wanna marry you. Marry whoever you want. Makes no difference to me. Marry an elephant if you want, ’cause you the one who gotta sleep with her. Far as your work goes, remember this—I don’t want you to be the best in town. I want you to be the best till the best comes around. You hear me, son?”
“I do.”
I went to sleep that night and fell into crazy dreams. I was picking cotton in the dream, and then I was driving a tractor, then I was hunting in the woods with my dog, I was shooting at rabbits, when all of sudden I saw Lightnin’ Slim sitting in a rocking chair playing his guitar. He was sitting under a big tree with moss coming off the branches. Maybe it’s because his name is Lightnin’, but right then and there the sky broke open, and a bolt of lightnin’ struck his guitar and splintered it to bits. My dog started to barking, the forest caught on fire, and we had to run out of there. When I got back to the shack where I’d been raised, the shack was burning too. I was scared Mama and Daddy and my sisters and brothers were inside getting burned up, but when I turned around, they were clapping for me like I had done something great. That’s when I realized I was holding a guitar and playing for my family. The fire had gone out. The storm had passed.
“Keep playing, Buddy,” my mama told me in that dream. “Keep on playing.”
The Day I Left Home
September 25, 1957
I think of this date like my birthday. Fact of the matter is it’s my second birthday. It’s when I was born again. Born this time not to stay in Louisiana, but to leave Louisiana. My life before September 25, 1957, was one thing, and my life after was something else.
I had said my goodbyes and asked Bob, Annie Mae’s husband, to drive me down to Hammond, the first train stop north of New Orleans. All I had was a suitcase with a few clothes, my reel-to-reel tape with the song I cut at WXOK, and my Les Paul Gibson guitar.
“You don’t got no heavy coat?” asked Bob, looking at the thin trench coat I was carrying.
“This is it,” I said.
“You gonna freeze to death.”
“I’ll be alright,” I said.
“You got not idea, boy, what’s waiting for you up there.”
“Ain’t nobody waiting,” I said. “That’s what worries me.”
“Don’t you got Shorty’s address?”
“That’s all I got.”
“Well, Shorty’s okay. He’ll see right by you. And then you saved some money, didn’t you?”
“Hope I saved enough.” In my pocket, hugging my thigh, was $600. Took me two years to get that money together.
When we got to Hammond, I hopped out of Bob’s car and grabbed my suitcase, my tape, and my guitar. I thanked him kindly. He pulled off and then left me.
I was alone.
It was early on a Sunday morning, and that meant the train wasn’t real crowded. I took a seat next to a window. I was happy and I was sad—happy to be going to a place of my dreams but sad to be leaving a family I loved. I told myself that Shorty had to be right—that I’d find the kind of job I had at LSU for better money. I told myself that with better money, life would be easier. With better money, I’d get to go to those fancy nightclubs where the curtains were red velvet and the artists—Muddy and Little Walter, Sonny Boy and Howlin’ Wolf—stood on big stages and entertained everyone with their beautiful pickin’ and singing. I kept the dream close to my heart: I’d see Jimmy Reed driving down the street in his limousine and he’d wave and I’d get to tell everyone back home that I done saw the great Jimmy Reed.
As the train pulled out of Hammond station, I had me some butterflies, but I was on my way.
Someone had a left a newspaper that was talking about Alaska just becoming the forty-ninth state and how Hawaii wanted to be the fiftieth. In the car in front of me a white guy had a transistor radio on a station playing “Yakety Yak” by the Coasters. I liked that song. Made me smile. Then they was playing “Catch a
“I do.”
I went to sleep that night and fell into crazy dreams. I was picking cotton in the dream, and then I was driving a tractor, then I was hunting in the woods with my dog, I was shooting at rabbits, when all of sudden I saw Lightnin’ Slim sitting in a rocking chair playing his guitar. He was sitting under a big tree with moss coming off the branches. Maybe it’s because his name is Lightnin’, but right then and there the sky broke open, and a bolt of lightnin’ struck his guitar and splintered it to bits. My dog started to barking, the forest caught on fire, and we had to run out of there. When I got back to the shack where I’d been raised, the shack was burning too. I was scared Mama and Daddy and my sisters and brothers were inside getting burned up, but when I turned around, they were clapping for me like I had done something great. That’s when I realized I was holding a guitar and playing for my family. The fire had gone out. The storm had passed.
“Keep playing, Buddy,” my mama told me in that dream. “Keep on playing.”
The Day I Left Home
September 25, 1957
I think of this date like my birthday. Fact of the matter is it’s my second birthday. It’s when I was born again. Born this time not to stay in Louisiana, but to leave Louisiana. My life before September 25, 1957, was one thing, and my life after was something else.
I had said my goodbyes and asked Bob, Annie Mae’s husband, to drive me down to Hammond, the first train stop north of New Orleans. All I had was a suitcase with a few clothes, my reel-to-reel tape with the song I cut at WXOK, and my Les Paul Gibson guitar.
“You don’t got no heavy coat?” asked Bob, looking at the thin trench coat I was carrying.
“This is it,” I said.
“You gonna freeze to death.”
“I’ll be alright,” I said.
“You got not idea, boy, what’s waiting for you up there.”
“Ain’t nobody waiting,” I said. “That’s what worries me.”
“Don’t you got Shorty’s address?”
“That’s all I got.”
“Well, Shorty’s okay. He’ll see right by you. And then you saved some money, didn’t you?”
“Hope I saved enough.” In my pocket, hugging my thigh, was $600. Took me two years to get that money together.
When we got to Hammond, I hopped out of Bob’s car and grabbed my suitcase, my tape, and my guitar. I thanked him kindly. He pulled off and then left me.
I was alone.
It was early on a Sunday morning, and that meant the train wasn’t real crowded. I took a seat next to a window. I was happy and I was sad—happy to be going to a place of my dreams but sad to be leaving a family I loved. I told myself that Shorty had to be right—that I’d find the kind of job I had at LSU for better money. I told myself that with better money, life would be easier. With better money, I’d get to go to those fancy nightclubs where the curtains were red velvet and the artists—Muddy and Little Walter, Sonny Boy and Howlin’ Wolf—stood on big stages and entertained everyone with their beautiful pickin’ and singing. I kept the dream close to my heart: I’d see Jimmy Reed driving down the street in his limousine and he’d wave and I’d get to tell everyone back home that I done saw the great Jimmy Reed.
As the train pulled out of Hammond station, I had me some butterflies, but I was on my way.
Someone had a left a newspaper that was talking about Alaska just becoming the forty-ninth state and how Hawaii wanted to be the fiftieth. In the car in front of me a white guy had a transistor radio on a station playing “Yakety Yak” by the Coasters. I liked that song. Made me smile. Then they was playing “Catch a
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