“So, Bud, I don’t know how Herman is going to be feeling after this, that’s where I need your help. You’ve got to remember that both Herman and I love your mother just as much as you do.”
This didn’t seem like it could be true, not just because it didn’t seem like anyone could love my mother as much as I do, but because it didn’t seem like Herman B. Calloway could love anyone at all.
Miss Thomas said, “So if you can remember, Bud, be patient with him. That ornery old man upstairs is very, very hurt right now and I just can’t say where he’s going to land after this news gets through blowing him around.” Miss Thomas was starting to do that sting-y-eyed blinking.
“So we’re going to have to give him some time, we’re going to have to let him find out how he feels before—”
Mr. Jimmy came into the kitchen. “Grace,” he said, “he wants you.” Herman B. Calloway was making everybody feel like they had the blues, it looked like Mr. Jimmy’d just wiped some tears from his eyes too.
Miss Thomas came around to my side of the table and gave me a hug. She said, “You OK?”
I said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She said, “Should I go see how he’s doing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She left the kitchen and Mr. Jimmy went into the living room.
I picked Momma’s picture up and put it back in the envelope. Mr. C. chose a good name for his house ’cause not a second went by before the back door came open and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression walked in, talking like it was going out of style. As soon as they saw me they all got quiet.
Doo-Doo Bug said, “Hey, Sleepy LaBone, where’s everyone at?”
I didn’t want to embarrass anyone by saying that all the grown folks were sitting all over the house sobbing their eyes out, so I said, “They’re around.” I remembered not to call the band “sir.”
Steady said, “Well, it’s you we wanted anyway.” He put a1old cardboard suitcase on the table and said, “I told the fellas how hard you’ve been hitting that recorder and how proud I was of you, so we put a couple of nickels together”—he acted like he was yelling into the other room—“and Lord knows on the peanuts we get it was a real sacrifice.” He slapped some skin with Dirty Deed, then started talking regular again. “Anyway, the Thug saw something at the pawnshop and we picked it up for you.”
“Can I open it?”
The Thug said, “Well, if you don’t, I don’t know who will.”
Eddie slid the cardboard suitcase over to in front of me. It looked worse than the one I used to carry around, one of the snaps on it was busted clean off and the other one was stuck.
Steady Eddie said, “It’s what’s inside that’s interesting. Just pull on that snap real hard.”
I pulled on the snap and it came off right in my hand.
The Thug said, “I knew it, the boy’s just too country, he ain’t used to handling fine merchandise. We should’ve give it to him in a paper bag.”
I opened the suitcase. Whatever it was was wrapped up in crinkly, wrinkly newspapers.
I started pulling newspapers off and could tell that their gift was real heavy. All of a sudden a shiny piece of gold showed through. I snatched more paper off and couldn’t believe my eyes! The Dusky Devastators of the Depression had put their money together and had bought me a baby-size horn like Steady Eddie’s saxophone!
Steady Eddie could see I was stuck so he lifted it out of the suitcase and fished around in the bag for the mouthpiece, the neck and the reed holder. He sucked the reed for a minute, put the horn together, then played it.
Man! My horn sounded great!
Eddie said, “It’s an alto, Bud, there’s a little rust in some of the seams, but that’s to be expected with a horn this old. It’s still got a good tone to it, this dent didn’t throw her off too much.” He showed me a big dent on the bottom part of my saxophone. “I repadded, refelted and resprung it. The rest is up to you.” He reached in his pocket and took out a can that said BRASSO on the side. “Get you a rag and shine her up. A man should polish his own horn.”
I looked at my bandmates and said, “Thank you, thank you very, very much. I’ll practice on this so much that I’ll be just as good as you guys are in about three weeks!”
Doo-Doo Bug said, “Ohhh, now that’s cold.”
I said, “Really! I will.”
The band laughed so I did too.
Eddie said, “Well, Mr. LaBone, I’ll tell you what, since you’re so hot to get in this band, I’d better get you started on your lessons right away.” He pulled a big silver watch that was tied up to a long chain out of his pocket and said, “I’m going by Tyla’s for a while now, but I’ll be back around seven. If you’ve got your ax polished up by then, I’ll bring some sheet music along and we can get started, sound good?” His toothpick jumped with each word.
“Sounds great, Steady!”
Eddie took the strap off his neck and handed it to me. I put it on and Eddie handed me my saxophone for the very first time. It was the perfect weight!
I said, “Can I be excused?”
Dirty Deed said, “What, you ain’t gonna blow us some notes? We want to hear what you got, Mr. Three-Weeks-from-Now.”
I said, “I’ll let you hear me in three weeks when we’re all on the stage together.”
They laughed again and the Thug said, “I’ma let you in on something, Sleepy LaBone, there’s certain members of this band that you will be outplaying in three weeks, but it’s gonna take you a whole lot longer to top me. On the real tip, it’s gonna take you at least ten years before you’ll be able to even hold my drumsticks.”
Steady Eddie said, “Yeah, and that’s about nine years and ten months longer than you’ll be with the band, Thug.”
The Thug said, “Awww, man, you ain’t gonna start that up again, you gotta let me know what you heard.”
I said, “Can I be excused?”
Eddie said, “Go ’head on, Sleepy LaBone, I’ll be back.”
I told my bandmates, “Thank you again, thank you very much.”
The Thug said, “Nothing to it, little man.”
Dirty Deed said, “Now don’t let that horn whip you, son.”
Doo-Doo Bug said, “Our pleasure, Sleepy.”
Steady Eddie said, “Man, get outta here.”
I picked up both of Momma’s pictures, my horn and the can of Brasso and ran up the stairs.
When I got upstairs I saw that Herman B. Calloway’s door was still open a crack. Miss Thomas’s door was closed now and I could hear the two of them in her room talking real soft to each other. I could’ve stood outside the door and listened if I wanted to but that would’ve been rude, besides I didn’t know for sure how long it would take me to polish up my new horn!
I went into my mother’s room and put my sax on the bed that Momma used to sleep in when she was a little girl. I put her smiling picture on the dressing table, then reached under her bed and pulled my sax case out again. I snapped the two silver snaps and started taking out all of my things.
I took my old blanket out and remade my bed with it. I wasn’t going to need to carry it around with me anymore. I opened the tobacco pouch and took out the rock that said Flint on it and set it on the bed. I took the pouch and the flyers and walked down the hall to Herman E. Calloway’s room. Even though I could still hear him and Miss Thomas talking and boo-hooing in her room, I knocked on his door anyway. When no one answered I opened it.
He had one of those dressing tables with a mirror stuck on the back of it too, so I walked real quick over to it and set the flyers and the bag of four rocks down. I got out of his room as fast as I could.
Whew! Even though it was me who’d carried them around for all these years, you’d have to be a pretty big liar if you’d say those rocks and flyers really belonged to me. Herman B. Calloway’s name was all over the flyers and his writing was all over the rocks.
Besides, the way he’d looked so shook up when he saw those rocks for the first
time I figure they meant more to him than they did to me anyway.
I went back over to Momma’s dressing table and opened the little drawer. I took one of the thumbtacks out and went back to Momma’s bed. Next I took out the envelope that had her picture in it. I took out the picture of her riding the sad, saggy pony.
I still couldn’t see what she was so unhappy about, the Miss B. Gotten Moon Park looked like somewhere you could have a lot of fun.
I poked the thumbtack into the top of Momma’s picture and walked to the wall that she’d stuck all the pictures of horses on. I put Momma right amongst all those ponies and horses she liked so much.
I didn’t need to carry that doggone picture around, this wasn’t how I remembered Momma anyway, Momma was always excited and jumpy, not sad and poky like this little girl. Momma was kind of old when I met her too, she wasn’t young like this picture at all.
The picture looked like it belonged. It’s strange the way things turn out, here I’d been carrying Momma around for all this time and I’d finally put her somewhere where she wanted to be, back in her own bedroom, back amongst all her horses.
I went back to the bed and picked the Flint rock up. It was going to be enough. I didn’t need those other things with me all of time. I didn’t need them to remind me of Momma, I couldn’t think about her any more if there were a hundred hours in every day and a thousand days in every week. I couldn’t think of my momma any better than I already do. All I have to do is remember her hand on my forehead when she’d ask me something like, “Baby, are you sick? Have you got a temperature?” All I have to do is remember Momma letting me dry the dishes after she’d wash them, how she used to say no one in the world could dry a plate the way I could. All I have to do is take two or three deep breaths and think of all the books she’d read to me at night, and remember that no matter how long it took she’d read until I went to sleep.
Deza Malone was right, I was carrying Momma inside me and there wasn’t anyone or anything that could take away from that or add to it either.
The one rock from Flint would be enough. I set it in my sax case.
I picked up my saxophone. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen!
I wet the reed the same way I’d seen Steady Eddie do, then clamped it on the mouthpiece. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. If after I got to ten I blew the horn and it sounded pretty good I knew I’d be playing along with the Dusky Devastators of the Depression in a week or two. If I didn’t sound so good it meant I’d have to practice for a couple of months before I’d be good enough to get onstage with them.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!
I puffed my cheeks and blew as hard as I could. The saxophone only squeaked, squawked and groaned, then sounded like it was making up words like ahwronk and roozahga and baloopa.
Shucks, maybe I didn’t puff my cheeks out right, maybe I was blowing too hard. I counted again.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!
This time the horn only squeaked, squawked and groaned, it didn’t sound like it was trying to make up any words. It sounded great! It wasn’t perfect, like when Steady blew it, but I could tell that one day it was going to be. Something told me I could learn how to play this. Something told me that those sounds were more than just bad notes.
If you didn’t have a real good imagination you’d probably think those noises were the sounds of some kid blowing a horn for the first time, but I knew better than that. I could tell those were the squeaks and squawks of one door closing and another one opening.
I looked at the picture of Momma that Miss Thomas gave me. Momma was looking right at me with that same soft smile. I know it’s stupid to smile back at a picture but I couldn’t help myself. I know it’s even stupider to talk to a picture, especially when it hadn’t said anything to start a conversation, but I had to say, “Here we go again, Momma, only this time I can’t wait!”
I closed my eyes and began practicing.
Shucks, as good as things were going for me now I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that Steady Eddie was going to get here early.
ALTHOUGH BUD, NOT BUDDY is fictional, many of the situations Bud encounters are based on events that occurred in the 1930s, during a time known as the Great Depression. And although the characters in Bud, Not Buddy are fictional as well, some of them too are based on real people. One of the most enjoyable parts of writing is that an author can combine his or her imagination with the traits of real people to build new characters. That is what I did to create the characters of Lefty Lewis and Herman B. Calloway, both of whom are based loosely on my grandfathers.
My mother’s father, Earl “Lefty” Lewis, was one of six or seven redcaps who worked at the train station in Grand Rapids, Michigan, during much of the depression. The jobs of Pullman porter and redcap were among the few open to African American men at that time and carried a certain prestige in the black community. Nonetheless, they were extremely difficult jobs, often marked by eighty-hour workweeks, low salary and virtually no job security. These men could be fired for simply not looking happy enough.
Grandpa Lewis did exceptionally well during the depression, supporting his family on the tips he received as a redcap. My mother remembers that my grandmother used to have to sew reinforced linings into the pockets of all Grandpa’s pants because the weight of the pennies, nickels, dimes and occasional quarters that he was given as tips would eventually rip the seams out. She also remembers the leathery texture Grandpa’s hands took on from carrying so much baggage at the station.
As the depression deepened, the Grand Rapids train station cut back to two redcaps, and Grandpa was let go. He briefly opened a small restaurant and finally became the first African American cabdriver in Grand Rapids, a job he held until his retirement in 1972 at seventy-four years old.
Earl “Lefty” Lewis also pitched for many years in the minors of the Negro Baseball Leagues. His fondest memory of that time was pitching twice against Satchel Paige. As he did with most opposing pitchers, Satch hung Grandpa with two losses.
My father’s father, Herman E. Curtis, was indeed a big bandleader for most of his adult life. He headed many different musical groups, my favorite being Herman E. Curtis and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression!!!!!!—a name that by itself deserves all six of those exclamation points! Grandpa attended the Indiana Conservatory of Music and was a classically trained violinist. He also played the bass fiddle, the accordion and the piano.
Entertainment was an important part of life during the depression, for people wanted to forget their troubles by going to the movies, sitting around the radio, and listening and dancing to live music. Grandpa and his bands were well known throughout Michigan during this time.
Being an orchestra leader was Grandpa Curtis’s night job. By day he wore many different hats, among them those of a chauffeur, boat captain, and truck painter. He owned several businesses in Grand Rapids and Wyoming, Michigan, at a time when laws prohibited African Americans from renting or holding title to land in these two cities. Grandpa did this by having a white friend put his name on all records.
The flexibility, people skills, hustle and willingness to work around unfair laws and situations that both of my grandfathers used allowed them to keep their families together during one of America’s bleakest periods, a time that was especially hard on African Americans. Both of these men were fortunate and skilled enough to avoid the brunt of the Great Depression.
The lives of Earl “Lefty” Lewis and Herman E. Curtis and the situations described in Bud, Not Buddy are the exception, for the great majority of people suffered horribly during the period between 1929 and 1941. Parents often could not feed their children, so countless thousands of young people, some as young as eight years old, were abandoned or had to set out on their own in search of a meal and a warm place to sleep. These children survived the brutal life on the road by riding the rails, picking fruit, doing odd jobs, begging, stealing or whate
ver was necessary to get food.
Much of what I discovered about the depression I learned through research in books, which is a shame—I didn’t take advantage of the family history that surrounded me for many years. I’m afraid that when I was younger and my grandparents and parents would start to talk about their lives during the depression, my eyes would glaze over and I’d think, “Oh, no, not those boring tail tales again!” and I’d find the most convenient excuse I could to get away from them. Now I feel a real sorrow when I think of all the knowledge, wisdom and stories that have been forever lost with the deaths of my grandparents.
Be smarter than I was: Go talk to Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad and other relatives and friends. Discover and remember what they have to say about what they learned growing up. By keeping their stories alive you make them, and yourself, immortal.
Herman E. Curtis and the Dusky Devastators of the Depression!!!!!! Herman is at left, with the bow.
Earl “Lefty” Lewis, pitcher for the Grand Rapids, Michigan, Elsterites, taken May 30, 1918
CHRISTOPHER PAUL CURTIS IS the author of The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963, one of the most highly acclaimed first novels for young readers in recent years. It was singled out for many awards, among them a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Honor, and has been a bestseller in hardcover and paperback.
Christopher Paul Curtis grew up in Flint, Michigan. After high school he began working on the assembly line at the Fisher Body Flint Plant No. 1 while attending the Flint branch of the University of Michigan. He is now a full-time writer. He and his wife, Kay, have two children, Steven and Cydney. The Curtis family lives in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.
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