My maternal grandmother was a large influence on my life. She was a special one. Anybody who knew her or met her, felt it immediately. She was from a large farming family in Northeast Texas, in a district called The Piney Woods by some. Her birthplace was Marshall, Texas and my mother was born in nearby Tyler. Grandmother lived briefly in the oil-fields of Oklahoma with her first husband. He was a cruel man and by all accounts, a fool.
She picked up the nickname, Bobbie, during that hard time from an aboriginal woman friend in the oil camp, who also taught her how to make gumbo. Bobbie soon left the rough-neck and married my grandfather, an immigrant Swedish merchant seaman. They set up house in Beaumont, Texas, about seventy miles East of Houston. Cultures don't respect the lines on maps and the region from the South-East part of Texas near Beaumont to across the Sabine River and beyond the Mississippi River in Louisiana, North on both sides of Caddo Lake and South to the delta and the Gulf of Mexico; is all bayou country.
There are several small towns and cities in this region of Texas, such as Nederland, Port Arthur, Orange and Silsbee. It is a talent factory for singers, songwriters and musicians. Everyone has heard of Janis Joplin. My grandmother could tell you all about her family. Some of you may have heard of Ronnie Milsap if you are into country music. He's from Beaumont. If you are old enough, you have certainly heard of Edgar and Johnny Winter. They are also local Beaumont boys.
Something musical is in the water, something rhythmic is in the air and a lot of soul is in the cooking. There is a magic. The Beaumont Enterprise newspaper has a regular daily feature with simple chord charts to popular songs to help you get off the ground. Everybody there can dance. Another man from the region that you may have heard of, and if not, I warrant someday you will, is Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown.
He was born in Louisiana and grew up in Orange, Texas. Right next door to Beaumont. He lived all over the country in his lifetime and was even a sheriff in a small New Mexican town. He also lived in Bogotá, Colombia for awhile. He played blues guitar and he could make fiddles talk. Gate fronted big bands and played solo all over the world. Most blues fanatics will know of whom I speak as will any professional musicians. Mr. Brown is respected by the best in the business as a player and as a man.
Blues was his bread and butter for paying the rent, but one day a Frenchman set up a recording session with the intent of capturing the essence of the particular region I have been describing to you. The European audiophile hired a couple of Louisiana boys and together with Gatemouth, they wrote, recorded and produced an album called Down South In The Bayou Country. It was a work of art and none of the songs on it could be heard on Gatemouth’s subsequent tours, as they had been especially written for the recording project. I believe he was affiliated with Barclays House of Blues label in Europe. He was a smart man and he crossed an ocean to preserve something precious.
I first heard that album in a friend's basement. I shut my eyes and I was spirited up the road to my grandparent’s Gulf of Mexico beach cabin, smelling gumbo and swatting mosquitoes. I was desperate to have a copy. It took me thirty years before I could lay hands on a CD edition. It is sitting on my shelf as I type and I encourage you to get a copy, for you cannot borrow mine.
My grandmother sold her house after my grandfather died and moved up to North to Vancouver, Canada to be near my mother. She rented her own apartment and made more friends within a few months than I have made since 1973. She eventually was stricken with cancer and it was soon clear that she wasn't long for this world.
Around that time, it came to my notice that Gatemouth Brown was playing a show in Vancouver at a seasoned venue called The Town Pump. I purchased two tickets. I knew that Bobbie would love to hear a close neighbour sing her back home. My grandmother and I both loved to smoke, joke and drink beer. Bobbie had also been my biggest musical fan over the years, when I played guitar and wrote songs.
I picked her up one foggy night. The weather couldn't have been worse but we didn't care. My grandmother was “all gussied up” and I had on my best western shirt with red piping and pearl snaps. We were both looking and feeling good after arriving at the venue with some time to spare. It was the Eighties, when you could park your car within a block of your downtown destination.
We squeezed inside the joint and scanned around for a table up front. My heart sank. There wasn't a single seat left unoccupied in the house! A young lady brought us a couple of folding chairs. I was in shock, embarrassed and starting to get angry. It reminded me of the first time I had heard of “reconfirming” airline tickets. I was in a Mexican airport at the time, attempting to return home to my job in Vancouver and the airline had given my damn paid seats away. I found a solution but that's another story.
When the waitress came to bring our beers, I asked her to send her boss to speak with me. A man soon came and I told him that my grandmother was a neighbour of Gatemouth Brown and had travelled all the way from Beaumont, Texas in order to see him perform. She was a strong woman but she was also nearly eighty years old. I suggested that it would be a gentlemanly thing to do if he'd find her a table up front by the little stage.
That man was a good man and Bobbie and I were soon were styling dead centre up front. Tapping toes, wiping tears, smoking and washing down the memories with ice cold beers. Presently, a tall man with a beard like Aristotle, sidled up and sat himself down at our table. He shook our hands and said that he was Mr. Jim Bateman, Gatemouth’s manager.
I ordered Jim a beer. He asked my grandmother between Unchained Melody and Key To The Highway, if she'd like to meet Gate in between musical sets. She said that she sure would enjoy that. I said I didn't mind too much either. Jim got up and left us. When he returned, Gate was unplugging his guitar. Gate disappeared offstage and then the three of us at our table went up a steep black-painted set of stairs. Jim held on to my grandmother’s arm like any boy from Texas would have done.
We reached to a little door and when Mr. Bateman opened it, there on a small table was a basket of fried zucchini strips, a dish of ketchup, a glass of water and an ashtray. Gate was seated and wiping his sweat with a handkerchief. On his knee was a beautiful little girl who appeared to be about five years old. She was dressed up in a spotless white lace dress with white socks and white patent leather shoes. Her hair had been artfully braided and she wore little pearl ear-rings.
Jim introduced us and then left the room, saying he’d come back a little later. Gate and my grandmother shook hands and I shook hands with Gate. The two elders satisfied each other that they knew some of the same people and all the same places, which broke the ice after only two minutes. I just kept quiet and listened. My grandmother told Gate to call her Bobbie and asked who the pretty little child was. Gate's famous smile lit up his whole face as he introduced his youngest daughter, Renee.
“You can call me MiMi you precious little baby,” said my grandmother. “Come sit here with me. Let your Daddy eat his supper, Sugar.”
Renee looked at her father, at my grandmother’s beckoning arms and back again to her father. When Gate smiled and nodded, she climbed aboard her MiMi's lap. Gate started to chow down on the zucchini strips and offered me some. I chatted with him while my grandmother played a finger counting game with the little girl.
“Wire, brier, limber, lock. Three geese in a flock. One flew North, one flew West and one flew over the cuckoo's nest.”
Giggling with glee, Renee set Gate and I to laughing so hard that we quit munching the zucchini strips. Gatemouth offered to get my grandmother any food that the kitchen had to offer. She politely declined. Now that they were friends, she intimated to him that she didn't eat that nasty “restrunt” food. I jumped on the topic of food and told Gate that my grandmother made the best seafood gumbo West of Baton Rouge. I told him that not a person who ever tried it would contradict me. The fact that Gate hadn't ever had it was probably due to all his damn travelling, I added.
Renee begged for another round of Wire Brier Limber Lock, anticipating the big hug at the end of the rhyme. Gate scratched his jaw, looked at his watch and asked my grandmother if she'd like a job. He said that she could ride on the band’s bus, cook the gumbo and look after little Renee.
Sitting my grandmother’s lap, Renee clapped her hands and then, with a serious look, she asked my grandmother to stay with her. I waited breathlessly for her answer and imagined I could see it written in my grandmother's eyes. Before she could answer, Jim Bateman opened the door and gave Gatemouth his curtain call. Gate extracted two business cards from his shirt pocket. He gave one to me and one to my grandmother. He said to think it over and call Jim if she ever wanted to take that job. I still carry that card in my wallet today.
We followed Gatemouth, Renee and Jim down the dark stairs and listened to the second and final set. Jim bid us goodbye and took Renee to wait out the show upstairs. Gate shouldered his guitar, plugged in and played his very best. My grandmother and I had another beer and talked about her new job prospect.
All to soon for us, the show ended and I realized how late the hour was. I escorted my grandmother out to my car and began the long rainy drive to her apartment. She passed away a very short time afterwards and as I look back now, I see that she taught me another lesson at the very end of her days. There is always someone, somewhere who needs you, if you are a conduit of love.
Gatemouth Brown is gone now and is buried not far from my grandmother. They both had the magic. When I was in my teens, my grandmother passed her gumbo cooking method on to me. No weights, measurements or formula that could be written down were used. It was a hands on experience and I knew at the time, that to be chosen was both an honour and a responsibility. I will, in my turn, keep that good chain going. It is powerful stuff. Everything good, righteous and mighty within my grandmother is not gone. It's in the gumbo.
fin