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"Hill Country"
Chapter
11 of a novel by Claude Hall
When I awoke, it was quite early, but it was Thursday
and I woke up feeling pretty good. Excited even. The
sky was still dark, but a blue-grey rim seemed ready
to leap skyward to the east beyond the mesquites on
the other side of the road. The sun would be up and
about soon.
I shaved at the kitchen sink, rubbed on some shaving
lotion. Fancy stuff left over from my days up north.
A place that these days I thought more and more as no
man's land. Up there, tie and coat. Down here in the
Hill Country even shaving lotion seemed superfluous.
But I thought today might be something special.
And it seemed like a very pleasant day as I drove into
town on the winding farm-to-market road. The road was
paved, but narrow. Barely enough room to pass. At
this time of the morning, however, there wasn't much
traffic. I wondered just where the place was that the
body of Baxter had been found. But that was a
depressing thought, so I shook my head to get it out
of my mind. Of course, what I intended to do this
morning was also a little depressing, I guess. Not to
me. I was excited!
I found the grocery store and parked up the street
where, if I was lucky, I wouldn't be noticed. By now,
the delivery truck from San Antonio would have arrived
and the groceries would have been shelved. I cut off
the engine to my pickup and had a can of Diet Pepsi
from the always handy ice chest. Some breakfast, I'll
admit. But later I would grab a toasted cheese
sandwich at the Dairy Queen. Funny about Dairy
Queens. They were everywhere. Every town had one.
Good thing, too. It was about the only place to eat
in many of the small towns of Texas. I guess if
you're hungry, you were probably pretty happy about
the Dairy Queen.
Guess I was thinking too much. I almost didn't spot
her as she left the grocery store and walked quickly
and with just a slight limp to her car in the parking
area. She wasn't a blonde anymore. Looked like black
from this distance. I shook my head. It was amazing
how women could do that sort of thing.
After she drove off, I waited just long enough so that
the possibility of noticing me was reduced and started
my pickup and followed her home. She lived on the
outskirts of Mason, which isn't a very big place, but
the small frame house was tucked away on a side street
that most people might not have even found. There was
a concrete sidewalk leading up to a porch resting on
concrete blocks about a foot off the ground.
She parked directly on the street, a dirt road, and
got out and went inside with a grocery bag full of, I
suspect, jars of unpasturized Zodiac apple juice. The
screen door slammed behind her.
Some dog about the size of a cat scooted out from
under the porch as I came up the sidewalk and took off
scampering down the street. But maybe it really was a
cat. I was too busy to notice.
I didn't bother to knock. Just opened the screen door
and went inside. I let the screen door close gently
and walked on through the living room. Surprise!
Love Kimbough was sitting at the kitchen table with a
small wooden box. He was even more surprised than me,
though, when he noticed the gun in my hand.
"I'm the spider," I said. "And I'm afraid you've been
caught in my web. Both of you, it appears."
Love Kimbrough carelessly dropped his left hand over
the wooden box as if to protect it.
"Do you know what it means to point a gun at a police
officer?"
"Who cares?" I said. "Anyway, I don't think you're
much of a police officer. Just as your acquaintance
here is not much of a school teacher...that is, if she
really is a school teacher, which I doubt."
But then I realized that Miranda, whatever her real
name was, had certainly taught me a lesson.
"I will have you placed in the deepest jail," Love
Kimbrough said, "and I will see that the key to the
cell is thrown into some trash can in Albuquerque."
"Thanks," I said. "That's very nice of you. I find
it rather pleasant to be suddenly important."
"Important!" he said. His voice was like the snarl of
an animal. The word was barely recognizable.
Isn't it funny! I didn't want this moment to end.
Even though I knew it had to end at some point.
However, at the moment I was enjoying myself
immensely. I suppose that it was because for the
first time I appeared to be in control. This, too,
might have been only an illusion. I was aware of
that. But I didn't care!
Everything was so vivid! The entire kitchen was
sharp, as if an etching. I became aware of the stove,
the sink, the table, Miranda, the view out the window,
the thin covering of dust on the window ledge.
Miranda might be a witch, I don't know, but she
certainly wasn't a good housekeeper.
I pulled a chair out from the table and sat down and
laid my gun, still in my hand, on the table. It was a
dare, of course. I wanted the deputy to make a move
toward the gun on his hip. Because I intended to
shoot him. I felt that I had every right to do so.
That he was, after all, the cause of everything
ill--all of my turmoils--I'd suffered since coming
down here to these rolling hills in the center of
Texas.
However, it was Miranda who made a sudden move. Maybe
she was just reaching for a coffee cup. I don't know.
I shot her.
She was only stunned, of course. Probably knocked
unconscious, too. But the "bullet" flung her out of
her chair and onto the kitchen floor on her back and
it appeared at that instance as if I'd killed her.
The deputy had leaped to his feet in shock. He stood
there looking down at the "body" of Miranda, then he
looked at me as if expecting also to be shot.
Actually, I wasn't in the mood to hurry, but, yes, I
thought I'd tell him.
"This means, of course, that I've got to shoot you,
too," I said. I hoped my voice was casual. I was,
indeed, enjoying this, but I didn't want him to know
just how much.
"Look," he said. "Forget about that jail cell."
"Thank you," I said. "But how about my coins? I see
a box on the table there that looks very familiar.
Giving me my freedom was one thing, giving me the gold
coins, however, seemed to be something entirely
different. I could see that he was trying to think of
a solution to his problem. However, his problem
wasn't my problem.
I shot him, too.
The deputy, I suppose, was in much better condition.
The impact of the slug from my revolver knocked him
backwards in his chair and he fell on the floor, but
was struggling to rise when I shot him again in the
chest.
The gunsmith down in Castroville had been correct.
The bullets in my gun weren't meant to kill people.
But the deputy was going to be awfully sore and quite
distraught for a long, long time. He was holding his
chest and grabbing for breath when I took out a roll
of duct tape from my pocket and bound his hands and
feet.
Then I did the same with Miranda. I also taped her
mouth. Finally, I dragged her into the living room
and left her by the door. Then I did the same with
the limp form of the deputy. By now, he was breathing
a little easier, so I taped up his mouth, too. No
sense disturbing the neighbors.
After I backed my pickup to the porch, I dragged both
the deputy and his girlfriend out and placed them in
the back of my pickup out of sight and closed up the
little door on the cap so their noise probably
wouldn't bother anyone, including me.
Then, just because I'm a pleasant fellow, I took the
bottles of Zodiac apple juice with me. Placed them in
my ice chest to keep them cool. The box of coins, I
placed beside me on the seat of the pickup.
I drove leisurely back through Mason and was soon
rolling along the road out to my lodge. The entire
distance, I was trying to figure out what I was going
to do with the two people I had in the back of my
pickup. Same thing I did with the dynamite, I
thought. And that turned out to be a good idea
because when I pulled over the cattle guard, I noticed
a police car parked by the house, waiting. I didn't
stop. I drove on down to the life oak tree and parked
under the shade. Then I got out and walked back to
the lodge, lugging my ice chest with me. The ice was
probably melted by now. Fortunately, I'd placed two
more trays of water in the refrigerator to freeze. I
didn't have many luxuries in my life at the moment.
Diet Pepsi was about it. So, I might as well have
them cold. I'd had warm Diet Pepsi before. I
preferred them cold.
Sheriff Buster Beeson was sitting in my easy chair
drinking a Diet Pepsi.
"Sorry about busting into your house and stealing a
soda pop out of the refrigerator," he said.
"No problem," I said, dropping down into the canvas
chair. "But now I see where you really picked up that
nick name. You must be good at picking locks."
That only evoked a small chuckle out of him. It was
more of a polite chuckle than a friendly chuckle. But
I had been expecting him to come calling and it didn't
matter now whether he was just polite or friendly.
"I thought I was really good at locks," he said. "But
that one on your cellar door fooled me."
"Sorry about that," I said. "I'll have to get a
cheaper lock. Is that what you came out for? To look
in my cellar?"
"Yep," he said. "Got a tip that you kept a whole
bunch of things in a trunk down there."
"The tip was wrong, Mr. Beeson. I don't keep anything
down there. Except for the things I told you about
taking out of there, the trunk is just as someone else
left it. I don't know how long ago those things were
placed in there, but it was a long, long time ago.
This is just my opinion, of course. I really don't
know much about those things at all."
"Could we go take a look?"
"Sure," I said. "But could I rest a couple of minutes
first? I've been fairly busy this morning."
So, we sat there a while. I had a Diet Pepsi from the
chest. It was still fairly cool. Just cool enough.
I drank that. And we talked about the weather and my
crops.
"That corn you've planted looks pretty good," Beeson
said.
"I'm looking forward to eating some good roast'n'ears
real soon now," I said.
"Be glad to come out and help," he said.
"I'll let you know," I said.
Finally, we went down to the cellar and Beeson took a
flashlight and looked into the trunk.
"Crazy uniform," he said after several minutes of
prowling in the trunk.
"Got to find out what war that came from one of these
days," I said.
"You think it belonged to a soldier?"
"What else?" I said.
He looked all around the cellar. Finally he stopped
searching. I was standing all this time near his left
elbow. He kept an eye on me from time to time. I
didn't intend to do anything. I was just curious
about why he was searching my cellar. I wondered what
he was hunting. Well, actually, I had a good guess
about what he was searching for. Just wondered, more
or less, if he was going to tell me.
"Guess it isn't here," he said.
"What isn't here?"
"What I was searching for," he said. "Guess the tip
was wrong."
"Guess so," I said.
I followed him to his car. He hesitated just briefly
before opening the door.
"Checked your gun in the nightstand by your bed.
Hasn't been fired."
"No, that gun hasn't," I said. "But don't you sort of
need a warrant for prowling around like that?"
"What for?" he asked.
"Right," I said.
After the sheriff left, I remembered that I hadn't
gone for that toasted cheese at the Dairy Queen.
Forgot. Too busy. So, I placed the bottles of apple
juice and the rest of the cans of Pepsi from my ice
chest in the refrigerator and poured the melted ice,
now water, on my row of corn. The corn was already up
about shoulder high. As Beeson had said, it was
looking good.
Then I prepared myself a can of soup and ate it from
the pan while sitting in the easy chair. If I kept
having visitors like I was having, it might do to open
a hotdog stand on my verandah. That seemed like a
fairly funny idea to me.
After eating and washing the pan and spoon, I wandered
down to my pickup and took the gun and the wooden box
of coins up to the lodge. I cleaned the gun and
reloaded it. Then I placed the box of coins up near
the book in the ceiling of the lodge.
Later, I worked in my garden for a while. No matter
how you try, you can't keep all of the weeds out, but
it looked pretty good after a couple of hours of work.
For a moment or two, I thought about walking down to
the swimming hole and washing up. But I didn't want
to leave my good friends alone in the back of the
pickup, so I read at "Tarzan" and just fiddled around
the lodge until late afternoon.
I thought about tying Miranda, if that was her name,
and her boyfriend, deputy Love Kimbrough, up in the
live oak tree down the slope of the hill by the
meadow. That idea amused me. It fit in with the old
legend about old man Baxter, the original owner of the
farm. He was found dead up in that tree, they said.
But then I realized that was a bit messy. Too, a few
days ago I'd decided not to kill anymore people.
Maybe something I'd done had resulted in the death of
old Johnny Jack Hayes. And Bill Baxter, too. I
didn't know exactly how or why yet, of course. But I
hadn't actually killed either one of them. And,
though Miranda and Kimbrough down there comprised a
rather serious problem for me at the moment, I didn't
think I would kill them.
So, I loaded up my ice chest, placing one of the
bottles of apples juice in the chest along with my
Diet Pepsi. I placed these behind the passenger seat
in my pickup. And the book in the seat beside me.
Because I'd been doing some pretty good thinking while
chopping weeds in my garden. Those gold coins were
probably worth a lot of money. But a society that has
separated from humanity--assuming, of course, that old
Johnny Jack Hayes was correct--probably wasn't too
interested in money. I figured they were actually
hunting for the book. Maybe they'd been hunting it
for a long, long time. I didn't know why. It was
just an idea that had come to me.
I felt pretty good. Thought about playing some music
on the radio. But, no, the silence was much better.
Of course, it's never silent in the Hill Country.
There's always the sound of birds, the noise of
driving, the beat of your own heart.
The road was there. I thought that was interesting.
But, of course, I had to stop the pickup and get out
and roll aside some of the boulders. There were more
boulders now than before. Or was that just my
imagination? That idea caused me to almost laugh.
For the road was probably just my imagination. First
it was here and then it wasn't here and the old farm
lady up the road said it had been plowed up years ago.
Nevertheless, I appreciated the road. I'd planned to
drive over the plowed field and then through the
pasture. Tearing down a fence or two if I had to.
Now I didn't have to bother.
I realized anyway that it was probably a mythical
road. Mythical roads and come and go and wind hither
and yon and either take you there or take you
elsewhere even if you didn't necessarily wish to go.
Since this was my last trip to Sandstone, I merely
hoped that it would lead there and that it would help
me get back.
The village or hole in the road or whatever you wanted
to call it hadn't changed since my last visit. I
wondered if it had ever changed since the day it was
sealed up from the outer world and its citizens had
disappeared. Probably not.
The sun was just setting off to the west beyond the
hills. Shadows would soon be falling away from the
buildings, consumed by night. Everything was very
quiet except for me as I stopped the pickup on the
cobblestoned street and cut off the engine.
Deputy Love Kimbrough hadn't fared well in the back of
my pickup. I was going to have to clean it out
tomorrow with soap and water. My fault. I should
have known better. But I couldn't worry about that at
the moment.
I placed them both sitting on the sidewalk against the
side of a building. When I took the duct tape off of
Kimbrough, he began screaming profanities at me and so
I put the tape back. He continued to squirm about,
trying to escape. He also tried to kick me with his
feet. But I just moved a little further away from
him.
Miranda was quite different. I took the tape off her
mouth and gave her some apple juice.
"Zodiac," I said, "the kind you like."
"Thank you," she said. "I was very thirsty."
"I can imagine," I said pleasantly as I squatted on my
heels in front of her. "Once, I was thirsty. I don't
quite remember when. My memory hasn't been working
too well lately. I have the strangest feeling that
it's something I'm trying to forget. So, it must have
been a rather bad experience. At the moment, I don't
mind because I can't remember it."
"Where are we?"
"Sandstone, of course," I said.
"You're going to let us go, aren't you?"
"No," I said.
Her face showed absolutely no emotion. She looked up
and down the street.
"It's getting dark," she said.
"Yes, it is," I said. Then, "Are you really a blonde?
Just curious. You don't have to answer."
"Sort of," she said. "When I want to be a blonde, I'm
a blonde."
"May I compliment you on your demeanor? Most women
would be crying or screaming."
"I'm a witch. Remember?"
"Oh, yes. I almost forgot. So, you're quite serious
about it then. This witchery modus operandi. Sorry."
"It's okay," she said. "I felt like crying once or
twice. This tape is very uncomfortable. I'm stiff.
I don't think I could walk even if you set me free."
"Well, cheer up," I said. "They may let you go."
"They?"
"Whoever," I said. "I don't really know who they are.
Or what they are. You, of course, will discover all
of that tonight. I think so. Yes, tonight."
Her eyes grew wide. I had not remembered just how
beautiful her eyes were.
"What they are?" she asked softly.
"Yes," I said. "They come out at night."
"I think I'm going to scream after all," she said.
"Might as well," I said. "Would you like another
drink of apple juice first?"
She shook her head.
I placed the bottle near her. Then rose to my feet
and went to my pickup and got out the book and brought
it to her. I sat it down near her bottle of Zodiac
apple juice.
"Please tell them," I said, "...that is, if you get
the chance...that I didn't realize just how important
this book was and I hope they accept as a gift from me
with my apologies."
I waved goodbye and turned around in the street and
drove home. Thankfully, the road was still there. I
was not really happy with roads that sometimes weren't
there. But, well, I don't guess it mattered much now.
A few minutes later, I reach the lodge and parked the
pickup out by the well. First, I threw a bucket of
soapy water in the back of my pickup and took a broom
and swept it out. Then I threw another bucket of
water to sort of rinse things pretty good.
Afterwards, I sat on my verandah for a while listening
to the all of the night sounds. There were many.
Birds, of course.
So, I had a check for more than $16,000. Good. And I
had the coins. Before I went to bed that night, I
wrote Bill Baxter in New York, mentioned that I was
John Smith, and asked him to sell the enclosed coin to
a dealer for me and find out its history, if any. I
wrapped up the coin in a piece of paper and taped it
at the bottom of my letter, folded the letter,
addressed an envelope, put the letter in and sealed
the envelope. Only took a few minutes. Wouldn't it
be humorous, I thought, if the Bill Baxter who knew
John Smith was actually a descendant of the Baxter
who'd collected these coins.
I replaced the small wooden box high in the ceiling of
the lodge. Stared at it for a while. The history of
those gold coins was more than likely quite
fascinating. But I was going to miss my book. Guess
I should have tried to read it one more time. Of
course, I doubt if I could have ever understood it.
What a pity. Probably a very fascinating book.
Sitting there in the dark, stars shining like diamonds
in the clear night air, I thought I heard a
rattlesnake down beyond the tree. You never get over
that sound. Perhaps a peacock or two would be okay
after all for the place. Maybe later, a good dog.
Not one that would chase rabbits or deer, though.
Just an ordinary dog that would look pleasant on the
verandah and bark at cars passing by.
I slept late the next morning. In fact, I barely got
to the post office in Mason about the time it opened.
I first mailed the note to Bill Baxter. Then I went
to the bank and opened an account in the name of John
Smith. The clerk seemed to already know who I was and
all about me, but asked me to show him my driver's
license anyway. Did some shopping at the furniture
store. The clerk, however, had no idea where I might
find a peacock. Finally ended up buying another easy
chair for guests which I could also use by the
fireplace. A handyman helped me load it in back of
the pickup. But when I got home I had trouble with
it. It was too heavy. Worked up a good sweat getting
that chair onto the verandah. I decided I would leave
it by the fireplace all of the time and any guests I
had, including Beeson, would have to fight me for the
easy chair on the verandah.
I expected Beeson at any moment. But he didn't show
up until late evening. Fortunately, I saw him coming
and was able to reach the easy chair on the verandah
first. He was left to settle in the canvas chair. He
stared at the chair for a moment.
"Anyone ever tell you that your name wasn't Jon
Beery?"
"Lots of people," I said. "It's a professional name.
Up north, everyone called me that so far as I know."
"Mind if I call you John Smith?"
"No. Of course not."
"Well, I thought I'd come over and tell you that I
found what I was looking for yesterday."
"Good," I said.
"It was the murder weapon," Beeson said.
"In that case, I really glad it didn't show up here,"
I said.
"You'd never guess where we found it," he said.
"Guess not," I said. "Would you like a Diet Pepsi or
perhaps a glass of apple juice?"
"The juice," he said.
I went into the refrigerator and poured the sheriff a
glass of cold apple juice and took it to him.
"This is good apple juice," I said. "A friend of mine
drinks it all the time."
"Thanks," he said. "A dog actually found the sword.
This little mutt pulled it out from under a porch. It
was wrapped in paper. Heavy sword. Don't know how
that mutt managed to do it."
"Well!" I said, but not very loud. He was playing
some kind of game because I'd wrapped that sword in an
old burlap bag--careful to avoid leaving any
fingerprints and also careful not to smear any that
might presently be on the sword--and tied the bag with
a piece of string. "I'm glad the sword turned up,
sheriff, because I've changed my mind about giving it
to a museum. Think I'd like to keep it."
"I guess we can return it to you after the trial," he
said. "You may have to show up as a witness. That
is, if there actually is a trial."
He sipped at his apple juice and I sipped at my Diet
Pepsi. The day hadn't yet cooled down. The soda pop
was quite good.
"What do you mean if there actually is a trial?"
"Well," the sheriff said, "I don't know this
particular aspect of the law--the nutsy part--all that
well. But I think it's pretty tough to convict
someone of murder who's crazy."
"Crazy?"
"This guy--a raving maniac--wandered onto the road
that runs by your house last night. Further out from
here a few miles. Someone finally stopped and picked
him up in the dark. Got him up to the hospital. He
was screaming and yelling all kinds of things and,
heck, he may still be yelling his head off. I was up
to the hospital today for a while. Hard to make sense
out of what he was saying."
I pondered that information for a while. I realized
that the sheriff was probing...hoping I'd make some
kind of mistake that would implicate me. Finally, I
just said,
"I hope this wasn't a good friend of yours."
"My deputy," said Sheriff Beeson.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"He kept shouting your name," he said.
"Now that is very odd," I said.
"Yes, I think so, too. Something about being shot and
kidnapped and held captive and then dumped at some
weird place on the prairie. And people dressed in
black that spoke a funny language."
"That is very, very strange," I said. "My gun is
still in the drawer of the bedstand if you'd like to
check to see if it's been fired."
"Why bother, eh? He had the sword. I work on the
premise--most of the time--that if a little bit is
nutsy, the rest is probably nutsy."
"Poor guy," I said. "I wonder what these people
dressed in black looked like."
"He didn't really see much. It was totally dark out
there. Just some starlight to see by."
"And the place where all of this happened?"
"Sandstone. He kept saying something about Sandstone.
But he was crying when he said it and you couldn't
make much sense out of it."
"What a shame," I said.
"Yes," Sheriff Beeson said. "There isn't any place
called Sandstone around here. Old wives' tales about
such a place. Don't know anyone, though, that has
ever seen it."
"I've heard some of those stories," I said.
"You have?"
"Yes. Johnny Jack Hayes talked about the Cedar
Breakers, as he called them, the Masons, the Mex-Texs,
Cajuns."
"What would the Masons have to do with this?"
"He suggested, I think, something about a splinter
group. The broke off from the Masons at the old fort
here long before the Civil War. A group that sort of
went underground. Yes, I think that's what he meant."
"Never heard that story," Sheriff Beeson said.
"Well, it was sort of a wild story anyway," I said.
"Tell me about Sandstone," the sheriff suddenly
demanded. His voice had changed from pleasant to
something more like a file being used on granite.
"You said it doesn't exist."
"Ah, but the other night when my deputy brought me out
here, you insisted that it did, indeed, exist. In
fact, you said you'd been there."
"Oh, right!" I said. "That was when I said something
about your deputy Kimbrough having a sister. I had
just come home from a long walk out in the prairie.
Hot, thirsty, tired. Probably suffering from heat
stroke a bit. Delusions, you know?"
"Is that so?"
"I think so?"
"My deputy said you were crazy. As I recall, you
claimed he had a sister."
"Did I? How absurd, of course. Probably I made a
mistake. Thought his girlfriend was his sister. Like
I said, I was virtually overcome with fatigue."
"And you're sane now?"
It was a flat statement from the sheriff. I sort of
gathered my mental condition was still a matter of
conjecture. But that was okay. Who knows?
"That, I do not know," I told him. "I also once
thought that your deputy had a wife. And two
children. Strange about those things. Wonder why I
thought all of that."
"Well, there's certainly no doubt about my deputy. He
keeps talking of the Baxter gold, moving shadows, and
you."
"Poor man," I said.
"You said that earlier."
"What else is there to say?" I asked.
"The only other question, then," he said, "is who you
really are."
"John Smith, of course."
"That may be what your driver's license says, but I'm
not entirely convinced of it."
"Well, we'll know for sure in a few days," I said.
"We will?"
"Most definitely," I said.
"Keep me posted," he said.
He wasn't satisfied with my answer and, to tell the
truth, neither was I. But eventually he departed
without ever telling me what I really wanted to know:
How Miranda had fared. And, of course, I couldn't ask
for fear of complexing the entire situation most
severely.
Why I wanted to know something like this was a mystery
to me. We certainly had nothing in common. Anyway, I
had other matters with which to be concerned. And
nothing really to do except tend my garden.
Several days later, the corn ripened and I had a flood
of roast'n'ears coming at me. I gathered up a grocery
sack full and took them into town and stopped by the
sheriff's office.
He introduced me to his sister, a very nice-looking
blonde with the biggest blues eyes! Her name was
Miranda Beeson, he said. I said hello and that it was
nice to meet her. She said thank you and thank you
for the corn.
"She does love corn," Sheriff Beeson said.
"You run out," I told her, "just drop by the old
Baxter place." I gave her the directions.
"Thank you again," she said.
"How's your deputy doing?" I asked.
"Not too good, I'm afraid," said Beeson. "But it
appears as if you can take your sword back, if you
wish."
He pointed to a shelf in the corner of his office.
And there was something wrapped in paper and tied with
string. I thought that was rather interesting. I
took the package and held it under my left arm.
"You won't be needing it, then?"
"Not too likely," Beeson said. "One of the doctors
has taken my former deputy down to Austin. He's
probably going to be there quite a while. In fact, I
sort of doubt they're going to let him out. Thus, not
much need for a trial. But it turns out he may have
merely done the state a big favor...not murder per
se."
"Now you've got me confused," I said.
"Well, the guy who was killed wasn't really named
Baxter, but something else and he was a close friend
to my deputy back a few years ago. It appears they
got into an argument over gold."
"Gold? I heard there's no gold in Texas. I was told
that by a pretty good source. Someone I liked and
trusted immensely."
"Yeah. I haven't figured that one out yet," Beeson
said. "But Love, my former deputy, kept shouting
something about gold even as we put him in the car, in
a straight jacket naturally, to take him down to
Austin. I haven't the foggiest notion about what he
meant."
"Well, you'll probably figure it out one of these
days," I said.
When I left the sheriff's office, after saying goodbye
to both Beeson and his sister, I drove over to the
post office and picked up my mail. There was a letter
from William G. Baxter, esq., Manhattan. Inside was a
check for $600,000 and a typewritten letter. The
check looked good. From a coin collector on Madison
Avenue in New York City. I was rather surprised by
the check. So was the clerk at the bank. He stared
at it for a while before asking me to endorse it.
I asked him to open a savings account for me and that
took a few minutes. I had him place $100,000 in
savings and the rest in my checking account.
"That much?"
"Yes," I said.
That same day, I bought the rest of the land on the
old Baxter place, including the area with my swimming
hole and the hill where there was a very strange cave
and quite a few acres hither and yon just for the sake
of privacy. I asked about the pasture land out west
of there and was told it probably belonged to the
state. I told the real estate agent to let me know if
that land ever went on the market and he said he would
do so.
That afternoon, I went swimming in what was now
definitely my swimming hole. Out there, sprawled on a
rock, I read the letter from my attorney, William
Baxter. He said he had no problem selling the coin
and the coin collector wondered if Baxter's client had
other rare coins that might be for sale. The coin
dated back before the time of Christ. A Roman coin.
In mint condition. Baxter also mentioned that the
divorce was final and he would be mailing me the
papers soon.
Funny thing is that I had never counted the coins.
But it appears that if Sandstone ever came up for
sale, I would probably be able to buy it. In a few
days, I thought I would ask the real estate agent to
check on all of the farms and ranches out that
direction near Sandstone and offer the owners a bid
just in case.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
January 2, 2006
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Two of my favorite people on this
earth--Gary Owens, left, and Jack G. Thayer, right. Both
extremely nice people...always willing to help. A great portion
of Gary's career was as a very popular radio personality on KMPC,
Los Angeles, during its heyday, but he was the announcer as well
on the popular "Laugh In" television show, did commercial
voiceovers, voice tracks for cartoon series, etc. He's still
around. Hanging out on the inside mountain of the San Fernando
Valley in Los Angeles. And probably still playing basketball on
Sundays (I played with him for years). Jack, of course, died
several years ago. He once worked as a disc jockey in the
Cleveland area, but rose to become a radio station general
manager, then head of the Nationwide radio chain and then became
president of NBC Radio. Great public speaker. I heard him talk
six or seven times; he always received a standing ovation.
Somewhere in this house, I still have a copy of his speech. It
wasn't the speech that earned him those standing ovations
because it was merely about God, motherhood and apple pie. Jack
Thayer, take my word for it, was something else! A gifted man!
Quite a few people knew Jack Thayer, but whether you knew him
personally or not, you lost a good friend when he died. All of
us did.
LETTERS FROM A STRANGE PLACE
A met a radio guy in Oklahoma who knew me. He
remarked: "What in hell are you doing here?" At
times while there-August 1982-July 1984--I pondered
that very question myself! Basically, I went to
Phillips University because of William M. Randle Jr.
He recommended, perhaps insisted, that I obtain a
master's degree. Work there in public relations and
take courses at night and on Saturdays. Not tell
anyone. Just do it. He once described a college
campus as a bowl of Jello. You push here and it
wriggles over there. Bill Randle was, without
question, one of the brightest people I ever met. And
probably the most gifted. And he knew academics!
Akin somewhat to nuclear fission if not also nuclear
fusion.
Bill Randle, for those of you who're lately to radio,
was a radio legend. Renown! However, few knew the
real Bill Randle and there are things about the man I
will not discuss even now. The first time I met him
(circa mid-60s) was at a rooftop swimming pool of a
Manhattan hotel (I think the meeting was set up by Don
Graham, a record promotion person). We swam. Talked.
Had a sandwich. Showered. He left for his daily
radio show at WCBS radio station, from which he flew
back to Cleveland to do his daily radio show on WERE.
He looked like some Greek god. And probably was.
There were not a lot of people around who knew he
already had one Ph.D. and four master's degrees,
including two from Columbia University. A few years
later, while Jim LaBarbara chauffeured Bill Randle and
myself around Cincinnati, I learned that he'd produced
numerous No. 1 singles (including the Crewcuts), was a
music publisher, drove sports cars in races, was a
pilot, ran guns during the Six-day War, promoted a
concert with Elvis on the kid's first venture out of
the South in his red suit days and later was the first
ever to introduced Elvis on TV, was a personal friend
of movie producer John Huston, Lena Horne and her
husband, etc., etc.
Anyway, Bill came to Phillips University to teach a
few courses while he actually concentrated on studying
for a law degree at Oklahoma City University School of
Law. I drove him down there a few times while
checking out the 90-mile route. Yes, he later
obtained the degree and I was one of the people who
wrote a letter of recommendation when he passed the
bar in Ohio.
And I eventually earned my own merit badge in the
academic world. The day I walked across the stage to
accept my master's degree, the jaw of the president of
Phillips University fell on the floor! As I said,
Bill Randle was a very wise man! Really knew his
Jello.
Until that point when I actually earned my degree,
times were rough in Enid for the Halls. All of the
Halls. John was in law school at Santa Clara, CA.
Darryl was just about to enter Pepperdine. Andy was
still in high school. I thought a couple of the
letters (below) that I wrote back in those days might
be of interest to you. Yes, I realize that the
letters I received would be of greater interest.
Maybe I'll run across some of them one of these days.
1 March 1984
Jimi Fox
P.O. Box 3262
Manhattan Beach, CA 90266
Dear Jimi,
GREAT to hear from you!
This morning, as I edited on a 37-page course design
for "Radio Broadcasting II," I scanned the materials
you sent me. Very impressive! But then, Jimi, you've
always accomplished things with class, whether it was
a promotion kit on Fox & Fox Media Consultancy or the
work you did for KTNQ or your work for
Phonogram/Mercury Records.
I consider it a great pleasure to know you.
In a short while, I've got to gain access to the IBM
Display Writer (word processor) and correct the three
or four typographical errors I've located in my course
design. At 3 p.m., I've got a meeting with Dr. Russ
Drumright to turn the "paper" in. The "paper" is
based on the class that I taught here last spring.
I'm hoping I'll get a good grade on this project. The
students that I taught have all done well-one is
programming a local AM station, two others are in
sales, one is with KOCO-TV in Oklahoma City, another
is a graduate assistant (teacher) at Wichita State.
But that's merely the practical aspects; the academic
side is much more complex, i.e., graphing out
precisely the details of teaching, course by course.
I honestly love teaching, though. Yesterday, I had a
student write some announcements, advised her on
rewriting them, then we did a beeper from the campus
to KGWA and last night I hear them on the air. It's
gratifying to have that sort of thing happen.
The legendary Bill Randle, of course, is head of
communications here. I don't see much of him these
days. He's working on a law degree at Oklahoma City
University in Oklahoma City and I'm finishing up my
master's degree April 29 and I'm in those last-minute
throes on my master's "extended paper," which is even
more work than a mere 37-page course design!
Barbara and I are thinking, however, that once I get
the degree we might began to scout around for a
full-time teaching situation somewhere. Oral Roberts
University in Tulsa has all-as-much offered me a
situation there.but I'll have to wait and see, I
suppose. Teaching jobs at the university level are
quite a bit different from radio jobs. Professors are
usually hired on 10-month deals via a letter of
agreement. And you'll find this difficult to believe,
but if they are not going to be renewed for the coming
academic year, they're usually notified about Dec. 15
and have until the following August to look for
another position at another university before their
pay stops. One professor who was not renewed here,
for example, will be teaching all of this semester and
some summer courses as well (you get paid extra for
teaching in the summer at most universities).
Besides only working 10 months a year, professors also
have a week off over the Christmas holidays and at
mid-semester breaks. As a person who used to work
72-hour weeks during 14 years at Billboard, this is
like being retired!
I, of course, am director of information more than a
professor. In fact, there's only one thing lower on
the academic totem pole than an adjunct assistant
professor and that's instructor. But I don't mind the
"dirty word smear" of adjunct, I continue to plow
right along. The honest truth is that I make a better
salary (not by much, though) than several Ph.D.s on
campus.
The only problem with the academic world, that I can
see, is the low pay. We really had to tighten our
belts in order to come here. And Enid, Oklahoma, is
not exactly paradise.it's ALL on the wrong side of the
tracks. But Barbara and I believe that the degree
will be worth all of the "dues" that we're paying at
this time. I sell an article now and then in order to
pay bills.
Regarding "Who's Who in Radio," I've been making
tremendous progress! As you know, I'd registered the
term a long time ago and just recently obtained a
waiver (for safety's sake) from Marquis Who's Who Inc.
Meanwhile, I've been inputting information about
radio people into a computer and have an enormous
file. Shortly before Christmas, I finally produced
the first hard copy, which I presented to L. David
Moorhead as a Christmas present. So, he has the first
and only copy of the First Edition. I plan to produce
copies for Jack Thayer, Chuck Blore, and Casey Kasem
within the next few weeks, but since it takes
six-to-eight hours per copy to produce at this time by
my present methods, I'm in a holding pattern as a
publisher. However, Darwin Lamm wants to print it for
me. And later this year, we may put out the first
"printed" copy, per se.
Besides work on WWR, I've also begun a new book and
I've got about a fourth of it written.
So, things have been busy in Enid. But my major goal
is the degree. Going back to college was not easy, at
first. Sometimes, even now, it jars me to have to do
things the academic way when I know better. But I've
adjusted. Barbara actually hates Enid. I just don't
like it very much. We will get a "breather" from the
city come May when we drive to Los Angeles to attend
the graduation of my older boy at San Diego State.
That will be a fun trip.
This past Christmas, of course, we spent with
Moorhead. He cooked a phenomenal Christmas dinner;
gourmet! The man is amazing.
By the way, I've applied for a teaching situation in
Los Angeles, but there's usually 250-500 applications
per job in the college world.so I'm not counting on
getting it. But wouldn't it be great if I were back
there? There are a lot of things that it's very
difficult to accomplish while living in Enid. In Los
Angeles, everything is possible.
Congratulations on the LAB; it sounds very
interesting. And I wish you all the best, Jimi.
The above was written in Enid, OK. Barbara and I
lived at 1802 E. Elm. I did get maybe a thousand
radio people onto that IBM file. Don't know what the
other book might have been.
Just FYI, I was one of the first to do a master's
paper on a word processor of any kind, though I did
run across a professor later who'd written his
dissertation on IBM computer cards.
Regardless, the academic world was not about to let a
Johnny-come-lately enter their domain so easily. My
mentor on the master's extended paper the day I turned
it in wanted me to take some material here and some
material there and place them in a separate chapter.
Retyping that paper on an IBM Correcting Selectric
would have taken days upon days! Very long days.
However, I went to the IBM Display Writer (he didn't
even know such an animal existed), separated the
designated material out, wrote a couple of transition
paragraphs and printed the new version out in a couple
of hours and walked over and dropped it, finished, on
his desk. He almost had a heart attack.
I also wrote Bill Stewart a few times and this is one
of the letters that survives. Just FYI, I invited
Bill Stewart up to the university once or twice and he
appeared on a panel with Bill Randle and a local radio
man. One of the funniest things that happened was
Bill spinning a yarn of Weird Beard and Kent Burkhart,
but after a few minutes, he wanted me to cut off the
cassette machine; which I did; I still cry about not
having all of the details on tape. Great story!
Funny! Bill Stewart also talked at a radio conference
I organized and conducted for Dr. Tom (Tommy Carl)
Durfey at Oral Roberts University. L. David Moorhead,
en route to California, came by and also talked to the
students that day. Dr. Durfey was a great person.
Engineer mostly. He delivered to my home in
Brockport, NY, a videotape he'd produced called "The
History of Radio, the History of Television."
Probably aren't many copies around. Maybe one at Oral
Roberts University.and maybe not. Durfey interviewed
the first weather man, the first disc jockey, etc. One
of the early guys in Pittsburgh. Great, great
videotape.
17 January 1984
Bill Stewart
9462 Amberton Parkway
Dallas, TX 75231
Dear Bill,
I just received this map regarding our speaking
engagement Jan. 28 and I'm forwarding a copy to you.
We will be in room 205-6 of the TCU Student Center.
You are Marlene are also invited to the luncheon,
courtesy of AERho. It will follow the 11 a.m.
session, as you'll note on the schedule here.
Too, you and Marlene are also invited to the wine and
cheese party Friday night. I understand this will be
in one of the rooms in the downtown Hyatt (which is
where I think Barbara and I are booked to stay).
I, of course, will be at the party in order to mingle
(there might be some professors there amidst the
students).
As for Saturday afternoon, your wife and my wife had
talked at one time about going to a museum in Fort
Worth. I might ought to stay and catch the afternoon
speakers, depending.
My plans, currently, are to get down to Fort Worth
about noon Friday and maybe visit with some professors
at TCU, then go back to the hotel until time for the
party.
P.S.-Still haven't received the dupe of the photo.
But SOON!
22 February 1984
Bill Stewart
9462 Amberton Parkway
Dallas, TX 75231
Dear Bill,
I'm enclosing the materials that I borrowed, including
the photo, which, finally, the photographer duped for
me. I'm sorry that it took so long, but if and when I
ever get the book written on public
relations/promotion, I'd like to use the photo.
Matter of fact, I'd like to one day pick up a copy of
one of the newspaper stories to also use as an
illustration in the book. It would lend a lot more
validity to the entire situation.
And also a newspaper clipping about the promotion you
did in New Orleans with the record.
Right now, the "book" that I'd planned on promotion
and PR will have to go on the back burner. First,
I've got a couple of long reports to write. Second,
the university is selling the IBM Display Writer. It
will be gone in about two more weeks. Thus, I've only
got a few days left in which to pull off a hard copy
from floppy discs of "Who's Who in Radio" and my
master media file and some other odds and ends.
This selling of the IBM Display Writer is sort of a
disaster for me. I didn't have much access to it, but
I made excellent use of it when I did. It has been a
lifesaver for addressing envelopes, etc., etc.
Well, such is life.
There's not much else going on here right now. I
never see Randle any more. I had planned to drop by
his 10 a.m. class this morning, but the president
wants me to go over to the old communications building
and look at it. So, the pleasure of sitting in one
Randle's class will have to wait.
This afternoon, I've got some press releases to crank
out and I need to start a project about a course
design. So, there's never time.
Now's your book coming along? You should be half
finished with the first draft by now.
I wrote David Moorhead a few days ago and described
the activities at TCU. It really went over well, in
my opinion. You make an excellent statesman for
radio. And a statesman should have a book. Last
week, I got a phone call from a student at William
Patterson College in Wayne, NJ; he'd somehow tracked
me down and just wanted to talk about the book. For a
class project that he was working on. It seems that
the copy of the book in the library had been checked
out. And he was desperate for information.
About a week ago, incidentally, Bobby Vee called from
Sauk Rapids. Said he was appearing at a car show in
Tulsa and would leave tickets at the door. So,
Barbara and I and Andy cranked up the little Rabbit
and went over there. Tommy Roe went on first. Looks
great. Like Kristofferson. Has a beard. Freddie
Cannon was next. And Bobby Vee came on about 5 p.m.
and knocked the socks off the crowd of about
1,000-1,500 standing about the stage in this huge hall
filled with customs and hot rods. His biggest score
was with "Lollipop," the song that he used to sing to
Andy and his daughter Ginni when they were younger.
The audience knew the lyrics to that and the other
songs. Amazing!
Later, we went over to a nearby hotel for coffee and
soup. Bobby said that he and Cannon and Roe are
constantly working. They sing the old songs. All,
generally, the kind that people used to twist to.
Crowd eats them up. All ages boogie!
In my letter to David, I suggested that if he has an
AM that isn't doing too well, he ought to try Fun
Radio and play mostly those old twisters. Mix in, of
course, a few similar songs of today. Stay away from
slow songs or ballads or anything even remotely down.
Keep a station cooking with fun jocks who can talk,
fun contests, tight format. Might be interested to
see what happens.
Radio around here is basically depressing. Nothing
going on! And I've just realized that the jocks don't
say anything and the music is down without something
to bring it up; though, it's probably just depressing
innately.
I can't stand to listen to dull, depressing radio. I
was something to cheer me up.
Well, guess I'd better get back to work. Press
releases don't go away; they just lie there on my desk
waiting to be written.
The "photo" mentioned above was of a legendary
promotion at KLIF in Dallas.the kind that later became
against the law. I still have it on my laptop.
Regarding the "record" mentioned above, see "This
Business of Radio Programming." A historic New
Orleans promotion. Bill had all of the news stories,
etc. Sharon Sharpe, his daughter, has been thinking
about doing a book on Bill.
23 February 1984
Jack G. Thayer
Vice President/General Manager
WNEW-AM
655 Third Ave.
New York, NY 10017
Dear Jack,
Congratulations!
Just saw your name in the Feb. 27 issue of Newsweek.
I'll bet it's nice to be famous.
But there were really some fun days when WNEW-AM was
playing Sinatra the first time around. The station
used to toss parties for ad reps at places like the
Blue Angel and Basin Street East and Willie would host
taped shows of Sammy Davis Jr., Sinatra, Tony Bennett
and the station would broadcast these shows a few days
later. I wonder if any of those shows are still in
the vaults; they would be absolutely as good today as
they were then.
I sat in with Willie one day and watched him do his
show. He seems to be a little older now in the photo
in Newsweek. It was only 15-18 years ago.
One evening, Barbara and I were invited to a birthday
party thrown for Willie at the Rainbow Grill. What do
you give a man who has everything? One of the gifts
was a bottle of champagne as tall as he was; another
was a fold-up motorscooter. It is not true that Kluge
offered to give him WNEW but he turned it down for tax
reasons.
Again, my sincerest congratulations. Newsweek!
One of the other "projects" I did while attending
Phillips University was a book on Metromedia. For a
course I took under Bill Randle. Still have it.
George Duncan, then president of Metromedia, had his
secretary send me inside information, including stock
reports, etc., on the firm and I wrote personal
reports on the people I knew who worked there and had
worked there. Mostly, the book was just to show the
importance of radio to John L. Kluge's great wealth.
L. David Moorhead wanted to see that book in the worse
way. But I was always a bit leery about showing it to
him. Because I would have never got it back. I later
sent that information about David, however, to his
local widow and she called threatening to sue me. I
evidently referred to her somewhere in the stuff that
I sent as a waitress. Actually, I sent it for her son
Andrew's benefit; not her, per se. I also sent
David's daughter Tricia a copy. So she'd have it for
her two daughters. Don't know if she got it or not.
Snailmail. It's sort of a pity, but "This Business of
Radio Programming" is about all of the history that
many people in radio are ever going to get. Many
deserved a vast deal more. And better. Instead,
forgotten. Or never known. A "Who's Who in Radio"
would have been great. I ran across a website once
listing guys. George Wilson wasn't mentioned.
Obviously, the guy doing the website didn't know
radio. I emailed him a note. Don't know what
happened. Anyway, he wanted a fee to be mentioned.
OTHER MATTERS
Next week: Jimmy Rabbitt.
CNN throws me another scare and I'm going to puke!
I'm fed up.I mean really disgusted.with all of the
terror alerts and potential pandemics and the flood of
miseries. I had the swine once and now someone wants
to give me the bird. Heck with them! For god's sake,
Buchenwald, patch up the lies of New Orleans.don't
ignore those people! And for god's sake, let's get on
with our lives. Lives tossed asunder by all of this
crap going on in America. Yeah, going on elsewhere.
But mostly in America. America, unfortunately, is
what really matters at the moment. I say
unfortunately because I believed we've created our own
mess and the mess of much of the world. But
especially in America. And until we solve America,
the rest of the world, I assure you, is not going to
get any better.
Where, for god's sake, did this year just past go?
Vanished on me while I evidently had my back turned or
perhaps while I was watching a football game.
Suddenly, gone!
I sat for a moment trying to figure if I had
accomplished anything really worthwhile. Don't know.
Did a lot of things. Did I manage to help anyone?
The world continued its path toward destruction. I
couldn't do anything to stop it. Nor even slow its
downward trend. Going, going..
As you read this, Barbara and I are heading south. We
are not running away. We just seek temporary respite
from the headaches and miseries of the world. We see
these casualties of chaos so clearly. Others seem to
not be able to see them or maybe they're closing their
eyes on purpose. The old ostrich tango. I hope
that's all that it is. I shiver when I think that
they just might not care.
BEYOND OTHER MATTERS
Jack Gale,
JGALE5@tampabay.rr.com: "A package of CD
and cassette goodies is already in the mail. Hope it
tops George's offering of Slim Dusty. The last good
song George remembers is: 'We Were Sardines When You
Kissed Me in the Can'. Have a great and healthy New
Year."
The package arrived. Great of Jack to give me some
music. Stuff he produced and put out on his Playback
label years ago. Charlie Louvin? Historic! I
remember the Louvin Brothers when I was just a pumpkin
on a pear tree.
Last week, I asked people to email Ron Jacobs just to
shake him up. One of those (only one?) to do so was
Ian Wright,
ianshome@iinet.net.au: "Hi Ron. Just in
case you haven't seen it as yet, in this week's
column, Claude Hall is attempting to piss you off with
reference to the Rams!!! He suggested the world email
you. Claude, Good times, good health and a peaceful
2006 to you & the family.
Ach! I remember the days when, if I asked, Ron would
have been bombarded! Letters and phone calls, of
course (that was before laptops). Just FYI, Ron has
something great posted on his website
ronjacobsonline.com about now. If you remember radio,
you might want to check it out.
Anyway, I dropped Ian a thank you note. Hey, I don't
want to lose my only loyal reader!
"Ian, Thanks! Hope your holidays are going well.
Things great here. My three sons were all here. I
cooked chickenfried steak for them...a Texas
delicacy."
Ian Wright: "Claude, my wife Di & I are perplexed !
What the hell is chickenfried steak? Sounds like a
cholesterol ball breaker!"
"Ian and Di, When I married this pretty little New
Yorker, first opportunity I took her home to mama so
she could learn how to cook chickenfried steak. Cube
steak. Marinate in milk and eggs. Then pound some
flour onto it, then deep fry in oil. This stuff would
probably kill a lot of Texicans early in life except
that they counteract the stuff with refrito frijoles!
Truth is I use low-fat milk and cholesterol-free eggs
in a carton from Trader Joe's (a yuppie store that
trends toward healthy stuff). But my son John, the LA
lawyer, just microwaved up yesterday's leftovers for
breakfast so I guess he's a true Texican even though
he was born in NYC. As for the pretty little New
Yorker, she's very bright and somehow I'm the one who
ended up doing the chickenfried steak tango. About
all she can really cook these days is salad. I'm
planning to run a novel soon on my website called 'My
Name Is A.N. Archy'. The pretty little New Yorker is
one of the main characters."
I should add at this point that I'm very, very
fortunate she doesn't read everything I write. I
wrote an article for Jonathan Fricke's Tune-In
magazine several years ago that definitely would have
resulted in my migration to Australia if she'd read
it!
Ian Wright: "Thanks, Claude. I'm game. I'll
'volunteer' Di to do the steak and I'll 'cook' the
salad! By the way, not related to chickenfried steak
(I don't think), you may or may not know, Slim Dusty
passed away on September 19, 2003. He was born in
Kempsey, New South Wales, the town where I first
started my on-air career in 1971. You'll find via
Google or whatever search engine you choose, the
Internet features his official site and others of
great interest to his worldwide fans. Re your pending
online novel, perhaps I could have a small part as a
frustrated lyrist...I Wright (The Songs)!"
Wonder why we write so much about food in this column?
Must be a deep-rooted psychological reason. Well, at
least the holidays are over. Seems as if I spent a
great deal of time over Christmas eating. Including
Tillerman's. Once, Gary Smithwick and his beautiful
wife dined there with Barbara and me. Regardless,
here's the last of the holidays messages:
Kenneth (Danny Clayton) Wolt,
kwolt@radiotvtravel.com:
"Hi, Claude: Hope this finds you well. We're still in
LA and Tahoe 50/50. Where are you these days? Hope
you'll have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."
Still difficult to think of the name Ken. I remember
Dan Clayton so very well. Anyway, I emailed back that
I hung out in Las Vegas these days and invited him to
come over in April to the Hall Palatial Estate,
Apricot Orchard, and Hummingbird Palace. You're
invited, too. I'll know the exact date when Burt
Sherwood tells me what it is.
George Wilson, KeokiWC@aol.com,
regarding last week's
Commentary: "Preservation Hall banjoist Emmanuel
'Manny' Sayles."
Yeah, but who played clarinet? In the early 60s.
Famous guy. I want to say George Benson. But..
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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