The Club House story by Tom Kelly It was one of those crisp early Fall evenings when the bright harvest moon rose over the horizon between the hills and the pine trees like a big special gift package with your name on it. Johnny Perritt had invited me to ride with him up to the Colvin Club House at the White Lightning crossroads north of Ruston. "We're going to play some music," Johnny said. He brought along his guitar. Git-tar, he called it, Texas style. From Tyler, by way of Kirbyville. The Club House was a single-story wood frame structure, plain but serviceable, used as a community center and a meeting place for the Home Demonstration club. And, of course, for an occasional meeting of an informal group of Piney Woods pickers and singers who met occasionally for a hoot-out. Johnny and I arrived a bit after sundown, in the afterglow of a clear sunny day, as that big moon crept on up above the horizon, and the fresh smell of country in the pines came up from the ground. A handful of others had already arrived, and were circling around, unpacking instruments. After a half hour, maybe longer, the "group" had pretty much arrived and were getting down to business. Guitars. Fiddles. Banjos. Mandolins. Tuning. Greeting. There was no printed program, and no one appeared to be in charge, as small duets, trios, and other groups backed into corners, facing each other to catch the rhythm and nod cues for solo flights. The handful of non-players like me drifted from one group to the other to listen in, and move on as the "orchestra" warmed up. The musicians gradually aggregated into a more coherent mass, and the old standard country tunes began to be recognizable. From traditionals like Turkey in the Straw, to then-current Seventies fare made popular by Glenn Campbell, Chet Atkins, Johnny Cash, Elvis. Folks drifted in. Tommy James, Jewette Farley, Frank Jerome, a Claiborne Parish politician whom I knew at the time, but not anymore. Others, some I knew, some not, to make a crowd of maybe 25, maybe a few more. And then, there came a face at the door, and the crowd made way for a middle-aged gentleman bearing an instrument case which he brought into the center of the circle and unpacked a fiddle, plus a couple of other small gadgets, one of which proved to be a y-shaped metal tuning fork. I have since learned that he was Fred Beavers, a musician with some regional reputation. The non-players milled around, sipped soft drinks, watched while the musicians gathered in groups of two or three at a time, as Beavers struck his tuning fork, then held it against the back of his violin, and carefully tightened the string of his instrument to what a musician would recognize as a perfect match with the tone of the tuning fork's "A-440", followed by the calibration of the other strings. One by one, various pickers edged up into range of Beavers' sound and tuned on his tone. Intermittently, someone would call out, "Orange Blossom Special!" which is known in the trade as "the fiddle player's National Anthem." Beavers would rip out a few bars, the pickers would join in, after which Beavers would stop, wave his bow and say, "It ain't time!" indicating that the orchestra was net yet perfectly tuned. Quite a way into the process, during which some pretty good country music was played in close enough harmony to please me and everybody else, Jimmy Ball came in the door bearing a large case. Jimmy was, "first among equals" in a small group of pretty serious semi-pro musicians in the Ruston of that day. Jimmy's day job was recreation director for the City of Ruston. Frank Jerome was administrator of Lincoln General Hospital. Jewette Farley was Lincoln Parish tax assessor. Together they wrote several pieces of country music, made some recordings at a studio which operated in Ruston at the time, and sold a fair amount of their work. Jimmy proudly threw open the case to reveal a brand-new Martin Model D-28 guitar. For the uninitiated, the Martin guitar is the Rolls-Royce of the trade, and the other pickers crowded around to gawk, some to touch it. Jimmy took his brand new prize into the circle which surrounded Fred Beavers, and had it properly tuned. Even I noticed the special sound. Someone nodded, and the group just naturally fell into the rhythm and cadence of the "National Anthem." Fred Beavers made smoke come out of that violin, and Jimmy Ball, backed by the chorus of other in-tune guitars, mandolins, banjos, and anything else that would make sound, high-balled that freight train, steam whistle wailing, through the Southern moonlight, the floor of that Club House bouncing gently as thirty sets of feet patted in time, drivers clicking over the rails in perfect time and tune. It was a fabulous moment that I remember until this day. I talked to Jimmy recently and he still proudly owns that Martin. Through the years when remembering John, I have often recalled fondly that evening that he invited me into a slice of life I would not have seen but for his invitation. As Mayor of Ruston, he pushed several community improvement projects--power plant expansion, city recreation program, a new City Hall and Civic Center, streets, the other things that Mayors do. And he loved to play music. He worked hard enough at it to please himself, jamming with his pal Hollis Graham, and as often as possible with the Club House crew. As local newspaper publisher, I had a role in helping to promote several of the city improvement projects. In the process I became friends with John, and his wife Judy, a relationship that continued through the years after we both moved on to other positions. Johnny died in late March at age 90. He was one of my closest friends ever in this life; we shared many fun times and a few tough times together. The last time we talked, he said he wasn't sure what Heaven was going to be like, and in spite of failing sight and hearing, he said he was still happy every day to see the sunshine and hear the birds sing. Rest in peace, old pal. For the good times. A coda to the Club House story, which I have had in mind to write several times, but did not do it while John was still alive: Leaving from John's funeral at the end of March at the First Baptist Church in Ruston, I ran into Jimmy Ball, whom John always praised for his work as parks and recreation director. As we walked up the sidewalk, I asked Jimmy if he remembered the gentleman with the fiddle at that Club House jam session. Of course, he did, and I learned his name for the first time. And then Jimmy told me a Fred Beavers story. Fred enjoyed a regional reputation not only as a musician, but as an expert fiddle maker. Fred and a friend took their fiddles, including one that Fred had built, to Nashville, with hopes of getting into the big-time at the Grand Ole Opry. The two of them were waiting backstage during a performance, with hopes of meeting Bill Monroe and auditioning for a role with his Blue Grass players. As Fred and his friend waited, a man walked past and noticed Fred's fiddle. "That's a really nice looking fiddle," he told Fred. "Mind if I try it out?" "Go right ahead," said Fred. The visitor whipped out a flawless rendition of some country tune. About then, another fellow came by, and asked if could give the new fiddle a try. Of course, Fred agreed. Likewise, a perfectly professional performance. Impressed, Fred asked, "Who do you guys play for?" thinking that they might be a part of the Bill Monroe group. "Oh," said the first guest, "we don't play. I manage the stage lights, and he's the sound man." "Come on," Fred grumped to his friend. "If the lighting man and the sound man here can play better than you and me, we might as well go back home." |