
gun.
He handed over the knife and I jammed it into the dirt
once again.
Then I took care of his wound. Yeah, he was running a
big fever and tequila on an open wound is not a
pleasant feeling. Pour the stuff on a scratch
sometime and you'll see what I mean.
I got him rolled over and did the same with the hole
in his back. Then made him comfortable again with the
rock beneath his head and the wet rag across his
forehead.
By now, we had food ready.
And we had company.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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June 27, 2005
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
You-like
me-probably met a lot of strange, albeit
intriguing people, along the way in radio. And in
media in general. I've heard some rather cute and
some rather outrageous tales and some of these have
included Long John Silver, Weird Beard, Hank Williams,
Huey Meaux. Hey, L. David Moorhead, too, and he was
one of my best friends.
More than likely, you never met Aaron Sternfield. He
worked at Billboard when I first arrived on the scene
March 1964 in New York City. He knew the coin
industry (jukeboxes) well and loved the humor of Joan
Rivers and was very helpful during my early days on
the trade magazine. He hated Lee Zhito, then just
editor of Billboard magazine, and Zhito returned the
favor, yet never fired him. Which I think Zhito could
have easily done. Sternfield, on the other hand, saw
merit in one of my stories about disco music to more
or less force it onto page one of the magazine. My
first page-one story. The story was about some firm
producing records for jukeboxes that segued three
tunes together so that dancers didn't stop twisting
after the proverbial 2:30 minutes to wait for the next
music.
Actually, I liked Aaron Sternfield a lot. Not because
of that story. But because he was a colorful guy with
an energy that almost tossed off sparks and he fit
nobody's norm. Not while I knew him. He certainly
didn't act like the typical New Yorker I met in my
early days in Manhattan. Some of them I wouldn't have
wanted near me during combat. In the army up near the
Blood Red One, my two closest buddies if it came to
combat was an Italian thug from New York who once
pointed out his "business route" for picking pockets
in Times Square and a farmer from Missouri. Aaron
Sternfield, however, was precisely the guy I would
have wanted at my side in combat. In almost any
endeavor requiring courage, strength, and get-it-done
qualities. Really tough! Yes, he was intellectual,
but you would have had to search to find this aspect
in his character. Very bright. Very learned. Good
writer. He'd been in the army and he still carried
that certain swagger of a U.S. Marine. But he
probably wasn't a Marine; he'd probably been in combat
and later with Vietnam we called that kind of alert
tension "tripwire," i.e., he was still in a combat
mode. I worked out with weights in those days; I
still would not have wanted to fight Aaron Sternfield.
Not yesterday and not today.
Fifth Dimension with Aaron
Sternfield looking at copy of SoundMakers, a
magazine I edited for Billboard long before Rolling Stone
appeared.
Sternfield was very knowledgeable about the jukebox industry,
then a
major factor in music record sales.
I took this picture of Aaron Sternfield with the Fifth
Dimension when the group visited the Billboard offices
at 146 W. 46th Street in Manhattan. I think I also
took a picture of Don Ovens, then head of charts, with
the group. The unique aspect of the photo, however,
is not Sternfield with the group, but the magazine in
Sternfield's hands-SoundMakers. It was a pilot
magazine that I partially wrote, quickly edited, and
put together in about three weeks while doing my
regular work on Billboard magazine. The year was
1967. If the magazine had sold better on those
little magazine and newspaper stands in Manhattan,
Billboard intended to make it a monthly. It didn't.
But for the next two years I continued to receive rave
letters, quite a few from overseas.about 200 letters
in all.and I've often wondered "what if." So, the
magazine was before Rolling Stone, but after Crawdaddy
put out by Paul Williams. Not a copy of Crawdaddy in
any way, shape, or form because Hal Cook, publisher of
Billboard, insisted I have an article on Herb Alpert
and also a photo feature of Circle, a group I'd never
heard of and which no one else did either, as it
turned out. So, SoundMakers was diluted. But I think
it was a valid effort for the day and place. And I
still wonder, wonder, wonder.
Aaron Sternfield skied when he had the chance-at least
once a year in Europe on vacation-and stayed in shape
for skiing by walking at top speed to work at 146 W.
46th Street from the apartment he shared with his wife
on the east side of Manhattan. He smoked too damned
much. But so far as I know it never slowed him down.
One skiing trip to Europe, he didn't come back. We
heard he'd gone to work for Kornfeld. Yeah, the guy
who got in trouble later for a lot of missing money.
Don't think Aaron Sternfield would have had anything
to do with the scandal, though. I believe he was
basically honest.
Then, later, I remember the secret service asking me a
lot of questions about Aaron Sternfield; I think he
was applying for a government position somewhere
abroad. I don't know what kind of position.
Personally, I think he would have been successful at
just about anything he wanted to do. As I recall, I
recommended the government hire him quick before he
got away.
I've often wondered what happened to Aaron. Is he
still out there somewhere on some snowy slope going
hell bent for leather?
OTHER MATTERS
Paul Ackerman, left, with
unknown and Jerry Wexler, right, at Jerry's
home in Miami, circa 60s. Note the boat and the channel. Some
people
live rather well in Florida, it appears. A few years later, I
visited
the home of Bill Tanner with Norman Wain and he, too, had a home
on a
waterway. The guy in the middle above, I thought might be Marty
Ostrow, but someone voiced the opinion that it's probably Henry
Stone.
Anyone know for sure?
I have a photo of
record producer Jerry Wexler and
Billboard Music Editor Paul Ackerman and in between
them someone I cannot recall. The picture was taken
in Jerry's backyard; that's Jerry's boat, I think,
behind the men. I thought the picture might be Marty
Ostrow and dropped him a note with a copy of the
picture. Martin Ostrow,
martinostrow@hotmail.com:
"Memreez...from the corners of my mind. It's great to
hear from the old gang. No, that is not me with Jerry
and Paul. I never was at Jerry Wexler's house. I
don't know who that is. I am happy to hear that
you're well and retired. I found retirement torture.
So I became a mediator for the Brooklyn District
Attorney's office for 13 years after I retired from
Rolling Stone. It was a fun volunteer job. But I
took many of the cases home with me, especially those
involving children. So I left in 1998 and learned how
to use a computer in a school in my neighborhood. I
did volunteer work for them for a year. And when they
needed a teacher because the program was growing, they
hired me. I came much cheaper than a young person who
would have had to make a living. The students liked
my style of teaching. Now I teach Basic Word,
PowerPoint, etc. It's fun and a new life for me. I
love it. Stay well. I'll check into your website."
Someone mentioned that the unknown person in the photo
might be Henry Stone.
That was not the only faux pas I made last week. That
photo you saw was not Larry Shaw and Charlie Pride.
It was Larry Scott and Charlie Pride. I felt like
crawling under a cabbage leaf because Mrs. Scott has
been known to drop by Commentary from time to time.
Dave Donahue,
DaveDonahue@clearchannel.com: "Claude,
the internet today means we don't have to wait for
messages in bottles anymore down here in Key Largo.
Just a note about the picture of Charlie Pride,
identified with Larry 'Shaw'. That is I think, Larry
Scott, I don't think I ever knew him as Shaw, maybe he
was. Larry was a very good Truck'n jock on-the-air
in cabs of many trucker's from KLAC on to KWKH in
Shreveport, Louisiana, and then KVOO in Tulsa. We
both worked with one of country radio's greats, Mike
Oatman, when KVOO and WWKH was a part of the Empire
Broadcasting group. Larry, even for a short time
climbed into Bill Mack's shoes, but Bill came back to
WBAP and now also is on XM with his trucking show.
Don't know for sure, but think Larry has make the
conversion to really driving a truck, I understand he
drives for the U S Mail service somewhere down in
Texas. I think I will never forget Larry trucking the
first (then questionable) load of Coors beer from
Denver direct to one of the early Country seminars, at
the old King of the Road, in Nashville, in the 70s
when the beer had not been served east of the
Mississippi."
Good lord! I remember drinking one of those Coors!
Didn't know who brought them to Nashville. People all
over the meeting were hiding Coors here and Coors
there to keep the Liquor Control Board from finding
and confiscating it. Anyway, I wrote Dave that I was
terribly embarrassed. "Guess I really am getting old.
You're absolutely right, of course. Should not have
made this kind of mistake."
And Dave, who is program director of WCTH-FM in
Tavernier, FL, wrote back: "I understand old. I find
it hard to believe this is my 50th year in this biz.
Yeah, I sat down the other day and tried to recall all
the radio stations I've worked at, and could not
remember all of them!!!! I recall things that happened
to me, I can see them clearly, but something fades
about them."
Regarding the item about Jack G. Thayer in Commentary,
Joe Vincent, a former senior vice president of the
Radio Advertising Bureau,
radiojoe30@yahoo.com: "What
a great article on Jack Thayer. I knew him over the
years. I went to radio school in Minneapolis where he
was an instructor (when he was at WLOL, I believe). I
worked in NY for 14 years during the time he was there
and enjoyed a number of lunches and broadcast
functions with him. Brought back a lot of memories."
Burt Sherwood,
bohica1@comcast.net: "You knew you were
going to hear from me. I had the privilege of being
one of three people to eulogize Jack at his Memorial
Service in New York. My son Jason, and daughter Ellen
Lyle could not rest without being there as well. I
had the pleasure of working for him, I had the
pleasure of being in his company for more nights and
days than I can possibly recall. We came to each
other's homes and intertwined our families.he was a
true friend. I had the honor of being called in to
Columbus, Ohio, to be a replacement for him at
Nationwide (couldn't do it as I could not break a
contract...bunch of foolishness on my part). I talk
several times a year to Ed Robalisky who was the owner
of Gear Broadcasting (did so about a weekago) and we
both get lumpy throats when we chat...Jack was the
best of the best...it would take me days to tell all
the great things I knew he did for me and people all
over this planet. He was a great Statesman, a lover
of people, and one of the best friends I ever had. I
miss him badly to this day! He will never be
duplicated...I have to stop now, as I am again misting
up (do all old guys do that?)."
Ted Marvelle, shazam@mvdsl.com:
"I was sorry to miss
the downtown show, but the out-of-town visitor I
mentioned before had her trip delayed just enough to
prevent me, or us from even making the last part of
the show. Such are the ways of post-911
transportation, I guess. I hope you are well. Your
writing indicates you are. I don't know if you are
aware of this source or not, but it is kind of fun,
all about one guys view of the McLendon era."
And Ted mentioned:
http://www.donkeyesonline.com/
If you haven't checked out the website of Don Keyes,
do it right now! I was just reading the chapter Don
wrote on Gordon McLendon's venture into the movies
and, of course, I heard a different reason. Which I'm
certainly not going to mention here. But Don Keyes
was a major, major player in early Top 40 radio. I
interviewed Gordon once in Dallas and Gordon told me
that he thought Don Keyes was the best radio man who
ever worked for him. This might disappoint some of
the others-and there were many very good people who
walked through those radio station doors from time to
time-and some might even argue the point. But still..
I hope the Don Keyes stuff is being preserved
somewhere. It's history. Radio history. I'm trying
to persuade/force an old friend to transfer my
interview with Gordon to CD. Make it available. And,
of course, some of the interviews with Ron Jacobs and
Bill Drake. Again, history that should be preserved.
Birds
The birds expect the morning; the moon yet does not
And quietly hangs a mourning in a sky pale fog besot
But the birds shout out a warning that the sun perhaps
forgot
Its daily duties of dawning on the world God once
wrought.
Fighting the night's chill with hard strides, I yet
must stop and hear
The gossip of hidden birds in ghostly trees; and
wonder what they fear.
- c. hall, April 28, 1983
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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