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Meet Uncle Cotton

      As he and Jim arrived at Mama Goldies' he could see, old Uncle Cotton, a brown, husky man in his late sixties with a head of hair like snowy cotton. He was sitting on a wooden quarter keg of pickles. He was Jack's inspiration. Cotton Blanchard took a liking to Jack and would teach him with a reverence for music that was almost holy. He knew they both shared this feeling. Ole' Uncle Cotton was a jolly man with a protruding belly that would shake when he laughed.

      Jack had heard the stories about Uncle Cotton; stories that told of his early days and the many great musicians he worked with. Some say, he was almost a legend along the mighty Mississippi. Some would say, he is a legend. The men, all colored, gathered around in front of Mama Goldies', knowing they had come together for a common purpose, to " jam". Some were old and some were younger. All played one or more instruments.

      The shadows filled the night as Jack imagined how the ghosts of long ago slaves, playing and dancing against flickering flames from the oil lamps might have done. The odor and sooty smoke from the kerosene lamps helped fight the attack of mosquitoes as the subdued light surrounded the haunting melodies and faceless forms that either played or listened. The mood that Jack always felt was one of jubilant entertainment. The excitement of music seemed to run through his veins.

Jack's Mother's Funeral

      Jack's frozen expression of sadness melted a little as he looked into the face of Uncle Cotton, standing with head bowed while holding his hat over his heart in an erect posture of reverence. Uncle Cotton, now in his seventies, wore the years well as so many colored gentlemen have been known to do. Someday, he thought, it would be Uncle Cotton's turn. Often, Uncle Cotton made mention to Jack of how it would be.

". . . A team of white horses will pull my weary bones on the funeral carriage, draped all in a black shroud. Some of the boys will play somber-like . . . following me down the street to the cemetery jess like I did for others. The precession will make a detour past Mama Goldies' for that last tribute to one of her sons - going home. Yes-sa! Sweet Jesus will wait for the o'fficiation before he takes me home to that promised land. I can hear my favorite spirituals - played all the way down the street from the Zion Baptist Church to the cemetery. After I is laid to rest, the boys will kick up their heels and play dem refrains with great exuberance. Yea! The second line begins. Up and down dem streets dey will march - toasting my memory. She-it! This miserable soul may even join in with a lick or two, just for good measure."

A Letter From Uncle Cotton

       March 21, 1950
      "Dear Jackie-boy,
      I hope you is doing right good and minden your aunt. I'm doing good, cepten for a touch of stiffness in my joints. The boys and me got together the other night at Mama Goldies and played our ass's off. (Don't let your auntie see this part) I wished you was here with your clarinet. Man, you and that stick woulda made the difrence. Hell, all the boys say hello to you and so does Mama Goldie. I know you practice all the time. Have you lerned any new tunes? Mayby you can visit when schools out this summer. You think on it, ya hear. Your aunt is a very fine lady. Always remember this, we may be remembered for what we do but who we is and what we does ain't nessarly the same. I heared couple weeks back that your old pal Jim robbed some fellas shootin craps in a hotel room and is in jail. He had a gun but nobody was hurt. Sure is a mean one when he wants to be. Hows your piana playen Jack? You was really kicken ass with your stride last I saw you. By the way Jack, some of the great jazzmen studyed the stuff your aunt wants you to lern. Nothin wrong playen heavy things if you has a light heart. Good exercise for the fingers and the brain. Jess you remember that your a jazz player with a soul that can walk with the blues too. Ya cant buy dat boy. Not for no mount of money. Uhh, uhh, now ain't dat the truth. You please her and make her proud of you. She's your only kin-folk, ceptin for me of course - ha! ha! ha! Good music is good music and great musicians is great musicians. Go for the gold ring boy, don't settle for brass. Be all you can no matter what music you is playen. You know I'm always proud of you.
Well, till I hear from ya I remain your good frend,

 Uncle Cotton
P.S. This old darkie would be proud if you was his son, even tho you is a white boy. Take care for now, ya hear."
 

Our Virtuoso, Now 21, Goes To War - Korea

After leaaving Juilliard, John is drafted, no longer eligible for student deferment. Some time ago his Aunt decided a name change to John from Jack would be more suitable for the classics. He agreed.

John, Home From The ServiceVisits Unncle Cotton

      John looked at his friend who was laying on an overstuffed couch. He has lived in this house for many years and John had visited here several times in his youth. Uncle Cotton's white hair was thinning some and he lost some weight, but his bushy white eyebrows still seemed to hang over his big brown eyes like crystals of snow. His brown and green plaid shirt hung outside the waist band of a pair of blue jeans. He tried to raise himself to greet John, but seemed too weak.
     John knelt down and gave him a big hug.
      "Take it easy, old friend. I've missed you a lot."
      "Me too! Hey Johnnie, where's your army clothes? I wanna see dem medals."
      "I brought you a picture, Uncle Cotton. Framed and all. You know I'm out of the army now and back to learning piano." He gave him a large framed photograph. "See, I even autographed it. You were in my thoughts many times while I was traipsing around Korea."
      "Thanks, son. You've bin on my mind, too. You read it, son. My eyes aren't what dey used to be."
      "To my oldest and dearest friend and mentor, Uncle Cotton. I signed it, ¥From your favorite son, with all my love, Jackie."
      "How sweet. Thank you, son. Why not Johnnie?"
      "I couldn't put both names down and we spent the most time together when I was Jack."
      "Umm! Umm! Look at dem medals. I think you won the war all alone." He laughed.
      "Was it bad, son?"
      "Bad enough, old timer. Would you mind if we don't talk about it? I lost some friends there."
      "Then hush up, Jackie boy." Let's talk ¥bout your future." Uncle Cotton tried to sit up, adjusting his position. John helped him.

Charity Hospital in New Orleans

      "What do you mean that you have no William Blanchard in the hospital?" John looked at the woman sternly. The thought that he was too late crossed his mind.
      "I'm sorry, sir. If he was a patient here this desk would know about it."
     "Hey, Jackie Boy!" The voice of Mama Goldie wrung out from behind him. "Bless you, son. Ole Uncle Cotton will sho be glad to see ya."
      They hugged. "Mama, they tell me he's not here."
      "Excuse me." The woman on the desk said, a note of indignation in her sharp voice. "Is this man colored?"
 John looked at her with a cold stare.
      Mama Goldie took John by the hand. "Mawn with me, Jackie. I knows where he is. My, my! Yo is been white far too long, boy. Y'aw forgits how it is here."
      John felt a sickness in his stomach. He had forgotten how segregation was still alive in pockets of the south. Even now in the fifties. Mama led him to a ward that was at the rear of the hospital. As they entered he could see that the ward contained only colored people. Uncle Cotton was at the end.
      "I knew you would probably come in through the front. We is sposed to use the door down the hall near the boiler room." Mama said.
      John shook his head. As they approached Uncle Cotton's bed John saw the picture he gave him in his army uniform. Tears squeezed from his eyes. "They look after him okay. They has some colored help that does care about these patients. Some whites ones are okay, too. The doctors are white, but they look after them that are sickest."
      Cotton Blanchard was sleeping. John saw a much more gaunt man than he had known. He smiled at the sleeping figure, his eyeglasses perched upon his nose.
      "You said his heart is weak, Mama?"
      Before she could answer, Uncle Cotton awoke. "Does I hear Jackie? Gimme my spectacles." His voice was weak.
      "You has them on, William!" Mama softly reminded him.
      John bent down and hugged the old man, kissing him on the cheek. "You're going to get well, Uncle Cotton."
      "No, I ain't! Jackie, I'm a tired old nigger that is looken forward to joinen that group of great players on the other side." He started coughing. "Don't fret none. I had a good life and knowed good people. Some even white." He started chuckling and then coughing again.
      The coughing wouldn't stop. "Nurse!" John yelled. "Someone get a doctor."
      He reached out his hand toward John, still coughing. His snowy hair was matted from sweat and his face bore the stubble like shafts of white wheat. John took his old friends hand and held it with both of his. Just as Mama returned with a nurse, John's oldest friend stopped breathing. His sightless brown eyes seemed to stare at John as he looked at Uncle Cotton's last twinkle. John removed the store-bought glasses and gently closed his mentor's eyes for the last time.
      "Goodby, old friend. No more ¥miseries' for you."

Uncle Cotton "Going Home"

      "Gentlemen, for our dear departed brother, let's march." The voice came from a very tall colored man dressed in a tuxedo with red sash and top hat carrying a long golden staff. He raised it high into the air and stepped off. Everyone fell in behind him and John was right there also. The sound of a shrill whistle echoed through the air and the playing began. Quite different than the slow dirge that filled the morning breeze on the way to the cemetery, the sounds were now jubilant and saluted life.
     The band of rag-tag musicians wailed, "When The Saints Go Marching In" while everyone pranced and danced their way towards Mama Goldies through the winding streets. Tubas and other horns blasted the air as John's clarinet brought an eerie balance to the presentation.

      John looked about as though attempting to see the soul of Uncle Cotton wailing on his tenor sax. He had to squint now since the bright sun broke through the gray clouds and pored its warmth over the Big Easy'.The procession ended at Mama Goldies and the wake began in earnest. In the late afternoon, after toasting his mentor's departure from, "this veil of tears", John bid his friends goodby, hugged Mama and left to walk back to his hotel while he still had the light.
     "What's that!" John found himself whispering. He looked up among the stately old oaks as he searched for the bird that sent forth the sound that resonated with him. There it is again! John's attention was riveted. As he listened to the melodious sounds that drifted high above him he found a rustling within. It was unlike any bird he had ever heard. As it cut through the late afternoon sky he thought it carried a tune. A wonderful tune.
      "What's up there, mister?" A young colored boy interrupted.
John looked at the little boy whose curiosity was evident. "The Golden Warbler!" John told him. "It is the voice of, ¥The Golden Warbler'."
      John smiled as he moved on toward his hotel, a little swagger in his step, now.

The Virtuoso ©
Naples, FL 2011