The Summer of the Terraplane Blues

By Gregory Yawman

Deep down in the Delta, the Blues touch your soul…

In an extensively researched novel, The Summer of the Terraplane Blues brings Robert Johnson, father of the Delta Blues, to life by filling in some of the gaps in Johnson's short life.

Set in the Mississippi Delta in the last summer of Johnson's life, the book pairs Johnson with a young, bookish, African-American college student from the North who is studying the cultural impact of blues music on black society as a college project. Together, they face the struggles of young black men in a rigidly segregated South as the student travels with Johnson through juke joints, plantations, and street corners in 1938 Mississippi—all against a backdrop of blues music.

Despite his prominence as a composer, guitarist and singer whose songs have been covered by hundreds of musicians, relatively little is known about this member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Blues Hall of Fame.

Although the work is fiction, everything is painstakingly tied to known (although sometimes contradictory) historical facts. This book, devoted to the life, myth and music of Johnson, creates a living blues musician.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Yawman
• Release date: Mar 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386448570

Book preview

Prologue

Greenwood, MS,

December 29, 1988

More than half a century has passed since I left Mississippi, but as we traveled past endless acres of flat, brown fields it felt like it was just yesterday. It’s up there on the left, I said to my son David, as I sat up straighter and peered down the road. My granddaughter glanced up from a magazine she’d been reading in the back seat of our rental car for the past half hour or so as we turned onto the dirt lane leading up to the church.

Why are we going to a church, Grandpa? she asked.

We’re not here for the church. It’s the cemetery I want to visit. Before she could sigh, I added it will be quick. And then we’ll get dinner.

David pulled the car to a stop between the church and cemetery.

The sign is new, I said as I stepped out of the car. I didn’t remember Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church having a sign when I was here in 1938. They both glanced at the wooden sign with the hand painted black letters without comment and followed me as I headed into the cemetery.

Cemetery might be bit misleading. It was about a half an acre of land along the side of the small wooden country church. Headstones seemed scattered without plan, and there were no walkways through the carpet of dry brown leaves. I stopped for a second to get my bearings, and for a moment I feared I wouldn’t remember where the grave was located. My son and granddaughter trudged dutifully behind me. I stared at the church to get my bearings and then the realization struck me.

The church used to face the other way. That’s what got me. The front door faced the river before, but now it faces the road, I explained, gesturing to the front and back of the building and feeling somewhat better about my confusion.

Oh, I didn’t even see the river, Dad, said David. It’s right through those bushes, Katie. He pointed, but Katie continued to shuffle through the leaves with her head down and her hands buried in the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt.

That’s the Little Tallahatchie River, I said. Katie, people used to come to church by rowboat and canoe more than they came by car, so the church faced where they’d be coming from. I guess that’s all changed, so they moved the entrance to the church to the side facing the road.

I did get an uh huh, but it had been a long day and probably not the most thrilling for a thirteen-year old. I put my arm around her shoulder. This is our last stop for today, okay?

She gave me a polite smile. That’s fine, Grandpa. It’s been . . . fun seeing where you spent that summer back in 1918.

1938, I corrected her. I was just born in 1918.

Right, she replied.

I nudged the three of us a bit to my left and stopped. The trees were much bigger than I remembered, which shouldn’t have surprised me after all of this time. I was fairly certain I had found the spot. I was about the right distance from both the church and the river.

This is where he’s buried, Robert Johnson, the one I’ve been telling you about.

Here? Why doesn’t he have a headstone? asked Katie.

Well, he wasn’t a rich man, and his family didn’t have a lot of money, so I guess no one ever bought one, I replied.

I bowed my head and thought back on the summer of 1938. I was a twenty-year old Black college student from Baltimore, traveling through Mississippi, my head full of expectations and my stomach churning most of that summer over a decision that set a course for the rest of my life. I had been far from home in ways well beyond geographic distance. It had been a summer where I had come to a significant crossroad in my own life, and that summer had ended right here in this cemetery. As far as I could tell, I had stood exactly in this spot in August of 1938. The only difference now is that there was no upturned sandy brown soil from a fresh grave.

My son and granddaughter, God bless them, stood silent and perfectly still. I was so grateful they were giving me this moment. When the breeze died down, we could hear the faint ripples in the river, just a few yards beyond us.

Grandpa, was Robert Johnson a good friend of yours? asked my granddaughter softly.

I exhaled, took off my glasses and blinked to clear my watering eyes. Well, Katie, that’s a very complicated question.

The wind kicked up and whipped a flurry of dry leaves across my shoes. Some dead leaves clinging to the branches above us dropped and flew by us. I looked up and saw blue-grey storm clouds forming across the road beyond the cleared expanse of barren cotton fields. The wind suddenly felt icy cold against my neck. I put my arm around my son and granddaughter and pulled them close to me.

Come on. Time to go. Looks like we might get some rain.

Chapter One

Memphis, TN

June 23, 1938

The late afternoon heat radiated up from the pavement as I waited for the bus driver to pull my suitcase from the hold in the side of the Greyhound bus. It had been a long ride from Atlanta, and I hadn’t noticed the oppressive heat until the bus came to a stop at the downtown Memphis station. After nearly all of the other bags were unloaded, my brown leather suitcase came sliding across the pavement. I thanked the driver, but either he didn’t hear me or just ignored me as he slammed the cargo door.

I picked up my bag and headed out in front of the terminal building. The city looked to me much like my hometown Baltimore – lots of brick buildings with more emphasis on function rather than architectural beauty. I saw from the street sign that I was on Monroe. The address I was looking for was on Front Street, but I had no idea which direction to go. My father’s business associate here in Memphis had told him it was just a short walk from the bus station.

A heavy-set Black woman with sweat running down both puffy cheeks trudged out of the terminal with a suitcase in each hand.

Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know where Front Street is? I asked.

Without stopping, she nodded her head to the right of me. ’bout three blocks that way.

I thanked her and headed to Carlson Trucking on Front Street. I had never met Mr. Carlson, the owner, but apparently my father gave him enough business through his seafood company that Mr. Carlson agreed to provide me a car for the rest of the summer. I could feel a rivulet of sweat running down my spine as I got to Front Street and saw the black and white metal sign for the trucking business.

I opened the door, which rang a bell above the door, and stepped into the small office. A rusted ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, but at least provided a bit of relief from the sweltering heat. I saw a worn wooden counter, but there was no one at the counter. There was an opening to a back room behind the counter, and I put the suitcase on the floor and peered into the back room. I could hear voices. After about a minute, a tall Black man, bald with a full back beard, dressed in a white tee shirt and grease-stained overalls, stepped up to the counter. He looked at me without speaking.

I’m here to see Mr. Carlson. I’m James Howard. He’s expecting me, but I’m a little late because . . .

Ain’t here, the man replied. He gone for da day. Had to leave a bit early.

I’m supposed to pick up a car from him today. He set it up with my father, George Howard . . . Howard Oyster and Seafood in Baltimore.

He shook his head. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout a car. He be back in the mornin’. You can come by then.

Are you sure he didn’t leave a car for me? I’m supposed to pick it up today.

Sorry, buddy. There ain’t nothin’ I can do without Mr. C here. Come by in the mornin’.

With that, he nodded and turned to head into the back room.

Wait, I yelled, a bit too loud and way too panicked, but at least he stopped and turned back to me. What I am supposed to do all night? I don’t have any place to stay. I just got in on the bus.

He shrugged, then leaned on the counter and studied me for a minute. I assume he could sense my anxiety. His eyes softened, and he leaned toward me.

Look, you probably not a guy who wants to sleep in the bus station or in Handy Park, is my guess.

Right, I interjected. Again, I tried not to sound too frantic, but I’d never slept in a bus station or a park, and definitely didn’t want to do that in a completely unfamiliar city.

He nodded, stroked his beard and looked at the ceiling, gathering a thought. Okay, what I would do is go down to one of them bars on Beale and ask about places to stay around there. They’s always people visiting or singers coming to play there, so they can hook you up with someone who rents rooms. They’s a buncha places. Be much cheaper than a hotel. Okay?

Okay

Beale just a couple blocks down that way, as he pointed. Turn left when you gets to Beale. They’s lotsa bars there. Try any. They all places for colored, so you be fine.

Great. Thanks. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. He’ll be here then, right?

My friend nodded again. Yep, he’ll be here around eight, and he can get you fixed up with a truck then.

A car, not a truck.

Yep, yep, he get you a car, if that’s what Mr. C said.

I thanked him and headed out into the oven that was the outside. I found Beale after just a few minutes. It looked like the whole street for as far as I could see was bars, restaurants and shops. It was just a couple of minutes after five, and the sidewalks were packed with people. I passed a bar with the door open, and I could hear singing and a guitar playing inside. I stepped in. The place was narrow, maybe twelve feet across, with a bar along the right side and a few empty tables beyond the bar. The rush of air from two creaky metal ceiling fans felt good as I moved toward the bar. It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light as I found a stool at the bar. There was a group of four men down toward the other end of the bar, but no one looked over when I sat down.

What ya have? asked the pencil-thin ancient Black man behind the bar. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, exposing heavily tattooed forearms.

Uh, I’ll have a beer. You have Budweiser? I asked as I set my suitcase down next to my stool.

He nodded and pulled an icy, wet bottle from the ice chest beneath the bar and set it on a cardboard coaster in front of me. I thanked him and took a long gulp. The beer was cold amber goodness after a long day on the bus.

In the back of bar, a fiftyish Black man in a wrinkled white dress shirt and baggy dark pants ended his song and propped his guitar against the wall behind his wooden stool. He walked with a noticeable limp to the bar.

I wasn’t to Mississippi yet, but I thought there’s no reason I can’t start my research right here. Everything could be good background. I turned on my stool to face the musician.

You sounded good. Can I buy a drink, sir? I asked.

The man looked up, surprised, I think, but nodded and moved down to the seat next to me. He had close cropped hair, thinning on top with a bit a grey around his temples. His eyes were deep set and a bit bloodshot.

I’m James, I said extending my hand.

He shook my hand without introducing himself. Thanks, James. He motioned to the bartender and said Ben, get me a Crown Royal.

Sorry I didn’t get to hear you play that much. Do you go on again? I asked.

In a bit. He took a long draw from the glass of whiskey that had been placed in front of him.

Great. I’ll stay and listen. With no response from my new friend, I continued. I just got into town a few minutes ago. I was supposed to pick up a car here, but the man who’s getting me the car had already left, so I’m kind of stuck here for the night.

Uh huh, came the reply, followed by another sip from his drink.

I’m interested in blues music and how it impacts people, I continued.

Great, as he finished the drink. I’m a bluesman. He tapped the top of his glass. Another one?

Uh, sure. I motioned to the bartender to refill his glass.

It’s for a paper I’m writing this summer. It’s on blues music and its role in southern culture.

He looked over at me as his glass was refilled. You write for a newspaper?

No, it’s a school paper, I mean not a school newspaper, but a paper I’m writing . . . for a class, for college.

So, what, you want to interview me or somethin’?

Yes, if that’s okay, I said, but realized my pen and notebook were in my suitcase.

The man poured down his second drink in one long gulp. He exhaled and asked Got a cigarette?

Uh, no. I don’t smoke.

They sell ‘em here. He had already waved the bartender over before I could answer.

Pack a smokes, he told the bartender. I nodded my agreement, hoping this was the end of what I’d have to buy.

The bartender grabbed a pack from a rack behind the bar and slapped it down in front of the musician.

I thought I’d better get started before he thought of something else for me to buy him. How long have you been a musician? I asked to kick off the interview.

Long time . . . long time. Been doing it since I was a young man. He had already opened the cigarette pack and was pulling a cigarette out. He picked up a pack of matches on the bar and lit his cigarette. After the first long drag, he pushed his stool back and stood up. Gotta go get some air. I’ll talk with ya after the next set, my man. He patted me on my shoulder and walked with one stiff leg out onto the street.

The bartender returned from the group at the end of the bar, cleared away the musician’s empty glass and ran a damp grey rag across the bar.

I think you done been taken, young fella. He’s done for today, he said.

I just wanted to talk to a musician, get some good background for my study on blues music, I explained.

Bartender Ben put his bony hands on the bar and leaned toward me. His breath smelled of stale cigarettes. He ain’t no famous musicianer or anything. Just plays here some afternoon for tips. Now you come back after nine or so tonight, here or in lots of the places on Beale, and you’ll see some real blues musicianers. He tapped the bar with both hands for emphasis.

The fatigue of a very long day was beginning to creep over me. I remembered I had to find some place to stay tonight.

I don’t know if tonight’s going to be a late night for me. I’ve had a long day traveling. Been on a bus all day from Atlanta. Before that, a train from Baltimore I told him. Do you know if there’s some place close by that rents rooms? Just need one night.

Sure, sure. I’d go over on Main to Plough’s Drug Store. The Mitchell Hotel’s up above. They should have a room. Lotsa musicianers stay there. I hear it’s not bad and pretty reasonable. He waved a finger in the direction I guessed to be Main Street.

Thanks. I’ll try over there.

That was something last night, with the fight, wasn’t it?

The fight? I asked. Was there a fight here?

Ben rolled his eyes and shook his head. The Joe Louis fight. The Brown Bomber beat Schmeling for second time yesterday. Yes Sir. Beat him good. Had it on the radio here. They says 70,000 people watched it in Yankee Stadium.

Oh, I heard something about that. I’ve been traveling, so I . . .

Ben jumped in: The whole fight lasted just two minutes. Louis pounded Schmeling, got him against the ropes and kept on poundin’. That German got knocked down three times and only threw two punches in the entire bout. Two punches! After the third knockdown, Schmeling's trainer threw in the towel. Yes sir, Joe Louis is the greatest fighter that ever lived.

That’s amazing, I added without much conviction. I had heard of Joe Louis, but I didn’t really follow boxing.

Ben shook his head, in disbelief of my sports ignorance, I guessed. Too bad you missed it. Wanna ‘nother beer? Ben asked.

I’m good, thanks.

I finished my beer before I had to expose my complete lack of knowledge of boxing, or of most any sports. I settled up my bill and headed out into the heat to Plough’s.

Just as Ben had promised, I found Plough’s and the Mitchell Hotel, saw the rooms for rent sign leading me behind the building to a small office fronting on the alley. I introduced myself to a short, stocky Black woman with thick glasses that magnified her eyes who evidently managed the rooms. I had no idea how people rented rooms here. I had been to hotels with my family, but those were real hotels, even the small ones on the Eastern Shore of Maryland when I traveled with my father on his business. I had never seen a hotel that was just a collection of rooms above a drug store. Luckily, the woman in the office seemed to know what I wanted.

I’m Miss Ada. I runs the hotel here. I keep a neat and orderly place, you understand? It was clear from her tone that she meant business.

Yes, ma’am. I just want a room for tonight.

She sighed. You just want one day, chile?

Yes, please. I’m heading out tomorrow.

Okay. We usually do by the week. I have to charge you more for just a day, you know.

How much is it? I asked.

Be two dollars, cash, in advance.

That’s fine. I reached into my pocket and came up with the two dollars.

Thank you, chile. Her tone softened and she took the two bills and stuffed them into a pocket on her black skirt. She fumbled through a desk drawer and produced a key attached to a wooden fob the size of saucer with the number five painted in red. Room five is right up these stairs and down the hall on the right.

Thank you, ma’am, I said as I took the key and picked up my suitcase.

Breakfast is included. I serve it right down here, seven to nine, she said.

That sounds great. It hit me that I hadn’t eaten today since breakfast and was actually very hungry. "Is there someplace close by tonight where I can get something to eat?

She nodded. Just down Main Street a bit. There’s a nice colored diner. Good food.

Thanks, I said. I took it that ‘colored" didn’t mean that it was painted nicely. My father had told me that things would be different in the South.

I climbed the stairs, walked down a dark, narrow hallway with creaky floorboards, passed a door marked bathroom and unlocked a bare wooden door with a hand painted 5. The hallway had been stiflingly hot, but my room with its one window facing the evening sun in the west was unbearable. The room was small, with a single bed, wooden nightstand with a lamp with no shade and a wooden rocking chair painted black. There were pegs on the wall to hang clothes. The bed was neatly made, and the room had a faint odor of pine cleanser, which I took as a good sign. I struggled a bit, but eventually opened the window to let in some air that hopefully would cool things down. I pushed my suitcase under the bed. I wasn’t sure how secure the room would be, but at least the suitcase wouldn’t be obvious if someone looked in. I went back out, locked the door and headed out to my first dinner in the South.

Chapter Two

Memphis, TN,

June 24, 1938

Last night when I came back from dinner and a short walk down to the Mississippi River and back, I was surprised to find an old electric fan running on the nightstand in my room. I guess Miss Ada saw me sweating like I’d just run a marathon when I checked in and felt sorry for me. It was still oppressively hot, and the fan, even though it made some odd clicking sounds, was an absolute blessing. I hung my clothes on the pegs on the wall and slept in my undershorts on top of the sheet with the fan blowing full blast right on me. It felt great.

As soon as I hit the bed, I remembered that I should have looked for a payphone to call my mother and father. I told both of them that I would call from Memphis, and promised to call at least once a week all summer. I wrestled with whether I should get up, get dressed and go out to look for a telephone. I knew at some time I would have to own up to the real purpose for my trip with my father, but I didn’t want to do that on my first night. I didn’t even have the car yet from Mr. Carlson. I didn’t want to risk my father contacting him and canceling the car for me. While I weighed my options and all of the possible consequences, energy flowed out of my body in a steady stream and I drifted off to sleep.

It was just after sunrise when I got the faintest whiff of bacon frying. For a moment, I had forgotten where I was and thought I was back home in Baltimore. I checked my pocket watch that I had placed on the nightstand and saw it was just before seven. I sat up in bed and sniffed – it was definitely bacon. I was immediately hungry. I dressed quickly into my same white dress shirt and charcoal suit pants. I left my suitcoat behind as I headed down to breakfast.

I followed the smell through the office to a small windowless room behind that had a