Residual Effects of the Civil War

As far as can be ascertained, my people were Southerners. Farmers, mostly. They've been traced back to Georgia, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Alabama. By the end of the Civil War, much of that had been laid to waste. Those whose reproductive equipment hadn't been blown off straggled back home and begat a generation which, when it reached its majority, got the hell out of there. Destination: Texas. Much of their posterity is still here.

I grew up watching "The Gray Ghost" (based on Confederate Major John Singleton Mosby) and Nick Adams' Brando-esque portrayal of Johnny Yuma on "The Rebel." Johnny Cash sang the theme song:

He was panther quick and leather tough,

And he figgered that he'd been pushed enough!

The Rebel! Johnny Yuma!

It became a hit record. Johnny Horton sang "You fought all the way, Johnny Reb." Another country singer was named Stonewall Jackson. I attended Robert E. Lee School. I knew all the words to "Dixie." Confederate flags were everywhere. My brother told me the Civil War was about states' rights, and I believed him.

None of this offended me. Why should it? My humanity was never in question. The war wasn't fought over whether I should be a free man or a piece of farm equipment. People who looked like me didn't have their babies tugged from their arms and sold like livestock. We weren't whipped mercilessly. Jim Crow laws didn't pertain to us. We weren't being dragged out of our shacks to be hanged or burned alive. We didn't have dogs and fire hoses turned on us when we tried to vote.

I used to look at the Confederate flag and see nothing. It might as well have said "Drink Coca-Cola." It's not so benign now. It's being waved by people who want to return to antebellum days and ways. It's being waved in tandem with the Nazi flag. By a segment of our population that wants to suppress another segment. A segment that despises the concept of equality. A segment that ferments hate by the barrel. By a kid who is welcomed to a Bible study by a group of African-American Christians, then shoots them because he is "superior."

If all of us aren't free and equal, none of us are. Whatever the relics of the Confederacy may have symbolized in 1865 -- or 1965 -- they represent something else now. Something harsh and dark and evil and fearful.

Away! Away!

Away he rode!

The Rebel! Johnny Yuma!

Let him ride. We have our own battles to fight.

Zoomer Roberts
22 August 2017

And as for the White Supremacists...

Some cultures stay the same from one generation to the next. Ours is not one of them. We change. We absorb and expand. We amend and append. We adjust and we fine-tune. We go forward.
There are no u-turns on this road.

Homage to Hemorrhage

Homage to Hemorrhage 
For Jimmie Rodgers
24 May 2017

I'd rather be in Missisippi, drinkin' whiskey from a jug
I'd rather be in Missisippi, drinkin' whiskey from a jug
Than to be in New York City, dyin' on an old fire plug
Yodeladee *HACK* *KOFF* *RETCH* odeeyodel *HOCK HOCK HOCK* odeleedo *GASP* *WHEEZE* *GURGLE* Tell 'em 'bout me!

I'm coughin' up bloody corruption, it's all over my shoes
I'm coughin' up corruption, got it on both of my shoes
I woish this ol' fire hydrant would wash away the putrid ooze!
Hey, sweet mama! *SPEW* *SPURT* *HACK*

Lower left: the fire hydrant Jimmie Rodgers collapsed against on 25 May 1933. Thanks to Jim Kalafus.

Power Outage

With a startlingly loud popping sound, the power went out. No radio nor television, no internet nor telephone, and no air conditioning. I adjusted quickly enough, opening a book and settling into my chair, sipping from a glass of cool water. The faintest of breezes wafted through the back door and softly brushed my skin as it made its way through the room and out into the front yard. I had experienced this before: the quiet stillness of old houses in old days in small West Texas towns. I closed my eyes and let myself be carried away to other times and places. I was a boy in Seagraves. I was young man spending a summer day in the isolation that is Valentine. I was a 19th-century El Pasoan in the days of adobe houses on the lush banks of the mighty Rio Grande. Long ago faces appeared to me, and voices long silent spoke again. All was normal. All was as it should be. I relished every slowly creeping moment. Then the electricity came back on...

Zoomer Roberts
28 June 2016

On Turning 65

It's hard to believe I'm 65 years old, but I'm "every damn day of it," as Daddy used to say.  My siblings didn't live this long. I sang at their funerals. The doctors said I would die at the age of 40. I didn't. For years, I did some trashy living that would have done me in if I had kept it up. But instead I got married, got religion, cleaned up, got rid of some baggage, and set to mending a calloused heart and an imbalanced brain. When my musical career collapsed, I built a new one, guided by the words of Carl Perkins: "It's not what you lose in life. It's what you've got left, and what you do with it." I have a big family of cousins and in-laws, a church family I treasure, friendships that have lasted decades, and some residual respect in the music community. Monica and I have dodged and danced around the land mines of life and managed to stay on our feet. We've picked up some shrapnel, of course -- life is full of shrapnel -- but we've got each other, our own roof, food on the table, and two nickels to rub together. We're on our fifth dog and we still laugh. Thank you, Lord, for all the sunrises.

14 June 2016

On Selective Mourning

I've never been to France, but I know something about it. It figured prominently in the two world wars we fought in. It gave us the Statue of Liberty. It gave us Edith Piaf. It gave us Les Miz. The Mona Lisa hangs there in the Louvre. Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli birthed "le jazz hot" there. Josephine Baker got naked there. Rick and Ilsa will always have it. The Beatles' recording of "All You Need Is Love" began with a few bars of La Marseillaise. It's one of the Western hemisphere's major cultural centers, and I relate to it on that level. I always dreamed of being an expatriate there in the 1930s, discussing philosophy and smoking French cigarettes. It's an affinity I don't have for Lebanon, Kenya, or the South Pole. When Paris was attacked, I reacted. In writing. On Facebook. I don't do that every time something horrid takes place in the world, but tragedy hurts more when it strikes people and places we know. It's personal. End of rant.

17 November 2015

Thumper the Dog

And Killer the Dog dwelt in the land in those days. And he wandered afar. We sought after him and found him not. Each day we did journey to the pound and asked of those there: Hast thou seen our dog? And they sayeth: We have not. And we were sore aggrieved in our hearts,  and tore our clothing. And the days we searched for Killer the Dog were one score and ten.

And it came to pass that we did search that part of the pound in which were caged the lame, and the crippled, and the infirm, and the halt; and these ones were to die. And their cages were of polished steel, and shone brightly. And behold, a wretched young red dog did seek to gain our attention. And he was weak, and sick, and mute, and he smelleth. But his tail was as strong as an hundred dogs. And he did beat his tail against the side of his cage, and the sound was like unto a kettle drum. And we marveled at what we had seen and heard, and we spake one unto another, saying: Let us go even unto our house, and take with us this dog. And his named shall be called Thumper the Dog; Thump; Li'l Fump; Kuala Thumpur; Thump Doggy Dogg. For we hath heard him thump in the bowels of the prison of damned dogs.

And so it was that we did return home with the dog. And we gave unto him food, and drink, and a bed. And we tieth a knot into a sock, and it was his toy. And we gave unto him a yard, where he did run and void his offal. And we bathed him muchly, for he smelleth. And we gave unto him treats. And the dog did grow in strength and stature, and the multitudes were in awe of him, for he was the best little red dog ever. 

And Thumper the Dog opened his mouth and spake, saying:

Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

And it was good. For many years, it was good.

Until at last the countenance of the dog grew ashen, and his eyes groweth dim. And his legs did move as he slept, but he runneth not, for he was growing lame. And he spurneth food, for there was no pleasure in it. And we didst force opiates into his gigantic maw, for he was in pain; but he clenched his aged teeth against them. And the postman cometh up the pathway, but the dog barketh not, for he had grown weary. And he was deaf, and heareth not squat, and didst cease his singing. For lo, the hour is nigh, as it is written...

LaTuna Prison ~ November 1969

From left: Zoomer Roberts, Patti Allen, Charlie McDonald, Ted Taylor

On Robin Williams and the Falling of Stars

Beloved entertainers touch us on a personal level. They make us laugh and cry. They accompany us through the highs and lows of our lives, and they have a special place in our cherished memories. No, they don't know us, but we feel that we know them. So when one of them leaves us, it is a personal loss, and we grieve. And because they are loved by millions, their passing takes precedent over the hard news of the day, which -- although it may be more critical in the scheme of things -- usually involves persons with whom we have not emotionally bonded. That's why you're hearing so much about Robin Williams today. His was a death in many families. Requiescat in pace.

Zoomer Roberts
12 August 2014

Grand Ole Opry Pioneers

An overview of early Opry performers by Zoomer Roberts
Broadcast 26 July 2014 on KTEP radio
Your host is Gregg Carthy

 

A Tribute to Pete Seeger

Zoomer Roberts: vocal, harmonica & commentary
Buddy Winston: guitar
Robin Russell & Ophelia Botham: harmony vocals

from the KTEP Folk Fury broadcast of 22 Feb. 2014
your host is Gregg Carthy

Cell Phones

"Cell phones! Bah! The phone belongs at the house -- plugged into the wall!"

The old man leaned forward in his rocking chair and spat a wad of tobacco juice at a weathered spittoon, which it entered with a dull clang. Wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve, he resumed rocking.

"These dayum people," he grumbled. "They think the whole world's their livin' room. They carry those dayum phones around and talk everywhere -- at the store, at the pitcher show, in the cafe..."

He spat again. "Hell, they drive down the street yappin' on the dayum things. They'll run over you!"

His eyes narrowed. "In my day, you did your callin' in a phone booth, where no one could hear you. You could make a phone call for a nickel -- if you HAD a nickel."

"People were more considerate then," he mused. The old man's voice trailed off, and the only sound was the slow creaking of the rocking chair. He gazed at a long-ago horizon and sighed.

23 April 2014

A Dentis Tree Grows In Oz

Zoomer had dental work done today.
On the bright side, it resulted in this collaboration with Jim Kalafus.
(introduction by Ophelia Botham)

Scrape scrape here, drill drill there
And a roll of dental floz
That certain air of dental care
In the merry old land of Oz

Chip chip here, scratch scratch there
sends a shooting pain through my jaws.
That's how we hack the plaque away
In the merry old land of Oz.

Cut cut here, yank yank there,
with forceps and pliers and saws.
That how we take decay away
in the merry old land of Oz.

We get your jaw all dulled with Novocain.
take two hours to drill
and by then you're in pain ...
So we numb you again.

Drill down deep 'til the blood does seep
Into a wad of gauze
And dribble spittle on your bib
In the merry old land of Oz

We will drill and drill and drill until you howl
Then we'll tell you that
you need a root canal
(Give him a towel!)

Crown crown here. Implant there.
Ten thousand bucks in your maw.
That's how we drain your pay away
in the merry old land of Oz.

Family Reunion ~ June 1998

A family reunion is hairy
We gather at the cemetery
Let us not dawdle or tarry
You may be the next one we bury

Zoomer Roberts
1 March 2014

Good morning, Carl!

I didn't know Carl Isminger well, but I always said "hello" to him on Sunday mornings. He sat on the right, close to the back, reading his Bible. I would turn down the bulletins proffered at the door so my right hand would be free to shake his as I passed by.

One Sunday he told me in great detail how Detroit re-tooled itself to make jeeps, tanks and bombers during World War II -- but usually he just returned my "good morning" and kept reading his Bible.

Carl was buried today. In my mind's eye he is still sitting in his pew, but he won't be there next Sunday. Nor the Sunday after that.

"Good morning, Carl!" I'll say that to him again one of these days.

Zoomer Roberts
24 Feb. 2014