The King Of Steinkjer

(L-R Craig Horton, Tom Boyd, unknown, Tano Ro, Sam Myers, Big Bob Deance.
 Milano, Italy, October 6th, 1981. Photo rights to Tano Ro).

Dear Daddy,

Each year that passes since your death I've learned increasingly more about you as a man. Not as my father, but as a man, and I am coming to understand that you were one pretty wonderful dude. I recently received a letter from a man in Norway, Jan Erik Moe, who wrote to tell me of your influential impact upon his formative years and how much you meant to him. The letter was quite heartwarming, uplifting, inspiring and for me, a little bit sad. Jan had two memories of you that I share. He mentioned all the postcards he received from you over the years that had been written by hand, that I am sure where written with your Mont Blanc pen. That pen was a permanent fixture in your breast pocket and I have the fondest memories of your penmanship. It was beautiful; the blue black ink flowing freely and smoothly from the end of a gold tip, softened over time from the pressure of your unique hand. 

Jan wrote to tell me of his first encounter with you and what life was like for him as a young man growing up in Steinkjer. As a budding musician, he was already in love with The Blues, but the small area from which he came didn't sell American blues records at the time. It's difficult for me to imagine a time when the world was smaller than it is today. Jan went on to say that over a cup of coffee he understood your motivation for gathering these musicians that had in some ways gone into obscurity. That coming from Kentucky you felt a closeness to Delta Blues and had a heartfelt need to preserve it. To preserve and bring forth the black music of your life. I have vague memories of going to Mississippi with you and visiting random people, and I think you were on a talent search at the time looking for musicians to entice. I was too young, whiny and indifferent to have appreciated what you were doing and instead remember the various one room shacks we entered and the amazing furniture they contained which housed, what looked to me to be, the most ancient black people I had ever seen. Youth really is wasted on the young. 

I have often wondered where you got the idea to refer to all your grandchildren as 'Little King'. When you referred to my nephews as such, it always made me giggle a bit, and I thought the epithet was kind of wonderful for a child to hear: To be king. I wonder too if your being referred to as the King of Steinkjer, back in the 70's, was the first time it was introduced into your life?

I can see you walking down the streets of Steinkjer being called The King, free of racism and feeling grand. Feeling like a king and wanting that for your grandchildren. Jan Erik tells this story and I feel joy in my heart. I know why you loved Germany, Norway and Sweden. You were free to be a man there and no longer had to be black first. I feel indebted to Jan for opening his home and heart to you for this reason. There is a heaviness that comes with always having to be your race first. It's tiresome, as you are never being so for yourself but for the demands of others. As a man this heaviness is heavier. Music has a way of eliminating lines. Musicians are fans of other musicians, as well as the students and teachers of too. Music itself is an emotional undertaking often rendering the player and listener feeling sublime, connected and on the same wavelength. That concoction of sound leaves little room for intolerance. 

Jan, it seems, was a part of your waning years too. He remembers calling, like I did, and getting no answer. Did you already no longer recognize the phone or did you not wish to answer the phone and be subject to answering questions that you no longer could answer? You faded away for so many of us and even Sam Myers in his book, The Blues Is My Story, mentions that you just seemed to have disappeared one day after many collaborations with him. I miss you.

I stare at the picture above and I see that you are much younger than I am now. Your hair has not greyed yet. There you are in the clothing I wish I had seen you buried in. The clothing that I shall always remember you in. It was so odd to see you buried in an ill fitting suit. That was not my dad that we laid to rest that day, instead you being adorned with attire deemed proper for a last journey. I would have stuck a pen in your pocket and seen you with the familiar button down shirt and Levi 501's which you wore like a type of uniform of comfort.

These men, all musicians, who write to me, bring me closer to you. They share their memories and allow me to become vicariously closer; I meld with you in new way. I remember what I have forgotten and I add new stories to my own repertoire. These men become my new family with a shared father. I love you.