Jesse James and me
My alma mater was born in sectional strife. Plus: Ray Charles lives on and a lesson in Lancashire lingo.
EXHIBITS
AVES, my exhibit at the Port Townsend Marine Science Center Gallery, opened last Friday and continues through June 8. It’s a small gallery, making for a more intimate experience of the pictures, which have been beautifully hung by curator Andrew Whiteman. Please stop by when you’re in town. Proceeds from the sales of my photographs and books benefit PTMSC’s important work. –KT
HISTORY
Baptist rebellions
THE JAMES-YOUNGER GANG, led by Frank and Jesse James, launched their long string of violent crimes on a chilly day in February of 1866. That day, they robbed Clay County Savings in Liberty, Missouri, in what’s considered to be America’s first successful daytime bank robbery. As many as a dozen members of the gang converged on the town square and pulled their six-shooters on people inside and outside the bank. A teller surrendered an estimated sixty-thousand 1866 dollars to them. According to newspaper reports, as the robbers fled, “gunfire erupted” and a young bystander named George Wymore was shot and killed. He was a student at nearby William Jewell College, founded by a group of Missouri Baptists that included Robert S. James, a minister and hemp farmer who owned six slaves and fathered Frank and Jesse.
I graduated from William Jewell in 1973, when its slogan was, “A Baptist college of quiet distinction in a setting of exciting Americana.” Little did I know at the time just how exciting its Americana had been. Clay County, where Jewell is located, is one of a string of counties along the Missouri River that was known as “Little Dixie” for its pro-slavery and Confederate politics. Before emancipation, the area’s tobacco and hemp farmers relied on an estimated one hundred thousand slaves. In the 1860 election, Abraham Lincoln’s vote count in Clay County was zero.
The county was thus a fertile recruiting ground for the Missouri “bushwhackers” who conducted deadly raids on free-state Kansans. The James brothers grew up on a farm just fifteen miles north of Liberty. They joined a group led by William Quantrill, who gained infamy for raiding Lawrence, Kansas, a center of pro-Union, abolitionist partisans known as Jayhawkers. At dawn on August 21, 1863, Quantrill’s band of three hundred killed over a hundred and fifty civilians, men and boys, and burned the town to ash.
Despite their record of brazen murder and robbery, Quantrill and Jesse James became part of the “Lost Cause” lore after the war. They were romanticized in pro-Confederate newspapers and dime-store novels, and Hollywood later portrayed James as a rebel and Robin Hood, though there’s no evidence he gave away any of his loot. As recently as 2007, fans from Mizzou—the University of Missouri at Columbia—wore t-shirts to a football game against Kansas that depicted the Lawrence Massacre with a quote attributed to Quantrill: “Our cause is just, our enemies many.”
Of course, I knew very little of this Americana during my time at William Jewell. I’d been told it was a liberal arts college with a stellar reputation and, as an eighteen-year-old from a small Kansas high school, I didn’t know any better. I liked the “liberal” and “arts” parts. And they awarded me a last-minute debate scholarship, which I sorely needed. But on the first day of my first class, my bubble was burst when a psychology professor began his lecture with a prayer. I was required to attend chapel twice a week and to take a religion course, for which I produced a report on the sexual practices of America’s intentional Christian communities. In retrospect, the paper was perhaps a small rebellion against William Jewell’s policy of locking all the women students in their dorms at ten o’clock.
To survive such religious fervor, I joined the tiny band of hippies at the school and frequently attended class stoned on pot. I managed to graduate early, used a graduation gift to buy an old pickup, and drove to San Francisco, where William Jewell’s lauded reputation wasn’t yet well known, at least to my prospective employers.
Over the years, I kept in touch with a few friends, but largely forgot about Jewell. (I did sometimes recite its catchy slogan at dinner parties for laughs.) Then a few years ago, I learned about a fellow alum here on the Olympic Peninsula and arranged to meet her. Debbie is a few years younger than I am, a lovely person, and had served on the Board of Trustees during a tumultuous chapter of the college that I was surprised and pleased to learn about.
A little Baptist history is in order. In 1845, the Southern Baptists, now the largest Protestant denomination in the U.S., split from the existing Baptist convention over the issue of slavery, which they regarded as an “institution of heaven.” The Missouri Baptist Convention (MBC), which founded William Jewell, aligned with the Southern Baptists that same year. And for a century and a half, MBC donated funds and held sway over many aspects of campus life.
I certainly felt the Baptists’ foot, but apparently it got heavier after I left. Through the 1980s and into the 1990s, I learned from Debbie, the MBC began cracking down on Jewell. The Southern Baptist Convention and its Missouri brethren had begun a conservative resurgence, known as the “Fundamentalist–Moderate Controversy.” (Guess who won.) They demanded veto power over Trustee membership, opposed teaching evolution, and objected to certain student groups on campus, such as the Gay-Straight Alliance.
By then, the college was headed in a different direction, towards a traditional liberal arts education (those words again!), more academic freedom, and greater inclusivity. The conflict came to a head in 2003, she told me, when the Trustees, rather than bend to MBC’s demands, formally broke with them and their money. Holy cow! I felt good about my alma mater for the first time in decades and was left to wonder: Might even Old Abe have a better chance in Clay County today? –Kerry Tremain
VIDEO OF THE WEEK
Ray Charles in song and garb
IN THIS 2016 performance of a song written sixty years earlier, every element contains a story—from the songwriter to the song itself to the singer’s slick jacket. First recorded by Ray Charles in 1956, Lonely Avenue was written that same year by a young man named Jerome Felder. Stricken by polio as a child, Felder lived inside an iron lung for a year before being declared well enough to breathe on his own. When his health problems made school attendance difficult, he turned to music, which alarmed his immigrant parents. Jazz, blues, and hanging out in Greenwich Village clubs weren’t the expected destination for a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn.
He started out as singer. When that career failed to take off, he wrote songs for other performers instead. Lonely Avenue was a minor hit for Ray Charles, but it was a significant turning point for Felder, who by then was going by his stage name, Doc Pomus. Over the following years, he and his writing partner, Mort Shuman, turned out hits for a long list of artists, including Elvis Presley, the Drifters, Bobby Darin, and Dion and the Belmonts.
His most famous song, Save the Last Dance for Me, is said to have come to him at his wedding reception. Since polio had made him dependent on crutches, he had to sit at a table watching his new wife dance with other men. Originally a huge hit for the Drifters, Last Dance has been recorded by artists as varied as Buck Owens, Michael Buble, and Dolly Parton. It’s said to be one of the last songs recorded by Leonard Cohen.
The singer in this video, Leon Bridges, performed Lonely Avenue for Barack and Michelle Obama in the last installment of their series on American music, “In Performance at the White House.” They're in the front row, bopping along to the beat.
Bridges, well-known as a sharp dresser, is sporting a gorgeous gold jacket. In an interview, he explained that shortly before he went onstage, someone from the series’ sponsoring organization, the Ray Charles Foundation, asked if he’d like to wear the jacket. Performing in an original Ray Charles garment was a dream and he eagerly agreed. But he wasn’t sure: Was it a gift or a loan?
Backstage with the other musicians after his performance, he reached for some of the food set out on a table. The Ray Charles Foundation staff member, worried about spills, suddenly materialized to retrieve the jacket. And he made it clear that this was no gift. Bridges says he tried hard not to look dejected.
If you like Leon Bridges singing Lonely Avenue, check out his performance of a song he wrote, Smooth Sailin’—one of my favorites. He looks as fabulous as Sam Cooke in a sharkskin suit. To which I say: Bring back the sharkskin! –Barbara Ramsey
ON LANGUAGE
Tha meks a line
OUR ENGLISH FRIEND and loyal subscriber Diane Wheatley sent us this postcard, which she found in her Mum’s collection. From a map, Lancashire—which includes the traditional industrial working class cities of Manchester and Liverpool—looks to be in the middle of the country. Its residents nonetheless refer to it as The North, though they are not to be confused with their historic and bitter football rivals in Yorkshire, which is technically further north.
See how many of these expressions you can translate on your own and then check the answers below. Personally, I didn’t stand a faitan chance and came limpin whoam. I got just two of the ten. –KT
1. EE’S FAIR BOWLEGGED WI BRASS. Translation: He’s got so much money that he’s bowlegged carrying it. Example: ”Since he got that promotion, he's been acting like he's fair bowlegged wi brass!”
2. MI BELLY THINGS MI THROAT'S BEEN CUT. Translation: I’m so hungry my stomach feels like my throat’s been cut. Example: "Hurry up wi’ that pie, mi belly things mi throat’s been cut!"
3. BREAD ETTEN IS SOON FORGOTTEN. Translation: Once a favor has been received, it's quickly forgotten. Example: “I lent him some money last month, and now he won’t even buy me a pint—bread eaten is soon forgotten!”
4. PUT TH' WOOD IN'T H'OLE. Translation: Shut the door, you’re letting the draught in. Example: ”Tha born in a barn? Put th’ wood in’t h’ole!"
5. THAZ A FACE LIKE A LINE A WET WESHIN. Translation: You look as miserable as wet clothes on a line. Example: "Ey up, rough night? Tha’s got a face like a line a wet weshin!"
6. PIGS WAIN'T FOLLOW AN EMPTY BUCKET. Translation: People won't listen to you if you have nothing to offer. Example: "He’s always bossin’ folk about, but never does owt himself—pigs wain’t follow an empty bucket!”
7. WELL, I'LL TO THE FOOT OF OUR STAIRS. Translation: I can't believe it! Example: "Yer actually buying a round? Well, I’ll to the foot of our stairs!” Alternative: “Well, stone the crow!”
8. THA MEKS A BETTA DOOWER THAN A WINDA. Translation: You’re blocking my view, i.e, you’re acting as a door, not a window. Example: ”Move o'er a bit, lad! Tha meks a betta doower than a winda!"
9. FAITIN DOGS COME LIMPIN WHOAM. Translation: If you’re always getting into fights, you’ll get hurt. Example: ”Serves him right for always pickin’ scraps. Faitin dogs come limpin whoam!"
10. AH CUD EYT A BUTTERED FROG. Translation: I’m starving! Example: "Aye, let’s get to t’ chippy—I cud eyt a buttered frog!” Alternative:"I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby donkey."
How many did tha get? Really? Well, I’ll to the foot of our stairs!
The times of culture, integrity, curiosity, and empathy! How I miss them.
I love that performance, love the jacket. The life-size picture of George hanging behind the band looks like the father of our country’s grooving too.