Introduction

The folks at Frets magazine taught me a valuable lesson back in the 1980s; they taught me that writing can be a dangerous vocation. This is particularly the case in the Lone Star State where I learned that carrying a concealed writing implement might not be unlawful, but could be a health hazard and, as it turned out, even a career risk. We all know that certain aspects of using a pen carelessly could be punishable by law enforcement. For example, forgery, libel, and embezzlement come to mind. In the creative writing world we journalists also have our pitfalls. We call them critics, the ever present “prose” police.

I suggest, however, if you bring pen and paper to Texas, you better be packing more than White-Out. Speaking of packing, it might be a good idea not to unpack your suitcase; be ever ready with that return ticket for a rapid getaway, particularly if you are hung out to dry by your publisher and editor. As for “packing,” take that to mean what you will … and speaking of wills – it might not be a bad idea to have yours made out before waking into a Texas-sized folk festival ambush at the Kerrville Folk Festival. And I had such hopes to perform some day at that festival. Not after my old Texas misstep.

Texas folks are mighty friendly. Rod Kennedy was that day – for our initial meeting – but he expected me to keep my word. Remember, this is a state where it is legal to carry concealed weapons. Magazine Writing 101 – (a course I never took), teaches us it is essential to have your advance team take care with articles they assign, what they promise in your name, and to whom they are making promises. So, bring your six-shooter, if you are not employed by straight-shooters. Let me just say – in this case, Frets set me up, and hung me out to dry. Dry? Make that parched. The temperature that day I first shook Rod Kennedy’s hand, as read on the bank thermometer near my hotel in San Antonio, was no less than 103°. That’s kind of like the flu, but Texas style, with tumbleweed and vultures circling overhead. That warm and toasty welcome set the trip’s tone as a friend and I left the airport, picked up our rental car, and checked into the hotel. It was after all, still early in the day!

Before I continue, let me say the folks at Frets – the editors that helped me grow as a journalist – were to this point all very supportive. The three top notch professionals in question, included the about-to-be-mentioned Phil Hood, as well as Jim Hatlo, and Roger H. Siminoff, who handed me my first Frets assignment. But that week, I was sent south to cover the Kerrville Folk Festival, so, too, went south my credibility. Isn’t that right Phil? Here’s the story. (This is where you think of the 103° temperature, watch an armadillo scamper across the road, and remember the Alamo, well, before it got that nifty gift shop (the original didn’t have a gift shop did it?). I remember the look on Rod Kennedy’s face when I met him, and how it changed a few minutes later when I told him about the phone call I got from Frets editor Phil Hood, five minutes after meeting Rod.

Remember the Alamo, Forget the Kill Fee

With Rod Kennedy’s recent passing, I was reminded of that fateful writing assignment I was given by Frets Magazine back in 1988. It sounded like a super opportunity, just great. And the negotiated remuneration was darn large, Texas-sized, due to the amount of writing and reporting I would do. Plus – I would finally get to experience the Kerrville Festival up close; not the touring company I would see at The Bottom Line in NYC. I was to travel to Kerrville to cover the folk festival, meet with Rod Kennedy, enjoy great music, Texas hospitality, sightsee, and write not one, not two, but three articles about various aspects of the festival. I also would knock down my first Lone Star beer in the Lone Star State. What could go wrong?

Rod was absolutely ecstatic. He had, repeatedly asked for Frets to cover his festival, pressed Frets for ink, and invited Frets to write about Kerrville for some time. His lobbying for the magazine to write features about the festival finally paid off. The magazine’s editor Phil Hood accented, as that ink was well-deserved. Phil gave me a call, asking if I would like to do the job. I could not have been more delighted with the assignment. That’s what brought me to Texas, that first Lone Star Beer, the best rib eye steak I ever was served, and a place on Rod’s register of artists never to book. As I stepped up to meet Rod – I had that feeling of what in the world could possibly be better than this? I am being welcomed as a king. I had never met a happier and more gracious man, the smiling Rod Kennedy.

But, sometimes, as in the prophetic words of Jerome “Curly” Howard, his hands, outstretched to his impatient sibling, palms pleading to make his case to brother Moe, uttering in his Curly voice, “I’m just a victim of circumstance!” These words coming just before being hit over the head by a two-by-four, or poked in the eye with two fingers, or branded on the forehead with a steaming hot iron, only to be smacked with it for good measure. Poor Curly – I know his pain. This was the pain that came within a few minutes after meeting Rod Kennedy. Poor man, he too was about to have a bad day. And I was on the lookout that weekend for scorpions in my shoes, and fire ants in my shorts. In the world of journalism, I am but a Stooge for my art.

As I noted, upon arrival outside the festival office, Rod Kennedy was there to greet me. He could hardly hide his enthusiasm, his delight to meet me (well, to see anyone from Frets) was palpable. He could not have been more complimentary of my work or more welcoming. He had it all mapped out. He invited me to dinner. Rod told me how he was looking forward to our time together, professing that I was about to be treated to one of the great musical experiences of my life. In fact, he detailed how he was going to show me the time of my life, Texas style, Kennedy style, Kerrville style. He already had plans and story suggestions. On and on he went. Then, the phone rang. We were interrupted. A woman stepped out of the festival office saying that there was a phone call for me. “Me?” Now who could be calling me in Texas? Could this be direct marketing from some very clever charity? No, charity begins at home, and that is where I should have stayed!

It was Phil Hood, the soon to be former Frets editor calling from the soon to be former magazine known for the last decade as Frets. Phil was sorry – but (most of this is a fog), the magazine was going to cease publication. I would be paid a kill fee for the three stories, but there would be no features written about The Kerrville Folk Festival or about Rod Kennedy. Stunned, I almost could not absorb this all, you know, my having just arrived by plane, checked into a hotel, stepped out into the 103 degree heat, and having just left one smiling Rod Kennedy for this phone call. “Why are you telling me all this, shouldn’t you tell Rod?” I asked Phil. Silence. Again, “Don’t you want to tell Rod the bad news?” I repeated. There came a long pause, then a sheepish, “No Roger, why don’t YOU tell him.” Then a goodbye, as Phil hung up the phone. I heard Mr. Click loud and clear. Hung up and hung out to dry, in the hot, dry heat, I had an unpleasant task to perform; confront the jubilant Rod Kennedy with some rather bad news. Let me tell you, that smile quickly left his face. A face that turned redder than that red stripe on the Texas state flag. He really changed his demeanor, looked miffed, walked away, and hardly said a word to me that weekend. I remained at the Kerrville Folk Festival – after all – I had a free weekend pass.

Lone Star Irony: An O. Henry Story

William Sydney Porter
(aka O. Henry)

William Sydney Porter (O. Henry) wrote for a time in Texas. Born in North Carolina, Porter relocated to Texas where he became the editor and publisher of a humor magazine called, are you ready, The Rolling Stone. I wonder if he ever got his face on the cover! During this time he worked as a pharmacist, draftsman … and a teller in a bank, and soon was charged with embezzling funds from the bank. Well, rather than wait for a trial, he scooted to Central America. I visited O. Henry’s (Porter’s) rustic two-room shack, one of the places he resided – if I recall, on the property of what was the Lone Star Brewery in San Antonio. It did not suggest that writing was a way to fame and fortune. It suggested poverty and, well, failure. Given the sparseness of the place, I should have gotten the message to find another line of work, perhaps in a bank, and turn back to New York, where Porter, (O. Henry), finally found great success writing short stories, shortly before his demise. How O Henry is that? This was sometime after his incarceration for the embezzlement.

While in Austin, it might surprise you, W. S. Porter was also a guitar and mandolin player, member of The Hill City Quartet; kind of a literary and musical Kinky Friedman, a hundred years before Kinky Friedman & the Texas Jewboys. It should not be a surprise that W. S. Porter dabbled in banking, and skipped town attempting to elude an embezzlement conviction. We writers are not good with money as we hardly ever get to hold any of it. I am thinking there may be an O. Henry-like ending to this piece, not ironic enough for you yet, in “The Gift of the Magi” way?

Upon his return to Texas, where there had been much discussion and debate about his guilt, Porter returned to Austin and was convicted. He served three years in a federal penitentiary in Ohio. The upside, while in prison he published his first O. Henry story, “Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking,” in McClure’s Magazine. That was in 1899. On the plus side, Porter got lots of ideas for stories in prison (I guess I should try that), and even his famed pen name probably came from a reference book he used when he worked in the prison pharmacy, U.S. Dispensatory written by Etienne-Ossian Henry. Wow, his pen name was actually picked up when he was in the pen.

It is told that Porter, and three convict friends, formed the Recluse Club as inmates. They would meet for dinner on Sunday nights at a secret meeting place that included a kitchen with silverware, napkins and a well-stocked larder. There was even a weekly supply of liquor. Wearing white shirts, they reportedly ate soup, a roast, vegetable, mince pie and bread pudding. A place card indicated the correct seating for each of the four members. “That their trousers still carried prison stripes was a matter for weekly regret.” Speaking of regret, what a pity I never did sit down to dinner with Rod Kennedy. I guess the invitation got lost in the mail.

The O. Henry House, Lone Star Brewery, San Antonio, Texas