Chapter 1- Murder Creek Blues
Earl “Lil’ Choo-Choo” Johnson was a child prodigy and a blues guitar legend. He was born in Corfu, Mississippi on November 15, 1919. Corfu was a poor farming community in the Mississippi Delta, a collection of struggling farms straddling both banks of Murder Creek, which was not much more than a trickle in a shallow, muddy gully. Earl’s parents were Curtis Johnson and his second wife, Maybelle. Maybelle was half-black, half-Irish, and half-Choctaw Indian. You may be thinking, hey, that’s three halves, but Maybelle was a very large woman. She was hard working, a strict Baptist, and ran the Johnson household with an iron fist. Curtis was a hard-working sharecropper, but unlike his wife, he preferred whiskey to the Baptist church, and occasionally went on a bender, after which Curtis would inevitably return to the farm to face Maybelle’s wrath, which was legendary. Other than his seven brothers and sisters, the only other family member who played much of a role in Earl’s early years was his Uncle Sam “Houndtooth” Johnson, his father’s younger brother. Earl had no idea how his uncle had acquired the unusual nickname. But everyone called him Houndtooth, so Earl just accepted it as fact.
Houndtooth was a drifter, and always seemed to be in trouble with the law. But he was charming, and played a mean guitar. When he was not in jail or shacked up with a woman somewhere, Houndtooth stayed with his brother’s family. Maybelle did not approve of Houndtooth’s presence, or his influence on the children, who all loved him and his antics. She was also disdainful of Houndtooth’s aversion to work, especially since he was staying in the Johnson home for free. Houndtooth preferred to loll down by Murder Creek with his guitar, under the shade of an oak tree, with a bottle of whiskey when he could afford one.
Whenever he could, Earl would sneak away from his chores down to the creek, where he would surreptitiously listen to Houndtooth play his guitar and watch his fingers nimbly work the frets. Occasionally, Maybelle would catch the young boy, and he’d have to take a beating, despite the protests of his father, Curtis. It was worth it, though, to hear that sweet blues music coming from Houndtooth’s guitar.
One night, Earl awakened to a large hand gently shaking his shoulder. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw his Uncle Houndtooth standing above him. In one hand, Houndtooth held his guitar, and with the other hand he beckoned for Earl to follow him out into the moonlight. Earl hazily followed his uncle outside, and by the light of the full moon walked down to Murder Creek, farther down than usual, to a flat rock underneath a small clearing in the trees. Earl was still wondering what his uncle wanted when Houndtooth handed his young nephew the guitar.
“Play me some blues, boy,” Houndtooth said. “I seen you watchin’ me. Now you play for me,” he said with a grin.
Earl looked up at his uncle questioningly, and then down at the guitar. He started to protest, but Houndtooth stopped him with a more emphatic, “Play!”
The young boy wrapped his little hands around the big guitar like he had seen his uncle do. He closed his eyes and drew his right hand across the strings. Then he moved his left hand along the neck of the guitar and strummed it again. It felt good, and he kept going. He was surprised to find that it sounded pretty good, a decent imitation of a song Houndtooth liked to play. When he finished the song, Earl opened his eyes and looked up at his uncle. Houndtooth smiled broadly, and said, “Not bad, boy. We’ll try some more tomorrow night.” Earl was so excited he could hardly sleep that night.
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For the next few months, Houndtooth and Earl snuck out of the small sharecropper’s shack every night, except the nights Houndtooth went out to drink, gamble, and chase loose women. Earl proved to be a natural, learning Houndtooth’s guitar lessons quickly. After a few weeks, he had learned most of Houndtooth’s songs, and was starting to develop his own guitar riffs.
One night, Earl was laying awake waiting for the nightly guitar lesson when he saw his uncle get up and head quietly out onto the porch. He hadn’t come to get Earl, and didn’t have his guitar, so Earl followed him out to the front yard. When Houndtooth heard the boy, he spun around and whispered, “Sorry, junior, no pickin’ tonight.” Then he flashed that winning grin. “I’ve got me an arrangement with a hot lil’ number in town.” Houndtooth could see the obvious disappointment in Earl’s face, so he added, “Why don’tcha grab my guitar and go practice yo’self. Hell, you know all them songs by heart anyhow.”
After he left, Earl quietly located Houndtooth’s old guitar and made his way down to the rock by the creek. He started playing and, as always, lost himself in the music. He didn’t even notice the stirring in the bushes as big Maybelle came up behind him. He heard her just before she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him roughly to the ground. As he sat there stunned, his mother grabbed the guitar and smashed it against the rock. Earl couldn’t believe it, and started crying uncontrollably. Maybelle grabbed his shirt and yelled at the boy, “What you cryin’ for? I just did you a favor, boy. I don’t want you becomin’ a shiftless, good-for-nothin’ bum like yo’ uncle. Now get yo’ narrow little behind back up to the house and get to sleep. You got chores to do tomorrow.”
Earl broke free of Maybelle’s grip and ran back to the house. As he got up to the porch, though, he saw that the little oil lamp in the shack was on, and there was movement inside. As he stepped through the doorway, he saw his Uncle Houndtooth leaning way back in a chair at the table, a red, sticky gash shining on top of his head, while Curtis was dabbing a towel on the wound.
Earl’s brothers and sisters sat in a group in one corner, looking scared. “What happened?” Earl asked his father. Curtis didn’t answer, but his uncle gave him a half-hearted smile. “Seems I had to make some other arrangements,” he tried to joke.
“Be quiet, Sam,” his father told his uncle as he tried to nurse his wounds. Just then, they all froze as they heard Maybelle, breathing heavily, stomp up the steps of the shack.
“Why the hell is this house all lit up?” she bellowed. “And what are these kids doin’ up?” Maybelle’s eyes narrowed as they came to rest on the scene at the kitchen table. She stood there speechless for a minute, and everybody was waiting to see what the master of the house would do. “Get the hell outta this house,” she snarled at Houndtooth. Houndtooth, perhaps sensing how serious Maybelle was, began to get up, until Curtis put a hand on his shoulder.
“Sam, why don’tcha wait outside,” Curtis said, although he was staring at his wife. “And keep this towel on your head.”
All the kids were shooed outside to avoid the coming storm inside the shack. They huddled together just in front of the small porch, all that is except Earl, who followed his uncle over to the stump by the old tool shed. Houndtooth sat on the stump and leaned gently back against the shed. “Beer bottles and jealous husbands ain’t the best combination, boy,” he said as he chuckled.
Earl didn’t understand what his uncle was talking about, but knew something very bad had happened. He didn’t have the heart to tell Houndtooth about his busted guitar down by Murder Creek. They just sat there in silence for what seemed like a long time. Earl could hear the yelling from the shack, and could tell it wasn’t going well for his father. He wasn’t sure why Curtis had thought he could win an argument against Maybelle; no one ever did. After a while, the yelling stopped. Soon after, the door opened, the other kids were shooed back inside, and the oil lamp was blown out. Houndtooth and Earl sat in the dark until they heard the door open again, and Curtis emerged, carrying a large package under his arm. Earl couldn’t tell what it was in the dark.
Curtis came and sat down by his brother and his son, placing the package beside his feet. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, offering one to Houndtooth, taking one for himself, and lighting them both with a match he struck on the side of the shed.
“I’ve caused you some trouble, brother,” Houndtooth sighed. “I should go.” After a long silence, he added, “Hell, Curtis, I didn’t know she was married.”
“Would it have made any difference, Sam?” his father asked pointedly. “It don’t matter no more, anyhow. You gotta leave town ‘fore you get shot by that man.” Curtis threw his cigarette butt to the ground, and leaned over to the large package at his feet. He threw off the blanket around it to reveal a battered old guitar case. He slowly, almost reverently, undid the snaps on the case, and pulled out the old guitar. He cradled it in his lap, and then to Earl’s astonishment, played a few chords of a mournful old tune that Earl didn’t recognize.
“Betcha didn’t know your ol’ man used to play,” Curtis said to his son, smiling sadly. He looked down at the old guitar in his hands for a few moments before gently placing the guitar back in the beat-up case and fastening the latches.
Curtis turned back to his brother, saying “I’m gonna miss ya’, Sam. This ol’ guitar ain’t much to look at, but it still plays. I’m sorry Maybelle broke that one o’ yours. She had no call to do that.”
Houndtooth picked up the guitar case, looked it over, then gently placed it on Earl’s lap. “The boy’s the one should get yo’ guitar, Curtis. Hell, he’s already better ‘n me anyhow,” he said.
“I know,” his father said, looking at Earl with pride in his eyes. How did he know that, Earl wondered. His dad had never heard him play, and to his knowledge, didn’t even know he played the guitar.
Curtis saw the confusion in his son’s eyes, smiled, and sat back, staring up at the stars. “Yeah, your uncle tol’ me he was givin’ you lessons down to the creek. I came down there a couple nights and stood in the bushes to hear ya’ play. You got a gift, son.” At this point, Curtis reached down and picked up a handful of dirt, turning it over in his hands before tossing it to the ground. “This ain’t no kinda life for a boy with your talent. Sam, I know this is a lot to expect of ya’, but I want ya’ to take the boy with ya’. If he don’t get outta here now, he ain’t never gonna. And there ain’t nothin’ for him here. If ya’ find it’s too much for ya’ Sam, see the boy gets to cousin Ray’s over in Biloxi.”
“Curtis, I can’t…” Houndtooth started.
“I ain’t askin’, Sam. Take the boy.” Curtis got up, effectively ending the conversation. He pulled his son into him, knowing that the boy was struggling to comprehend this turn of events. “I love ya’, son. I know ya’ don’t understand what’s goin’ on, but it’s for the best. Your uncle ain’t the most responsible man around, but he won’t let nothin’ bad happen to you.” Curtis hugged his son hard, then turned to his brother.
“You better watch my boy, Sam. And stay outta trouble.” The two brothers hugged. “Here’s a little money. Sorry it ain’t more,” Curtis said, stuffing a few bills into Houndtooth’s hand.
“Curtis, did Maybelle agree to this?” he asked his brother. The silence that followed spoke volumes. Curtis finally managed to say “go,” and turned to walk back into the dark shack. He didn’t look back, closing the door noiselessly behind him.