A Love Story
While the sixties are often remembered as the onset of the Free Love era, this was not wildly apparent to many of its citizens. One of them, Rangeroo Lieuen Adkins, suffered from a severe paucity of the stuff and, despite his best efforts, he was getting nowhere fast. Then, as always seems to happen in these cases, relief appeared on the horizon, this time in the form of an Austin high-school senior named Tami Dean. Now, Tami presented a false version of herself, one that would correctly manifest over time but was not accurate at age 17. A chain smoker with an attitude and a hip wardrobe, she posed as the wild and wooly girl, loaded for bear, ready for action, up for what-have-you. In bed, she was a little more reticent, biding her time.
Lieuen and Tami met at a party and hit it off right away. Adkins was an English major, Tami the daughter of a bigshot in the English Department who was one of Lieuen’s professors. Tami had a great sense of humor and appreciated Lieuen’s quick wit and composition talents. Moreover, he enjoyed great status among his peers—on the order of NORM! at Cheers—and Tami was now welcomed in an expansive community to which she aspired to belong. This was hot stuff for a high-school kid. All this being the case, Tami decided Lieuen would be her first man. We’re not certain how many female consorts Lieuen had experienced but we’re pretty sure Tami was high on the list, chronologically. At first glance, this had all the makings of a sweet encounter. As Gilbert Shelton was quick to point out, however, matters involving Lieuen were never that simple. “There’s always great potential for disaster,” he warned. Oh, pish-tosh, Gilbert, you old scold. Everything will be fine.
Well.
Not necessarily. The trysters chose a night when Tami’s father would be out of town to meet at her place (remember: Lieuen still lived at home). Alas and alack, true to Shelton’s prognostication, Dad came back early and caught them just the other side of flagrante delicto. Lieuen fled in reckless abandon but Tami was cowed into naming her desecrator. Adkins, fornicator with an underage child, was deep in the soup now. Lieuen, terrified, wandered the town looking for solace, for someone who would offer a kind, reassuring word. He foolishly wandered over to Gilbert’s place.
“Adkins,” Shelton opined, “You’re doomed. You should leave town immediately and never come back. There are little towns in Mexico where you can make a new life for yourself.” Only itinerant autoharpist Janis Joplin offered hope. “Well, he can’t just kill you, right?” Lieuen wasn’t so sure. Even less so the next day when he got a phone call from Dad.
“Jesus Christ, he wants to SEE me! He wants me to come to his HOUSE and TALK to him!”
“Well, at least you know your way around the place,” I said, helpfully. “Very funny,” said Lieuen.
Lieuen decided he had no choice, he had to go. He enlisted Janis and I to take him to the proceedings. He had his own car but he was too nervous to drive and needed moral support. Also, if he was going to be murdered, he wanted someone to point out his assassin to the police. We dropped him off, sport-coated, newly coiffed and smelling sweet, with instructions to return in two hours.
It was a long wait, but we had fun with Lieuen’s fine automobile, a luxury unknown to the likes of us. “Maybe Dad will off him and we’ll get to keep the car,” I might have mentioned. “You sound like Shelton,” Janis groused. The night of the Inquisition wore on.
Then, there he was! Alive, smiling ear-to-ear, bouncing jauntily down the street past the Dean estate. “He just wanted to talk,” Lieuen said. “He wanted me to be impressed with his great majesty and professional standing. And I was….I was the most bedazzled sumbitch you ever saw!”
“But….”
“But he casually mentioned that if I ever again came within five hundred yards of his daughter, he would obliterate my academic career and never let me work in this town again. Oh yeah, and grind up my gonads with a power tool.”
“And you said….”
“Yessiree, Pop—she’s not the only pebble on the beach.”
In Austin, love often died hard. In Lieuen’s case—as usual—maybe we could make a slight exception.
A Remembrance From Austinite Harry Edwards
During the spring semester of 1962, I lived at an establishment called the Christian Faith and Life Community, which was sort of an experiment in Christian Existentialism, whatever that was. I was 19 and didn’t want to go home for the summer, so the Stopher brothers, Wally and Tommy, invited me to move in with them. They lived in an old WWII four-apartment barracks at 2812 1/2 Nueces Street, on an alley between Nueces and Rio Grande.
What a summer! It ended with marriage to my pregnant girlfriend. Meanwhile, Janis Joplin had just hit town and spent time with us. A folk trio was formed with Janis playing autoharp and singing, with Lanny Wiggins on guitar, banjo and vocals, and Powell St. John on harmonica and vocals. It was a huge musical education for all of us. I also had my first peyote journey with a fellow Ghettoite. It’s not an exaggeration to say that it changed my life.
One day, Janis and I were sitting in the UT Chuckwagon, talking about the scene, and Janis said “You know what, man? We live in a fucking GHETTO!” And it was “The Ghetto” from then on.
In The Ghetto
One day, very early in the morning, Janis and I were awakened by a loud noise in The House By The Side Of The Road. Two middle-aged men came into view, talking as if there were no naked people lying on a mattress in their midst. They were discussing Real Estate, mainly that which we were living in. It was Win Pratt’s father come home to tend to his rentals. “I guess this means we’ll be leaving soon,” I told Janis, not realizing “soon” meant “within the hour.” Janis moved in with friends and I moved onto someone’s back porch out near the Ghetto. The rent was right, $5 a month with a mattress on the floor. And the porch was covered with sheets of black plastic, the better to keep out November’s brisk winds and dipping temperatures. I hate to seem the whiny complainer but to call this place cold was to call Rush Limbaugh a saintly old elf. First thing I did when I got up each morning was to light a match and thaw out my frozen nasal hairs, then the pulsing ear lobes. After that, if was off to Wally Stopher’s apartment in The Ghetto to warm up. One of my few visitors during my short stay was new Austin arrival Pepi Plowman, who was no sissy. “Bill,” she said, emphatically, “This dump is colder than the friggen Bering Sea. You can’t live here any more.” Next day, I moved into Wally’s place at double the rent (which I can’t recall paying) but half the pain.
Wally was an interesting guy, into music, liked to write, always smiling, great sense of humor. He was a fragile-looking fellow, narrow at the shoulder, longish nose, very thin with large black-plastic-framed glasses. When Gilbert Shelton needed a model for Wonder Wart-Hog’s adversary, The Masked Meanie, he used Wally. And later, when another odd character named Oat Willie needed a secret identity, Wally again got the job.
There were several of us there and the cast of characters seemed to alternate daily. Aside from Wally, I recall Tary Owens, Kit Teele and others obscure who were around all the time but I can’t guarantee any of them lived there. Wally had the only bed, a giant ship looming high over the sea of mattresses on the floor occupied by the rest of us. It wasn’t Camelot, but it wasn’t bad even with the generous aroma of cat piss wafting through the corridors. Every so often, Wally would leave for a night or two and the next Royal in line (never me) would inherit the King’s Bed. Truth be told, the latter posed some difficulties for the inheritors. Those of us on the floor could be reasonably quiet with our women whereas the King’s Bed was given to energetic fits and starts, quite a noisy little thing, and sometimes a cause of tittering embarrassment to the occupants.
Powell St. John, one of the Waller Creek Boys, lived downstairs, so there was always music. Often, in the early evenings of temperate days, pickers and their audiences sat around lit smudge pots, banging out songs. Surveying the scene one evening, I remembered a recent Time magazine photo of Beatniks At Play. Those crazy Beatniks looked just like us.
Wally Stopher As Oat Willie
The Court Jester
How to describe John Clay? Well, John was an average-looking fellow, maybe six feet tall, light-colored hair cut as close as possible to his head, almost never seen without a well-used banjo strapped across his chest. John’s attire was predictable: he always wore jeans and a t-shirt which read “Property of Stamford High,” celebrating his previous Texas address. I’m not sure whether he had seven Stamford shirts or one but if it was the latter, he kept it in fairly pristine condition, undoubtedly owing to many late nights at the laundry. John possessed a riveting gaze and a crooked smile, which gave the uninitiated the incorrect impression the young fellow might be a little slow on the uptake, an impression John, himself, sought to foster. To the contrary, John Clay didn’t miss a trick, a fact you would be reminded of every so often when you thought you might be getting away with something and he surprised you with a grinning reminder.
John was a writer of songs, clever songs, tales about disasters and unfortunate occurrences his odd specialty, delivered in a monotone voice, accompanying himself on the banjo. His signature number was Road To Mingus, the sad tale of a group of reckless youngsters off for a night of fun and damned by youthful foolishness and bravado. You see stories like this in the newspapers all the time, but rarely are they celebrated in song, nights of raucous drinking followed by the inevitable wreck on the highway. John put his own slant on things, sympathizing with the poor unfortunates and painting a different picture.
Their trip to the beer mills of small-town Mingus concluded, the kids headed back for hometown Strawn, only to meet: ….a little old lady, just goin’ out for a ride. The little old lady said “Let us drag if you’re on your way to Strawn. I ain’t had nobody to race me….and it’s just two hours before dawn.”
Well, they gave her a half-mile head-start (because she was a lady). She reached the railroad tracks up ahead; they got there, and so did the Katy. The car tore apart like a shot-up tin can, it landed upside-down. The car kept part of their bodies; the rest landed up on the ground.
The story, of course, had a moral because John Clay was big on morals, and the moral to him was quite plain: A decent person ain’t got no chance against a reckless, speedin’ train!
In his Anson Runaway, John fabricated one of my favorite musical lines ever. A young man from Anson went running around; he came over to Stamford, which was my home town. Just thirteen years old, his parents were dead; he was raised by his uncle and Aunt, so they said….and then, the killer, the line to die for when describing the petty crimes of the youngster and his friends:
In Anson, he ran with a wild crown of boys; they started shoplifting the dime store toys.
As they got bigger, they took bigger things, becoming (are you ready?) a juvenile criminal ring.
Of course, if you limit yourself to cataclysmic disasters, you limit your material. If you were merely unfortunate, you might still catch John’s interest, as in the case of Austin merchant Faulkner, who was caught in the act of scalping vast numbers of Longhorn tickets at great profit. John had no love for Faulkner, who offered to cash student checks at usurious rates:
There was a man named Faulkner, he was the students’ friend; once he sold football tickets, but he won’t do that again.
John never missed a party, nor the opportunity to lead his begging flock in song. He was an Austin institution, remains so today, a Texas Original who knows no equal at his trade. Another reason there’ll always be an Austin 1962 in the minds of the lucky few, those who were there for the Eternal Party. Salud!
John Clay Performs The Mingus Shuffle For Olga And Tommy Stopfer, et al
The Bar By The Side Of The Road
In 1962, Threadgill’s, on the northern outskirts of Austin, looked hardly a threat to become a Texas landmark. Originally, a Gulf filling station opened by ex-bootlegger Kenneth Threadgill in 1933, the place still looked like one, though now offering beer, cheese and country music instead of petrol. By the early sixties, the bar had evolved into a hangout for travelling musicians interested in grabbing a drink after their gigs. Inevitably, this led to sporadic musical jam sessions and a few locals began showing up to check out the action. Threadgill’s became a favorite with a small group of UT faculty members who got their secret kicks pickin’ and grinnin’, and the word got around. If you showed up on the right night, you might even be treated to the musical ministrations of old Ken Threadgill, himself, not only a fine country singer but a yodeler extraordinaire. Janis heard about the place and visited one night. She loved it and she especially loved Kenneth Threadgill, a big bearish grandfatherly man with an obvious love for music. The second time she visited, Janis was offered a stage….not a big stage, mind you, just a few square feet in a corner of the bar, but big enough. Despite her experience with the Folksing audiences, she was very nervous. Mr. Threadgill, not knowing what to expect from this little girl, put his arm around her and told her she was among friends. Then, he stood back and let her go. Playing to a sympathetic crowd, Janis quickly got her bearings and delivered a couple of numbers she knew they’d respond to. Kenneth Threadgill, shocked by her performance and suddenly realizing his good fortune, joined in on a couple of songs, yodeling away. This was the True Beginning for Janis Joplin and for Threadgill’s. The former experienced a meteoric career, ascending to the firmament before her sudden demise; the latter is still there, supposedly enhanced and improved, a reminder every time we pass by of the Days That Were in the Summer Of Our Great Content, 1962.
Ghetto Hijinks
Life in The Ghetto was….well….not boring. A vast array of passengers rode through, paying their fares, enjoying the ride. The terminal was always full, some coming, others going. One day, a short, stout lady named Julie Paul pulled up in her shiny red TR3, which she prized above all else. Quickly getting the lay of the land, she realized that country music was exalted here so she quickly up and wrote her own country ballad. There’s an empty pillow on my bed, it went, where your head used to be. I filled it full of tears the night that you walked out on me. How about that for a beginner?
Julie ingratiated herself with everyone, but she particularly liked Janis. Julie was gay, not that this was a disqualifier since Janis considered all offers, but it was different and Janis didn’t like to be pushed. One night, the two of them rolled down the stairs in a brawling, yelling heap, freaking the bejezus out of poor John Clay, who might have been charmed by disasters but was decidedly terrified of female fisticuffs.
“There must be a song in there somewhere, John,” I told him. He waved his palm in resistance. “No….no, I don’t think so! I don’t want either one of those people comin’ after ME!”
One night, a lovely girl named Louise showed up unescorted. Curiously, nobody paid much attention to her, so I did. I noticed a couple of odd smiles around the periphery of the room but paid them no mind. I arranged to see Louise for a movie next night. When I told Wally about it, he merely nodded his head, apparently the possessor of some esoteric knowledge he was unwilling to provide. “I don’t get it,” I told him, perplexed. “She’s smart, she’s beautiful….” Wally only nodded, sadly. “Yes,” he finally said, “Louise is a wonderful girl.” I shrugged my shoulders and moved on
Next night, Louise and I went to the movie. On the way, she asked me a lot of questions. On the way back, she asked me a lot more. Then, she told me about herself, her roots, her family, her church, the history of Texas, reasons for the Third Punic War, what it means to be born on the cusp of Scorpio and the answer to the perplexing riddle, Where Do Traffic Jams Really Come From? Louise, in fact, did not stop talking all night. If you had been briefly considering having sex with this woman, as I was, this onset of verbiage struck you in a similar manner as would a fully-functioning fire-hose in Anchorage. The whole prospect became laughable. When I returned to Wally’s apartment, all my friends were waiting with bated breath. I walked inside, looked at them with a sneer and the place exploded with laughter, “Thanks a lot,” I muttered, appreciatively. “Hey,” comforted Wally, “that’s what friends are FOR!”
Not long after, I became horribly ill, just about incapacitated, weak and fluish. It lasted for days and prevented my participation in the UT Student Publications Banquet, at which I was scheduled to hit Loyd Edmonds with a pie. That I was on the Injured Reserved List for this outstanding opportunity remains one of the greatest regrets of my long life. Especially since my inept substitute went and missed Loyd completely, wasting a perfectly good pastry. During this period of convalescence, I must report that my constant comforter was the aforespoke Louise, sympathetic, attentive to a fault and even quieter in demeanor. Wherever you are today, Louise, I haven’t forgotten and God bless.
The Jewel In The Crown
One enchanted evening at Threadgill’s, the crowd was especially large and loud. Janis was kickin’ ass and taking names on her tiny stage, the crowd a sea of singalongers. Then, in the door and across the room came a vision, a beauty with a great mane of blonde hair, accompanied by a fumbling stranger. In all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. And sits down on the only available stool, the one next to me. Fate. Who can argue? Cued by whatever gods had arranged this scenario, her escort promptly dropped his glass to the floor, shards sprinkling everywhere, harmlessly on me. She apologized, as if to blame, and introduced herself. She was Marilyn Todd, previous resident of Valhalla and….oh, also a friend of Pat Brown.
Pat, who did a little work for the Ranger and was seeing Shelton at the time, brought Marilyn to the magazine office a couple days later. I walked her home, a very long walk, and thus began a great adventure. Beyond all reason, Julie Paul lent me her pretty vehicle for our first date and I forced myself to endure a longer-than-usual cold-water shower (we had no hot) for the occasion. A short time later, we consummated our relationship in Jack Jackson’s apartment even though Jaxon kept banging on the door and asking us to “hurry up,” an exceedingly ungentlemanly behavior, as I’m sure you’ll agree.
On December 26, 1962, at 4:30 a.m., Marilyn slipped out of the bedroom window of her parents’ house and across the yard to my waiting vehicle. We were off to somehow, some way, start a magazine of our own in sunny Florida. Our experiences were as rich as we were poor and we eventually succeeded, all of this chronicled in The Girls Of Summer, published here on January 31, 2013 and available by simple scrolling. That we spent a mere few years together can be ascribed to our being young and foolish….she was young and I was foolish. The result being, Marilyn returned to her beloved Austin and lived happily ever after. I was left to merely dream about the place….and to remember.
Epilogue
1962.
The time was long ago and far away, but it lingers yet, still tantalizing, in the minds of those who were there, content in the knowledge they spent their adolescence as well as it might be spent, in a place and an era impossible to duplicate. An outsider might argue that adolescence is a thrilling rite of passage wherever spent, a time of daily education, of brilliant new experiences, the first this, the initial that, and they are no doubt correct. But they don’t know what we know, which is that there never has been nor ever will be a place and a time like Austin 1962.
We are diminished now by the physical loss of many of the lovers and friends we met there, human gems with whom we shared experiences and from whom we learned lessons, but they will never be lost to us, really. They waft in often on the gentle zephyrs of memory, making us laugh, making us cry, carrying us back to that unforgettable paradise that will never die. Close your eyes and you can see them now—Lieuen Adkins with his trademark grin, cracking puns, brightening the room, a brown beer bottle firmly anchored in his grip; Tony Bell, an ox of a fellow, a strong and loyal ally, artistic, clever, ready to take on dangerous adventures; Joe E. Brown, madder than Lewis Carroll’s Hatter, an everpresent twinkle in his eye, lost causes to pursue.
They are all still here. See—there’s Pat Brown, a sweet Catholic girl gone wrong, swept up in the Austin Vortex, offering a hand and an open heart to anyone in need; there’s Tami Dean, tough guy, ready to take a whirl on whatever rollercoaster you might offer, and there, too, is my own private Marilyn, wise beyond her years, too kind to fools, beyond beautiful. There’s Win Pratt, still unwilling to trade Texas for Princeton and—over there—that’s Tary Owen, always available for a kind word or a pat on the back. And out on the porch, of course, autoharp in hand, The Folksinger, who never realized the lyrics of a song written by colleague John Clay might also serve to describe her. “She was takin’ the curves about ninety. And she didn’t always stay on her side. Then, she met a little old lady, just goin’ out for a ride.” The little old lady turned out to be a needleful of poison which struck her down in her prime but locked her forever at a vibrant 27. Yes, they are available to us now as they were then, we can almost see them as they navigate the cosmos, sweeping in and out of our consciousness but never leaving, never really leaving.
Soar, you gentle creatures, explore your universe, always careful to keep an eye out. The hour is darking here and we will need a place to go. If you spy a hilly spot, green, dotted with lakes, remember it for us, especially if a river runs through it. Fly, my friends, and prepare. We grow older now, the clouds gather, the wind is harsher on our faces. The night begins to fall but we fear not. We’ll see you in the morning.
