The Blues Walked In

One afternoon late last week a gentleman walked into the bookstore carrying a satchel, a suit bag and a guitar case.  He introduced himself as L.C. Ulmer, age 79, just in from Ellisville, Mississippi.  He was a bluesman on his way to perform at the weekend's Chicago Blues Festival, and he wondered if he might hang out in the store until the train pulled into town. 

We invited him to stow his bags and take a load off, but he preferred to stand.  He'd sat all the way to Greenwood and would probably sit all the way to Chicago.  He didn't sleep much, he said.  Sometimes only an hour or two all night.  He appeared neither tired nor fatigued. 

Mr. Ulmer retrieved a CD from his satchel.  We played it over the sound system, and it sounded good, an upbeat, shuffling blues with some unique guitar playing.  A smile crept over Ulmer's face and he gave a sly, sideways glance.  "That's me," he said, and there was no mistaking the voice.  It was a live performance of a concert he'd performed last year in Parma, Italy.  He described the scene, an outdoor stage and thousands of Italians cheering him on.  "They didn't stop dancing the whole time," he said.

We stepped out in front of the store so Mr. Ulmer could watch the mid-afternoon bustle on Howard Street.  He seemed surprised to find such life in this Delta town.  "I can't believe I never been here," he said.

He was born in Stringer, a community near Laurel in south Mississippi.  He'd grown up helping his father farm.  He explained the old way of planting by the phases of the moon, how it affects the underground water table and the movement of water through plants.  The body changes too in the turning lunar phases, he said, and described a time when folks were more in tune with the earth.

He reminisced about life in Stringer.  At the age of nine he learned to play guitar from his father, who sold bootleg liquor to Jimmie Rodgers, the Singing Brakeman of Meridian.  Growing up, he worked the railroad some and played juke joints and spent many years criss-crossing the country, living in Hollywood for a stretch, where he played on the streets and drew crowds with his swinging sound and one-man-band shenanigans, and then he spent a good many more years in upstate Illinois, where he ran a garage and drove a tow truck and played the clubs with all the hot performers who made the blues a national pastime in that age.  He recalled the years fondly and lucidly, sharing some of the lessons and observations he'd picked up along the way.

After some prompting, he pulled the guitar from his case and strummed a few bars of this, then a few of that with a sweet, steady hand.  The tunes were none we'd ever heard.  "I play my own songs," he said proudly before nestling the instrument back into its case. 

The train was still an hour from station, so we suggested a hearty meal to fill him up for the long ride.  "I don't eat meat," was his only caveat.  The incident that precluded his vegetarianism involved an overdose of homemade sausage, he said, describing an almost psychedelic over-indulgence of pork that involved the earth turning under and nearly swallowing him.  With this in mind, we proceeded to Hoover's Country Kitchen on Main Street, just a couple of blocks from the train station.  Mrs. Mary sat us down and started a procession of plates and bowls teeming with turnip greens, corn, black-eyed peas, potatoes, meatloaf, spaghetti, cornbread and bread pudding.  Mr. Ulmer's eyes grew wide.   "I can't believe I aint never been to this town," he reiterated, sidestepping the meatloaf and ice tea.  "I only drink water, and only after I eat," he said, then went on to explain the gastrointestinal science involved in mixing food and water. 

We tried our best to clean every dish.  "This woman knows she can cook!" Mr. Ulmer cried.  He tried to get his bearings, as if making plans to return, then serenaded Mrs. Mary and her daughter before hugs and thanks and goodbyes.

We made it to the station in plenty of time.  Folks stood around alone or in groups, clutching bags and children.  Mr. Hoover once told us that Robert Johnson and Honeyboy Edwards would hide in the weeds just outside the station here and jump the boxcars for a free ride to Chicago.  They played all up and down the line.  Today Greenwood is one of the few passenger stops left.  It's good to know the life of the rambling bluesman is still alive. 

Finally, we said farewell to the man whose blues were sage.  He thanked us for our hospitality, and we thanked him for his visit and his music.  He pulled a card from his bag.  It said "Traveling Blues Band" and had his phone number printed on it.  "Take that CD down to that lady and play it for her," he said, "then call me and let me know what she says." 

The train came along right before nightfall, and Mr. Ulmer climbed aboard like a proper traveler.

Comments

[Alicia Pernell]

That is wicked awesome.

[Mary]

Lovely vignette of Ulmer.