CHAPTER 2
When I was in the second grade, my father was stationed at Chanute Air Force Base in Rantoul, Illinois. We lived in a quadriplex that was part of a trio of quadriplexes that formed three of the sides around a square where people could play, sit, and talk as a community. There were all kinds of kids there—White, Black, Latino, Oriental—and race was not an issue at all. We all played the same.
Winters were hard there in the plains of central Illinois. But for a kid, building snow forts, amassing the largest arsenal of snowballs, and sledding made the winter pass all too quickly.
But my father was a native Floridian. He hated being cooped up inside for days at a time. Perhaps it was this "cabin fever" that led him to make the biggest mistake in my life he ever made.
I came home from school one day and there, taking up what seemed like one whole wall of our living room, was a large wooden piece of furniture housing a stereophonic record player. It was designed in that classic late 50s motif. It had a top lid that raised to reveal a technological marvel—the turntable. It also had a radio tuner, but I don’t remember it that well. What I do remember is my father’s warning.
"Don’t touch it or you’ll get a whippin’."
I new Dad well enough to know he was serious.
So, it remained a curiosity until one day I heard a song that caught my attention. It had a twangy sounding guitar playing a melody that pierced me to my soul. I went over and stood in front of the console stereo and just listened. It was awesome! I felt the rhythm coursing from my ears down to my feet. My heart raced! I began jerking around and dancing like a possessed seven-year-old. That guitar! It twanged! It played deep, soul-resonating tones! I could see in my mind’s eye cowboy me riding a snorting bronco across the plains, lasso in hand, front bill of my cowboy hat blown up by the powerful wind of our speed. Great canyons zipped by to the left and then the right. Eagles soared overhead.
Then the music trailed off and finally stopped. Another song came on, but it was a horrible letdown. I went over to Dad and asked if he would put the last song on again. He put down his book, cigarette and beer and got up. He walked over to the console, picked up the tone arm with a small scrape, cursed, and then slowly lowered it down.
The music began again! Twangy guitar! Horses! Cowboys! Indians! Canyons! Eagles! I could spend the rest of my life in this world!
After the song was over once again, I was standing in front of the stereo sweating from running around in my dream. I asked Dad to play it again and he said maybe later. I had to cool down, so I headed to the kitchen for a drink of water. I asked Mom if she heard the song. She said she had.
"Do you know what it’s called?" I asked.
"No, but you can look on the label of the record," she replied.
I went back into the living room where Dad was and walked over to the stereo. I wanted to open the lid and look at the record. Dad was immersed in his book and I was scared to bother him, but I asked if I could open the lid and look at the record. He didn’t even look up and said, "Okay, but be very careful and don’t touch anything inside."
I turned to face the console. Slowly, I put my hands on the lid and lifted it up. It had a spring loaded lid, so it lifted very easily. The record was on the platter spinning around and I could see the while letters on the black label rotating around the spindle. I could see the sections of the record and could make out the numbers beside the titles on the label, but I didn’t know which song was the one I was searching for.
"Dad, which song was the one I liked?" I asked.
"I think it was the third song, Davy," he responded.
I looked at the label and tried to read it while the record turned. I started to roll my head around in effort to stabilize the words. It seemed the longer I rolled, the more stable the record got, so I kept on doing it until the letters began to become clear.
"3."
I got that far.
"3. Bl…" It began to come into focus.
"3. Blac…" It’s coming now.
"3. Black Sad…"
Suddenly, I realized that I was incredibly dizzy. I stepped back from the console and sat down on the floor.
"Davy, what’s the matter?" asked Dad.
"Nothing, I’m just trying to read the label on the record."
Dad got up. He walked over to the stereo and opened it up. He reached into the console and pulled out a large, colorful piece of hard paper that looked like a book cover with the guts missing.
"If you want to know what’s on a record, just look at the jacket," he said. "Which song was it?"
"You said the third one."
"Let’s see. Here it is. Black Saddle," came his answer.
Black Saddle. The song that sent me into the wild west was called Black Saddle!
This is what music is all about.
In the days and weeks ahead, I played Black Saddle until everyone in the neighborhood was tired of it. I even got Mom to put it on and opened the front door and turned it up as much as I could and it still be recognizable.
Sadly, no one else saw what I saw or heard what I heard. But I knew, someday, I’ll show them what it’s all about.