A month had passed since my last journal entry. On January 28th, 1987, Rhonda and Jim were at work and I was sitting around the big house in Arlington thinking about my situation and decided to pick up a pen and catch up with the latest happenings. The official word on the Volare' from Hilscher's Automotive  was that it had thrown a rod and would've cost near $1000 to repair. I'd only paid $1,800 for it back in '79 and had gotten a good eight years out of her, so I decided to leave her with old man  Hilscher for better or worse and cut my losses. (I suppose they must have ended up putting a new motor in that car because I could've sworn I saw it on NE Loop 820 about three years later.) 

The more idle time I had on my hands, the more I seemed to worry and the worse things appeared to be. My job search hadn't panned out as well or as quickly as I'd hoped. Dad was having a constant battle trying to stay a step ahead of the forces of nature that were hell bent on killing him. The news on TV was all about the hostage crisis in Lebanon. The U.S. was in a sense being held hostage by proxy. For several months after the breakup of the band, I'd suffered from a constant feeling that I was missing something at night; that there was a big party happening somewhere and I wasn't invited. That feeling did eventually fade over time, and the classes at UTA helped me stay focused for the most part. But when school was out, it didn't take long for me to start feeling depressed once again.

As time went on, it became more and more apparent that Rhonda was formulating a plan for our future. I could see it in her eyes. She never brought things up until she was dead set and ready to put her plans into action. She was the one with the solid income and reliable transportation. For the moment, I was dead in the water. I'd become like a marble inside a pinball machine - just going wherever gravity pulled me. I was thankful to have both Jim and Rhonda in my life. Jim had a second vehicle - a small pickup truck - that he was letting me use for the time being. I was still getting work as the corporate "mascot", but not enough to brag about. There were two other guys in the region and we were dividing the jobs three ways. 

A week earlier, Jerry Coker had called to ask if I'd be interested in putting another band together. I called my friend L.D. and talked to him about it. Ultimately, in what would be one of the most practical and sane decisions of my life, I decided not to get back into music. At least not just yet. So I continued to spend my free time teaching tricks to our four month old puppy, Suzee, and going about the never ending task of trying to organize, log, and label all the cassette tapes and floppy disks I'd accumulated. And every now and again I'd come across the old journal and write a few lines. That's how I ended up with the journal in my hands on January 28th, 1987, and the things I wrote that day indicated that I was on the road to becoming a lost soul if something didn't happen soon.

Besides not having a car, or a full time reliable income, I was starting to think about taxes coming up, and about dad's health. I worried about a lot of things during that time. And then Rhonda began to start hinting about us moving out together and getting a place of our own. There was very little I could say other than, "Sure." In normal human years I was closing in on 32, but my carefree years of playing music for a living had left me feeling more like a 24 year old. It was difficult to deal with. I had no concept of what a functioning 32 year old responsible man should be like. But I was in the midst of taking a crash course to find out - and didn't even know it. 

Through it all, even when depressed, I kept my chin up. I had a feeling that something would eventually come through for me. After all, it always had. Gigs had seemed to fall out of the heavens into our laps for all the years I played music. Something would surely fall out of the sky for me in my new time of need.  I just knew it would. But whatever it was, it certainly was taking its time. 

Rhonda continued to bring up the topic of moving. I didn't really want to move at the time. Not really. But I knew that the longer I stayed at Jim's, the longer I would be doomed to leading a socially retarded life. I had a massive amount of growing up to do. I knew that. And I figured that moving to a new place with Rhonda was the obvious best option to try to do something about it. Then the topic of moving out together began to be mixed in with occasional discussions about possibly getting married. At that point I knew things were just moving to damn fast. I was okay with moving out, but wasn't ready to think about marriage. I had too many other things on my mind.

Six months would pass before I picked up the journal to write again. July 1987 was an action packed time and there was lots to write about. It was July 7th to be exact, and I'd just returned from Fred "Papa" Calhoun's funeral. Fred died on the 4th of July. He'd been like an uncle to me since I could remember. All during my growing up years, Fred could be found six days a week, sitting behind the counter of Calhoun's Grocery Store, smoking cigars and watching soap operas. The Calhoun's had owned that old house on Lincoln Avenue where I'd grown up. He'd played piano with the legendary country swing band, Milton Brown and the Musical Brownies. (In fact, Fred is now in the Country Swing Hall of Fame.) Fred was as much a part of my childhood as that old "Y" tree in our yard. His son Kent was like a brother to us. (Kent is now my insurance man and has a family of his own, living in McKinney, Tx.) 

L.D. and I had visited Fred less than a month earlier. He and my dad had both been fighting prostate cancer for a long while. Fred lost his battle first. The service was held at Greenwood Funeral Home on University Drive. It was the first mason's funeral I'd ever been to. Many of the men wore an apron. The preacher knew many facts about Fred, but he obviously hadn't known the man. He incorrectly referred to him as "Pappy."  I wanted to come up out of my seat and correct him. "Sir! It is PAPA. Papa Calhoun. Not PAPPY!"  But I didn't. 

Rhonda and I did a lot of house shopping and finally found a place in Haltom City that we both liked. It was to be an interim place to hang our hats until we could figure out our next step. The owners were very nice people. Alan and Bonnie Baker had raised their family in that home and finally outgrown it a year or so earlier. Their renters moved out and we came along at the right time. I'm not sure if the Bakers actually liked us as much as they seemed to, or if they were just really desperate to put some new warm bodies in that house to keep the checks coming in. It didn't matter. A deal was struck and we had a week to get moved in. 

Jim was cool with the plan. In fact, his longtime friend Mark Smith was set to move in as soon as we were out. I'm sure that Jim wasn't too thrilled with the damage Suzee was doing to the doors and the carpet. She'd gnawed and scratched at the doors, leaving some really nasty damage. If I'd had a responsible bone in my body - and / or any spare bucks in my pocket, I would've paid Jim some money to buy a new back door. But regrettably, I didn't. Jim's good fortune was simply knowing that Suzee would soon be out of his hair and his home for good. I wasn't as sure about how he felt about Rhonda and me moving. Jim kept his real feelings close to the vest, but every word he spoke and every look on his face led us to believe he was genuinely happy for us. It was time to move on. 

I celebrated my 8th anniversary with the "mascot" gig by going to Luby's and ordering a chicken fried steak. Oliver North began his testimony in the Iran Contra hearings. Rhonda traded in her Buick Skyhawk for a new Hyundai. Driving that Hyundai was like driving a go-cart, but I had no room to complain as long as I didn't have a car at all. The IRS penalized me for not paying quarterly. On a positive note, Savvy reunited with Ricky Lynn for a one night reunion jam, but it was all completely impromptu and by accident. Then RJ started calling and wanting me to join a four piece country band he was putting together. I met with Rick Miller about it, and we even had a rehearsal or two, but then the whole thing fell apart. Then RJ called to say that Savvy's Nightclub was going country and that he and Rick Miller were putting together a country version of Savvy. They wanted to know if I would join up with them. By then I was up to my ears in packing and moving. Each new rumor or plan to put Savvy back together - or any part of it - became a bigger joke than the one before it. It was the classic beating of the dead horse. As much as I loved RJ and Rick, and would have loved to be back in the nightlife again, I knew it really wasn't an option for me at the time. And maybe it never would be again.   

CHAPTER 9

AFTER SAVVY MENU

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