Delta Jewel: A Memoir

By Bob Brawley

Delta Jewel: A Memoir by Bob Brawley

Jewel Bolin dreams of performing on stage the first time she stands on a milk stool and sings to the congregation of her father’s church in the Arkansas Delta. Years later she falls in love with a country music bass player, Paul Brawley, and seizes the opportunity to pursue a singing career.

They marry and begin a family, but Jewel’s obsession of becoming a renowned entertainer threatens the very fabric of her family’s life. Insecurity, jealousy, and drinking explode into episodes of rage, fighting, and verbal abuse.
Their son, Bob Brawley, tells the story of a strong-willed, driven woman, determined to become a celebrity, her reticent, hard-drinking husband who struggles to keep from drowning in her wake, and a shy, sensitive, introverted boy seeking his own identity as his family moves from state to state.

Bob gives a tender, moving account of his family’s dysfunctional lifestyle, the struggle to break free from his domineering mother, and his desire to make a life of his own. Delta Jewel is a memoir filled with heartfelt emotion, perseverance, and humor that paints an indelible picture of the delicate bond that exists between a mother and her son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Brawley
• Release date: Sep 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463396179

Bob Brawley

Born in Paris, Texas. Raised in San Joaquin Valley, California. Attended college in California, Oregon, and Alaska. Worked in facilities services administration for San Diego State University, the City of Seattle, Yakima Valley College, and the City of Pasco, Washington, where I retired in 2006.

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Delta Jewel

Copyright ©2018 by Bob Brawley

Published by Bob Brawley on Smashwords

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of nonfiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and place have been altered to protect their privacy.

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or noncommercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized dealer. Thank you for your support.

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Also by Bob Brawley

Adopted by the Amish

A Family’s Pilgrimage Back in Time

Jewel, age 16

She came from the land of the cotton

Land that was nearly forgotten by everyone

and she worked and she slaved so hard

a big old field was her back yard in the delta sun

Oh, but she sure could sing

Yea, she sure could sing

- - Gram Parsons, Chris Ethridge

For Mother, Dad, Paulette, Barbara,

for my children, and for my grandchildren.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue – Present Day

Photographs

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Introduction

I wasn’t aware how difficult it would be to narrate Mother and Dad’s tumultuous life together, the impact it had on my sisters and me, and how far inside myself I’d have to reach, or how much courage I’d have to muster to face the latent memories that would surface as I delved into the back pages of my childhood.

I had no idea how harrowing the journey would be, or how many sleepless nights of soul-searching and reflection I would spend—nor the freedom and understanding I’d gain on my self-imposed journey.

I told Mother, when I promised her I’d write our family’s story I wouldn’t gloss over or whitewash the truth, and secrets would be revealed family members may have preferred to be left untold.

She cupped her hands behind her head, leaned back in her blue cloth recliner and looked up at the ceiling, across the room and then back at me.

Go ahead, honey,’ she said, Write it the way you remember it. If family don’t like it they’ll just have to get over it. And you can tell them I said so."

1

Osceola, Arkansas

1920 – 1930

Grandpa Brawley’s family left Ireland and settled in Iredell County, North Carolina, in the 1750s. After many years of failed crops, lost livestock and suffering from illness after illness they packed their wagons, said good-bye to those staying behind and headed to northeast Arkansas, where they were told farming was good and food aplenty.

Itinerant families, possessing little more than the clothes on their backs, their stomachs sunken from a lack of proper food, they worked as sharecroppers and lived in small one-room shacks located on pot-holed, twisting dirt roads. These shacks were built so crudely you could tell the time of day looking between the cracks in the thin walls, and with roofs which leaked so badly Grandpa had to place milk buckets in strategic places to catch the rain water, water they would later use for bathing.

They had heard stories of folks living in fine homes, driving long fancy cars, eating at large elaborately set tables and traveling to big cities, folks with education, folks with money, folks living lives they could only imagine.

They looked down on us, Grandpa Brawley once said to me. It was like they thought we were ignorant, like we had no damn sense. Hell, we had more common sense than those sons a bitches ever had.

Grandpa was slender, with arthritic hands, a shock of silver hair, and not given to folly. He enjoyed dipping snuff and often times allowed a trickle of the brown, foul-smelling juice to run down onto his chin and shirt collar. One of my fondest memories is of him lifting me up, placing me on his bony knees and pinching my cheek with his tobacco stained fingers.

Each time Mother told us we were going to visit Grandpa and Grandma Brawley I always asked the same question, Is Grandpa going to pinch my face again, with his stinky fingers? As much as I disliked it, and complained about it, I would have been disappointed had he not. Grandma was short, plump, had beautiful soft blue eyes, a belly that bounced when she giggled, and a razor-sharp wit. She was the only member in the family who could manage Grandpa.

A jealous and possessive woman, she was once heard to say, after seeing a voluptuous, brown haired woman making eyes at Grandpa, I’ll pull that heifer’s hair out the next time she looks at Homer like that.

Mother’s family moved to NE Arkansas from Mississippi. Grandpa Bolin’s mother died when he was five. His father kept a moonshine still in the northern Missouri hills, carried a snub-nose 38 in his pants pocket, a jackknife in his sock, and dodged deputies as they chased him on foot across high mountain ridges and deep muddy bogs.

Grandpa Bolin

Grider, Arkansas

Grandpa told me stories of how he and his father floated down the St. Francis River, living on catfish, squirrel, rabbit, and fresh eggs they’d pilfered from unsuspecting farmers, of sitting in their boat in the shade of a large elm tree enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the deep, murky river water.

He learned to fend for himself early in life and grew up the same way a small pine tree grows through a crack in a rock: strong, independent, and determined. He would feed, clothe and take in a stranger but whip any man with unbridled fury who threatened to harm his family or questioned his word. His soft heart was wrapped in rose thorns.

Grandma Bolin was a resolute woman with espresso eyes that seemed to penetrate into the depths of your very soul. She could be found, most any time of the day or night, sitting in the living room in her maple rocker, reading her well-worn Bible.

You better go somewhere and pray-through, Bedford, she was often heard to say, when Grandpa lost his temper.

* * * * *

The Arkansas Delta runs along the eastern border of the state next to the Mississippi River. U.S. settlers crossing the river chased off the Quapaw Native American tribe who had inhabited those lands for centuries. The settlers drained the swamps, cleared the forests, took the fertile lands for agriculture, planted cotton, and used black slaves to work their plantations.

It was in this vastly rich and productive bottomland, a land also known for its bountiful musical heritage, that Mother and Dad were raised. The juke joints, dives, and dance halls in small towns were the backdrop that produced Country Blues, Delta Blues, Rockabilly, Rag-Time and Boogie-Woogie.

Mother’s independent, adventurous, and flirtatious nature began to surface as she entered her early teens. Her body, coincidently, began to blossom, attracting older men.

Daddy didn’t like the way men looked at me or tried to talk to me, she said to me. Oh, no. He put the fear of God in the ones that came around. One time a bunch of boys on motorcycles rode up to the church grounds where Daddy was preaching. A few of us girls pretended to go to the outhouse and walked around the front of the church to see what they looked like. We were talking to these boys, giggling, acting silly, and flirting with them when Daddy walked up behind me, grabbed a hold of my ear, twisted it real hard and told me to get myself back in church. She laughed out loud. I never moved so fast in my life, honey. You can bet I never tried that again.

Grandpa became concerned about Mother’s early development and feared some sweet talkin’ man might convince her to leave the family farm for the bright lights and gaiety of the city. It was during this time Mother’s Aunt Minnie, also concerned about Mother’s well-being, spoke to Grandpa about letting her live with her and Uncle Clyde in Memphis. Uncle Clyde was a successful storeowner and businessman and knew he could help Mother find work there.

A few weeks later, with Grandpa and Grandma’s blessings, Mother packed what few belongings she had in a gunny sack, kissed her family goodbye and stepped into the back seat of Uncle Clyde’s long black sedan.

Oh, honey, she said, describing that day to me. I was standing in tall cotton when we pulled out of our farm and drove the highway to Memphis. I rolled down the back window and waved to my friends as we passed their farms. I was feeling mighty special sitting in a seat big enough to hold a picnic in. I thought I was something.

A magnificent glossy black Grand Steinway piano sat in a corner of the living room of Uncle Clyde and Aunt Minnie’s palatial home. Mother had played piano in Grandpa’s church and began playing and singing a hymn one evening after supper.

Uncle Clyde eased the newspaper down on his lap, looked across the couch at Aunt Minnie and whispered, Do you hear what I hear?

The article Uncle Clyde was reading said that Happy Hal Burns, noted western singer and emcee, was auditioning guest singers for a local Snuff Garrett Radio Program that following morning.

This is my ticket off the farm, Mother thought to herself as she rushed through breakfast the next morning. She put on the pretty new black and white satin outfit, nylons and a pair of black high heel pumps Aunt Minnie had bought her, brushed the sides of her hair back close to her head and placed ivory side combs above each ear.

Aunt Minnie smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Your daddy’s going to be so proud of you.

Mother stepped out of Uncle Clyde’s Oldsmobile and walked into the radio station office. Every head turned and every eye looked her way.

You must be Jewel Bolin.

Yes, ma’am, Mother said, curious as to how the secretary knew her name, unaware Uncle Clyde had contacted the radio station manager earlier that morning.

Step this way. Mr. Burns is expecting you.

Good morning, Mr. Burns said. I’ve heard good things about you. That’s why I’ve decided to let you be the first to audition. Step up here, please, place your feet on the black mark and let’s see if you’re as good as I’ve been told you are.

Mother sang a few songs she’d heard on a friend’s radio and impressed Mr. Burns so much that he hired her for the singing position and talked the radio manager into offering her a part-time office job. She sat on the side of her bed that evening, wrote a letter to her family, told them the good news and how excited she was about her new job. But before the letter had time to reach her family a cousin contacted Grandma Bolin and told her Mother would be singing at a radio station and working with much older men.

Grandma was concerned Mother would be influenced by show business types and men trying to take advantage of her. She convinced Grandpa to call Aunt Minnie and tell her to put Mother on a bus and send her home.

Aunt Minnie came to Mother’s bedroom that evening and told her the bad news. I won’t let them do this to me, Mother cried, falling face down on her pillow.

Aunt Minnie stroked her hair. You have to go back home, Jewel.

I cannot. I will not.

Uncle Clyde, overhearing Mother’s cries, stepped into the bedroom. This isn’t the end of the world, Jewel, nor is it the end of your dream. It’s only the beginning. Now, sit up, hold your head high and go back home like Bedford has asked you to do.

I hate them for doing this. I hate them, and I’ll never, ever forgive them.

Now, now, Jewel, Uncle Clyde continued. Samantha and Bedford have your best interests at heart and are doing what they feel is right.

Right for who?

Aunt Minnie placed her hand under Mother’s chin and lifted it. For you, honey.

Mother brushed away a tear. A faint smile crossed her lips. If you say so.

Mother quit her job the next morning and wept as Uncle Clyde and Aunt Minnie dropped her off at the Greyhound station.

She opened the car door, Thank you for everything. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.

The shiny Greyhound bus pulled out of the crowded station, spewing black smoke up and around the tail lights into the cool, damp morning air. She looked out through the riveted, metal framed window, hung her head, covered her face with her hands and wept.

2

Mother first met Dad after services at Grandpa Bolin’s church one balmy Sunday afternoon.

He looked at me like he could see right through my dress, she said. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but it made me blush and smile at the same time.

Sunday was the day single, hard working men left their worn-out boots, faded overalls and tattered straw hats at home, sported polished black dress shoes, pressed slacks, white cotton shirts and slicked their hair down with Rose Hair Oil.

The day they parked their freshly washed trucks near the entrance of the church, strolled past the small gathering of single girls, walked the gravel path to the front steps, sat in hard maple pews, held song books in their calloused hands, and cast aside thoughts of sore backs, aching muscles, and the punishing sun that burned their necks and arms.

The youngest boy in his family, Dad was tall, gangly, had black wavy hair, steel-blue eyes, and a trimmed mustache. He learned to play bass fiddle and guitar at family gatherings and began smoking hand rolled cigarettes and drinking white lightning in back road Arkansas honkytonks in his early teens.

He had played music at the Three-Way Inn until one a.m. that morning, passing the jug around with the band members and had been awakened by the sound of a rooster crowing somewhere off in the distance. He hauled himself out of bed, splashed his face with water, dressed, brushed his teeth, ran a broken toothcomb through his mussed hair and drove to the church. His older brother, Leo, had told him he’d met the preacher’s daughter, Jewel, said she was the prettiest girl in the county and that she had the voice of an angel.

So, there they stood, looking into each other’s eyes - the dewy-eyed, sweet talking, flirtatious preacher’s daughter and the recalcitrant playboy who hung out in juke-joints and caroused with loose women - sipping cold lemonade from sweaty Mason jars, immersed in each other’s presence, both glad the other had come.

Dad took Mother by the arm. Walk with me to my truck.

Jewel

They stood together, talking of family, their love of music, and of their dreams of playing Memphis dance halls, dreams they shared with other struggling singers and musicians who played the out-of-the-way run-down bars and dives, watching the steady parade of men and women walk through the swinging doors, seeking a good time and companionship - if only for a night. Where bluish gray smoke clung to the walls and ceilings and the smell of rancid air filled the room, where men concealing pistols and freshly sharpened knives in the pockets of their overalls and jackets, sat at the bar and at tables covered with beer bottles and ash trays filled with half-smoked cigarettes.

Grandpa Bolin watched them from a vantage point near the corner of the church. He knew Dad played the honkytonks, and that he was a known drinker and skirt chaser, so it came as no surprise to the busybody onlookers when he approached Dad and introduced himself.

James Bedford Bolin, J.B. to his friends, had raised himself through lean, hard times and was protective of his family. It was common knowledge that if anyone harmed a hair on one of his children’s heads they would have him to deal with, and the few that had crossed that line lived to regret it.

J.B. was short, with hands like vice-grips, an explosive temper, and had played the blues harmonica and guitar at some of the juke joints in what he called his sinner days, so when Mother asked if she could sit in Dad’s truck outside the honkytonks and dives where he played music he was quick to answer. As long as you stay outside in Paul’s truck. If I hear of you stepping inside that den of iniquity, Paul will never set foot on these church grounds again. Mind what I say, Jewel.

Mother began sitting in Dad’s truck on Saturday nights, fighting off mosquitos and two-bit drunks, learning the words to the songs the band played and within a few months she, Dad, Uncle DeWitt, and Aunt Dorothy, Dad’s brother and sister, formed a band called, The Original Arkansas Travelers.

Original Arkansas Travelers

Top Row: Left to right: Dad, Uncle DeWitt, Unknown, Mother, Aunt Dorothy, Unknown

Bottom row: Unknown

Mother and Dad began seeing each other regularly and playing the local clubs. A few months later Dad was inducted into the Army and stationed at Camp Maxey, near Paris, Texas. Mother drove him to the train station the morning he left, told him she’d wait for him, and promised she’d write every day.

Grandpa and Grandma Brawley, seeing how Mother missed Dad, gathered family members together one weekend, picked up Mother at the Bolin farm and drove her to Texas, where she and Dad were married.