We’re collecting short pieces for the MC to tell here and there at Henry’s wake. We’ll also keep this page around a while and probably download it for some kind of archive.
So write what you remember and tell us how you’d like it used (just file, MC read or use parts, or save for you to tell at the wake . . . ).
Please comment with your anecdotes. –Thanks!
[For Bill B’s page that used to be at this address, please go here.]
From John Henry’s best friend of his youth:
John Henry & I
I met John Henry just before I turned 4 years old. We grew up a couple blocks away from each other in San Bernardino. I guess what started the relationship was when John Henry was on his bicycle and got hit by a car. All the neighborhood kids wanted to see what he looked like afterwards. He wasn’t much worse for wear and our friendship grew from there. I grew up in a normal household and John Henry grew up in the same manner except his house wasn’t quite as normal. His household consisted of a resident raccoon, a prairie dog, and various other animals I can’t remember, all of which controlled the happenings in the house.
As you probably know, John Henry’s mom was from Oklahoma. I’m not sure where John Henry was born but I’m pretty sure it was Oklahoma. Nona was John Henry’s mom and one of the coolest people you can imagine. Her father’s name was Clayton, and those two, Nona and Clayton, would turn out to be major influences in John Henry’s life and mine. John Henry and I basically had a normal childhood, until about the age of 15. With drivers permits and drivers licenses the world changed for both of us and that was the beginning of the wild side.
John Henry had developed a fascination for music and guitars, so many hours were spent at his house as he perfected his craft. One of the first songs that he mastered was the song “Little Black Egg.” A couple of chords and it sounded really good. We all sang along, and it progressed from that point. John Henry also had the talent to write some of his own music and songs.
John Henry’s Mom and his grandfather had a small mining claim in California’s Mojave Desert. They needed to work on the claim to keep it valid, so Nona and her dad would load us up along with some dynamite in the back of a pickup. Two 15-year-old kids with a free hand and dynamite. What could go wrong there? With a little experience we thought we were blast masters. When we were tired of that, John Henry & I would take our rifles and head out to explore other old mines in the area. An average parent would never let two young boys with rifles head out to the desert with no regard to where they were going or when they would be back. Later, when we could drive ourselves and had our own vehicles, we would return to the desert time & time again for days and weeks at a time. We found that the desert was a great place for us to pick up a lot of extra cash, salvaging various items such as copper, metal and anything else we could find. A lot of it was sold for scrap to Novak Iron and Steel. Being the wonderful Mother that Nona was, occasionally she would go with us and we would have a heck of a good time. She was up for anything, anywhere. She also taught us how to make our own beer.
As we progressed in age our lifestyle got more and more wild, drinking and partying with a group we called the “Red Mountain Boys” which was us. Red Mountain wine was the only thing we could afford. It was a dollar a gallon and provided us with a liquid thought process. That was when we decided we would start riding freight trains and see some of the country. We cut our teeth hopping on trains in the San Bernardino railyard until we got confident enough to handle it in the wild. It wasn’t good enough, just riding the trains in the yard.
On one of the adventures, we headed up Cajon Pass, which was a slow, steep, long, winding grade. We would get out of an empty gondola, or whichever car we happened to choose for our ride and start walking on top of the boxcars as we headed up the pass. Another great thrill. But we forgot about the only tunnel on the grade. I was ahead of John Henry when I saw the tunnel. John Henry didn’t see it. Fortunately, he heard me hollering and laid down on top of the boxcar. Safe! So we thought. The exhaust from the train damn near killed us before we got out the other side. The whole world was ours, as we rode freight trains.
On one of our other trips, we were headed eastbound, not knowing where we were going, just along for the ride; we got inside our first boxcar. That would turn out to be a big mistake. It was an open boxcar and they are hard to catch on the fly. There were 3 of us on this trip, including a friend of ours called Jim. Trying to get all of us in the same boxcar at the same time while the train was picking up speed wasn’t easy. But we made it. As we headed out across the Mojave Desert in January, it was snowing a little bit, and yes, it does snow in the desert. We were starting to get a little chilled, so we thought we would cook up a can of soup and split it among us. Now bear in mind, back in those days all the floors in boxcars were wooden. We figured we could stomp the fire out, should it catch, so, we plucked a bunch of pieces of plywood off the wall and slowly built our fire. What we didn’t take into account was the fact that the wind was whipping through the door. We thought we better do something quick, before we set the whole damn car on fire. We started stomping on the fire to try to put it out. That was somewhat successful, but not completely. We would get it down to the point where it was just smoldering but the wind whipping in would quickly bring back the flames. So picture this… Three guys standing around a fire in a boxcar pissing on it to put it out. The smell of burning piss filled the boxcar, but we were safe at last. As we rode trains over the years we were checked for vagrancy often and law enforcement would tell us to get out of town. We spent one night in a ballfield, hiding in the dugout while law enforcement was looking for us.
Some of the greatest experiences in our lives riding trains were the hobo camps that we visited. In those days there was a huge code of honor among the “bo’s,” (as in hobo’s), which helped frame me & John Henry. As time marched on, I had gotten married and had a child, and I was starting to take a little different course from John Henry. He got more involved in music and I was developing into a commercial beekeeper. As this was happening, John Henry & I worked together on some jobs. Our time together wasn’t as often as it was when we were young, but still we kept in touch almost constantly and our friendship was solid.
Somewhere along the line John Henry decided to go back to Oklahoma. By then I was on to my second wife. We stopped in Norman Oklahoma just on a whim and somehow, I knew just where John Henry would be. My second wife, kids and I rolled into his place in the middle of the night and woke him up. We spent the night and the next day, there was John Henry. We figured we would go out fishing at a place that he knew. The fishing was good early in the morning but by 9 or 10 o’clock it died off. John Henry had us put red lures on the kids poles and we went fishing for bullfrogs. The kids still talk about it today. My ex-wife was not real impressed though. I Don’t think she really approved of me and John Henry. Too much history. Which is part of the reason she is an “ex.”
John Henry headed more into his music career and my commercial bee operation was demanding more and more of my time. John Henry stopped by my house in California for a visit. In one of our deep conversations, John Henry had it right once again. He said, “You’re more grounded than I am. How about if I call you every Thanksgiving and let you know where I am, and we will touch base that way”. He also said, in his usual sarcastic way “If you don’t hear from me on Thanksgiving, you’ll know I’m dead.” Sounded good to me because trying to chase John Henry down was always a problem. We operated that way for quite a few years.
John Henry showed up in Delta, Utah where I was running bees, and there, we went back to our old ways. A friend of ours had given John Henry a car and wanted John Henry to leave it somewhere so he wouldn’t have to make the payments anymore. So, we took the car, toured all of Utah, partied a little bit, went to Vegas and continued our good times and then abandoned the vehicle. Obviously, we didn’t put much thought into it. And, lo and behold, one week later, our friend got his car back. He was pissed!
By now I was with my third wife. I sold off my bee operation and construction company and we moved to Montana. I became the county road superintendent for Flathead County and gave John Henry my business card. John Henry held good to his word and called me every year at Thanksgiving, usually about the time we sat down to dinner. He invited us over to Skamania Washington where he was now living. So, naturally we had to go visit him. One of the must-see things that we did was tour Mount St Helens about a year after it erupted. It wasn’t open to the public yet, but John Henry knew the back way in, as usual. The last I heard from John Henry was shortly after that and he was living in Oregon. Not sure what town, but probably Eugene. By that time, he was playing honky-tonks and occasional back up for some entertainers in the music industry and his talent was starting to bring him some recognition.
Shortly after that, Thanksgiving came, and John Henry didn’t call. I did some searching and made some phone calls to somebody. All that person would do was hang up on me, so I wasn’t sure what was going on. By then I was starting to think maybe John Henry really was dead. After 14 years, I retired from the county.
Shortly thereafter a road department employee called me and said a gal by the name of Rachel had called the office looking for me on behalf of John Ruckman. They took her number and forwarded it on to me. Had the dead risen? We immediately made the phone call and found out John Henry was indeed alive and married to Rachel. Rachel had taken the time to chase down several leads and had found my old business card. We sure are glad that she spent the time putting John Henry and me back together again. Within days of the phone call, one of the proudest moments, a package arrived containing two T-shirts, for me and Cheryl with the logo “John Henry and the Sidetracks” which will remain in our collection of railroad memorabilia in honor of John Henry. Several phone calls and emails and we were both whole again. A special thanks goes to Rachel for time well spent.
We tried to put something together to meet in Ely Nevada, but old age and medical problems got in the way. We put it off a couple times but never could seem to get it together. Rachel knew that John Henry’s time was getting short. She took the matter into her own hands, loaded up the car and one afternoon there they were, sitting in our driveway in typical John Henry fashion. Rachel exited the car and said, “Is this the home of Charles Johnson? FBI here.” We knew it could only be John Henry. We drank a little beer, stayed up late into the morning and relived a lot of old memories. Thanks again Rachel. It wouldn’t have happened without you.
This is a short summary of John Henry’s life and mine. There is a lot more here that goes untold, even though the statute of limitations probably doesn’t apply. You can only guess at some of the adventures we had over a lifetime friendship. Rest in peace my brother. We share the same Spirit, and we will meet again.
Always enjoyed jamming most of the night around the campfire with John Henry. The ol’ dude knew a helluva lot of songs, and the jam energy never faltered due to dead air or hidden agendas. A few kids who jammed with us around those campfires are now pro bluegrass & western swing musicians. A pig roast, potluck and a few cases of cheap brewski’s also kept those good jammers well fed. Occasional pyrotechnics added to the excitement. Good Vibes with The Angel Band in Heaven, J.H!
From Bill M.:
With all the chaff that life foists on our short time breathing, it sometimes becomes a chore to remember what really counts in the greater scheme of things. Distractions and detours skew and derail us from that which has meaning, the genuine, the authentic, the freeranging truth. We forget we are not our trappings, the outside shell of our lives that too often gets mistaken for our true self. The question becomes how to live closer to our core and forego the crippling deceptions masking us. The mundane inundations of every day lull us into a forgetful acceptance of superficiality, reputation, status, all those ways we become lost to ourselves and each other. Then there are blessed moments where we find ourselves unchained by our temporal concerns and we escape to a place where all the artifice drops away. It’s a place accessed by the heart unfettered by all the ways life has tricked us into believing shallow ambitions that separate and divide. But our tangled web can suddenly disappear when love brings us together. Our armor and cloaks tossed aside, the lightness of being sparks and crackles into a flame we recognize in each other no matter friend or stranger. And for a short time, we bask in a serenity that is our birthright and maybe will grow and strengthen into a daily fare if we are lucky and keep the flame burning. Go well John Henry. Your spirit has lifted me and will help me remember what really matters. Your flame burns bright, inside my heart.
Love,
Bill