Mike Johnson, Country Music's No.1 Black Yodeler

"Boy!" he stared hard.
Mike stared back just as hard into his eyes.
   "You sing good country, boy," he growled.
   "Thanks," Mike's voice was even.
Scott moved towards the middle of the bar, closer to the stage, as a precaution.
   "I can yodel too," the biker grinned.
   "It's not that hard," Mike replied.
   "Yeah, I know. My mother can yodel too. Can you yodel better'n my mother?"
   "Hmm?"
   "See this?" he nodded to his waistband and moved his vest slightly aside. Inside the belt was a derringer.
   "Yep, I see it."
   "If you can't yodel better'n my mother I'll shoot ya."

Copyright 1995 Mike Johnson
Library of Congress Card Catalog No.95-94374
1st. Printing 1995
2nd Printing 2006
Printed in the United States of America
Front & Rear Cover Photos by Mike Johnson
Layout & Design by Mike Johnson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: May not be copied or reproduced whole or in part by any means without the written permission of the Copyright Owner and or Publisher, except for instances for periodical and literary review and study. MAJJ Productions, P.O. Box 100933, Arlington, Va. 22210
MP118701

For my family, friends, and fans.
"There's a song in all of us.
Sometimes it takes others
To bring it out..."

mike johnson

CHAPTER ONE
   "Sorry son, duty calls," my Dad shrugged and gulped down the remainder of his coffee.
   "Yeah, I know," I slouched down in my chair, disappointed.
   Dad pecked Mom on the cheek as he snatched up his Sam Brown belt draped over the back of his chair.
   "Don't know how long this'll take, but you've got the number if you need me. Right?"
   "Sure Dave," Mom clung to him a bit while he fastened his belt around his waist. She pressed him close to her a fleeting second then let him slip away. Dad touched her cheek with a finger and slipped out the door into the garage.
   "Keep the fire burnin' Honey," he patted her on the bottom. And to me, "Kyle, you look after things, you hear?"
   "Sure Dad."
   I heard the Jeep engine roar to life and the tires squeal as Dad peeled outta the driveway and sped off to the County Jail in Houston where he was a Deputy Sheriff.
   "Be careful Dave," Mom whispered, leaning on the doorframe.
   Dad's been a Deputy nearly six years now, and he's been around some. But it was only when there were problems at the jail that Mom seemed to worry the most. I drank my orange juice and went over to console her. She placed her arms around me and I hugged her softly.
   "Don't worry Mom, Dad'll be alright. It probably won't last the whole day."
   "No?" she eyed me sidelong.
   "Naw... He'll whip'em into shape just like this!" I snapped my fingers.
   "Just like that, huh?" her fingers popped, imitating me.
   "Yep. I taught'em".
   "Well, suppose you finish the dishes? Just like that!" she snapped her fingers in my ear.
   "Huh?"
   "Your turn this weekend, remember? Where's Jimmy?"
   "Sleep as usual, I reckon. I'll get him."
   "You. Young man," she hooked a finger round my collar, "Do the dishes. I'll get him. Your sister's at the Raleigh's for the weekend. Call and check for me and see if she's going to stay okay?"
   "Okay Mom."
   "Jimmy! Jimmy! Oh, that kid! I could just..." she disappeared after my little brother.
   Jimmy had a dentist appointment he'd been duckin' and stalling on, with a fake illness. It worked until Mom caught him on the phone with one of his scheming buddies. Boy she lit his butt up and grounded him till he decided to face the music.
   I gotta admit, the little guy really stuck to his guns for a whole three days. That's a heap for him. If school was in, he might've held out a little longer. But not this time of the year. I thought he would've cracked sooner myself. Win some, you lose some, huh?
   Now, not only does he have to go to the dentist, he's also doomed to one of Mom's daily expeditions. Shopping, browsing, lunch with the girls. You know, the usual kinda stuff that'd turn off an active thirteen-year-old.
   I'd just finished the dishes when Jimmy came dragging into the kitchen. His eyes spoke rebellion as he glared at me as though I were the cause of his fate.
   "Don't make a mess or I'll break your fingers, shrimp."
   He just smiled wickedly and took a bowl from the dish rack and dropped it on the table. It clattered loudly, spinning a few times before settling. Then he slammed a spoon and a glass down next to it. He was needling me, I just knew it.
   "Any milk left?"
   "In the fridge."
   He yanked the door open and snatched up the carton with equal enthusiasm. Then he grabbed the sugar from the counter next to it while elbowing the fridge door shut. Very meticulously he poured the cereal into his bowl. A couple of flakes fell on the table.
   "Sorry Kyle," he shot me a remorseful glance out of the corners of his eyes. And, a sly little smirk in the corner of his mouth. All the while he hummed a little tune while sprinkling the sugar. Then he sprinkled some on the flakes on the table.
   "There guys," he winked at them. Carefully pouring the milk he managed to slightly over-fill the bowl. Milk and Corn Flakes joined the others on the table and Jimmy faked surprise. And true to his devilish outbursts, he followed up with impish glee.
   "Party time!" he chirped, "Ta Daa! Da, da, ta, da," he marched his spoon across the table and then through the milky spillage.
   Then he caught my stare. I started towards him.
   "Sorry Kyle. I'm not feeling too good you know. And Mom, she wants me to go out and maybe catch pneumonia! Kyle! Arrgh! Kyle!" he choked, as I proceeded to wring his scrawny little neck.
   "Why me Lord? Why'd you stick me with..."
   "Kyle Aaron Richards!" Mom popped into the kitchen.
   I immediately went to straightening Jimmy's shirt collar and smoothing his hair.
   "Oh, Mom," a squeaky innocent attempt. "I, ah... I, ah, was just helping Jimmy get ready. Come on buddy, eat up. Its good for you," I glared as friendly as I could.
   "Get ya later," I whispered a lot lower. And I tweaked his ear real swift like. He winced, but said nothing, and went to cleaning up his mess.
   Mom eyed us a skeptical moment then went to the kitchen door where she pulled her car keys off the hook and a tablet off the shelf next to it. Her errands for the day. Jimmy shot me one of his 'payback' smiles and snickered.
   "Little fag," I smacked him on the back of his head when Mom went out to start the car.
   "Owww! Am not!"
  "Git outta here, 'fore I pin a bow ribbon on your head!"
   "Mom!" he jumped up and headed for the door, ducking my swing.
   "And you'd better cut that long hippie-hair off, you Michael Jackson freak!"
   "Ya country hillbilly!" he stuck his tongue out and darted out the door singing, "Oh I had a cow and she went dryyyyy! So I milked my girl and we got hiiiiiiigh!"
   "Jimmy! I'm gonna skin you boy!" the car horn honked. "Git in here right now!"
   "Kyle?" she honked again.
   I went to the kitchen door. Mom was standing by the driver's door with her elbows propped on the roof.
   "Yeah Mom?" Loretta Lynn was pouring from the car radio and Jimmy was making faces at me.
   "I'll be gone most of the day, dear."
   "I know Mom," and I thought, 'Here it comes. There's food...'
   "There's food in the fridge for lunch. Take the roast out of the freezer and put it in the sink before you go out. You going anywhere today?"
   "Probably down to Clancy's. Everyone else left town for the weekend. 'Cept Chris. I'll probably go over to his place when he gets off work. Or Jerry's, since he ain't goin' down the Gulf. Other'n that I'll probably just hang out here and put my engine back together or something."
   "Okay. The number for the dentist is on the fridge. You've got Dad's number too, right? Call your sister and find out what she's planning to do? Leave a note if you go out..."
   "Okay Mom. Okay Mom. Mom... Earth to Mother..." I held up a hand. "Hi there," I waved when she finally ceased and acknowledged my teenage presence.
   "Mom, I know the routine. I'm seventeen, remember? I can handle it. Everything's cool. This ain't the first time I've been home alone, okay? Just take the brat and have a good day. Okay. Mom? Please, please?"
   "Seventeen, huh?" she eyed me up and down, almost like she was just discovering something new about me. So you are. My, my, how time flies. Sorry Honey, see you later," she slid into the driver's seat, cranked the engine and slipped out of the driveway, with Jimmy hanging outta the window, flinging another one of his teasers.
   "You picked a fine time to leave me Loociccee! With four lil faggots and... Owww!"
   Mom caught him a good one on the head, swerving just a little, and made the turn out of the drive. I knew whatever punishment he got would be lifted by the time he got home.
   "Good old Mom," I chuckled, and went to clean up the rest of the brat's mess.
   Actually, my brother and me get along pretty good. Most of the time. He's pretty much like a best friend. He can be very sensitive and understanding when he wants to be. Like the time several of my buddies and me went hunting and two of us fell through the ice on the pond down at old man Reever's place. I caught a bad fever and was laid up for several days. That little turkey did my chores for me! Voluntarily! He even brought me my meals and cleaned my dishes. And set them aside in a special part of the cupboard for my exclusive use only. He didn't want me catching anybody else's germs, he told me. I jokingly asked him if it weren't the other way around. Them catching my germs. He was honestly hurt by that remark and started cryin' real tears. I apologized, feeling like a heel, of course. Then I told him he could use my stereo.
   Boy did he love that! Though he never ceased his long-standing habit of sneaking into my room to use it. He also forgave me and promised he'd be "very, very" careful with it.
   Most of the time he used the earphones and always asked if he was annoying me. He even shared some of his Middle-Of-The-Road stuff, always reminding me that I didn't have to put up with him. Yeah, Jimmy's quite a remarkable kid. Then there's times when he can be a real pain in the butt. Today was just a mild dose. Fortunately he's not like that. Much.
   Mom says he entering the "terrible teens" and tells me to be patient with him, bringing up some antics of my own when I was his age. I guess she's right, though. Mom's great at helping us with things like that. She's always pretty objective about most things. She understands that everything can't always be solved with a "yes" or a "no."
   Dad says we all go through that teen bit. Some of us harder than others. But I reckon me and my brother and my sister are pretty darn lucky though, cause we've got someone around to help us through most of it.
   Dad. Now there's one helluva guy. I hear a few of my buddies complain 'bout their dads always hollerin' and swearin' at'em, and bossin'em around. Sometimes they even get into fistfights and such. I guess I am pretty lucky at that.
   Dad's stern. But when he lays the law down, that's it. But he's always someone I can talk to 'bout anything and never get turned away. We've got quite a bit in common too. Guns, motorcycles, camping, hunting, music, horses, mostly outdoors stuff like that. Especially fishing.
   Dad's a football nut too. I'm not. And he doesn't try to convert me into one either. Not like most Dads would. He's really cool.
   We were goin' fishin' this weekend. Down to Corpus Christi and take my uncle's boat out for the weekend. Being summer, it could stretch to nearly a week, depending on how the fish are biting. I stared at the gear stacked in the corner of the garage. The poles, the cooler, half-and-half with Budweiser and Sprite. Our bedrolls and guitars, leaning against the cooler, and... Sometimes I hated Dad's job. I mean I'm really proud of him bein' a deputy and all... But... Oh well...
   Musical tastes vary in our house. As you heard, Jimmy likes that longhair stuff. KISS, MICHAEL JACKSON, and all. My sister Cathy switches back and forth between each new group that comes along. She and I have an extreme dislike for HEAVY METAL and PUNK though. I think she really goes for R & B mostly. Most of her albums lean in that direction. Aretha Franklin and all.
   Mom listens to anything mellow, but professes to be true blue "Country" like Dad and me. If it's real Country, chances are, we've got it. And I do mean real Country. Ernest Tubb, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Charlie Pride, and quite naturally, Hank Sr. and George Jones. Hank Jr. stuff we select very carefully, though we've got all of his early material.
   Don't mention Barbara Mandrell round here. She's one down right fantastic musician but we all think she's more Hollywood than country. Along with a few others I won't mention that do Country-rock, Country-pop, and call it Country. Oh well, to each his own I reckon. Huh?
   Both Dad and me play a little guitar. We'll sit for hours on camping and fishing trips and make up songs. He said one day we'd go up to Nashville when we get a few good songs and rent a studio.
   Mom teases us, saying they'd probably close down the town after we sang. But actually we don't sound all that bad, even if I say so myself. Really! Dad even plays at some of the barn dances with a couple of other guys in the neighborhood. It's a big thing on holidays, whenever everybody gets together. I went over and picked up my guitar and started strumming.
 
"Mamas
Don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks.
Make'em be doctors, and lawyers and such..."

   Then my eyes fell on the bikes. Dad's and mine. Dad's bike is a chopped Hog. A 1964 Panhead he rebuilt from scratch and pampers like a baby. Mine's a 1977 Sportster. Got it real cheap from a friend. He spent some of his college tuition money to buy it and his folks blew a gasket. I paid'em nearly three-quarters what he gave so's he could get his folks off his back. He told me there was a knock in the front cylinder and it smoked a little.
   I adjusted the valves, hoping that might correct the problem. For a while it seemed to be the ticket, then the knocking got worse. Reckon it wasn't valves then. I parked it and tore down the engine. Dad had pointed out a dent or two on the valve guides. That meant something had struck it or the rider hit something. Sure enough, one of the valve rods was bent. And connecting rod was loose.
   Then I went over everything with a fine-toothed comb. With Dad's advice of course. And assistance. I'm waiting on some custom rods and a new cam. And a new set of gaskets. The shop in Houston was plumb out and I had to order'em from the factory. God, Harley parts are expensive!
   So here sits my bike. In the meantime I just drool and work on the paint scheme. The base color will be blue. The frame. Traditional black of course. Chrome primary cover, valve covers, and tweek bar. The good stuff! That's all I'm sayin'. You'll see the finished product at the unveiling.
   So I'm back to my 10-speed for wheels. I just sold my old clunker Datsun pickup to pay for the bike parts. Sometimes I wish I hadn't. But at least I've got a Harley, and not just a Harley T-shirt. Ha, ha.
   I checked the house to make sure everything was okay. Then I called my sister Cathy. She wasn't sure what they were doing. As usual. They had plans to go to Houston, but weren't sure they really wanted to now. I wonder where she was when God passed out brains?
   I left a note for Mom. It just said 'Clancy's.' Then I called Chris at his work. He was gonna work late if Jerry didn't show up. He knew were to reach me if anything was shaking. One final check and I darted out, did an about-face and came back to the fridge in the kitchen. The roast! Mom would've skinned me good.
   I dropped the dead cow-part into the sink and turned on the answering machine. Shuttin' the garage door, I hopped on my 10-speed and sailed down the driveway into the street, standing on the pedals. A couple of good pumps would send me several blocks down the road provided that no cars crossed my path at the intersection.

CHAPTER TWO
  I live in a little town just west of Houston called Travis. We moved here ten years ago when it was still nearly desolate. Dad had to get away from the city, having grown up in one just outta Louisville, Kentucky, where the buildings were "So high you couldn't get any fresh air!"
   Dad's family lived in a tenement house where everyone was crammed together like sardines. He swore after he got outta the Navy that he'd never live like that again. He wanted lots of breathing room. A house with no stairs! No up-stairs and no basement. He had lived on the sixth floor, and most of the time the elevators didn't work. As well as a lotta other things.
   The end result was that he bought six acres of land, designed, and helped build our one level ranch style rambler. A somewhat Texas size version of the standard rambler, I might add. We've got five bedrooms. One for each of us three kids, and a Guest Room. And they're just about as big as Mom and Dad's bedroom! Big! Like I said, Dad's got this thing about space, and plenty of it.
   You should've seen the Movers' faces. They thought it was a dream come true. Especially the wide hallways. That made moving-maneuvering ancient history. The driver joked that he could've parked his rig in the hallway. He told us that even in houses a lot larger than ours, the builders often skimped more and more on  space, trying to cram in this and that. And always the hallways suffered. It really didn't take us no time to move in.
   Our den's in the front of the house, and the family room's in the rear. Just off the kitchen with an open doorway. The dining room and living room sort of merge together and empty into the kitchen. The kitchen is a feat in itself. Dad said that the kitchen is the heart of a house, recalling a good number of the times he spent at his grandparents' house in the country. That was the warmest, friendliest place in the house he said. I like seeing'em talk about that cause he gets all misty-eyed and such. I think its pretty neat.
   We've got two garages. The house garage is more than big enough for Mom and Dad's cars and our bikes. In the rear one there's two rooms. One was for food storage. It's got a huge deep freezer. The other room is for our hunting tack and reloading gear. Complete with presses. Fishing tackle and bike parts included.
   The other garage out back, about thirty yards from the house, is near as big. Me and Cathy park our cars there. Or at least she does her car. In the back part there's a complete workshop with lathes, drills, benches, etc. The other room is a sack-out pad with a rollaway bed, a small fridge, and a telephone. This was the first building Dad built and it served as his outpost during the house construction.
   We were going to put in a swimming pool but Mom got a wild notion from some garden magazines to build a miniature lake. Complete with brick walkways and arches and such. She used to be in Real Estate and in the course of her work she got to see some really impressive layouts. That sorta prodded her on. So now we have a one-acre lake, with a boat ramp, floating raft, and a small beach. The lake's stocked too. Oh yeah, and it's also got the brick walkways and arches with little gardens along the border.
   "After all, we've got six acres. Why let it sit?' Mom reasoned.
   Dad said 'Okay, it's your show. Have at it.' So she did.
   You know, I've never hard them argue. Now they haven't always seen eye to eye on some things, but they don't argue or get loud over an issue. For a long while I wondered if they were normal. I asked Dad about that one day while we were out fishing on our lake.
   "Dad, can I ask you something?"
   He was stretched out in the bow, a Budweiser resting on his belly. It was kinda slow, the fish were only nibbling. Stealin' our bait.
   "Serious question?" he peeped out from under his cap.
   "Yeah, I think so."
   "Here, you'd better take a sip of the old root here," he held out the beer. Any other time I would've taken it.
   "Come on Dad, it's serious. Well, serious enough."
   He set the beer down and sat up. That's what's so great about him. He really listens.
   "Hmm. Sounds serious. Go ahead son."
   "I've seen you and Mom disagree on some things. What color to paint the car, whether I should be grounded or not, you know...?"
   "Ah... I..."
   "But I've never heard you guys argue. Or holler and shout, or swear like Billy's folks. His Mom even throws things and sometimes they actually fight. Do you two go somewhere else and fight so's we can't hear you? Are you guys nor...  normal?" 
   Dad's mouth dropped about a foot. He shook his head and scratched it as though he'd missed something. Then he chuckled softly and gulped down the remainder of his beer and placed the empty back in the cooler. Littering is taboo. He pulled out a fresh beer and a Sprite, shot a glance my way, chuckled louder, then dropped the Sprite back into the cooler and snatched a Bud and tossed it to me.
   "Dad!"
   He popped the top on his, "Drink up kid," still chuckling. "Uh, you sorta caught me off guard young'un. You mean you'd like to see Mom and me sluggin' it out for first place?"
   "Naw, Dad! I was just wonderin' how come you two get along so perfectly and other parents are practically beatin' each others brains out? It... It's somethin' I've..."
   "I guess... in a way," he interrupted, "Considering the mood of society and the state of the world these days, it does seem a mite weird, huh?"
   "A mite!" I shook my head and popped my brew top. "What makes you so different from the rest?" I took a long swallow.
   "Well," he drawled and tipped his cap back, at the same time throwing a leg over his pole to prevent losing it in the event of a hard strike. "I wouldn't say we were so much different than the rest. I'm sure there's lots of parents out there that get along just as well, if not better than us."
   "Come on Dad! Sometimes you two ain't much different from the parents on The Brady Bunch," I chuckled.
   "The Brady Bunch!" he laughed. "Nobody's that perfect! 'Cept Donny and Marie, I reckon. You little twerp! The Brady Bunch! Ha, ha..."
   We both got a good laugh outta that one. Then he settled down and pulled his cap brim level. Now I knew I'd git some answers.
    "That's the right attitude though. The theme they show on The Brady Bunch. It's consideration and respect. And cooperation. Mutual communication."
   "Mutually?"
   "Both sides agreeing. As best they can of course, without offending or taking an unfair advantage of the other. It's give and take.
   "Your Mom and me happen to share the same principles. Marriage and companionship is a partnership based on mutual co-operation of the two parties involved. It's not to say that you have to like or agree with each and everything the other does. Nobody does. But you should respect the other's feelings and rights to those feelings. Regardless of how you might feel.
   "How do you really like Jimmy's records, Kyle?"
   "They suck, Dad."
   "But he likes'em. So what if you don't. That's fine, but don't condemn him for it. He's still your brother. And you do like him still, just the same. Right?"
   "Of course I do! But that long-haired..."
   "Longhair hippie crap, like we use to call it, just drives you up a wall! Me too. But you don't have to listen to it. I know a lotta times you're just teasin' him. But did it ever occur to you that he might think you don't like him because of that?"
   "Dad!  Nooo!"
   "Sometimes you might find too much fault with what he does. You were his age once. I could tell you some tales, buddy. Jimmy's struggling for his space. Help'em some.
   "Remember how he nursed you after you fell into the lake that winter? And even sat and listened to your music with you. Despite the way he teases you about Hillbilly music. Huh? Think about it, Kyle?"
   Dad put a lump in my throat. The beer didn't even taste good anymore and I dumped the rest of it in the lake and put the empty can back into the cooler and sat back to listen.
   "Well, it's like that between your Mom and me. I can't stand her Ladies Socials. All that cackling and gossip about things I have little interest in. Pink drapes, panty hoses and such... But when there's a joint function, husbands and wives, I go occasionally to please her. It lets her know I care. It's also a good change of pace and really allows one to re-evaluate himself and his position.
   "Even though the stiff collar routine isn't to my likin', the women-folk and all are still my friends too. And its kinda nice to just be nice just for the sake of being nice. It don't hurt.
   "Your Mom doesn't demand it any more than I demand that she goes hunting or bowling. When we go horseback riding, that's different. You know your Mom and horses."
   "Yeah, riding's a family must. And Mom would own every horse in the world if she could. So what you're saying is you two have a strong respect for each others individuality?"
   "Exactly. You're gettin' sharp kid."
   "Take after my old man," I winked. "By the way, why don't we have any horses?"
   "Don't push it kid!" he flicked my nose. "Yeah, your Mom and me are quite a team, I must admit. Mainly because we don't compete. We support each other pretty well. If we didn't, we wouldn't have what we do now. The house, the land, and three brats. And a lotta good health and harmony.
   "Even though we're married to each other that doesn't mean one person owns the other. It's teamwork. Mom's capable of certain things in her own right, just like I am. And we help each other in the weaker areas.
   "When we got together we decided not to interfere with each other's individuality, at the same time though, trying not to let it interfere with our mutual commitment. Marriage is providing for the family.
   "Domination ruins more marriages than anything else, from what I've seen. One person sets him or herself up as the reigning authority, and his or her word, right or wrong, is absolute law."
   "But that's not fair, Dad. There's no respect then. Just... fear... and..."
   "Think about it when your time comes, buddy." he pointed a convicting finger at me.
   "I'm not gettin' married!" I blushed.
   "Ha, ha," he chugged his Bud. "We'll see... Whoa! A hit!" his pole bent, the tip smacking the water's surface.
Dad dropped his can and snatched up his rod. A quick snap of the wrist set the hook.
   "The net Kyle! Got a whopper here! Gotta be five pounds. Come on, kid, the net!" he played the fighter back and forth and worked him slowly towards the side of the boat.
   "Slip the net to the side, Kyle. Now. Slip it under him. Damn, look-it that pole bend! Man! Man, he's a real scrapper, huh? There..." he began to reel freely and hauled him up close. "He's a comin'. E-e-easy. Come on now. E a s y does it boy. Ah!"
   I was only half-interested in the bass. I was still locked in our conversation and what Dad had told me. I wanted to thank'em for clearing things up. At least I knew for sure that my folks were somethin' to be thankful for. I really felt good.
   But Dad was really into that bass, so I joined in, or at least tried awful hard to express the same enthusiasm. For the moment, that is.
   "E-e-easy, Dad! Don't snap'em off. Bring'em closer. Got'em!" I scooped it up. "Wow!" it hit me. All five pounds of wiggling fish. "God Almighty Dad, that's gotta be five pounds if he's an ounce!" I hefted the lunker up, my fingers in his gills. And grinnin' from ear to ear as though I'd caught'em myself.
   Now I was into fishin'! Eight good ones, three pounds and better. Two of'em nearly topping Dad's, which tipped the scales at four pounds, twelve ounces. We kept six and just played with a number of other strikes before calling it a day. Yeah, that was a pretty good day all around.

CHAPTER THREE
   Clancy's General Store sits on the service road on the north side of Interstate 10. Travis is the last stop before you have to go eight miles to Houston to the Malls or specific stores for certain necessities. Small everyday things, including honest-to-goodness hardware and leather tack can be bought at Clancy's.
   In fact, Clancy's started out as a tack and blacksmith shop. Way before I was born of course. He catered to the small farm and ranching outfits that once dominated the area. Old man Clancy. Donald P. Clancy, that is, owned some 6500 acres. Now the Interstate runs through some of it. The rest he sold off in 10-acre parcels.
   Ours was one of'em. The old couple that Dad bought from didn't wish to sell the whole ten cause they had no place to go, so they settled on sellin' Dad six and them keeping four. Dad felt sorry for'em cause they didn't have no kin to speak of, and he foresaw land taxes eventually squeezing them out.
   I use to tend their lawn for a few bucks till I heard that. Now I do it for free and even run errands for'em when Mr. Barnetts's back acts up on him. Guess they're sorta like grandparents. Mrs. Barnett makes some of the best chocolate chip cookies ever!
   Jimmy spends a good deal of time there also, reading to'em and doing odd chores around their house and yard. Like I said, the little brat can be quite endearing at times.
   At any rate, Clancy gave his daughter, Janice, and his two sons, Charlie and Tyler, 1000 acres each. They surround the remaining 500 acres that his house, barn and the store occupy. A couple of years ago, both sons sold their portions to Janice and lit out for parts unknown. Tyler called last year from a jail in Reno, Nevada. Gambling debts. His father bailed him out but warned him that it was the last time. Ain't heard from'em since.
   Janice had gone to a University up in Austin and took up Drafting, Computer Science, and Ecology. Then she spent several years up in Washington D.C. working for some of them bigwig Congressman. It didn't take'er long to clear outta there. She came home in a huff, claiming "Them damn Yankees are ruinin' the country!"
   Jan's husband, Robert Crowell, is a Cement Mason. He likes to emphasize that to me, and a contractor. But I always call'em a bricklayer. Just funnin'. He's really on the ball with a lot of things too. He went to Washington with Jan and together they fought the "plastic people" as he puts it.
   But the lure of the southwest prairies drew them back home. Both Texas born and bred, they were convinced there was no other place that could ever measure up to Texas. Definitely no place in "Yankee-land," Jan sneers.
   Between part-time jobs and deciding what she wanted to do next, Jan helped out at the store. Which incidentally had grown considerably from just boots, spurs, saddles, and piggin' strings, to a small convenience store of sorts.
   Jan was a real go-getter. She saw how fast San Antonio and Houston had sprung up to claim their places in the modern world. Big ranches and farms, rodeos and such, sad to say, were fading from the Texas landscapes. Or at least it appeared to be that way for awhile. Jan also knew that her Dad's savings and pension wouldn't last forever. He had lost a good deal of his retirement money on bad investments. But old man Clancy was a fighter and hung in there, longing for the day that time would reverse itself and the cowboy would come back and his little Tack Shop and Texas was the way he had remembered and lived it. But the inevitable won out and he found himself selling off his land little by little.
   Mr. Clancy's big windfall came when the state approached him about buyin' a large tract of land for the new Interstate, which was to go almost through the middle of it. He stalled awhile to do some checking, then finally went for the deal. Robert and Jan were a big help in making up his mind, envisioning a solid and stable future for him. In fact, Robert's company got contracted for a major portion of the project. So, everyone made out like bandits.
   In the meantime Jan spent more and more time at the store. She drew up plans for expansion and her dad gave her complete control, with certain restrictions. The pot-bellied stove was not to be removed. That's where Mr. Clancy and a lot of his good old boys spent a lot of evenings and Sunday noons after church, in the good old days, jawin' 'bout fishin', trappin', rodeos, and boar huntin' over in Big Thicket. Coon and bear huntin' down in the Bottoms, and politics in general. And she had to keep a small tack section for some of the old timers to buy and trade their leather goods. And "chaws".
   Jan adhered to the letter and the end result was remarkable. She built the new section right onto the old one and gave it that same old rustic log cabin look. Only this building was elevated some four feet off the ground. Heavy rains here can top a couple of feet.
   The wide porch covered the whole sixty-foot front with a split railing on the edge, supported by six wooden pillars that looked like totem poles, spaced evenly across the front. Old man Clancy was tickled pink.
   Four stairs, nearly twelve feet across, took you to the porch. Two glass doors on the entrance were backed up by old-style wooden swinging doors. Inside, you've got all the conveniences of a Hop-In, 7-11, or one of the new Love's Auto/Truck Plazas that's been popping up all over Texas lately.
   Groceries, meats, cheeses, eggs, bread, can goods, beer and light wines. No hard liquor. And no X-rated books and movies. You gotta go to Houston or the Bee-Hive Tavern down the road for that kinda stuff.
   Clancy's is a friendly store decorated with that old rustic ranch flavor. The new section that is. Piped music, bright Tex-Mex colors, and clean. Outside, in front of the building, flanking the stairs, he's got some picnic tables, flower beds, and a few old artifacts. Wagon wheels, a plow, harnesses, wagon trees, and such.
   "Touch o' atmosphere," he once told me.
   Every now and then Mr. Clancy gets into one of his moods and throws an impromptu picnic. Free! 'Cept for the beer. It gives him a chance to see some of his old crowd and some of the new faces movin' in, or just passin' through. Mr. Clancy is sort of a people's person.
   The store is surrounded by a paved parking lot. On the right side of the building stand four Shell gas pumps, and on the left side, near the edge, are two diesel pumps for those westbound truckers coming outta Houston who forget to cap off. I worked the last couple of summers and part time winters at Clancy's, delivering groceries and pumping gas. And a little stock clerking and cleaning up. That's how I got most of the money to buy the Datsun, and then the Sportster. Now I do it occasionally, especially for some of the senior citizens that can't get out or take sick suddenly. Right now I'm sorta on vacation for part of the summer. When my parts come in I'll be able to cruise to Houston and work there. For now I just do the odd chores here for Jan, who basically just calls me when she's got a shut-in to be delivered.
   Sometimes I take Jimmy with me and split my tips with'em. He jokes that we get better tips when he comes along cause he's 'so cute' as some of the older ladies tell'em. They do make a fuss over'em. Pettin' and huggin' him like he was some kinda French Poodle. Of course the little ham eats it up.
   Clancy's almost a mile from my house, so it's no real problem gettin' there. Other times when things are slow I just sit and hang out with Mr. Clancy and listen to his tales about the old days when bandits ran wild. He claims he seen Bonnie and Clyde once. I reckon he's old enough to. He's probably seen a whole lot more'en he's tellin' I reckon.
   I parked my bike by the porch and bounded up the stairs. Alice, a part-timer, was just leavin'. She's sixteen and not bad lookin'. But not my type. Too forward. And she's always staring at me and blushin'. But she rarely speaks. To me, that is.
   Jan was filling the ice cooler. She smiled. Oh, what a smile. That's my type!
   "Hey handsome. Thought you went fishing?"
   "Trouble at the jail," I frowned. "Any work?"
   "The jail? Oh yeah, I remember something on the news this morning. Hope it's nothing serious, Kyle."
   "Naw, Dad can hack it. We'll probably go as soon as he gets back." I really didn't believe he'd be back anytime soon though.
   "Well, I hope so sweetie. I just don't see how your Dad can stand it. And your Mom! Lord, I bet it just drives her nuts," she placed both hands on her hips. Slim, trim, hips.
   Jan was a very good looker. Nah! Jan was beautiful! Her dark eyes and silky brunette hair flowed soft and easy like a lot of those Mexican girls, enhanced the softness of her nicely tanned face. But she was married. Oh well. So I just silently admired her slim graceful figure and let my poor little heart bleed. Oh, how it bleeds!
   "I seen the law and the lawless," broke in Mr. Clancy from out of the blue. "Howdy boy," he threw me a nod.
   "Mornin' sir," I stepped back, startled by his sudden appearance. He was fumbling with a bridle chinstrap, working the curve bit back and forth through the loop of the freshly cut and stitched leather.
   "Seen a lot of law in my day, Kyle. Some good. Mostly bad," he winked at me.
   "Pa! Don't tell Kyle such things!"
   "It's true daughter. In my day, a man worked both sides of the law a lot. Whichever was to his advantage. Read yer history, young'un. Men like Earp, Sellman, Hickock, and John Slaughter. They wasn't always truth, justice, and the American way," he snorted. "No sirreee! Not by a damn-sight! They was on the side that sided with them, mostly.
   "Now, men like your Pa, Kyle. That's what the law needs. Unfortunately there ain't many like'em. You should be proud, boy. Real proud. Your Dad's a special breed of man. He's a mighty special man, son."
   "I know, sir," I swallowed. "Ah, could..."
   "Gotta go, boy. This dang bridle's givin' me a fit. Be out at the arena if it's real important. Jan. Give the boy a pop. Real fine boy," he mumbled out the back towards the little rodeo arena.
   "Sure thing, Pa," Jan smiled and nodded to the cooler. "He's in one of his moods today. Don't mind him. That's just his way of getting attention. I heard him talking to Mom last night, poor thing. Just like she was sittin' right there next to him. I didn't have the heart to interrupt him."
   "Well, he's alright in my book," I reached for a Sprite. "If you don't have any deliveries, I'll probably go out back and keep'em company for a spell."
   "Well, don't let'em bore you, Kyle."
   "Ha! How could anyone get bored with the stories he tells?"
   "When he starts tellin' his favorites over and over," she frowned. "Like San Juan Hill," she swung an imaginary sword over her head.
   "Well, he might repeat a couple of'em. But there's always somethin' different each time. Usually he's ridin' a different horse too. But that's what makes it so neat, Jan. Lighten up. He's a great guy."
   "Yeah, I guess you're right. Pa can spruce up the same story a half dozen ways to Sunday. Suit yourself kiddo," she let herself chuckle.
   The store phone rang and Jan picked up the receiver. "Hello! Kyle. Hold on. Got something for you," in a singsong voice. There was a mischievous gleam in her dazzling brown eyes. Her right hand scribbled down an order as she talked.
   "That you Mrs. Evans? Oh yes ma'am. Prompt service. No, he won't run over the flowers, I promise. Thank you, ma'am. Got to go, customers comin'. Yes, ma'am, I'll call you if there's somethin' I don't have. Bye, ma'am," she eased the receiver down. "Whew!" she leaned against the pillar and held the list out to me. "Be gentle with her, son," she smiled wickedly.
   "Mrs. Evans!" I groaned, holding my knotting stomach. "Aw, Jan. Any day but today? Please? Pretty please?" I was dropping to my knees.
   "I had her all this week. Your turn, kid."
   Jan got the goods ready and I made sure the delivery truck, a little Mazda, was gassed and the windshield clean. Mrs. Evans was a very nice lady and all. Just very eccentric, and picky. And by God she could talk the ears off a Missouri Mule!
   Most of the time I'd take the brat with me cause he had noted right off that she didn't care for little kids pokin' and pryin' into things. She'd pay for the groceries, give us a dollar each, a few cookies, and usher us out the door. Quick!
   I wonder why old women always insist on giving out cookies? Oh how I wished my dear, sweet little brother was here right now.
   As it turned out, Mrs. Evans was entertaining a relative from Houston, and really didn't wish to be disturbed. She paid for the groceries and tipped me. Which I politely returned and skipped away. Ha! Not literally.
   It was worth it not to be detained by one of her "Sermon on the Mountain" speeches when she really got wound up. Usually when I was alone.
   I made two more deliveries then pulled the Mazda round to the side to wash off the Texas dust. Afterwards I stocked some of the shelves before retiring to the front porch with a cold Sprite, a chilidog, and a biker mag. And casually watched the Interstate traffic zoom by.
   Occasionally a gas customer would interrupt my repast. Generally someone I knew who just wanted to pry me from my leisure. Then after a while it almost went dead. It was sorta strange too. There was no traffic on the service road and the Interstate had slowed down to almost a crawl. Somewhere in all of this and the mag I think I dozed off a spell, for I was ridin' my Sportster. Dad was right there ridin' beside me. We were heading out towards Beaumont to do some scouting for the upcoming Turkey Season. Man that felt good! My 1000cc engine, throbbing beneath me. Raw power! All in the flick of a wrist. My baffled mufflers cracked like thunder to the snap of the throttle. In fact, that's what I had named the machine. Thunder!
   I must have really been into it for suddenly I was back on Clancy's front porch, strugglin' for balance in the chair I had tipped back while cruising. I slammed both feet down and sat rigid a moment till the rest of me caught up.
   "Whew!" I rubbed the back of my head. Then I saw him! Or it. Actually, it was a him. But he started out as an "it".
   The road eastbound towards Houston was a ribbon of gentle rolling hills. From the porch where I was, you could see a good mile on a clear day. Today, the road heat rising obscured some of that distance, and a car could disappear several times before finally appearing over the last rise about a quarter of a mile away.
   I leaned on the top-rail, staring at the light object bobbing on the road's surface. It was blurred by the heat rising from the blacktop. My eyes caught the movement though. Thanks to the coaching of my Dad on our hunting trips, I could catch the slightest of movements several hundred yards away. Anyway, there was a shattering flash of light. I think that's what first caught my attention.
   A car rose over the hill and sped by the store. No, it wasn't the chrome on the bumper. Ah, there it is again. Now I knew that the object on the road wasn't a turtle or something. It flipped about several times, rising very slowly all the while, getting lighter and closer. Then it hit me.
   "A hitch hiker!" I snapped my fingers. And sure enough a wide brimmed Stetson popped over the rise. The hiker was wearing mirror sunglasses too. That explained the flashing. He stopped. From where I was it looked kinda funny. Nothin' but this guy's head perched on top of the road.
   He was facing Houston. Must be a car comin' I reckoned. Sho-nuff one topped the hill and passed right on by. The head turned around and started my way again.
   Now I've seen dozens of hitchhikers before. A few of them stopped at Clancy's to eat and freshen up before movin' on. Most were very friendly and told some interesting tales of things they'd experienced out there on the road. That's what I relished. Knowing about what was beyond Travis. Beyond Houston. And Texas even! First hand.
   Now, I've been up to Kentucky a couple of times to my grandfolks place. And my great grandparents farm, which now belongs to Dad. He lets it out to some local farmers and just cruises up there once in a while to check it out.
   Been to Disneyland once. Personally, I don't reckon California is all it's cracked up to be. Dad said he wasn't too keen about livin' in a state that you had to check in and out of. They're got checkpoint stations with Border Patrol and Agriculture Agents at all of the main highways at its borders! Disney World in Florida is a helluva lot better, I think. Especially the beaches and the women! Yeah! I'll take Florida beaches over California's any day!
   My Mom loves New Orleans. Or Nawlens, as the locals say. Ha. We spent four days there on the way back from Panama City last year. The French Quarter is beyond belief. There's a lotta weird people runnin' loose there too. And there's always somethin' goin' on. We rode a riverboat on the Mississippi and took a bayou tour, and fed chickens to the gators. Man, that was wild. Jimmy wanted to jump in and play Tarzan!
   Oh yeah, I almost forgot! Wow! We went to a place in Florida where they filmed all of Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan Movies. It's called Silver Springs in Ocala. It's an amusement park now. They have boat rides through Tarzan's jungle and a loudspeaker plays the Tarzan call over and over. Jimmy really went ape there!
   On the way home from New Orleans, Dad stopped off at the Catfish Connection, just off Interstate-10. 'Bout an hour or so from the East Texas border. Said he had a special dinner for us. Alligator! I'm hooked. It was great! If you like scallops, rattlesnake, or squid, you'll love gator. We even got T-shirts that have the restaurant's logo, a catfish wearing a tie and holding eating utensils.
   Them's 'bout the only places I been outside of Texas. But I do know one thing. Soon's I graduate from school I'm loading my bike and seein' the rest of the country. Mom didn't cotton to the idea at first. Dad thought it was good as long as I knew what my priorities were and wasn't just takin' off to escape.
   "Why would I do that?" I asked'em. "There's no reason to run away from home. I'd done that long time ago if there was. I just wanna see what's out there. Besides, I've seen enough people without a high school diploma scratchin' for a livin', as well as those with college degrees who can't make it. I just feel that I should "feel" my way 'round some 'fore settlin' down into a set routine, heaven forbid, and regret havin' passed up the opportunity the rest of my life."
   They seemed impressed and told me to have at it. They were actually concerned about me duckin' out on the responsibilities of life more than running away. They knew I had no reason to do either, but I reckon they just wanted to hear it from me. And the issue was never debated again. They were great that way, Mom and Dad. Once a solution was reached, that was it. Chris' old man not only would've rehashed the issue over and over if he didn't like the outcome, he'd probably sold Chris' car and locked him in his room till he was thirty-five! He just had to govern anything Chris did by his way of thinkin'.
   Yeah, I'm pretty darn lucky alright.

CHAPTER FOUR
   Soon the cowboy came into view. For some reason I couldn't help staring. I could tell he'd rubbed a lotta leather. He had that wrangler's walk, without a doubt. Yep, a sure-fire cowboy, I reckoned. Every time he heard a car, he'd spin about and hold out his thumb. Ah, ha! There was a guitar on his back! That excited me even more. He watched the small procession of cars whisk by him, then removed his glasses and wiped them too. He stared towards the store, shrugged, then started up the road.
   I reckoned right, all right. As he come closer the blue shirt with the little arrow-slit pockets, faded Levis, and shinny black boots that... They sparkled and glittered in the Texas sun, shootin' off flashes of light just like his glasses. Toe-guards, it hit me! I remember some cowhands all duded up for a night out sportin' sometime back. I reckoned this here fella's been around some, for that Texas tan of his added to... Tan! Whoa! I was straining my eyes. The man was black! I mean, it was a black man. A black cowboy!
   I can't explain being startled cause I don't hold nothing against black people. I know quite a few of'em. Farmers, merchants, and cowboys. And just ordinary folks. In fact, Jerry Odgen, one of my best friends and hunting buddies, is black. We've spent a good deal of time sleeping over at each other's houses. And he also goes fishin' with Dad and me down off Corpus Christi. That gives Jerry time to see his Dad, who happens to be a Foreman on one of the offshore gulf coast oil rigs.
   So I wasn't upset or anything like that. Or alarmed that we were being invaded. Just very interested. Lots of folks don't know that black cowboys, good and bad, have been around for quite some time. Especially after the Civil War. Men like Black Bart and Deadwood Dick, the latter a crack shot. Bill Pickett, the inventor of bulldogging, and the scores of'em that drove cattle and fought Indians. Some of'em were even original Texas Rangers!
   I wondered if this cowboy knew Charlie Sampson, the 1982 World Champion PRCA Bull Rider, who incidentally is also black. Or, I believe the proper term now is African-American. Boy, I had a ton of questions.
   The cowboy stopped at the edge of the drive and stared back down the road for a spell. He pulled out a little pad and a pen and scribbled in it. He then faced the direction of San Antonio and rubbed his chin. I had now moved over by the steps and sat, watchin' him, trying not to stare. He glanced in my direction. Whether or not he noticed me I'm not certain. But he came up to the store and removed his yellow tote bag and dropped it by the stairs. Then he sat on the edge of the second step from the bottom and spun his guitar around into his lap. He pulled a bandana out and wiped the guitar very gingerly. Why, I don't know, cause despite the dust and heat, it looked immaculate. The flattop was a rich blond with the grain rising boldly through and the pick-guard was virtually scratchless. I began to wonder if he could play it.
   Pearl inlay dots graced the neck between the frets and the hardware was a bright, shining chrome. From where I was on the railing perched above him I saw a little paw print carved on the head between the pegs. In fact, the same thing was on the tote bag. An orange sunburst with a black paw print in the middle. Now I was more'n interested.
   After wiping down the guitar the cowboy tucked his bandana away and leaned back against the stairs, at the same time spreading his feet. He removed his Stetson, which had a rattlesnake head on the front of it, and a multi-speckled brown and white-feathered headband. The crest in the middle with blue, orange, and red feathers accented the white ones. He tilted his head back towards the building, facing up in my direction. With the glasses on I couldn't tell if he was looking at me or had just dozed off. After a few seconds I got up the nerve to speak.
   "Howdy."
   There was no reply. I waited several seconds and figured he was asleep. Just as I was about to turn away, he spoke.
   "Howdy," his head still in the same position.
   "Nice day, huh?" I suddenly fumbled for words.
   "I reckon."
   There was a silence again, then I spoke. "That's a nice guitar you got there, mister."
   "Thank you."
   "You play it?"
   "Reckon."
   "Give you a dollar if you play something. I like guitars."
   Now Dad would've tanned my butt good for that. I was treading the fine line borderin' disrespect to an adult, and he didn't cotton to that at all, no matter who they were. I didn't do it purposely, mind you. It just sorta came out wrong. Or near wrong.
   The cowboy sat up, wiped the inside of the brim and donned his hat before spinning part way round to get a better look at me. I had moved to the top step to the right and just above him.
   "Mighty big spender, young'un."
   I thought I was in for an ear chewing, but instead he smiled slowly and reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills nearly two inches thick! I swear it! And didn't see a One among'em! He peeled off a Five and held it out to me.
   "Tell you what. You fetch me a Ham and Swiss-cheese sandwich and a Coke and I'll play you a song."
   "Sure!" I snatched up the bill and darted towards the door. Halfway in I paused and shouted back, "Hey cowboy, whadaya want on the sandwich?"
   "Mayonnaise and onions. And jalapenos. Get yourself a Coke if you want."
   "Thanks," I rushed in and straight behind the counter. Jan grabbed it, holding on for dear life, as I brushed by her.
   "What's all the commotion about, kiddo?"
   "Oh sorry, Jan," I shoved the Five at her. "Ham and cheese and two Cokes. No. One Coke. Let me make it, please? Please, Jan? Please?"
   She went to the window and peeped out. Then she turned to me, puzzled, cause she couldn't see anyone.
   "You got at a girl stashed out there somewhere?" she grinned.
   "Naw, Jan. There's this cowboy with a guitar sittin' at the bottom of the steps. Said he'd play me a song if I got him a sandwich. I wanna make it for'em. It's gotta be the best sandwich ever," I pulled out the things I needed.
   "All this for a singing cowboy? I don't get it kid?"
   "I can't explain it Jan. He's different. And not because he's black. He's... he's... There's just somethin' about him that... that..."
   "Whoa! There's a cowboy out there? A singin' cowboy?"
   I nodded, all the while carefully preparing the sandwich. "Onions! He said onions. And jalapenos."
   "A black, singin' cowboy? But you're not sure who he is? Yet you're all hyper around the collar? You sure it's not Charlie Pride?"
   "Come on Jan, I'd know Charlie Pride if I seen him!"
   "He could be in disguise," she teased. "You sure you ain't had too much Texas sun today? Ah ha, Nashville fever again?" she felt my forehead.
   "Please Jan, let me make the sandwich?"
   She handed me the change and said, "Sure, go ahead," and went about puttin' away the meat and cheese, and wiped the counter. I was about to protest when she placed a finger to my lips.
   "A moment of silence, young man."
   I swallowed hard, expectant. She pushed my nose down and let her finger run to the counter. I blushed, deeply embarrassed. There sat the sandwich I'd just finished making! A sheepish "Oh," squeaked out.
   "Scoot!" she swatted me.
   I pecked her lightly on the cheek, wrapped the sandwich, snatched up the Coke and Sprite and rushed out.
   "What's all the commotion?" I heard Mr. Clancy in the background.
   "Singin' cowboys, Pa. Singin' cowboys."
   I jumped down the steps, half startling the man. He tilted his hat back, beaming at the sandwich.
   "Ham and cheese," I almost shoved it at him I was so excited.
   "Can't beat that for service. Thing weighs a ton!" he hefted it, eyeing me sidelong. "This thing legal?"
   "It's safe," I chuckled. "Made it myself. Oh, your Coke. Thanks for the Sprite, but I get'em free. And your change. Just like Mickey D's."
   "Right," he grinned, and "not bad," he toasted me. "Whew, my feet were gettin' a little warm on that black top. Your folks own this place?"
   "Naw. I work here sometimes. Hey, let's sit over at the table. You can relax better without people stumbling all over you. Sure wouldn't want anything spillin' on that fine old flat top."
   He rubbed it affectionately, then picked up his tote bag, which I immediately went for.
   "I'll get it, mister."
   He seemed a bit reluctant to release it.
   "I ain't no rip-off!"
   "It's not that, kid. I'm sorta use to doin' for myself. Oh well, here," he released it anyway and started for the nearest table 'bout ten feet away.
   I studied that symbol real close while he ate. I rubbed the head of the guitar, making certain that my fingers touched the paw print. From the feel of it, he might've carved it there himself. The cowboy read my mind. He took a short swallow of the Coke, then, "This is one healthy hunk of meat, young'un. That's a wolf paw, not a bear paw," he glanced my way.
   My mouth dropped. I was thinking bear, or panther. Then he did it again.
   "Most people say bear, then maybe panther. As in Black Panther sometimes," he chuckled. "Or tiger."
   I almost didn't catch on about the Black Panther part since that was before my time and half a continent away. Read something about it in a history class once.
   "No, no... I didn't think you were ..."
   "Forget it kid, just joking. That there's my trademark. Wolves are my favorite critters. I sorta adopted them a long time ago. Cat pugs don't leave claw marks, remember? And bears have longer toes, as well as claws."
   "All the gray wolves have been killed off or run out of Texas. Up in Montana, Minnesota, and along the Canadian border and in Canada, there's some. There use to be a lingering population of Red Wolves south and west of here. Now most of them are down in Mexico. Though I hear some guy or group has been raisin' some for reintroduction back into South Texas and the Carolinas and such.
   "He's got a place over in Louisiana or South Carolina I believe. Actually, Louisiana had quite a large population of its own. Not to mention spillovers from East Texas during the extermination pressure. All the building and development just plain squeezed'em out."
   "How'd you know all that? I mean I live here and I don't know any of that! And... Where you hail from mister?"
   "Oh, a little bit of everywhere," he drawled, and went back to his sandwich.
   I got the impression he didn't want to talk about his past. Then something flashed across my brain. The jail! Maybe he escaped from the jail! Naw. Not dressed like that. And carrying a guitar and being so bold as to hitchhike on the Interstate! He definitely didn't come across as dumb or careless.
   But that wad of bills? That was a lotta dough. I wanted to ask, but Dad kept popping into my mind. Maybe if I got him to stay a spell I'd find out.
   I was subconsciously rubbin' the pick-guard on the guitar and hadn't noticed that the cowboy had finished eating. In fact he had removed the empty bottle and paper plate and placed them in the trash and returned.
   "Okay young'un, what song would you like to hear?" his voice brought me back to the present.
   "Oh, ah, something country. Anything country."
   "Country, huh?" he pulled down one side of his glasses and peered at me. "Real country?"
   "Sure! You know any?"
   "Yep! But you do mean real country! Not Kenny Rogers, John Denver, Glenn Campbell, or that kinda stuff?"
   I broke out laughing. The cowboy laughed too.
   "Naw, mister. Those guys ain't real country. Not hardly. Dad calls'em impersonators."
   "Your Dad and me seem to have something in common. They're good at what they do, but they ain't very country to me either. Except maybe Kenny Rogers. You have to admit he sings real good country ballads. How old are you?"
   "Seventeen. Why?"
   "Oh, I just don't run across too many people your age that know the difference. Or even like real country. How's Merle Haggard for a start?"
   "Yeah! Now you're talkin'. He's Mom's favorite."
   The cowboy wiped the guitar again and checked the tuning, nodding approvingly.
   "You'll have to pardon my singin' kid. It sorta comes out like an old bullfrog sometimes."
   "Right..." I chuckled as he strummed an intro and slid into Merle Haggard's BIG CITY.

"I'm tired of this dirty old city.
Tired of too much work, never enough play.
I'm tired of these dirty old sidewalks.
Think I'll walk off my steady job today..."

   From that he went right into OKIE FROM MUSKOGEE. I had to sing along. He actually seemed to enjoy that too. Some people take offense when you do that. But this guy didn't. It seemed to spark him on. That part about singin' like a bullfrog. Bull! Don't believe it! The man can sing!
   "Wow man, that was boss! My Dad would get along great with you! And he knows good country singin' too! You a country singin' star or somethin'?"
   "Ha, ha, ha," he laughed. "Probably just a 'somethin'. Just doing a little traveling. Your Dad a singer?"
   He's a Deputy Sheriff over in Houston. He got called in today. Trouble at the jail," and I paused, waiting for a reaction.
   "Oh yeah. I remember seeing a lot of squad cars expediting through the streets this morning."
   "You know something about ...?"
   "Use to be a Deputy back in P.G County. After I come back from Vietnam in '69," his answer was casual.
   Sometimes it was like he was readin' my mind. Then again, on the road and all, there's probably a routine of standard questions everybody hears. He answered the one I wanted to know most. The money.
   "I left New Orleans the other day, heading for San Antone to see some friends. Well my car picked up an engine knock in Houston so I left it there to be repaired. Guy said it would be about a week so I figured I might as well keep on to San Antone and pick it up on the way back. I've worked all year long for this vacation and I'm not goin' to spend it sittin' 'round in a motel room."
   "You gonna walk to San Antonio? You know how far that is? You still got better'n hundred-eighty miles or so to go!"
   "Yeah, I know. No, I was in the mood for walking today, and figured I'd catch a bus tomorrow somewhere up the road."
   "Oh." I breathed. "That would take a week of walkin' to git there. You sing real good too. What else you know? If you don't mind, that is."
   "No, I don't mind. It's early yet. Hmm, ten o'clock. Sure, let's do a few. Don't you have to work?" he nodded towards the store.
   "Naw. Just hangin' out. Dad and I were suppose to go fishing today."
   "Oh, the jail. Well, there're other days. Fishin', huh? You like tuna fish?"
   "Any kind of fish!"
   "But do you like tuna fish?"
   "You betcha!"
   "Well now, here's a song I wrote about Charlie the Tuna. Or I should say, I wrote the words and borrowed the music from Roger Miller."
   "You know him?"
   "You could say we've sorta crossed trails. I sent the song to the Star-Kist Tuna Company and they sent me some gift certificates for a case of Starkist Tuna."
   "Come on now, really? Let's hear the song."
   "All right, here it is. The official, unofficial song, KING OF THE FISH.

"Charlie the Tuna Fish
Rejected from Starkist.
He swims and does his best
To pass the Starkist test.

He 's a real gone tuna fish
Knows every trick a tuna could wish.
He's a hard swimming, worm-loving tuna,
Cause he's, King of the Fish..."

   The song was a riot! Roger Miller's music, KING OF THE ROAD with new words! Then I recalled that Jody Miller did the same thing and called hers QUEEN OF THE HOUSE. The cowboy said he's got another version called QUEEN OF THE FISH. It's about Charlie's girlfriend being the hidden force getting him outta all his jams.
   "I got one for you," I beamed. "Before we get to the good stuff. If you can do one of his, just one, then I'll know we're headed in the right direction for sure."
   "Oh?" he seemed interested, raising an eyebrow. "Hank Senior?"
   "Hank's the good stuff. This guy is probably the most imitated singer since Hank. And right up there with'em as far as me and Dad are concerned."
   "Then that couldn't be none other than the old Possum, huh? George, as in JONES..."
   "Damn! How'd you do that! You're readin' my mind ain't ya!" I had to stand up and breathe. "Mister, you ain't right! Come on now, who are you? You some new singin' star that ain't hit Texas yet? I can keep a secret. Honest mister. Sure I can!" I crossed my heart. Twice, real serious like.
   "Ha! Would I be hitchhiking if I were? Or leaving my car in a strange garage by itself?"
   "You might if you didn't wanna be noticed. What kinda car is it anyway?" I baited.
   "It's a '66 Mercury Parklane. Two door, full power," he grinned. "430 cubic inches. About 400 horsepower."
   "A 1966!" my eyes narrowed. "This is 1986! Kinda old, huh? Or do you collect old cars?"
   "Yep, it's a '66 all right. One of the last of the real Mercurys. And no, I don't collect old cars."
   "Is it studded with Rhinestones and Silver Dollars? You got steer horns mounted on the bumpers?"
   "Ha, ha, ha, kid. You've been watching too many movies! That died out in the late '60's. Nudie's the only one who does that anymore. And Webb Pierce. Nope, mine's just a plain old factory Mercury. The '66 just happens to be one of my favorite years and I was lucky enough to get my hands this one."
   "Well, I do know that all the big singers don't always travel around in fancy limos and coaches."
   "True. But you got the wrong hoss here, young'un. What say we do your George Jones and see how that washes? I'm kinda curious about the rest of your good stuff. How about HE STOPPED LOVING HER TODAY?"
   "Great! Can I sing along?"
   "Knock yourself out, kid. Come in on the chorus and do the last verse with me, okay?"
   "Gotcha! Let's do it!"

"He said I'll love you till I die.
She told him you'll forget in time.
As the years went slowly by.
She still preyed upon his mind.

He kept some pictures on the wall.
Went half crazy now and then.
He still loved her through it all.
Hoping she'd come back again..."

   A few customers had stopped to listen. Each left hummin' or snapping fingers in time. I was glowin' inside from being a part of it. It felt real good. I could see those Nashville lights. And I was also convinced that there was somethin' more to this cowboy than he was lettin' on.
   "Old possum himself," I beamed, pleased. "You wanna 'nother Coke? On me?"
   "Why not."
   I rushed in and grabbed a Sprite and a Coke. Jan grabbed my arm and nodded towards the door.
   "Who is that, Kyle?"
   "You heard'em singin', didn't you?" I wagged a convicting finger at her. "Ease drippin', huh?"
   "Yeah. Seems to me that I just might've seen him playin' somewhere. But I can't put my finger on it. He had the whole house rockin'. That I remember. It'll come to me before long, though."
   "Told you he was somethin'," I darted out.
   "Got another George Jones?" I plopped down next to him. "By the way, how'd you 'know I was thinkin' 'bout George Jones?"
   "Well, you said 'since Hank', so it had to be someone who had that Hank-type mystic."
   "Could've been Hank, Jr."
   "Naw, 'cause you mentioned real country too. So that sorta threw a curve in it as far as Hank, Jr. goes. He's definitely rooted in real country. But he also does a wide variety of stuff.
   "Charlie Daniels is out for almost the same reason. It had to be someone with traditional country flavor who hadn't traded it in. To me that left Johnny Cash and George Jones. And from what I've seen lately, traditionalists go Jones before Johnny."
   "Hmm, you put it that way, I guess it makes sense."
   "Whatta ya think about Barbara Mandrell?"
   "Most definitely a fantastic musician without a doubt. Can play the pants off most. Male and female. But not my kind of country. Too Pop. I do love hearing her Gospel though. Which tells me that if she really wanted to do traditional country, she'd probably have no equal. Save Loretta Lynn and Kitty Wells, that is. I wrote a song for her sister Louise and sent it to them to record."
   "What happened?"
   "They never answered. But that's not unusual. Most of the stuff you send to singers never gets listened to anyway. Though each time they put out a album or a single I pay attention to make sure they didn't record it or anything suspiciously similar."
   "So much for them pop singers, huh? Anyway, the way you sing, my Dad would love you mister. By the way, my name's Kyle.
   "Mike," he took my hand.
   "You say you were in Vietnam?" I couldn't help noticing how big his arms were. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. "Were you in the Marines? You see anybody get killed? Was it like Rambo and all that...? You don't mind me askin', do ya?" I was wantin' to unleash a torrent of questions.
   "My Dad was a carrier pilot over there. On the USS Ranger. 1968 to 1970. Got shot down twice too! Said he was damn lucky our fliers got to'em first. Other than that, every now and then he tells me snatches about it. Mom says not to crowd him cause it was quite an ordeal.
   "Hell, the only thing I know about it is from the movies, documentaries, and some of the paperbacks I've read. And a few of the guys' bullshit stories from their dad's and all. Why won't anyone talk about it? I mean, what's the big secret... It was all over the TV and... Did you ever kill anyone?" I held my breath on that one.
   There was a long silence. Mike stared through me. A far distant stare harboring the hint of something hurt, something hiding. Something trying to elude detection. I began to feel guilty like I was trespassing. It seems I had treaded on scared ground.
   "Sorry, Mike," I offered.
   He shrugged, then sighed and removed his Stetson and wiped the sweatband. Then he put it back on with the brim tilted over his mirror sunglasses that he'd removed for the first time. After wiping them he placed'em on the table. There really was something deep inside his eyes that really couldn't be put into words. I heard it hollering and screaming inside me. He strummed his guitar and started to sing.

"Kyle, this is the story of a young man who went to war. He made some good buddies, fought a lot of battles and won a few medals. Then one day they told him he was going home. So he sat down and wrote a letter to his wife and kids. This is what he wrote.

"Roll out the red carpet, I'm coming home.
It'll be so nice to be back home again.
Surrounded by family and friends.
It's not my fault I'm gone, But now it won 't be long.
Roll out the red carpet, I 'm coming home.

I can't wait to see your smiling faces.
I'm going to hug and kiss all of you.
Would you fix my favorite supper.
And meet me at the gate.
Roll out the red carpet, I 'm coming home.

I can tell by your letters that you missed me.
I've missed you more than words could ever tell.
Now it won't be long before I hold you in my arms.
Roll out the red carpet, I'm coming home.
Sorry dear, but I must end this letter.
I'll sign it love and kisses like before.
I've got to get my gear our transportation's here.
Roll out the red carpet, I'm coming home.

   "Well friends, back at home a young wife waits. When she answers a knock at the door she's greeted by two soldiers wearing grim and solemn faces.
   'Greetings from the President of the United States. Dear Mrs. Jones. We regret to inform you that the plane on which your husband was aboard was shot down. There were no survivors.'
   Mrs. Jones took a deep breath and held it a second. She stared at the Officers and gingerly folded the letter.
   'We're sorry ma'am,' they bowed their heads.
Mrs. Jones sighed aloud and managed a weak smile, then handed them her husband's last letter.
"Roll out the red-ed car-pet, I'm coming home."

   I was plumb speechless. And so were the other half dozen or so folks who'd gathered 'round. They were all wiping their eyes like me. Mike was just staring at his guitar and Elmer Reed stepped up and set a beer down in front of Mike. He placed a fatherly hand on Mike's shoulder and wiped back a big old tear.
   "I lost a boy in that damn war, soldier. You had to've been thar to sing somethin' with feelin's like that. Goddamn war!" he clutched Mike's shoulder, then shook his head and ambled away. Mike sighed, his jaws hard-set, and donned his glasses.
   I really felt sorta low. Here we were havin' such a high old time and I had to go and ruin it by bringin' up that "damn war", as I'd heard a lotta people call it. I fumbled for words, stutterin', tryin' to find the right thing to say. Maybe I should just leave. I got up feelin' kinda guilty and startlin' Mike.
   "You... leaving?" he looked kinda puzzled.
   "I... I didn't mean to pry, Mike. I'm sorry... I... I...
   "Sit," he told me. "Look. You didn't know. And it sure ain't your fault what happened to us. So don't go blaming yourself for something you had no control over. It's a hard thing to talk about at times. For some, maybe never. Most of us just wanna forget it. But I'm afraid that'll never happen. Can't rid yourself of something so extreme that practically dominated your whole existence. War is something that I hope that you nor any of your kids, or mine, will ever have to experience."
   My Dad's words coming back to haunt me! Wow! I was really going ballistic! I wanted to ask if he had any kids, and how many, but thought it better not to intrude anymore'n I already had. Still, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, or what.
   "How bout a trip to San Antone?" Mike strummed a heavy lick.
   "What? Me? Go to San... Antone...? I... ah....
   "Sure, you! Come on, let's go!"

"Is anybody going to San Antone?
Or Phoenix, Arizona?
Any place is all right as long as I
Can forget I ever knowed her."

    I had been forgiven and I whole-heartedly joined in with my best country voice. Lookout Charlie Pride! We were soon accompanied by a couple of others who had decided to eat their lunch next to us. Pretty soon the table was jumping. Hands thumping rhythm and feet tapping the beat beneath the table sent a warm and pleasing message.
   Jan couldn't stand it any longer and found a way to join in. She brought out free drinks and chips and joined in on the chorus of TEXAS WHEN I DIE.
   An elderly couple had stopped in for gas and got caught up in the excitement. Mike read'em well. After KISS AN ANGEL GOOD MORNING, he slid right into WALTZ ACROSS TEXAS just as they were about to leave. Well, let me tell you, they did an immediate 'about face' and commenced to do a little Texas-two step 'round the tables. Much to the delight of the rest of us. When Mike finished that old couple came over and patted Mike on the back and dropped two dollars on the table.
   "Gonna miss old E.T. Thank you son," they grinned.
   "Hey, hey, superstar!" I boldly picked up the bills and let them flutter back down to the table. "You're gonna be rich!"
   "I'm already rich, kid. Got good health, good friends, freedom, and some 150,000,000 square miles of country to play in," he swung his arm in a sweeping arc.
   "Naw man. I mean money rich! Just think," I started painting the picture. "Bright lights, limos, women! Big mansion in Nashville! Summer home on the beach in Boca Raton or Key West! Everybody screamin' and hollerin', tryin' to git near ya! To touch ya! To put ya in lights, kiddo! I'll be your manager, of course. How's that?" I beamed, my chest puffed out like a banty rooster.
   "Kyle, you really do know how to grab the bull by the horns, don't you?"
   "Hell yeah! My Dad even says so. We could do it, too! I betcha! And, as a matter of fact, I did use to ride in the Little Britches rodeos. Hmm. There's one next week. Right over there," I pointed. "Right back there. Mr. Clancy sponsors them. He used to run a pretty good spread in his day. I finish high school next year. And we..."
   "Whoa now... The glitter and the bright lights ain't for me, kid. A gig here and there, now and then. Cold beer, slim women, and a lot of mileage. And fishin', " he winked. "I'm a songwriter, not a singer. Kinda like my privacy too. Know what I mean?"
   For some reason I believed'em when he said that the stardom bit wasn't his thing. He said he'd take advantage of it of course, if it ever happened. But only long enough to establish himself as a good songwriter. I told him I thought he was a great songwriter. He laughed and said that he thought so too, but now it was time to see if the rest of the country thought so. And when he told me he had written nearly 500 songs so far, I was floored. Here I thought Dad and me had accomplished a major feat with the twelve songs we'd written. Mike assured me that more would follow if we were really serious 'bout it.

CHAPTER FIVE
   "Know anything 'bout rodeos?" I asked.
   "Some. Rode bulls some time ago."
   "I knew it! Ever win?"
   "Nothin' big. Started out like you, pretty much. Not in Little Britches though. Local stuff. For us it was mostly fun. Something to pass the time. Now, it's a big money-making business," he was rubbing the shinbone on his left leg. I was staring and he picked up on me.
   "A bull called Loco Motion. Long time ago over in Pomona."
   "Pomona?"
   "California. Up outta Tinsel Town. That's L.A."
  "What happened?"
   Mike tilted his Stetson back and his face warmed into a rich brown color as he began to recall.
   "Well," he drawled. "They had this crossbreed from Stockton, named Loco Motion. Cause that's how he moved. Loco. Open the chute and it was anybody's guess what he'd do. Sometimes he'd leap out and go into a dip and spin. Other times he'd just run full tilt to the other end of the arena then plow to a stop and shake all over. One time he just walked out and rolled over on the rider. Crushed three ribs and then tried to trample him to a pulp.
   "Well, I drew him on my second round and at once butterflies started buttin' heads in my stomach. Larry slipped me a shot of mescal from his flask to calm my nerves while we struggled to get my rope around'em. He'd been fightin' the chute somethin' awful that day. In fact they passed us up for the next rider because of that.
   "When we finally got my rope snug, he wouldn't give me a seat. Every time I touched him he'd start bangin' the chute from side to side, and climb the fence. Took a few hot prods to back'em down. He held up things for a few minutes and the judges wanted to drop'em and draw another bull. But the crowd was strung out on his rowdiness and I wanted that ride. I signaled the judges to let'em know I wanted to stick with the draw.
   "The gate-man told me to let'em know and I told'em that as soon as Loco calmed down a split second, I'd drop on him real quick like and he could swing'er open.
   "Larry swatted me with his Stetson, tellin' me that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. Said I was cruisin' for a big wreck. Then he offered me another shot of mescal. I refused. He said I was as crazy as that knot-headed bull. He was hellfire sure I'd slip beneath Loco and git trampled to death. It crossed my mind a split second. But when you're 19, sometimes you're on an ego trip a whole lot bigger'n common sense.
   "The announcer kept the crowd informed in low tones. I could feel the crowd's eyes glued on me. The chute hands crossed their fingers and shook their heads pitifully. I forced that big lump back down my throat, watchin' the gate man and the bull. I think the silence had just about gotten to old Loco there too, for he was stone-still for a full second, starin' between the fence boards. I eased my hand into the slot and dropped down.
   "Now!" I snapped, and the gate-man pulled the latch and tugged. He ran on the safe side, riding it as it swung open. I anchored my legs and pulled up the slack rope real quick, wrapped it twice and dug my spurs under as far as I could. My free hand raised and spinning, I yelled, "Comin' out!"
   "My gut knotted up real tight and Loco went rigid beneath me and spread out all four feet and planted them and just glared wild-eyed out into the arena at the two clowns tryin' to lure him out. The silence turned to murmurs. The announcer's voice crackled, 'Folks, ain't that just like sump'n named Loco...'
   "Damn!" I swore and was about to relax when the mountain moved. His head went down and swung left. I tensed and locked my legs. He shifted his bulk and slammed me against the inside of the chute. Then he charged the front of the chute, banging it with his horns and split the middle board. The noise in the arena rose and old Loco Motion banged back and forth and tried to do a 180 inside the chute!
   "Bail out Mike! Damn it kid, bail out! You're gonna git your head stomped in boy!'
   "Sounded like Larry, I wasn't sure."
   "Randy! Pike! Somebody snatch that kid 'fore he gits kilt!"
   "But no one on the top-rail could reach me. And it would've been suicide to step in there with a ton and half of raging bull thrashing about. There wasn't much I could do 'cept ride it out. Actually, I was really safer on'em at that point, than tryin' to bail out and risk gettin' caught between Loco and the chute sides.
   "The clowns moved right up to the fence, jeering and taunting. Tryin' their best to lure the bull out. One had a barrel and he pitched it at Loco and old Loco just pitched it right back. The second clown retrieved it and they tossed it in again. This time it got caught up under us. Son-of-a-bitch! What'd he do that for! That bull remembered his name and went every which way, including loose, tryin' to get rid of that barrel and keep his balance at the same time. To keep from fallin' he finally sailed outta the chute, twisting and kicking in mid-air. For a moment I thought he'd sunfish.
   "The crowd went wild and I was sore as hell! Especially my left leg and shoulder. They was burnin' somethin' fierce from all that chute-bangin'. Old Loco went straight up and twisted again. He landed hard on all fours and jerked right, then left. I felt my insides bangin' against themselves and turn to jelly as I went with him and lied to myself that eight seconds don't last forever. He spun back underneath me and crow-hopped halfway cross the arena. My eyes were watery and my arm sizzled in pain as I struggled to maintain my grip. My guts kept forcin' their way up my throat every time he touched ground.
   "Loco made a short sprint, stopped and pivoted. I went flying, only to be jerked short. My whole body flushed a split second, then exploded in a ball of flames. My hand was hung-up. And I could've sworn my arm had been wrenched from its socket. Somewhere in the background the crowd was loud and wild, but the only thing I remember for certain, was high steppin' in front of old Loco's horns, and my rib cage burnin' afire while he was spinning behind me, hookin' away, tryin' to do me in. I remember stumblin' once and being dragged some too. That must've been when I got stomped on. Just before I passed out."
   "How'd you get loose, Mike?"
   "Thank God for hazers and rodeo clowns. A father and son team, incidentally named Johnson. Outta Texas, mind ya. I heard later that the hazers hemmed old Loco in and old man Johnson just grabbed'em by the horns and hung on while his son Ty, pried me loose. Him and Charlie Sampson and Jay Ventress, carried me to the stretcher and the waiting meat wagon."
   "Wow! You do know Charlie Sampson!"
   "We've crossed trails a few times. Why, is something wrong?"
   "No! Heck no! That's great! It's, it's just... it's hard to explain. Anyway, what happened? Did ya win anything?"
   "Got throwed in seven. Gotta lotta applause I hear. Lotta bruised ribs and this chipped shin-bone," he rubbed it consciously. "And a bunch of flowers and a couple of get-well cards."
   "Damn, that must've been some ride!"
   "I'll never forget it. I spent two nights in the hospital."
   "Surrounded by pretty nurses, too, huh? I'll bet they were crawlin' all over you, huh? Come on?"
   "Ha, ha! I never kiss and tell," he winked.
   "Can you play?" he tapped his guitar.
   "Yeah. Some," my eyes were bulging as he handed it to me. It was a Segovia. Segovia was a famous Classical Guitarist, recently deceased. My next obvious question was if Segovia was better'n Chet Atkins. Mike only chuckled, so I figured the difference between them had to be hairline.
   "Dad's been talkin' bout going up to Nashville to do some of our songs in a studio."
   I strummed the flat top ever so lightly. It had a good feel to it and the tone was as rich and full as you could ever want from a steel string acoustic.
   "You ever record any songs, Mike? In a studio, I mean?"
   "Yep. Have to. That's the most practical way for me to push my songs."
   "Is it hard? I heard you gotta spend all day to do a song. That's expensive too, isn't it? You know, the studio time, the tape, and the band."
   "It doesn't have to be too expensive, Kyle. Shop around and compare prices. They vary. And you really don't have to go to Nashville, you know. Houston's got some good recording studios too."
   "Yeah, I know. But Dad wants our songs to be recorded in Music City U.S.A. To him that makes it real genuine Country."
   "Ah, ha! Caught up in the Nashville mystic, huh? I know what you mean."
   "Where do you record?"
   "Nashville."
   "How far you live from there?"
   "Bout eight hundred miles. Give or take. Ha! Caught me," he grinned. "No, I won't record any place else. Yet. It's easy and efficient there. And they've got the best session musicians in the country far as I'm concerned. Totally prejudiced opinion, mind you."
   "Mike? Say me and Dad went up there with four or five songs. How long should it take to do them?"
   "Well, on the average, if you've got you act together, and the songs are an average three minutes long I'd say a two hour session should do it. Then, maybe another hour to redo the vocals and mix everything. 'Bout three, three and a half hours. Certainly not more'n four hours.
   "Three hours! You're kidding! How many you do?"
   "I can do four or five songs an hour if really pressed. Recording, that is."
   "Mike!" I felt baited.
   "Honest. Those guys who tell you it takes all day long for just one song are pullin' your chain. Or tryin' to impress you with the fact that they use a recording studio. That ain't no big deal. Hundreds of ordinary people use studios every day."
   "Yeah?"
   "Of course. How do you think the studios stay in business? The secret as far as recording time goes is to go there to record, not to rehearse."
   "I don't follow?"
   "Recording studio. Re-cord. Rehearse at home till you're blue in the face. Do it till you know your song inside out and how you want it to sound. Then when you hit the studio, you record. Bang in, bang out!"
   "But the musicians need to know your song in order to play it! They've got to rehearse it don't they?"
   "That's why I go to Nashville. The Union Musicians there play by what they call the Number System. After they've set up their instruments you play your song for them and they write it down in numbers, like 1122, 1211, and so forth while you're playing. Each set of numbers stands for a note or chord. Their minds automatically register whether it's high, low, sharp, or flat, etc. I'm still struggling with the system. It's basically a quickie lead sheet.
   "Then all of you run through the song to see if that's what you want. Takes as long as it does to play your song. If it's all right, you do a take.
   "I still recall my very first Nashville session. It's still the best of them all by far. I called Jim Maxwell, who owns Globe Recording Studio. At that time it was at 1313 Dickerson Road just out of downtown Nashville. I wanted to ask him about what I needed. Lead sheets, demos and such for the musicians. He laughed and told me to just bring my guitar and me and he'd take care of the rest. That's when he explained the Number System. When I got there the session musicians showed me what it was all about. Fantastic, is all I can say.
   "Young'un, we breezed through the session like Grant took Richmond and I recorded five songs in one hour. The musicians were so impressed with my preparedness that they took me to lunch at a local catfish joint! Then after we came back from lunch, I re-did the vocals and had everything mixed down and mastered. I'll never forget the way those guys made me feel relaxed and how they breathed real life into my songs.
   "Had a four-man backup. Benny Kennerson on Piano. Blind since birth also. But never misses a note. Bob Dean on the Drums. What I liked most about him was that he didn't drown out the rest of the instruments, or sound intrusive. I'm real picky 'bout using drums.
   "Bob Eubanks played Lead and Rhythm guitar. Talking 'bout someone who could really throw licks, he had it. And Tommy Floyd was on the Bass. He appeared to be the group's leader. He also did a number of my later sessions. Plus he was writing for Country Music Parade magazine when he wasn't on the road.
   "But I'll tell you true, Kyle, no other session has ever been like that first one. It was so smooth and easy, it was unreal. I was hooked then and there for sure. Especially after doing five songs when I had originally planned for four."
   "Hmm, three-minute song," I was calculating. "Four of'em if every thing goes right. That's sixteen minutes. Do'em twice. Once for demo, and... Hey, you're right! That is less than two hours! Wow, Mike!"
   "Be on the safe side and take the two hours. But it depends on you too though. Remember buddy, get the music, get the rhythm down the way you want it before the musicians leave. Even when in the middle of recording, if you miss a word or a line, don't stop, ad-lib. Unless it throws everybody off. Just keep going and finish. You really want that sound track as good as you can get it. Remember, when you're in the sound booth, your vocals will be separated from the band. This way you'll have clean soundtracks. After the band leaves you can relax and re-do your vocals if you think you need to.
   "It's a common practice. Especially with me. Studio costs run anywhere from $25 to $50 an hour on the average for a good place. About the same for musicians. Anymore than that, you'd better shop around. Also find out if you have to pay extra for the tape, engineer, etc. And steer clear of those Package Deals where they charge you upwards of $1200 or more to do a "Demo Session" and give you a bunch of worthless, one-sided, non-commercial pressings!
   "I never do demos in the studio. All that's done at home. I view a studio demo as a ruse to get you come back to do a finished recording. Only difference between a demo and a finished recording is the name. And as you can see, you can do more'n one song in an hour, depending on how prepared you are."
   "Damn! Thanks Mike. I'll be sure to tell Dad about that. Can anybody use the studio you use?"
   "Of course," and he pulled out his pad. "Here's two I whole heartedly recommend. Champ Studio, down on Church Street, in Nashville. And of course, Globe Studio, now up in White House Tennessee, on Route 31 West.
   "I started at Globe Recording Studio in 1981, and when it was moved to White House, Jim introduced me to his friend Jim Stanton, the owner of Champ Studio, cause I wanted to stay in Nashville. Since then I've been doing all of my recordings at Champ. I've got some future recordings I'd like to do at Globe for old time's sake.
   "At Champ I pay $20 an hour for musicians and $35 and hour for the studio time. That also includes mixing, tape, and engineering. Cassette copies of the sessions are extra though. About four bucks each. You really don't need more than a couple of them. But make sure you take your master tape or a copy of it with you.
   "Jim's a superb engineer. The wonders he's done with my voice is unreal. Ha! I sing F-Flat the musicians say. And it turned out that Jim is quite a fixture in the music business. He started out over in Johnson City, Tennessee, and a few years later moved to Nashville where he founded the famous Rich-R-Tone Records in 1946, the oldest Bluegrass and Black Gospel Label in Nashville. He's rubbed elbows with and recorded many big and small artists in the 50's, 60's and early 70's. He's the one who jump-started the careers of Wilma Lee and Stoney Cooper, hawking their records out of the trunk of his car.
   "On his smaller label, Champ Records, Jim produced a number of great Black Gospel groups and newcomers just taking hold in the business. Lately he's just hanging on with that cause things have been getting kinda shaky for independent labels with Japan coming into Nashville and investing and buying up a lot of publishing companies. He also had a really bad accident some time back that disfigured his body. Didn't stop his creative talent, superb mastering and engineering ability though. Yep, Jim's a real winner. Here. The phone number's on there also so you can call and set up a date when you're ready."
   "Thanks, Mike." I carefully folded the information and slipped it in the important flap in my wallet. "Hey Mike, how about a beer?"
   "Can you?"
   "Yeah, sit tight." I was back in a flash. "Here you go, buddy. By the way, where've you played? For the public that is. I'm sure you've played in Nashville."
   "Yeah, I've played in Nashville. Dusty Roads, Tootsie's, The Merchant's, Squire's, and The Rhinestone, to name a few. Downtown's not like the good old days anymore, but you can still play and have a good time. In fact, in a number of those places I just mentioned you can walk right in and jam with a local band or do a solo. Right on the spot. Don't forget to stop at Tootsie's though. It's one of the last historic landmarks downtown. Save the Ryman, Lawrence Record Shop, and Ernest Tubb's Record Shop, Nashville's moving into the 21st Century."
   "Tootsie's! That's where the stars use to go after shows at the Grand Old Opry, didn't they? It's right behind the old Opry house too, isn't it?"
   "You're pretty boned up on your country music, young'un."
   "Born and bred to it," I couldn't help swellin' up prideful. "Yep, it's in my blood. My kinda music."
   "Well, don't overlook Dusty Roads either, if you go there. It's a nice quiet place that the whole family can enjoy. It's over on Woodland Street, just across the river from the Nashville Police station. Anyone can walk in and jam. Norma runs a clean place too. No bums and panhandlers like some of the places down on Broadway."
   "Wow! That's alright! Is it true that Tex Ritter died on the steps of the Nashville Jail on his way out from bailing a friend out?"
   "That's the story I've always heard. He had a stroke right on the front steps. They say Tex was Nashville's leading humanitarian."

   Then Mike told me about a place in New Orleans that was on Toulouse Street. Just off Bourbon Street. It sounded vaguely familiar. The street, that is. When he mentioned Pappa Joe's Bar, I knew pretty much where he was talking about. There was always loud music coming outta that corner bar.
   The bar on Toulouse, across and down the street from Pappa's where he sang in New Orleans for the first time, was called Johnny Horne's. It's been resold a few times since and now goes by the name of the Tropic Isle. Says he's played there recently too.
   Anyway. Johnny Horne was a local Blues Musician of some note who also had a passion for Country Music. He never played at his own place though. He booked other acts, always welcoming a good Country Act when one came to town. Mike and his friend Scotty drifted in one night when this singer was putting everyone to sleep. There was a group of bikers there too. They were complaining that the guy played his sets too long and half the time they couldn't understand what he was saying.
   Mike and Scott were sitting by the door at the end of the bar. Scott started working on the bartender, plugging Mike, who was jammed in the corner just enough out of the way to keep from being noticed. And he was pretending not to be concerned too. Turns out that this was a routine they used for breaking in a new place.
   Scott had given the bartender some flyers and passed some around to those at the bar and sitting at the nearby tables. When the set was over, much to everyone's relief, the bartender approached Mike. He was holding up one of his flyers and peering at him, squinting at both. Then he asked if he'd like to sing a few songs during the break. He said the crowd was pretty good until this guy showed up. That their regular singer got sick and he couldn't find anyone else, and if he'd mind filling in some on the breaks. He assured him that people here liked Country. Genuine Country he was quick to emphasize.
   Mike hesitated. Scott pretended to prod him. "He's just shy," he told the bartender. "Go on Mike, and I'll throw in a beer. Budweiser even."
   "If you can keep these people here and happy," the bartender offered, leaning over the counter,  "I'll buy both your beers for the rest of the night. I just filled most of the glasses here, so they'll at least stay until they've finished them. The rest is up to you Cowboy. Come on, wha-da-ya say...?"
   Hooked!
   "We've got'em," Scott winked.
   Mike grinned and Scott grabbed up his guitar case and rushed up to the stage. He really didn't give the other guy a chance to clear his gear. No one seemed to mind either, and sorta egged him off the stage.
   "Well now all you Country Music lovers," Scott grabbed the microphone. "Hold on to your seats cause it's about to happen! Right here, right now, right outta Nashville, Tennessee, we have the one and only Mike Johnson, the best Yodeler East of the Mississippi! Big hand for Mike Johnson," and he flipped open the guitar case and snatched up the guitar.
   "Come on up here Mike and cut loose with some of that good old time country music for the folks!

CHAPTER SIX
   The applause was mild, for the crowd had been subjected to a thus far unpleasant evening. And here was Mike, this Black singing cowboy no one in New Orleans had ever heard of comin' up to stage. But Scott's charisma won out. Mike stepped onto the stage and slipped into the guitar strap and ran a quick rhythm lick. The crowd's response picked up slightly.
   "Order yourselves another round and get ready to cry in them beers folks, cause you ain't heard country till you've heard this man sing. No ma'am," Scott winked, pointing to a woman in the first row of tables. "He ain't related to Charley Pride. But he does have Charley's good looks," he winked again. "And, he can sing'em."
   That last line got to'em. Now they had to stay. At least for the first song.
   "Howdy folks," Mike tipped his Stetson. "My name's Mike Johnson and I hear ya'll like country music?"
   "But can you sing it boy!" a biker in the corner yelled out.
   Mike winked at him and started into the WILD SIDE OF LIFE.

"You wouldn't read my letter if I wrote you.
You asked me not to call you on the phone.
But there 's something I wanted to tell you.
So I wrote it in the words of this song.
I didn't know God made Honky Tonk Angels..."

   When he went into the chorus the bikers in the corner went wild, "yeehaaing" and slamming beer mugs on their tables. The rest of the bar stirred with them and people from the outside were peering in, aroused by the sudden outburst. Presently the bartender found himself busy again as the excited trickled in and added to the festivities.
   Most of the places in the Bourbon Street area have speakers in their windows or doorways to attract customers. Johnny Horne's bar was no exception. Nobody passed by without pausing. More than half of them came in. Soon the place was elbow to elbow and the bartender was feeding Scott and Mike more beers than they could keep up with.
   "Keep singing! Keep singing," he grinned, ringing the bells off his cash register.
   The bikers had moved up to the front and were buying Mike even more brew and whole-heartedly singing along after only four songs. Those songs had been carefully selected, I found out, just to see how much "country" they really wanted.
   Scott flicked his thumb up. They had'em now and Mike knew that the next song would either bring the house down or kill his act right then and there. For some reason, most singers steer clear of this song like the plague while cocky others really think they've mastered it. Seems there are only a few besides Hank, his son, and George McCormick, who've ever successfully done it and moved an audience with it. Not to mention Boxcar Willie being one of them.
   In fact, the song had been recorded and released a number of times before Hank got it. Including by an African American female singer long before Hank. And once by the songwriter himself, his version bombing miserably before old Hank put his "touch" to it. If you know your Country Music, you'll know that this was the song that catapulted Hank Sr. to instant stardom on his first Grande Old Opry appearance. He received seven standing ovations and did seven encores of the same song!
   That was June 11, 1949. Red Foley who was MC of the show had to wave the crowd to silence and make a small announcement before the show could go on. Minnie Pearle was backstage and she said of the event, "I heard the noise. I was backstage and I heard the noise, and I ran to the wings and there he was. It was like a stampede!"
   Yeah, old Hank sure made Country Music History that night. I've often thought it odd though that that song wasn't one he'd written, considering that just about everything he wrote became a hit. And from what I gather today, if old Hank had of been there at Johnny Horne's that night, he'd been mighty proud of Mike singin' LOVESICK BLUES.
   The whole place was stunned. There was a brief silence when he hit that first Hank yodel. Then a biker jumped up with two beers in his hands and shouted, 'Goddamn, that's real country music!' And he let out a big old Rebel yell that caught on like wildfire and raised the roof. Mike dug into LONE GONE LONESOME BLUES full bore. In the meantime the bartender was on the phone talking excitedly to someone.
   During the middle of T-FOR TEXAS, a big heavy-set man with a neatly trimmed beard strolled into the bar and stood by the front door a spell. Then he nodded to the bartender and went to the rear end of the bar and mixed himself a drink. He and the bartender chatted back and forth, nodding towards Mike and the jubilant crowd of drinkers. The big man was beamin', and lookin' real pleased. A biker comin' from the John saw the man and shouted, 'Hey Johnny! You hear that? That man's Country! Black, White, or whatever, that's the best damn Country I've heard round here in a coon's age! Better keep'em round!
   Horne nodded and toasted him. His attention was still on Mike and the flyer his bartender had handed him. Mike was also tiring. He had been going for nearly two hours non-stop well into the regular singers slot. And nobody seemed to mind. Mike had the crowd and the bartender didn't want to lose'em.
   I also learned that sometimes Mike gets bored after only a half an hour. That night though, he was really into it. Scott, quick as usual, saved his throat. He rushed up to the mic as he finished KISS AN ANGEL GOOD MORNING and took it, applauding, and easing Mike to the rear.
   'What'd I tell you folks! Best dang Yodeler East of the Mississippi, huh?'
   'Mississippi hell! The whole damn country!' another biker roared. Rebel yells shook the walls. They were reluctant to let him off the stage, but Scott convinced'em that if they didn't he wouldn't last the night. You'd thought the National Brewer's Association had pulled up and dumped all their beer through the front door. Table after table had beers for him. And each of'em begged'em to sit at their table.
   Johnny Horne had come down during a break in his set at a bar up the street, to hear Mike. He had to fight his way through the crowd to meet him. Well now, he extended him the bar's hospitality and told'em that he could sing there anytime he wanted. He also tried to hire'em but Mike had a job. Trucking. Him and Scott were just passing through on their way to Houston. But he did agree to stop in again, as well as the next night. The bikers overhearing that vowed they'd return and pack the house with beer drinking bikers.
   That guy who'd been singing before Mike, had collected his pay and left before the first hour. I won't say why. But he did come back the next night to finish his commitment. He started out with his regular numbers for about 20 minutes then made an abrupt switch to country. It's rumored that the bartender paid him to quit early, again.
   When Mike and Scott arrived the placed was ready. As promised, the bikers had packed the place, mingling, and teasing the tourists and the locals that had managed to also get in. Everyone was excited and anxious. And when Mike entered, a big old Rebel yell cut the buzzing and someone hollered 'Yodel, Mike! Yodel!' Glasses and mugs were pounding the tables. The din rose and a chorus of bikers chanted, 'Yodel, Mike! Yodel!'
   'We'll work right into that,' Mike promised with a real short yodel and started off with I SAW THE LIGHT. He moved from Roger Miller's DANG ME and ENGINE, ENGINE, NUMBER NINE, to KANSAS CITY STAR. Incidentally, Mike's got a yodel for JAMBALYA, which he started using about a year before that night at Johnny Horne's.
   With everyone primed and ready, Mike swung into CARELESS LOVE, then right into LOVESICK BLUES. The bar's approval raised several octaves and he went into one of his own yodel songs, JUST A NOBODY. The roof came loose. Two more rousing numbers kept the crowd's blood flowing and then he turned on'em and began to slow things down real gentle like with some good old cryin' in your beer standards like MY SON CALLS ANOTHER MAN DADDY.
   Just before he was about to take a break, a big redheaded biker stood up, his hands on his hips. Silence dropped in like a rock. You could've heard a pin drop. Turns out he was the unofficial leader of the group. He went up to the stage and stepped nose to nose with Mike.
   'Boy', he stared hard. Mike stared back just as hard into his eyes.
   'You sing good country, boy.' he growled.
   'Thanks,' Mike's voice was even.
   Scott moved towards the middle of the bar, closer to the stage, as a precaution.
   'I can yodel too,' the biker grinned.
   'It's not that hard,' Mike replied.
   'Yeah, I know. My mother can yodel too. Can you yodel better'n my mother?'
   'Hmm?'
   'See this?' he nodded to his waistband and moved his vest slightly aside. Tucked inside his belt was a derringer.
   'Yep, I see it.'
   'If you can't yodel better'n my mother, I'll shoot ya.'
   'Oh?'
   'Yep! Let's hear some real yodelin' boy!'
   'See this guitar?' Mike's eyes narrowed.
   'Yeah.'
   'There's a little compartment in the back. And inside there's a .45 that likes to yodel too. You wanna hear it?'
   The biker shifted uneasily, looking around the bar as if for some assistance. He stared at the guitar, then into Mike's eyes, then Scott sitting at the bar with one hand tucked under his shirt. Then he stared back at the guitar and Mike and tried to save face while slowly backing away.
   'You still gotta yodel' he pointed a finger at Mike.
   Mike stepped back behind the mic, adjusted his guitar then grabbed the mic. 'Now for all you yodeling fans out there, we're gonna prove once and for all that tonight you've heard some real bonafide yodeling. And you can even sing along,' he stared at the redheaded biker. 'Cause this here's an instructional song. Just do like I tell ya and you'll find out just how easy or hard it is to yodel and keep up with the best.'
   You could've cut the air with a knife. But as Mike started singing, things started to loosen up. The song was one of Mike's yodeling songs called YOUR OLD LADY, which is about six minutes long. He says it's about how the yodel was born. We both know there's a number of songs on that subject.
   Anyway, what he did was take the basic Jimmie Rodgers yodel and break it down into steps of yodeling. The story deals with a boy asking him to teach him how to yodel and Mike takes him through the paces from Jimmie Rodgers to a hot Roy Rogers Swiss style yodel. You've got to hear it to believe it!
   By the time he got half way through it most of the participants had dropped out. Crazy Dave, the redheaded biker with the gun, doggedly tried to hang in, but no one paid him much mind anymore. They were keenly interested in the song and clapping to the rhythm of Mike's guitar. When Mike hit the Roy Rogers style, there was no doubt that crowd was his. He got a standing ovation and then came the flood of free beer.
   Crazy Dave stood up abruptly and some of his buddies grabbed him, telling him to be cool. He shook'em loose and went up to the stage. Scott stood up too, poised to jump. Mike slid his guitar behind his back and Dave noted quickly there wasn't any compartment back there. He scowled.
   'There ain't no .45 back there!' he looked almost disappointed.
   'I lied.' Mike's jaw was hard-set and his stare direct.
   'I lied too,' Dave roared, extending his hand. 'My mother can't yodel! You're alright, Bro.!'
   They shook hands, laughing, and the whole place was once again friendly and rowdy, with beer mugs and long-necks clinking loudly. Dave pulled out the derringer and held it up.
   'Cap gun,' he laughed and tossed it into the air. 'Buy this man some b-r-e-w!' he yelled.

   "Were you scared Mike?" I had to know.
   "Hmm. Very concerned at first," he grinned and glanced at his watch.
   "Hey! You ain't goin' nowhere without a Hank. That's a pretty tall tale you told mister! Now let's hear some livin' proof!" Course I was only jokin'.
   "You're kidding?"
   "I'll follow you clear to San Antonio till you do!"
   "Well," he sighed, "In that case, I reckon I'd better sing huh?"
   "Reckon so!"
   "Well, lets build up to Hank with a couple of goodies. You know Y'ALL COME?"
   "Yeah, got George Jones' record of it!"
   "Jones, boy! I'm talking deep country now! Porter Wagoner boy! Come on son, get with it now." His voice dropped real southern low. "Gotta put some twang in your voice," he rolled into "Y'ALL COME."

"When you live in the country,
Everybody is your neighbor.
On this one thing you can rely.

They'll all come to see ya,
They'll never, never leave ya,
Singin' ya'll come to see us by and by..."

   WABASH CANNON BALL came next. Then YOUR CHEATIN' HEART. A crowd had gathered again. A lot larger than before. Mike was so caught up in his singin' I don't think he noticed. And when he finished one song I sorta egged him on, suggesting the next song. The mood was right and he slid back into WALTZ ACROSS TEXAS and then LOVESICK BLUES.
   There's just something about that song that touches you when it's done right. Yeah, I think old Hank is damn proud of Mike.
   Clancy's store was busy too, and I found myself slipping in and out, carrying orders for those that didn't want to miss the show. The parking lot was nearly full and Mr. Clancy was on the front porch, toes and elbows a tappin' and a flappin'. And them long spindly legs of his a struttin' a Texas two-step.
   "Gotta real live one, huh, Kyle?" he called.
   "Yessireeee!"
   Jan was just as happy as a humming bird. Her cash register hadn't rung that much in one day since New Year's Eve when everybody stocked up. When she heard him yodel it clicked.
   "Myrtle Beach, South Carolina! The Bowery Bar! Where the Alabama Band use to play! The House Band called him the Number One Black Yodeler in the South! Something like that."
   "Ah ha. Told you there was somethin' special 'bout him," I grinned, with one "big ear" listening to the crowd 'Ah-hawing, and yeehaaing to THE ROSE OF SAN ANTONE!

CHAPTER SEVEN
   Somewhere, somehow, during the next hour Mike got distracted. He glanced at his watch and faded out in the middle of one of his own songs, SNAKES DON'T SLEEP ON A HOT ROCK. Just like that. For the first time he seemed genuinely aware of the crowd.
   "What's wrong Mike?" I was puzzled.
   "I didn't mean to cause a traffic jam. Look!"
   Cars were everywhere. The lot was full and they were parking on the shoulders on the road. The crowd was in high spirits and anxious. They were having a good old time and showed it by enthusiastic hand clapping, foot stomping, and the empty six pack containers, cans, and bottles over-running the trash cans. And when Mike suddenly quit, God almighty, you'd a swore someone yanked their teeth out with a monkey wrench! They howled for more!
   "You can't just walk out and leave'em flat!" I whispered through gritted teeth. "They'll lynch ya. And me too! Look at'em!"
   "Looks serious don't it? But I've gotta git goin'. Can't write all my songs in one place. That's why I took this vacation. To catch up on some of the places I just breeze through. Gotta go Kyle. Maybe some other time. Okay?"
   "Okay? Okay. But I really think you should do a couple more. Just to let'em down kinda gentle like. Lookit them people! Look in them eyes and whadaya see? Hunger Mike! Hunger for more Mike Johnson! But if you insist on splittin' don't say I didn't warn ya if they haul you, and maybe me, out back and string us up! Texans is kinda funny that way," I was really layin' it on, lettin' my eyes roll apprehensively from him to the crowd.
   "It's okay by me buddy. I can't make you stay. You know, they say you can lead a hoss ta water, but you can't make'em drink," and I jumped up on the table and pulled one of Scott's numbers.
   "How 'bout that folks? That country, or is that COUNTRY?' And the response was Texas rowdy.
   "Yeah, I knew you'd feel that way. Never could fool a Texan I always say. No sirreee. Mike's been at it all day, folks. And it's gettin' kinda late. And though he's got some travelin' to do still, he's gonna ease you on outta here with two more numbers. How 'bout a big hand for that famous Black Yodeler outta Nashville, Tennessee, and THE best Yodeler in the whole dang Country of TEXAS! If'n I do say so myself. MIKE JOHNSON!
   "Now ya'll treat'em real Texan like and he might even throw in an extra song before he goes. So perk up them ears and stand in your spot. Otherwise you'll have to follow him clear to San Antone! Mike, step on up here son, so's the folks can all get a real good look at ya. And hear ya better."
   Jan and Mr. Clancy were still on the porch clapping along with the rest. Mr. Clancy seemed a bit younger too. There was a distinct sparkle in his steely blue eyes. That weather-beaten, ruddy complexion of his was as bright as a red-hot coal. Out on the road I thought I saw Mom's stationwagon cruise by. But I wasn't sure, being glued to Mike and excitement of the crowd and all.
   "I'm gonna choke ya for this, kid," Mike squeezed outta the corner of his mouth.
   "Is that the way to thank someone for saving your neck, buddy? Save it for when you're rich and famous. Now yodel for the folks. You got'em in your pocket, kid. Come on buddy," and I nudged him forward a bit with a shoulder.
   "Mike Johnson, Yodeling Cowboy," I applauded, arousing the crowd more, then hopped down.
   Mike smiled broadly and tipped his Stetson to the crowd. Even through his shades I could see his eyes smiling and enjoying it all.
   "I'll bet there's some rodeo fans in Texas," he cupped a hand to an ear.
   "YEEEE HAAAAAAA!" they replied.
   "Well so am I," and he went into one of his own songs called, HOOKED ON RODEO.

"I remember the day Frank put me on old Bay.
He turned me loose said have at her boy.
She went this and that a way,
Then dumped me in the hay
And ever since I'm hooked on rodeo.

I'm hooked on rodeo, Brahma bulls, Strawberry roans.
I love to hear the roaring of the crowds.
I've rode'em all, had my share of falls.
I'll always be hooked on rodeo..."

   When he went into the yodel after the chorus, the crowd went with him, yeehaaing and fanning imaginary broncs as he yodeled. Jan was again trying to get away from the line of customers at the counter. She even tried to bribe me into spelling her. No way! And it's a good thing too, cause things erupted like the Fourth of July when Mike slid right into BOB WILLS IS STILL THE KING.

"Well the Honky Tonks in Texas
is my natural second home.
Where you tip your hat to the ladies,
and the Rose of San Antone.

I grew up on music
that we call Western Swing.
Makes me proud to be from Texas
where Bob Wills is still the King..."

   My head was delirious with glee and the crowd was drunk in Texas patriotism. This was definitely a much different day than what it had started out to be. Hell of a lot more'n I ever imagined too. When the applause finally died down at the end of the song Mike made a little speech.
   "I'd like to thank all you friendly Texans. You made my day. And my buddy Kyle, here." And they responded like good Texans.
   "I like to write. And sing a little," he glared down at me, bringing forth a few chuckles from the crowd. But it made me feel real special and I flipped him a thumbs up.
   "No. I love to write. And sing a little," he chuckled. "And meet people," he returned my thumbs up. "That's why I'm here. I took a vacation to get back into the country to put some season in my songs. To put some "country" back into my music. I think that's what really make's them stand out and have some meaning.
   "I've covered a lot of ground and learned a lot from it and from the people I've met. Wrote some good songs too. And I'd like to leave you with one of'em. A ballad about a companion of mine who shared a lot of those times. In fact, the song is scheduled for recording in the near future for my next album."
   "Ha, ha! Album!" I poked Mr. Clancy. "That's pretty darn clever! He's building up for the song. He's pretty sharp."
   "You sayin' he don't make records, Kyle?" Mr. Clancy's eyebrows raised.
   "Well, no? Ah, I, he never said that he did. Just that he's recorded in studios, and ... Hmm.... Why that..."
   "Hush up kid, he's singin'. Listen!" he poked me in the ribs.
   Mike pulled his weathered Stetson from his head and held it up for all to see.
   "My constant companion folks. THIS OLD HAT," he grinned proudly then placed it reverently back on his head.
  
"Well I get a lot of comments about my old J.B.
Some say it's worn and ugly. Others say its neat.
Why don't you get a new one, somebody once asked me.
I smiled and said I couldn't, this hat is history.

It's been down the Mississippi, clear to New Orleans.
Sang at Johnny Horne's, and rode the River Queen.
Why its even been to Nashville, the Grand Old Opry.
This old hat's been and seen what other men dream..."

   Ballads can be too long and sometimes boring. Only certain people have that knack for delivering one and keeping you interested. Mike had that knack. His lyrics and melody had you hungering for more. I was drawn from the porch back into the crowd to be next to this singing cowboy who'd just walked out of nowhere into my life. I had wanted a better view from the porch but that wasn't close enough. So I just had to worn my way back up to the table.
   The crowd was silent, warm, and very attentive. Actually, more like very mesmerized. When Mike finished, or it seemed he was finished, he strummed a turn-around on the last verse and his voice changed. It had gravel and grit and burned right through your chest like Johnny Cash does when he's singing somethin' deep and patriotic. He had a final verse and it seared your soul. And from the way he sang it, or half sang and recited it, I knew that the man was the genuine article.
 
"This old hat's been through prison
and its brim slouched a bit.
But it held itself together,
and came through sound and fit.

And I'm the man who wore this hat,
and helped to see it through.
This old hat and me's been through some things,
you wouldn't want to do..."

   Mike stared directly at me as he strummed the last line. Then he tipped his hat slightly to the crowd and slid off the table and sat on the edge next to me and re-tuned his guitar. Silent. Pensive. No, I didn't ask. I didn't care. The crowd gave him a very polite and reverent applause and drifted away. That's the best I can describe it. They were touched. Really, really, touched. Some of them had tears in their eyes. A few lingered, reluctant to leave, anticipating more. But everyone was pleased, as some of the comments drifting our way indicated.
   "He ought to be on the radio instead of that Rock & Roll trash!"
   "Yeah! Damn good singer!"
   "That's the best damn Country I've heard in a good while."
   "Damn good show man. Keep it up," several patted him on the back and shook his hand.
   After the folks left Mike told me how he and some of his drunk and rowdy Navy buddies were treated to a weekend in the Tijuana Jail back in 1967.
   Mr. Clancy and Jan came down as the crowd thinned out. The old man stood before us grinning like a possum, extending a big callused hand.
   "You had'em comin' and goin', boy! I'm Don Clancy, son. Where'd you learn country like that?"
   "Grew up on it. It's what I like best."
   "Sounds to me like you lived it some, too," he winked.
   Mike grinned. "Reckon we all do some."
   "Can I put you up for the night? Plenty of room."
   I was hoping he'd say yes. Both my fingers were crossed.
   "Noticed you were hitching," Mr. Clancy added.
   "Oh. My car's over in Houston being fixed. I'm fine. Really. I'll catch a bus for San Antone over in the next town. Got some friends there I promised I'd drop in on. Thanks for the offer. Really, I'm okay."
   "Alright. But the offer stands should you change your mind. Anytime young'un."
   Mike smiled easy and nodded. Jan was hovering over her father's shoulder. She was ready to burst she was so excited. Finally, she tiptoed closer.
   "You sang at The Bowery Bar in Myrtle Beach about a summer or two ago, didn't you?" blushing to beat the band.
   "That's quite a memory. I've sat in with the House Bands few times when passin' through. I do that in a number of places."
   "But you were there! I remember! You had on a black T-shirt with something about black yodel on it in orange letters. And that hat! I'm not too sure about much else, but I know it was you. And I'll never forget that hat with the rattlesnake! Or a face either!"
   Well, you caught me," he extended a hand. "The T-shirt says Mike Johnson Black Yodel No.1"
   "Number One!" I cut in. "In the whole country?"
   "Number One Black Yodeler," he corrected me. "Yep. In the whole country. So far."
   "Naw, you're teasing me. Come on Mike."
   "Oh well, you asked."
   Then I got to thinking. I couldn't recall any other Black Yodelers. Come to think of it, there ain't no Black Yodelers...
   "Well it's nice meeting you in person this time," Jan smiled warmly. "I think you've got something goin' for ya. I've got to get back to work. Thanks for the concert. See you around, maybe. Come on Pa," she flashed one of her sexy smiles over her shoulder. Caught me off guard too, for Jan wasn't the type to fool around on her husband. But it sure looked like flirting to me. Why not me, I thought!
   "You take care mister. Ya hear?" Mr. Clancy waved.
   "Yessir, I will. And thanks for the offer."
   Now it was just me and Mike. Neither of us said a word as he carefully wiped down the Segovia. Then he wiped the sweatband inside his Stetson and cleaned his mirror sunglasses. For the first time all day he reached for the yellow tote bag. He felt inside it and frowned. I offered to help but he said it was minor and asked me to watch the guitar while he went inside. He took his tote bag with him.
   I was clearing the tables so I said okay and went about gathering up all the trash and dumping them into the trashcans. Mike returned in a couple of minutes and placed the bag on the table. He picked up his guitar, checked the tuning again, then slipped into the strap and swung it behind him and adjusted it till it suited him. I picked up the yellow bag by the straps and handed it to him. He let me hold it a spell before taking it. Then he unzipped one corner and slipped a hand inside and pulled out a brown envelope. He zipped up the bag and slipped it over his left shoulder.
   "Here," he handed me the envelope.
   "Wha... I, ah..." and I took it anyway, turning it over. On one side was some writing which read, "Thanks Kyle. Your friend always, Mike."
   "You can't open it until tomorrow morning or the magic'll wear off. Promise?" he reached for it.
   "I promise!" I pulled it away. "But... but, what's it for?"
   "Being neighborly."
   "Then maybe we should be thankin' you and givin' you somethin'."
   "You did. You know, Kyle, there's an old Indian belief that if you give someone you like, something of yours, a part of you lives on in that person as long as they do. I'd like you to have it."
   "Well, okay. But I don't have nothin' for you, Mike. I, I..." I fumbled in my pockets for a piece of paper.
   "Lemme use your pen a minute. Here's my phone number and address. Next time you can stay, call me. Okay? My folks would love to meet you too. Okay?" I held the paper just out of reach. "Promise, Mike?"
   "Promise, Kyle."
   I let him have the paper and he slipped it into his address book. We stood there sorta long-faced and hesitant for about a minute or so. Then I spoke up. An idea had flashed.
   "I can borrow Jan's truck and give ya..."
   "Kyle."
   "What?"
   "Thanks. But it's really a good day for walking. I'll be on a bus tomorrow evening and in San Antone shortly after. Besides, I feel a good song or two coming out of this."
   "I'm sorry, Mike. I just feel like I have to do somethin' for you."
   "Believe me, kid, you've done more than you know. Honest."
   "You won't forget to call, will you?'
   "Promise." he crossed his heart.
   "Well," I shrugged, "I guess this is it, huh buddy?"
   "Reckon so, buddy. Take care," he touched the top of my head a second then turned and started off towards the end of the driveway.
   I felt kinda lost as I watched him walk down the drive. At edge of the road he stopped and turned. I was hoping he'd call my name. But he just tipped his hat and waved, then started on down the shoulder of the road. A car left the store and pulled up beside him. A ride. He refused it and kept walking. The sun danced off the silver heel-guards on his boots and the blond finish on the Segovia. He never looked back.
   The envelope in my hands jumped to my attention. There was some stiff cardboard in it so I couldn't tell what was really inside.
   "Clever," I thought and went for the seal. Guilt made me look up towards the highway. Mike was gone. No, he couldn't be. I ran down to the road where I could see a good half a mile westbound. Nothing! No cars had left the store or passed by since he'd been offered that ride. I pinched myself and stared at the envelope.
   "Promise," I sighed.

CHAPTER EIGHT
   I went and retrieved my bike and coasted down the driveway. Jan ran out and called me, saying she had somethin' for me. I lied, tellin' her I had to get home quick. I pedaled westbound, away from home, fast as I could, with one thing on my mind. I could always cut up Rosa Road and swing around towards my place.
   After a mile I gave up. Nothing! Just cars, trucks, and a couple of Emmet's hounds on the loose again. I out ran'em easily, then coasted awhile, my mind reeling. I felt like I'd known Mike all my life and was really feelin' cheated even, that someone could just slip into my life, stir up a lot of feelings, then just slip away. Puff! Just like that!
   Yeah, I gave'em my number. But would he really call? And why? Everybody says they will but they don't. But the angrier I got the more I became convinced that this cowboy was somethin' special. Soon I was singin' some of the songs we'd sung and reveling in the good times as I pedaled home. Mom was there. Her car was out in the driveway. She was probably in the kitchen preparing dinner.
   "You're home early," she chirped "Bet you had a good day. At least a busy one, huh?"
   "Huh?" I kissed her on the cheek.
   "Clancy's was packed. I was going to stop in but there were cars everywhere! And a big crowd over by the picnic tables. Mr. Clancy throw one of his surprise shindigs?"
   "No Mom. It was better'n that! Oh, Mom, you won't believe what happened today! And here I was all set for a boring day delivering groceries and feeling sorry for myself cause Dad had to work...
   "Hey! Gimme that, brat!" I grabbed my brother by the arm just in time and snatched away the envelope that he'd snatched from me.
   "I wanna see! What's in it?"
   "I don't know! Can't open it till morning! So hands off, lil faggot."
   "Kyle, really! What's that?" Mom stretched her neck, peering.
   "Kyle's got a new girl friend. Probably a smelly old bra or somethin' in there!"
   "Jimmy!" and he ducked just in time as Mom's hand lashed out for his head. He skipped nimbly out of range, giggling.
   "Sit, young'un! Now!" she pointed to a chair.
   Jimmy eased gingerly onto the edge of the seat, poised for instant flight. Mom's stare dared him to move. Then she turned back to me.
   "I really don't know what's in here, Mom. Here. But don't open it, please? Okay Mom? Please, please?"
   "Here," she tossed it back. "It's addressed to you. Might be a dead snake or something. Especially if it's from one of your friends. Jimmy. Set the table, honey."
   "I just met Mike today, Mom," I waved the envelope. "He's a singin' cowboy on his way to San Antone..."
   A siren squelched briefly and Dad's Jeep roared into the garage.
   "Dad!" Jimmy shrieked. "It's Dad, Mom!"
   "Surprise!" Dad bounced in. "Ta daa!" and he bowed.
   Jimmy leaped up and swung from his neck.
   "Wow, big guy! You're gettin' to be too heavy for this!" he sagged.
   "Why me?" Mom threw her hands up. Dad grabbed her and smothered her with kisses, lifting her off her feet.
   "But you're never be too big for me. The fire hot?" he patted her bottom and winked at us. Jimmy ran out laughing hysterically.
   Dad grinned at me, "Pretty soon you'll be able to do this too, kiddo!" He set Mom down and hovered over her, caressing her silky hair.
   "Right, Dad," I flipped him a thumb's up.
   Mom pried herself loose and checked the microwave. The roast was almost done. I took over Jimmy's chore and finished settin' the table.
   "You got away," Mom was relieved. "Wasn't too serious, huh?" she rubbed Dad's shoulders a bit.
   "Naw. Had more men than we needed. It wasn't a big deal. A rookie panicked. We keep tellin'em not to leave a greenhorn on the cellblock alone. Anyway, what's up here?"
   "Well, I'm glad no one's hurt. You know how I feel about that place."
   "I know. I know, Honey. I'll get out soon though. It's sorta gettin' to me, too."
   I started to butt in but thought the better of it. I did know that Dad would never quit. Him and Mom go through this 'bout twice a year. Dad's just got lawman in his blood. And Mom knows it. These little chats just help ease the tensions.
   "So, young'un," Dad turned to me. "Fishin' tomorrow? On the Gulf! Two, three days. Maybe four!"
   "Sure, I'm game," casually. "I'll call Jerry later."
   "Sure," he mimicked. "That's it? Sure! Usually you're jumpin' up and down... I don't...?"
   "Something at Clancy's seems to have captivated your son today. A cowboy singer or something." Mom spoke up.
   "Damn! I almost forgot," Dad snapped his fingers. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a cassette and removed a tape.
   "Got this at the Sound Track. Brand new release. And real good Country too! Boy, you're in for a treat. Here," he tossed me the empty case and went to the stereo in the Family Room.
   "Oh my God! Oh my God!" my eyes nearly popped out. "Ma... Ma... Mom!" I was glued in my tracks.
   "Listen to this Kyle," Dad called. "Bet you never heard anything like this! A Black Yodeler!"
   "Mom!" I was sorta shakin' and gettin' goose bumps.
   She rushed over and held me, and felt my forehead at the same time peering into my eyes.
   "Kyle, Honey. What's wrong? You fevering? You all right, son? Dave! Come in here, quick!"
   The stereo had started playing and my knees began to knock a little as I recognized the song JUST A NOBODY!

"I'm just a nobody, and nobody cares.
Don't even have a dog on my side.
I left home when I was ten, been traveling ever since.
It'd take a year to tell you where I been."
   "Tha... tha... the tape, Mom! It's him! That's him on the tape!" I finally found my voice. "Ma...Ma... Ma..."
   Mom took the cassette case from me and looked at it.
   "Mike Johnson, Black Yodel No.1" she read. "Hmm, I BELIVE IN ROY ROGERS. Mike Jo... You mean...?" she picked up the envelope I had placed on top of the fridge. "This man gave you this envelope? Kyle, you sure?"
   "What's all the fuss?" Dad entered the kitchen. "Ain't that yodelin' great? Just lis..."
   "Da... Dad," I held up the cassette case. Dad!"
   "Dave, sit down. Please." Mom touched his shoulder.
   He stared at us, half suspicious, half puzzled, then flopped down in his chair. Mom placed the empty cassette case in front of him. Picture up. Then she placed the envelope next to it. Writing up.
   "Read," she pointed to the envelope.
   "Thanks, Kyle. Your friend always, Mike. Okay?" he gazed up dumbly at the two of us. Then he checked himself and picked up the envelope, at the same time staring at the cassette photo and reading the name. Dad was quick.
   "You two trying to tell me that the Mike who wrote this note is the same Mike in this picture?"
   I nodded.
   "The same Mike singing on our stereo?"
   "That's what your son's been tryin' to tell me for the last twenty minutes, I'm sure."
   "Kyle?" Dad leaned back, contemplating it all.
   "He was at Clancy's today! We sang together and..."
   "Whoa! You sang together... Kyle...? Come on!"
   "Listen, Dad! That song's SNAKES DON'T SLEEP ON A HOT ROCK." And I sang it all the way to where Mike had dropped it. Dad was stunned. Mom was studying the photo. Then Mom offered, "There was a pretty big crowd out there today. Something sure was going on. You say that's a new release, Honey?"
   "Call Jan. She'll tell ya," I insisted.
   "Mike Johnson! Here at Clancy's!" Dad scratched his head.
   "Yep! In the flesh! And just about all day! We swapped tales and sang. And Dad! We've got to go to Nashville next vacation! Look! This is the studio he uses!" I handed him the paper Mike had given me.
   "Globe Recording... And Champ Recording Studio..."
   Dad opened the cassette case and pulled out the insert. "Sometimes they list the studios on the labels," he commented. "Yeah. Honey, look at this. Same thing Kyle's got. Champ Studio, 1705 Church St., Nashville, Tennessee. I'll be damned," Dad whistled. "It also says here that some of the songs were originally recorded at Globe Studio. Kyle's note says that Globe is now up in White House, Tennessee on US-321-31 West-North."
   "Mike said Globe use to be in Nashville, Dad. It's the first Nashville studio he used. He recorded five songs there in ONE hour, Dad! Listen! LITTLE BOYS and DOGGIES. That's one of the songs from his first session! He said it was also the last song he'd written just before that session. His 42nd song! Mike's written about 500 songs so far, Dad!"
   "Damn!" Dad shook his head. Awed. "And you really sang with'em?"
   "Here, star-struck. Wash it down with a Bud," Mom placed a longneck on the table.
   "Yaaa Hooooooo! We're goin' fishin' tomorrow!" I was suddenly bursting with excitement. "We're definitely takin' the guitars along! And Chris and Jerry too! Right, Dad? Man, we're gonna..."
   "I'm goin' too," Jimmy burst into the room.
   I eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged. "Yeah shrimp. You can go too. Why not? Mom? Go with us? Please?"
   "Seems to be the thing to do. Why not. Oh! What about Cathy?"
   "Who cares," Jimmy sprouted. "She don't like fishin' no-how."
   "Yeah," I agreed "Besides, she wants to go to Houston with the Raleighs this weekend. I heard'er on the phone. Knowing them, they'll never make it. Always plannin' somethin' and not goin' for one silly reason or another. Bunch of bird-brains."
   We all got a good laugh out of that. The Raleighs were good people. They just didn't seem to be able to make up their minds most of the time over the simplest of things.
   "Well, I'll call her and tell her she can stay over," Mom reached for the phone. "Looks like I'm goin' fishin'."
   "Yaa hoooo!" Jimmy shouted.
   "Supper's on guys. Hit the sink! You in particular," she grabbed Jimmy by an ear.
   "Oowww!"
   "So, you met a real live Country Star, huh?" Dad was at my elbow, still somewhat in a fog.
   "More like a real live country song, Dad. Just wait till you hear the story I've got to tell. Only it's gotta wait till tomorrow when all of us are together," I grinned selfishly.
   "Aw, Kyle! Come on now. Somethin' this big and you're gonna sweat us? Have a heart kid," Dad placed a hand on my chest. "This is your old singin' buddy beggin' ya, son!" he sagged at the knees, wobbling' and feigning desperation. Dad could also be a real ham at times.
   "Come on Kyle," Jimmy started on me too. "You wouldn't wanna deprive your dear, sweet, little brother, who thinks you're the bestest, biggest, brother in the whole wide world. And the smartest, and the strongest... Pretty, pretty, please? With ice cream and cherries and chocolate syrup and nuts on the top?" he laid it on thick.
   My eyes rolled over to Mom, expectancy in her eyes. Nor did Jimmy let up. And he dug in with a different tactic.
   "Unless you really didn't see nobody at all and just need time to make up a good story," his narrow green eyes glared. The curl in the corners of his mouth hinted of the devil about to erupt.
   "Okay, okay! That does it!" I stood up and took a deep breath, clenching my fists. Fortunately, my little brother was on the other side of the table. Out of my reach.
   "Jimmy," Mom reached for him. "That's not nice."
   "It's okay, Mom," I rescued him. "It's okay," I exhaled loudly and flopped down in my chair. All eyes were on me. I felt a sliver of doubt. I stared at the envelope, thinking hard and fast. HOOKED ON RODEO was playing on the stereo. I snatched up the envelope and shot a quick glance heavenward.
   "Forgive me, Mike," I made the Sign of the Cross and ripped open the envelope and turned it upside down. Out dropped a cassette just like Dad's. Everyone's eyes popped. Including mine.
   "The wrapping's gone," Jimmy reached for it but Dad beat him to it.
   "No wonder. There's writing on the picture. Kyle," he handed it to me very gingerly. A very warm, satisfying feeling engulfed me as I read it.
   "To my friend Kyle. Mike" And a little below it was written, "I'll call. Promise."
   "See, Dad," I almost whispered, handing it to him. "I did meet him."
   Everyone hovered over the tape and stared at it as though it was made of gold or somethin'. Then it hit me. That's why he went into Clancy's with his tote bag!
   The phone interrupted us. It was Jan. It seems she had bought some of Mike's tapes to sell. He got my number from her when he autographed my tape. That's what I've been mulling over, cause I gave him my number after he'd given me the envelope! Now I knew he'd call for sure.
   The excitement resumed during supper. Everyone was bombarding me with questions. I finally agreed to tell'em only a little. The good stuff would have to wait till tomorrow though. I did tell Dad that he and Mike had an awful lot in common. God, why'd I do that?
   Somehow I managed to get lost in the confusion. Mentally that is. I was at Clancy's store reliving the whole day from the moment I first saw that Stetson pop over the rise. Today. The songs. The stories. All of it is permanently etched in my mind forever. And not just 'cause it was such a good day. But 'cause for several precious hours today I'd lived a very special life. Mike really had a way of touching people within. He left you with the feelin' of being old friends. I guess that's why I felt kinda hurt and cheated when he left. He said he'd call and I knew that he would. But even more important than that was what he'd told me just before he left.
   "Kyle. There's an old Indian belief that if you give someone you like, something of yours, a part of you lives on in that person as long as they do."
   Well, I reckon Mike's gonna be around for a mighty long time!

                                                                           THE END

BLACK COUNTRY MUSIC YODELERS:
   Contrary to "Kyle's" belief that "...there ain't no Black Yodelers!" Country Music History notes that while African-Americans have been involved in Country Music from the beginning, the African-American Yodeler has gone almost virtually unnoticed.
   There have been other Black Yodelers among the numerous Minstrel and String band acts between 1880 and 1925 that had their heyday long before Jimmie Rodgers made the yodel his trademark, as well as during his yodeling reign. Most notable were Monroe Tabor, Beulah Henderson, and Charles Anderson. With the exception of The Mississippi Sheiks, most of these early acts have faded into relative obscurity. They remain only through word of mouth, dated music periodicals, and on a precious scattering of elusive and guarded recordings stored in Regional, State, and Private Museums & Collections, the Library of Congress, and the Country Music Foundation's guarded Archives.
   The hiatus was eventually filled by Mike's personal friend, McDonald Craig, then Linda Martell, Stoney Edwards, and Slim Gaillard, to mention a few of the most notable.
   McDonald Craig of Linden, Tennessee comes from a Country-Bluegrass family and he performed throughout Tennessee with his parents and siblings up until he joined the US Army at the age of 20. He served a tour of duty with an Artillery Unit during the Korean War and received the Bronze Star. After his discharge he worked part-time as a school bus driver to supplement the farm's income loss from the declining timber business. This also promoted him to return to music and he began touring and performing as a solo artist. He landed a brief spot on Nashville's Gold Standard Label during the mid-1960s. In 1978 he created quite a stir when he won 1st place at the Jimmie Rodgers Yodeling Competition held annually in Meridian, Mississippi. The first and only Black Yodeler to do so, beating out 72 contestants. The Museum was reluctant to award him, the Judges, whom they had commissioned from California, insisted. He was awarded but denied the full honors normally bestowed on prior winners ie: his photo and a winner's plaque on the Museum wall. Undaunted, and in demand from his newfound fame, Mac performed around the country at different festivals, fairs, and radio shows.
   Around 2000 McDonald began to slow down his out of state tours and stuck closer to the home-front, venturing out of state only on rare occasions. As of this 2008 printing, McDonald and his wife Rosetta still reside on the farm that his ex-slave great-grandparents purchased on Christmas Day in 1871. In 2005 the State of Tennessee designated the Craig Farm as a Century Farm because it has been in the same family for more than 100 years!
   Mike Johnson met and became friends with McDonald at the 1999 Avoca Old Time Country Music Festival in Avoca, Iowa, and they have kept in touch since.
   Stoney Edwards was born in 1929 in Seminole, Oklahoma. He is part Seminole Indian and one of the best Country voices ever, charted 15 Billboard singles on Capitol Records between 1971 and 1977. A prolific songwriter who's first record, the self-penned "A Two-Dollar Toy," was the first of many hits to come. "She's My Rock," "You're On My Mind," and "Hank and Lefty Raised My Country Soul," were three of many that would land in the Top-40. He was very popular in the Southwest part of the United States where he often toured with his then unknown band, Asleep At The Wheel. Stoney Edwards passed away on 6 April 1997 from stomach cancer.
   Mike Johnson will readily admit that he actually learned to yodel by imitating Johnny Weissmueller's Tarzan yell when he was a child during the late 1950s and 1960s. So when he became involved in Country Music he realized that he already had a leg up on the yodeling. It was just a matter of altering his vocal gymnastics. He sought out as many yodeling songs as he could and practiced them over and over and began combining and mixing them together. This naturally led to writing his own yodeling songs, some of which have become very popular on the Independent Country scene. 

   A Real Live Country Song was written on November 13, 14, and 15, in 1987. It was inspired by a same titled ballad that Mike wrote on 19 October 1987. The ballad was inspired by some barroom tales passed around by some of his rowdy beer-drinking buddies.

             A REAL LIVE COUNTRY SONG  *  Mike Johnson 19 October 1987 

HE CAME FROM OUT OF NOWHERE, A GUITAR ON HIS BACK.
HE WORE A LIGHT BLUE SHIRT, HIS COWBOY BOOTS WERE BLACK.
I'D SEEN LOTS OF HIKERS, BETWEEN HERE AND SAN ANTONE.
BUT THIS ONE STIRRED UP FEELIN'S, LIKE THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

I WATCHED HIM FROM THE SHADED PORCH, OF CLANCY'S GENERAL STORE.
HE'D TURN AND HE'D WALK BACKWARDS, EVERYTIME HE HEARD A CAR.
HE'D ALSO TURN AND WATCH'EM PASS, THEN PAUSE TO LOOK AROUND.
THEN SHRUG AND START TO WALKIN', HE MUST'VE WALKED FOR MILES.  

WHEN HE REACHED THE SHADED PORCH, HIS BAG DROPPED TO THE GROUND.
HE FLOPPED DOWN ON A STEP, AND SPUN HIS GUITAR ROUND.
HE LEANED AGAINST THE BUILDING, AND TOOK A REAL DEEP BREATH.
THEN EXHALED LOUD WITH PLEASURE, AND SPREAD OUT BOTH HIS LEGS

MY YOUTHFUL CURIOUSITY, THEN GOT THE BEST OF ME.
HE HAD THE FINEST GUITAR, THAT I HAD EVER SEEN.
THEN I FORGOT MY MANNERS, FOR JUST A LITTLE BIT.
AND DARED HIM TO PLAY IT, IF HE COULD I'D GIVE TWO-BITS.

BUT HE REFUSED MY MONEY, PULLED OUT SOME OF HIS OWN.
SAID 'FETCH ME A COKE AND SANDWICH, AND I'LL PLAY YOU A SONG.'
I RUSHED IN ALL EXCITED, WAS BACK THERE IN A FLASH.
AND SAT THERE RIGHT BESIDE HIM, AS HE POLISHED OFF THE HAM.

HE WASHED IT WITH A SWALLOW, THEN CHECKED THE GUITAR'S TUNE.
THEN ASKED ME MY REQUEST, I SAID 'ANY COUNTRY TUNE.'
WE STARTED WITH MERLE HAGGARD, THEN WITH OLD GEORGE JONES.
BY THE TIME WE GOT TO CHARLEY PRIDE, I WAS REALLY GOING STRONG.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HANK WILLIAMS, AND THE ROSE OF SAN ANTONE.
FOLKS HAD STOPPED TO LISTEN, CARS LINED UP THE ROAD.
AND CLANCY'S BUSINESS DOUBLED, AS IT NEVER HAD BEFORE.
IT WAS QUITE A CELEBRATION, A CONCERT ON THE ROAD.

SUDDENLY THE SINGER STOPPED, IN THE MIDDLE OF A SONG.
SAID 'I DIDN'T MEAN TO DRAW A CROWD, I MUST BE MOVIN' ON.'
'THERE'S LOTS OF THINGS I MUST DO, AND THERE'S MANY, MANY ROADS.'
AND I MUST TRAVEL MOST OF THEM, SO I CAN WRITE MY SONGS.'   

HE KINDLY THANKED US ALL, AND THREW A WINK AT ME.
I HANDED HIM HIS BAG, HE SMILED 'I GOTTA LEAVE.'
HE SLUNG HIS GUITAR ON HIS BACK, AND TOOK A REAL DEEP BREATH.
HE TOUCHED MY HEAD A SECOND, THEN HE TURNED AND LEFT.

HE FADED INTO NOWHERE, A GUITAR ON HIS BACK.
HE WORE A LIGHT BLUE SHIRT, HIS COWBOY BOOTS WERE BLACK.
OTHERS WEREN'T QUITE CERTAIN, WHAT I KNEW ALL ALONG.
THAT WE'D BEEN IN THE COMPANY OF, A REAL LIVE COUNTRY SONG!

                                                       Copyright 1987 Pata del Lobo Music * All Rights Reserved

The paperback edition of “Memories Die Hard” #MP118702 is available for $14.49 from
MAJJ Productions, P.O. Box 100933, Arlington, Va. 22210

Copyright 2006 MAJJ Productions * All Rights Reserved