Chapters of a Life

Copyright © 2015 by John Nieman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015918140

ISBN:                Hardcover       978-1-5144-2249-6

                        Softcover       978-1-5144-2248-9

                         eBook            978-1-5144-2247-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/30/2015

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. I have done my best to honor historical time lines and events. However, it is not a history textbook. Some names you may recognize—Yogi Berra, Herbert Hoover, JFK, Michael Jackson, Ronald Reagan, Barrack Obama. Most importantly, the meetings, interviews, and dialogues between characters in this book are completely fictitious. I wasn’t there. However, I hope that you, the reader, will feel as if you are there.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 1926: Jazz and Chaz

Chapter 2 1929: No Blue Skies

Chapter 3 1935: It Ain’t Over …

Chapter 4 1941: The First Time

Chapter 5 The Early 1940: Drumroll

Chapter 6 1944: Over There

Chapter 7 1945: Congratulations!

Chapter 8 1947: Fresh Start

Chapter 9 1949: 3x5 cards

Chapter 10 1949: The Windy City Launchpad

Chapter 11 1952: It’s a Toddlin’ Town

Chapter 12 1953: Lew

Chapter 13 1956: Getting Beaten by the News

Chapter 14 1958: One on One

Chapter 15 1958: 5-4-3-2 …

Chapter 16 1963: Camelot Crushed

Chapter 17 1970: God Only Knows

Chapter 18 1974: The Leap

Chapter 19 1978: Balls in the Air

Chapter 20 1980: Rebirth

Chapter 21 1982: A Marriage in the Family

Chapter 22 1985: Check Your Egos at the Door

Chapter 23 1989: Pandora’s Box

Chapter 24 1995: It Was a Very Good Year

Chapter 25 2001: There’s a Fire in the Sky

Chapter 26 2008: Hope

Chapter 27 2015: The End

Acknowledgments

Other books by John Nieman

For Geraldine, who has lived through each of these eras.

Preface

For the longest time, I have loved to tell stories. In my earlier days, I enjoyed long forms, and would write intricate novels that involved plot twists and red herrings that would later be unraveled hundreds of pages later. Such good fun!

However, after three of these epic and often humorous tales, I discovered a different format: the short story. Perhaps because I myself have a rather short attention span, I have found this to be a very pleasing format. For the writer, it simplifies all those 3x5 cards on the wall to indicate what has been told, and what seeds of information need to be later revealed. For the reader, it provides bite-sized information and assures one that if you don’t like this particular tale, just proceed to the next one—which might be funnier or more poignant (depending on your preferences).

This book is a bit different from the previous short-story collections I have published.

It is about one man’s life, from 1926 until yesterday. Along the way, we get to know the highs and lows, the career changes, disappointments, triumphs, loves, and passions of Charles Chaz Conner’s life. Sometimes, I jump eight years. Sometimes, only one or two. Some chapters are lighthearted. Some are heartbreaking. Just like life.

I have written it sequentially. However, there is no need to read it that way. You actually can start at chapter 8. Jump to chapter 22. Turn the pages back and discover chapter 4. After all, they are short stories—with beginnings, middles, and ends. Think of them as episodes. Chances are, if you’ve been on this planet more than a few years, you’ve had a few of them yourself. In this case, Chaz had twenty-four of them. Enjoy.

Chapter 1

1926: Jazz and Chaz

As eighty-nine-year-old Charles Conner often told his grandson, The year 1926 was as good a time as any to be born in America. Lots of great music. Dance. Baseball. No wars at the time. Everyone feeling they were in the same boat. Streetcars. The dawn of automobiles. Ragtime!

Of course, he always left out some of the darker days of the era. Over the decades, he conveniently pushed those bad memories out of his mind. They were too distant, too unrelatable by today’s standards—and ultimately, too painful.

And yet the events of his early years were every bit the shaping influences as being injured in World War II, witnessing Kennedy’s assassination, burying a son from Vietnam, and every other critical event that Charles Conner experienced during his lifetime.

* * * * *

Since Lucy and Jack Conner had been married in 1923, they tried, rather unsuccessfully, to add a bundle of joy (as Lucy liked to describe the birth of a firstborn). At least part of their difficulty was schedule. Lucy was a dance instructor who worked thirty hours a week in a speakeasy on Boyle Street. The place was just one of a dozen illegal booze dance clubs ignored by the police. Here, the off-duty cops could get a free glass of Budweiser, and the Charleston could be enjoyed every night.

While Lucy danced, Jack sang. In fact, he was a rather well-known voice in the Midwest and, a few years later, in all of America. In their early courtship days, he was on the bandstand of McCann’s Social Club. Like everyone in the speakeasy, he had noticed the stunning young brunette named Lucy, who was leading a few paying customers in the rudimentary steps of the latest dance craze.

This song is dedicated to the beautiful brunette who is helping all of our customers interpret the beat through their feet. He held up a glass of beer and toasted the woman. She, in turn, performed a most artistic pirouette, followed by a curtsy. He smiled and felt a flurry of warmth he had never quite experienced in his fast lifestyle. It only took a few weeks for the twosome to become an item. It started with a few quiet dinners, followed by that Charlie Chaplin hit called The Kid at the Fabulous Fox Theatre. Bear in mind, this was before talkies. As was the limited technology of the early 1920s, there was organ music and silent titles in the grand movie theaters. More germane to their relationship, there was an evening of talk, talk, talk, between Jack and Lucy late into the evening. Both could feel themselves attracted to each other.

Probably the culmination of their brief courtship was the baseball game at Sportsman’s Park, where—to Jack Conner’s amazement—Lucy understood all the rules of the game, and even know the stats of the St. Louis Browns pitcher George Sisler, Baby Doll Jacobson, and that dreaded visiting Yankee home-run hitter, Babe Ruth.

How do you know this stuff so well? an impressed Mr. Conner asked as he munched his peanuts and Cracker Jacks.

A family of boys—Lucy winked—and tomboys! She then proceeded to reach into the Cracker Jack box and dig for the surprise premium. It was a bright blue plastic ring.

Impulsively, Jack placed it on her finger. Within three months, they were pronounced man and wife at Holy Rosary Church in North St. Louis, and they embarked on the major watershed moment of most individuals’ lives—the combination of sharing, sacrifice, twists, turns, and unforeseen events that mark a marriage.

By far, the biggest twist of their union was an entreaty from a Mr. Carl Grunstein, who ran the fabled Goldenrod Showboat. Through the showbiz grapevine, he had heard of Jack Conner, and actually visited the McCann speakeasy on Boyle Street. Impressed with the man’s vocal range and style, he began to communicate with him about performing on a bigger stage.

In Jack Conner’s mind, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.

You want to go on the road three weeks out of every month! Lucy protested upon hearing the proposal.

It’s twice what I make now, Jack answered. With some sympathy, it was easy to fall into this economic promise. The 1920s had all the earmarks of the growing 1950s and the financially exploding 1990s. As with those other decades, it was a bubble—but an irresistibly expanding bubble. If you were lucky enough to be on that wave, it was a wild crest one definitely wanted to ride.

To deny the opportunity would be stupid, his friends advised him. To walk away from such a payday would be insane.

More compelling to Jack Conner was the rare chance to make some impact on the exponentially expanding music world. He had heard rave reviews about a singer named Rudy Valley. A guy named Duke Ellington had begun to make headway in the jazz era. And there was this barely known phenomenon named Al Jolson.

Over the past several years, Jack had heard the favorable comparisons with all these talents. However, as a locally based speakeasy singer, he had little chance to compete for fame. As he approached the age of thirty, he began to feel some pressure to make his mark in this world and provide a safety net.

If we get so lucky as to have a baby, this could provide a financial cushion, the husband countered. Also, it could offer you the opportunity to raise our kid—God willing—with some opportunities.

There was a long period of silence for this normally talkative couple. She sipped on her Coke. He took a gulp of his beer. For the first time in their marriage, the loquacious twosome endured several minutes of uncomfortable silence. In this stare-off, Lucy considered their relative talents. My god, this woman could dance! But in her heart, it was a faint contrast to the ability to achieve nationwide fame as a jazz singer. Besides that, it was becoming increasingly difficult to be the two stars of the St. Louis speakeasy. Perhaps it was best for all concerned if they had slightly altered orbits.

With mixed emotions, she not only agreed, but encouraged her husband to become world famous.

Consequently, Jack Conner became the lead jazz singer who plied the Mississippi River from St. Louis to New Orleans for two-week entertainment gigs—two weeks on, three days off; two weeks on, three days off.

At the time, this was the entertainment equivalent of today’s Las Vegas. All the big entertainers vied for plum assignments. Louis Armstrong was the head trumpeter, Earl Fatha Hines was on the piano, and Jack Conner did the vocals. He was always an anomaly—a white guy in a predominately black band who only sang (albeit, amazingly). He couldn’t play the sax or the clarinet or any other wind instrument for that matter. In fact, his only instrument was his voice—but what a voice it was!

The St. Louis Globe Democrat called Jack Conner the greatest ambassador of sound from our home town. The Memphis Daily News dubbed him the warbler on the Mississippi. The New Orleans Times-Picayune advised citizens to Come on along. Come on along … and hear Jack Conner’s ragtime band.

It was never really Jack Conner’s ragtime band. However, he did seem to be the centerpiece of the performance and garnered many rave reviews. Like Duke Ellington, he sang all the hits of the time—but in his own style, and his own interpretation.

Not surprisingly, this flirt with fame kept him out of Lucy’s bed most nights. Even so, it was never a marriage of convenience. There was love.

However, there was an inevitable sense of separation and a psychological drive for what is, today, called self-concept. Not surprisingly, Jack felt egotistically puffed about the accolades he enjoyed in every port along the Mississippi. By contrast, the now widely attended Charleston lessons at McCann’s speakeasy seemed lonelier than ever. In addition, most of the band members and service staff at McCann’s knew that her husband, Jack, had abandoned the place at the height of his vocal powers. To be honest, it was a difficult time to be two independent married individuals on the outskirts of national Prohibition laws.

This weekend was one of those rare three-day stints when the twosome could enjoy life out of the limelight. Jack disembarked from the showboat on the levee of the Mississippi and took a cab to visit his wife on Taylor Avenue in North St. Louis. As was often the case, Lucy greeted him with a kiss-on-the-lips embrace and quickly squired him up the bedroom above the porch.

As always, it was wonderful. Bear in mind, this description is in no way lascivious or suggestive of today’s sexual practices. There were no handcuffs. No ropes to bind hands. No threesomes. No cameras with Internet pictures sent across the planet. Nothing like that. Just a very private, loving embrace that ended with pleasure for both parties.

Well, wait a minute. Not so fast with ended!

Three months later, Lucy discovered that there might in fact be an eventual bundle of joy. At four months beyond missing her period, she quit giving the energetic Charleston lessons at McCann’s Social Club. At five months, she lovingly informed Jack that she was pregnant. At eight months, he embarked on his next three-week musical tour along the mighty Mississippi.

Within two weeks, Lucy Conner bore an eight-pound, three-ounce baby boy at St. Mary’s Hospital on Union Avenue.

At the time of the baby’s birth, Jack Conner was singing Rock-a-bye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody in Memphis. It garnered a standing ovation. While he was bowing, Lucy was in the latest stages of labor and experiencing the extreme pain and ecstasy of bringing a baby into this world.

Without consultation from Jack Conner, she named the boy Charles Parker Conner. Partly, she liked the music of Charlie Parker. Partly, she liked the fact that she was a fan of the Charleston, and she imbued the root of that name into her son. Partly, she liked the fact that her husband was a jazz singer, and she might be able to call her son Chaz, in honor of the dad’s contribution to music on this earth.

By the time Jack Conner returned to their St. Louis home for three days and hugged his son for a full thirty-five minutes before complaining that he was exhausted by his river trips to bring ragtime to America, he was also apologetic that he could not be there for the birth. But in truth, that was not a common practice in those days. Most women bore their children alone in the delivery room, with no husband in sight. According to the times, it was a woman’s responsibility. Lucy had already assumed that she would end up being the primary provider for this most wonderful bundle of joy.

* * *

He was baptized on June 18, 1926, in St. Louis, Missouri, at Holy Rosary Church. His name: Charles Parker Conner.

Chapter 2

1929: No Blue Skies

On Black Friday, life changed for a hundred million Americans. More to the point of this particular story, it irrevocably changed for a three-year-old named Charles Parker Conner.

There would no longer be fresh raspberries every morning with his cereal. There would no longer be a nightly nurse/babysitter for his mother’s job as a dance instructor. There would no longer be a life of optimistic financial ambition for his father.

It was an awful, cataclysmic crash that hit all economic and social levels of American society.

Even with the fresh memory of the 2008 depression, it’s difficult to imagine the devastation of the days following October 29, 1929. Within three days, more than 50 percent of all banks closed. The financial loss was more than ten times greater than the annual federal budget. The jobless rate plunged to 25 percent (with another 25 percent working at lower wages or part time). An estimated 50 percent of all kids in America did not have adequate food.

Charles Conner was one of those kids. For months, his mother heated water and Cream of Wheat to feed him on a once-a-day diet. It was relatively cheap, but not particularly nutritious. On the other hand, his mom had even less nourishment during these hard days. Normally, she would spoon young Charles’s leftovers, along with a slice of white bread that was rationed daily.

Her husband, Jack, immediately recognized the dire reality of the situation. No, he did not have money in the stock market. But he was keenly aware of the fact that his job prospects were suddenly bleak. Like most people in the music field, there was no easy fallback position, no collateral skills, and no lateral opportunities. Consequently, the jazz class was immediately conjoined with street beggars. As a way to stay close to home, the talented singer was relegated to selling apples in St. Louis’s Soulard Market. It was a hard tumble for a man who had once performed in tuxedoes with the jazz greats of the times.

Several of his compatriots had moved to Chicago to try to find some paying gig in the Windy City. Most wound up in the streets or rode the rails into the next jobless city. Several simply disappeared. A few lucky ones, like Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke, had found a way to scrape a living