The Game Changer

by A. G. Lafley

  But it’s all here on these pages.

  This is a story of a boy that decided on his own to make his life in music and entertainment. I tell about events and conversations that is important to me, not only because I experienced them, but because somehow it all seems to fit in a kind of bigger picture. Perhaps a picture of America. Or of the Negro in America. I don’t know, that’s too deep for me. But I like to think in some way I was part of it.

  They tell me I was born with a unusual memory. My grandfather on my Papa’s side was terrific and my mother had a good memory too. My uncle Jonse Mauney, born in slavery and not able to read or write, was a local “mathematician” with a computer mind. So nothing seems very far off to me.

  Many people interviewed me over the years, but only parts of my story been written in books and magazines. And not always right, either. I also read things my fellow musicians said I know damn well is wrong and it upsets me—some musicians’ memories are not a inch long.

  I believe strongly in telling the true facts, for if a person talks the truth, he can face the world. I want to tell blacks that keep saying the “man” is holding them back: read my story. I want to tell whites that may not know what it is to be turned away because of their color: read my story. I’m not putting anybody down. This is my life just the way it happened and I want everyone to know what I went through.

  I wouldn’t be telling the whole truth if I didn’t use the very words that was said. If any part of my story or the words I use offends anyone, please skip over that part. I’m sorry, but the truth cannot be changed. If it is, it no longer is the truth.

  There are events here I never told anyone before, because I’m a private person. Things very close to me still hurt to this day. And strange things that happened I can’t explain but I’m telling them now. And while there was many good times in my life, if things got bad or people be bad, I’m telling that too. I don’t hate. I’m not militant. If I hate, then damn it, somebody going to hate me back.

  I heard it said that black is beautiful—hell, every color is beautiful. If we to live in this world in peace, then we got to try to get along with everybody. We all need one another. Anybody ever see a piano with all black keys?

  I believe in people. Honest, sincere people, regardless of race, creed, or color. I never did get along with the notoriety kind. I was shy as a youngster and still back off from people that get out of line with me.

  I also believe in the Bible. I believe in the hereafter. I believe in doing right. Treat others as I wish to be treated and I know He will favor us all.

  Through the help of God, He made a way for me from when I was ten years of age. As a child, important people gave me their hand. Took me in. Taught and advised me. Because of this, I believe I was a success long before my music career began. After I was grown, others offered me encouragement when I needed it badly. Got me jobs and made it possible for this musician to play in top clubs, hotels, and theaters in America and over twenty-five foreign countries. Invited to stop at people’s homes and treated like family. Some were preachers, some lawyers and doctors. Some were musicians, singers, entertainers, and writers. Others just old friends and relatives. All good people I respect and still correspond with around the world.

  But I’m just a old country boy from North Carolina that appreciates everything he received. Many helped me to help myself. Any success I had in my life, I owe to the following people:

  Gus Aiken

  Napoleon Allen

  Joe Allston

  John Alston

  Vernon Andrade

  Harvey Andrews

  John A. Andrews

  Victoria Andrews

  Avon City Jazz Band, England

  Paul Barnes

  Russell Barnes and wife, England

  Elizabeth Barnhardt

  Herman Barnhardt

  Indie Barnhardt

  Leonard Barnhardt

  Paul Barnhardt

  Sarah Barnhardt

  Washington Michael Barnhardt

  Will Barnhardt and wife

  Tommy Benford

  Dave Bennett and wife, England

  Lou Blackmon and wife

  Peter Boizot, England

  Boston Broadcasters, Inc.

  Jack Bradley

  Herbert Branch

  Mort Browne

  Beulah Bryant

  Charles Buchanan

  Charles Burke and wife

  Dan Burley

  Clay Burt

  Ray Bush, England

  Jacques Butler

  James Butts

  Albert Caldwell

  Leslie Carr

  Peter Carr, England

  Dennis Chalkin

  John Chilton, England

  Julius Christian and wife

  Ernest Clarke

  Ira Coffey and wife

  Cozy Cole and wife

  Jay Cole and wife

  The Connecticut Traditional

  Jazz Club

  Rev. Arthur R. Corwell

  Herbert Cowens

  Odie Cromwell and wife

  Charlie Crowell, Sr.

  Floyd O. Culp

  Henry W. Culp, Jr.

  Rev. F. A. Cullen

  Stanley Dance

  Walton H. De Hart

  Bertrand Demeusy, France

  Harry Dial

  Dr. Morris Diener

  Wilma Dobie

  Bob Douglas

  Rev. John F. Douglas

  Frank Driggs

  Frankie Dunlop

  Laura Dunlop

  James W. Durden

  The Eady Family

  John Eady and wife

  Linwood Eady

  William Eady and wife

  Pete Endres and wife

  Helen J. Ennico

  Leonard G. Feather

  Billy Fowler, Sr.

  The Friendly Fifty Club

  Leslie Frye

  Theodore Frye

  Joe Garland

  Moses Garland and wife

  Gilbert Gaster, England

  Meredith G. Germer

  Karl Gert zur Heide, Germany

  Frank Gibbs

  Russell Gibbs and wife

  Charles Grear

  David Griffiths, Wales

  Luther Griffiths and wife, Wales

  Dr. Thomas P. Grissom, Jr.

  Dr. David L. Grossman

  Charles W. Hadley

  Michael Hansen, Denmark

  Marion Hardy

  James Harewood

  Aaron Harris

  Alfred Harris

  Bea Harris

  Sheldon Harris and wife

  Willie Mae Harris

  Wynonie Harris

  Jack Harvey and wife, England

  Edgar Hayes

  Alex Hill

  Teddy Hill

  Chris Hillman, England

  George and Christopher Hillman

  Charles Holmes

  Claude Hopkins

  Mel Howard

  Harmey S. Hyatt, Jr.

  J. Wallace Ivey

  Howard W. Johnson

  Jeryl Johnson

  Pete Johnson

  Albert Jones and wife

  C. W. Kaufman

  Jack and Marian Kearns

  Luvenia Kendall

  Rufus G. Kluttz and wife

  Earl Knight

  Barbara Kukla

  Wyn Lodwick and wife, Wales

  Fred Longshaw

  William Macklin and wife

  Henry McClane

  Jay McShann

  John Marrero

  Simon Marrero

  Barbara Martyn

  Barry Martyn

  Helen Merrill

  Peter Meyer, West Germany

  John P. Miller and wife

  H. Minton

  Carrie Misenheimer

  Clayton Misenheimer

  Tim Moore

  Fred T. Morgan

  Dan Morgenstern

  Mel Morris

  John H. Mullen

&
nbsp; Peter Muller, West Germany

  Arthur Newman and wife

  Jack O’Brien

  King Joe Oliver

  Harold Oxley

  Ray Parker

  Pasquele Pastin

  Birdell Prince

  Bob Queen

  Madame Gertrude Rainey

  Ed Rauch

  Ellsworth Reynolds

  Billy Roe

  Mrs. Izzy Roe

  Edwin Ross, Sr.

  Phil Schaap

  Walter Schaap and wife

  Sammy J. Scott

  Rev. Floyd Shadd and wife

  Minnie Shadd

  O’Neal Shadd and wife

  Rev. R. E. Sharpe

  Simons Sim, Belgium

  John Simmen and wife, Switzerland

  Ed Smalls

  Bessie Smith

  Pearl Smothers

  Glenn Spears and wife

  Bo Stenhammar, Sweden

  Derrick Stewart-Baxter and wife, England

  Eugeen Suykerbuyk, Belgium

  Luther Thomas

  Eric Townley, England

  Larry Treloar, England

  Rev. W. J. W. Turner and wife

  Peter Vacher, England

  Alajos Van Peteghem and wife, Belgium

  Joe Vennie

  Tillie Vennie

  Dr. Albert A. Vollmer and wife

  Hans Vollmer and wife, England

  Sammy Waters and wife

  George B. Weaver

  Viola Wells (Miss Rhapsody)

  Princess White

  Alberta Whitman

  Alice Whitman

  Essie Whitman

  Mabel Whitman

  J. A. Williams and wife

  Adam Wilson and wife

  Brooks Wilson

  Laurie Wright and wife, England

  Steve Wright

  Genevieve Zuhlcke

  Theo Zwicky, Switzerland

  I Remember

  1. The Beginning

  Saturday, September 25, 1982, was the most exciting day of my life.

  I was resting in my hotel room that evening down in Washington, D.C., trying to gather up my thoughts. My heart was still pounding. First, the Legends of Jazz, of which I’m a member, played the old Ford’s Theater only hours before. It was a command performance for President Ronald Reagan, and he was sitting right there down front applauding, along with Mrs. Reagan and a whole gang of government officials. The cameras were rolling because this was to be a special television show.

  And every time I glanced up at Abraham Lincoln’s blue and black flag-draped box where he got shot in 1865, I got a chill. They say his ghost is still there some place. And I believe it.

  But all that was nothing compared to being invited earlier in the day to lunch at the White House. I wish I could describe how it felt walking up that long staircase, past all the paintings of presidents, and into this beautiful reception room. And then the President of the United States coming over and shaking my hand.

  This old trombone player from Gold Hill, North Carolina, shaking hands with the top man of the country. Maybe the world. I’m not political, but to me he represents all America—the Number One Man.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about all the other people I met in my life. And the times I had. Where I came from and how they now call me a legend. Sure, I played in many name bands, and plenty without names. Been everywhere. But a legend?

  I kept wondering what life is all about. No one plans to do everything he does in his life, but it happens. Why is that?

  For a moment I thought I heard a voice whispering to me in the shadows of my quiet room.

  My life was spilling through my mind. Good times. Some laughs. A lot of hurts. So much buried inside me.

  I was sure I heard this voice calling. From long ago.

  “Come on, Clyde, come out on the porch and make pee-pee.”

  It was old Mrs. Rose Parker calling me out one cool North Carolina night back in 1907. I was but two years old. They told me Mama was sick, so Mrs. Rose was watching over me.

  “Hurry,” she was calling, “pull your little night shirt up and come make pee-pee.”

  And man, I remember I watered those cornstalks out back of that country house in one big spray. It is my first memory and I can call it today just as bright as the Carolina moon shining through those dark trees.

  The next morning, Papa came after me in his little black buggy. “Clyde,” he shouted from the dirt road, “you got a new brother now.”

  I remember I got excited. With only two older sisters, I sure did want a brother to play with bad. I was clapping and jumping all the way home, but when I saw this tiny brown bundle laying on the bed I was very disappointed. I thought a real brother be my size and this was nothing but a little old baby. I pouted for days after that.

  Papa was Washington Michael Barnhardt. That’s Barnhardt with a double a. I changed the spelling to Bernhardt later when I was grown. Papa was born May 15, 1878, near Mt. Pleasant, North Carolina, and was one of about eight children. His mother was half Cherokee Indian and half Negro. His father Bush was three-quarter Cherokee. I leave it to you to figure out how much Indian blood I have in me.

  In 1892, at the age of fourteen, Papa came to Gold Hill to work in the gold mines. It was a boom town then.

  My mother was born Elizabeth Mauney, pronounced “Mooney.” The date was December 27, 1872, and the place was a short distance out of New London, North Carolina. Mama’s parents, Cad and Heddie Mauney, were slaves. The white master that owned them was named Vol Mauney, so Mauney became their name too. They got married when grandmother was only thirteen and lived in this old rough cabin on the Mauney Plantation up until Emancipation Day.

  Cad Mauney was a dark brown Negro and grandmother was very light. They called her a mulatto. Don’t know for sure if there’s a white man in our family woodpile, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

  Mama had eight brothers and sisters. She went to Bennett College, a woman’s school in Greensboro, North Carolina, where she studied to be a dietician, taking care of a family, and all that kind of stuff. Started college around the eighth grade and finished in the twelfth. Today they call it high school.

  Mama was very smart, more then a lot of other colored people around there. But though Papa only went to fifth grade, I always thought he was smarter.

  When Papa married Mama in 1898, she was teaching school and kept at it until I came along. I was born Clyde Edric Barnhardt on July 11, 1905, 2 A.M. to be exact. We was living in the Hannah Shaver place then, about a mile out of Gold Hill, in Rowan County.

  Mama had eight children: Walton Hortense was the first, born April 6, 1899, but later she dropped the Walton and everybody called her Hortense; then two children that died as infants, Irene and Clifton; Agnes came on June 3, 1904; and after her was me. Then Paul, October 16, 1907; Leonard, June 9, 1910; and Herman on April 11, 1912. I remember Herman’s birthday very well because a few days later we all heard about the great ship Titanic going down.

  Mama always told me the Hannah Shaver place where I was born was haunted. A lot of white people moved in and moved out just as fast. Strange noises. Moaning. Scared the daylights out of them.

  Papa knew what everyone said about the Hannah Shaver place. “No hants gonna get me outta here,” he kept telling Mama. He meant the haunts, of course.

  But they did. He bought some twelve acres of land in a all-white area of Richfield, about five miles below Gold Hill. Cost him a dollar a acre. Papa was then a foreman and timekeeper, the only black mine foreman there, and making $2.50 a day. That was high wages, so he could afford the property.

  Mama ordered a wooden bungelow from the Sears, Roebuck Company catalogue, and when it came mail-order from Chicago, a local carpenter put it up in about a week. They spent most of their savings for it. Cost about five hundred dollars as I was told.

  We moved in around September of 1905 when I was but two months old and stayed exactly eight years.

&nb
sp; The big house stood off the ground and had six rooms, three on each side of a long hallway running right down the middle. Bedrooms in the back, a kitchen off on one side, then a dining room, living room, and the front parlor with the bay window was for company. The house had tall windows all around, a brick chimney, and a long porch out front. Even had a coal heater in there and a big fireplace. Shingles on the roof.

  Mama put in the newest wood- and coal-burning kitchen range, which she also got from Sears, Roebuck. The stove was made of heavy black steel, and Mama said it took four big men to carry it in. Looked so pretty with fancy white metal trim all over the fire box and on the front and side doors. Had a big reservoir somewhere inside with a warming closet on top.

  We was the only colored people around with such a good stove. Mama paid about twenty-five dollars for it, a top price in those days.

  A family reunion in Allentown, Pa., May 1, 1948. Front row, left to right: Clyde Bernhardt, Herman Barnhardt (brother), Leonard Barnhardt (brother); back row, left to right: Mrs. Leonard Barnhardt (sister-in-law), Agnes Barnhardt Thomas (sister), Maude Coble (cousin), Hortense Barnhardt De Hart (sister), Luther Thomas (brother-in-law), James Durden (uncle).

  Off the back porch was a deep artesian well that Papa got somebody to dig. Had a big pump that brought up the freshest, coldest water I ever tasted. When other people’s well went dry, they came and got water from us. Near the barn was our outhouse, and there was a yard out back for Mama’s vegetables.

  She kept a truck garden there just for us or anybody that needed food or was too lazy to grow their own. She had cantaloups, turnips, squash, onions, string beans, six-week white corn, greens of all kinds. Had peach trees. Apples and pears. Even a big old cow and chickens all running around picking and poking. Papa had this friendly horse he called Mary and a old gray mule, Kate, that wasn’t very friendly.

  Mama took in laundry after we moved to Richfield. Misenheimer’s Springs health resort was three miles away and all the wealthy white people from the North came down there, so she got plenty work from them.

  Mama bought this house from Sears, Roebuck and had it put up in Richfield, N.C., in 1905. (Photo courtesy of the late Mrs. Goodman.)

  Most people didn’t have what we had. The greatest ambition of working folks down there, black and white, was to own their own home, even if it didn’t have but two or three rooms. And have their own horse and wagon. Maybe someday work up to a buggy. God-fearing, hardworking, get-along people that did section hand labor, worked in the textile factories or the mines. There was no shiftless kind around.