Open Writing

Most of the time we stayed at home by ourselves but sometimes we were allowed to go with our folks to Cordelia's bar. The building that housed the bar had a tiny area on one end that served as a grocery store. In the middle section was the old bar with its brass railing, spittoons and benches along the wall. The room at the far end was a dancehall that had a nickelodeon in one corner and benches around the walls on which to sit. Cordelia's living quarters were in the back of the building.

When there were dances on Saturday nights we went with our folks and danced to the nickelodeon if there weren't any fiddle and guitar players around. Phyllis and Reita danced together from the time they were little and were both good at it. If they got sleepy they would either curl up on the benches or climb into the old Model A pickup.

We saw a few bar fights—usually involving just a couple of people because there weren't many extra folks around to fight. There was no shortage of fighters, however, when the sawmill was operating at its peak. The Texans brought in by the mill management were considered outsiders by the locals who viewed them as high-handed offensive braggarts. The ongoing exchanges of curses, lies and ominous threats between the two factions finally erupted into an explosive free for all one Saturday night.

On that night, Cordelia had hired Orval and Bessie Long to run the place. There were a lot of patrons in the bar, and several dancers in the dance hall. A few folks stood out on the porch, which had a wrap around railing to keep the drunks from falling off and rolling down the rocky hill. The porch stood about eight feet off the ground with wide steps leading from the rocky hillside to the building.

Earlier in the day, Mama and P.G. decided to go to the dance and told us kids we could go too. Besides us, the bar patrons that night included a tall blond man named Jessie James and his sassy redheaded wife. James was standing at the bar rail drinking beer and bragging about Texas and Texans, when he antagonized Mama, with the intention of causing a fight between her and his wife. "You better watch out," he goaded, "my little redhead just might mop up the floor with you." Predictably, Mama rose to the challenge. "I don't think so," she said, just as the bantam rooster redhead strutted up to her.

She never had a chance. Because Mama always believed the first lick would win the fight. The redhead's butt quickly and decisively met the floor with a thud and Mama jumping astride her, started beating and pummeling her. Seeing his wife on the losing end, James roared over and kicked Mama in the side.

Willie and Murrel, about fifteen at the time, were watching the fight from a bench along the opposite wall. When he saw Jessie James kick Mama, Willie jumped in to intervene.

"Hey, that's my Mama you just kicked," he shouted as he drew back his fist. Willie wasn't quick enough for the experienced brawler who hit him, sending him flying backward across the room. His butt hit the floor before his boot heels did. Murrel, who had jumped off the bench to help Willie, ran into the same fist.

By this time the redhead had surrendered, Mama got to her feet, her eyes darting around the room, "Who was the cowardly son of a bitch who kicked me?"

"That man, Mama," Willie pointed from where he lay on the floor.

With that, Mama decked James with an uppercut. She always wore a large ring and it served a dual purpose that night. Not only was it a good looking piece of jewelry, it took a strip of hide off Jessie James' nose. P.G., having missed the ruckus thus far due to a much needed visit to the outside privy to relieve himself of the beers he had consumed, came rushing through the door just in time to see Mama's fist make contact with Jessie's nose.

At some point during all the chaos, Bessie Long who was helping her husband tend bar, came around from behind the bar and attempted to break things up. She slugged P.G., who had joined in and was fighting Jessie James. After her fist made a connection with PC's jaw she panicked and tried to jump back over behind the bar again causing her dress to fly up over her head. P.G. made a grab for her but succeeded only in tearing the back out of her underpants. This enraged, Orval who in turn, grabbed a gun from behind the bar. As he came around the bar, Babe Chandler tripped him and the gun flew out of his hand. Willie grabbed the gun as it slid across the floor, scooped it up and ran out the front door. Carrying the gun, Willie ran across the porch, down the steps and around the building, hoping to keep anyone from getting seriously hurt with the weapon.

While Darrel was putting the finishing touches on his Texan, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Willie running around to the back of the building with the gun in his hand. He didn't realize Willie was just getting the gun away so nobody would get hurt. He took off down the steps and around the building in hot pursuit of Willie. Darrel tackled Willie and took the gun away from him, and then he hid it himself.

The fight started in the bar and had spread onto the porch and dance hall where other locals were slugging it out with their own Texan opponents. Allen Van Winkle, a very tall slow-talking fellow, and his stocky wife, Wilma, had been shuffling around the dance floor to music from the jukebox. Wilma was a mellow old gal and strong as an ox. Right in the middle of "Love Sick Blues" Allen paired off with his own Texan. The Texan's wife jumped on Allen's back and started hitting him over the head with both fists screaming, "You big bastard, you're hurtin' my man." Allen calmly looked back over his shoulder at his red-faced assailant and said in his slow drawl, "Wilma, get this thing off my back." Allen threw the Texan against the wall and proceeded to wallop him so hard that his leather jacket split right down the back. Simultaneously, old Wilma lifted the screeching woman off Allen's back and offered some good advice, "Now honey, you better behave, or I'll give you some of what your husband's gettin'."

I was standing out on the porch, looking at all the things going on around me when a beer bottle whizzed by my head. I took cover behind an old trash barrel on the far end of the porch. From there I saw Darrel, who loved to brawl, smile as he hit his Texan in the mouth. The Texan staggered backward into the porch railing and with a second blow to the chin, the fellow flipped backward over the railing, falling onto the rocks eight feet below.

My brother Jessie wasn't so lucky either; scared, he ran around behind the building and in the dark tripped and fell into a big hole that was being dug for a septic system. Willie heard his cry for help. He lay down on his belly at the lip of the hole and with an outstretched arm was able to pull him out.

For weeks we laughed, rehashed, and relished every aspect of that fracas.
All confrontations at Cordelia's were not so funny or frivolous. One time a fight almost turned into murder and our family was involved. The terrifying event happened on a school night. We older kids were to take care of our little sisters while our folks went to Cordelia's to have a beer. After putting Phyllis and Reita to bed, we went to bed and were sleeping
soundly. Around midnight we were awakened by a lot of noise and the excited voices of Mama and P.G.

When we ran into the living room, the first thing we saw was blood dripping from a cut that ran across P.G.'s face. He was white from shock. Mama had him lie on the couch trying to stop the blood when Phyllis and Reita came in. At the sight of their daddy's face, they started crying. Reita screamed, "Who hurt my daddy, who hurt my daddy!" Phyllis ran over and tried to take the wash cloth out of Mama's hands. "Daddy, Daddy," she cried. "Somebody hurt Daddy!"

Being abruptly awakened at night was nothing new to us. A few weeks before, we were roused by a gunshot blast. P.G., a little bit too tipsy, was showing off and accidentally shot a hole through the roof. He claimed he was aiming at the overhead light.

The situation this night was much more serious, however, because there was so much blood.

My folks always believed that the worst thing to happen was to get involved with the law. They had never heard the old saying, "He that goes to the law holds a wolf by the ears." Theirs was a conclusion based on their experience that no good outcome can be expected when the law gets involved. This fear prompted Mama to worry aloud, "How long do you think it will take for the law to get here?"

"Probably not long," P.G. said.

While they sat waiting for the law to come, which in this case was Lawrence Barrett who was deputized to handle area disputes, they told us what had happened.

They had been drinking beer in Cordelia's bar when Clem Slugs, a sawmill camp reprobate, brought Pearly Jackson, a black man, to the bar to buy some whiskey. Segregation was very much in effect at that time and black people weren't allowed to drink in the bar although they could buy liquor to go. Clem Slugs was widely known as a troublemaker, and true to his mongrel ways, stole P.G.'s coat as he exited the bar.

P.G. followed him outside and confronted him with the theft of the coat. This led to a fistfight and P.G. knocked him to the ground. Clem then tried to lie his way out of the altercation by accusing Pearly of the theft.
"He took it. That nigger took your coat."

When Pearly Jackson heard the false accusation, he must have feared for his own safety. With a knife in his hand he came from behind P.G., reached around and sliced him across the face. P.G. jumped up, terrified he would be killed. As he whirled around he grabbed his pocketknife and slashed Pearly who clutched his stomach and bent forward just in time to keep his insides from falling out. His legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground. Clem quickly loaded Pearly into his Jeep and drove him to the hospital in Alamogordo. Why Pearly cut P.G. is still not clear, as it's hard to believe he had any allegiance to Clem other than he had given him a ride.

As expected, Deputy Lawrence came knocking at the door. "I'm sorry, P.G.," he said, "but I've got to take you to jail in Alamogordo 'til we see if that colored man lives."

We waited fearfully for the next three days. Fortunately, Pearly Jackson lived, got well, and there were no charges brought against P.G.
Reflecting the times and attitudes toward blacks back in 1950 the judge told P.G. when he released him, "We should hang you for NOT killing him."

P.G. was greatly relieved that he had not killed Pearly even if it was in self-defense. A month later P.G. ran into him over at the sawmill. Pearly apologized for cutting him in the first place and they shook hands with no hard feelings. Then later, when Pearly was burned to death in his sawmill shack, P.G. was afraid he would be accused of setting the blaze. P.G. breathed another long sigh of relief, when the fire was ruled an accident.
These violent incidents conditioned us to become anxious and worried when our folks drank. From time to time their drunken discussions would turn into a heated argument. We never knew when it would happen. We witnessed them become physical on occasion and Mama was not necessarily on the receiving end, as she had a mean right hook.