Turning down the first big gig, and being the adult in the room. I was 9 years old.
I am not a second-guesser.
I believe you make decisions with the best of intentions, with the best information you can find, with the best awareness of your circumstances, and you live with the outcome.
Kind of a “measure twice, cut once” approach to life.
And yet … sometimes I wonder. Not regret and not a second-guess. But, yes, wonder.
Sometimes about the outcome, sometimes about the circumstances I didn’t know about, sometimes about the other decisions that might have been made along the way.
Sometimes about the outcome, sometimes about the circumstances I didn’t know about, sometimes about the other decisions that might have been made along the way.
For example: If I had taken the job I was offered first, instead of the safer and saner choice, what life would I have today?
The truth is, you never know when you'll need to make these choices. But you eventually know that you’ll deal with them for the rest of your life.
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My Old Man was one of the most interesting people I’ve known, and not always for positive reasons.
Gorden Eugene Flannery — he spelled it Gorden, not Gordon — was a product of Wisconsin’s northwoods, and grew up in the area's logging camps. He quit school when he was in ninth grade to go to work, near the end of the Great Depression.
He and his father, Oliver, did not have a good relationship, and later in life, he and his Seventh-day Adventist mother argued A LOT about religion. She actually helped to build a church, but he was a nonbeliever until his final days.
The Old Man and my mother raised five successful kids in Forest County. I’m the youngest, and the only one to leave that area for more than a couple years.
The Old Man and my mother raised five successful kids in Forest County. I’m the youngest, and the only one to leave that area for more than a couple years.
Those five kids had four high school graduations. He went to one. Mine.
Those five kids had six weddings. The Old Man went to one. Not mine.
The Old Man approved of my oldest sister’s marriage at age 16. She and her husband are still married, 56 years later.
And when we held a 50th wedding anniversary party for our parents in 1992, Mom and Dad showed up … in separate cars. She got a ride from one of my siblings.
The Old Man and I were not close for about 20 years, from my teens to my mid-30s. He died in 1994, when I was 37, and we came to grips with each other before he passed.
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| The Old Man and I, around 1961. He hunted. I don't. |
Somehow, I learned to read when I was 2, and whenever we had company, I’d read for our guests. TV Guide. Newspaper or magazine articles. Things from the grocery-store encyclopedias that many families used to purchase.
On summer Sunday mornings, after dropping my mom and sister at church, he and I occasionally would sit in his pickup on Crandon’s main drag, chatting with his cronies about the events of the day. Eventually, I’d end up reading a newspaper article or a few pages of a book to them.
I don’t know what his friends thought of that. But I was pretty pumped to do it.
I started playing guitar when I was 5, and I could not get enough of it. While other kids were fishing or hunting, or roaming in the woods, I was listening to Chet Atkins albums and trying to play along.
I played when I got up, when I got home from school, while I watched TV. I played while I read, I played while I ate.
Four to six to eight hours. Every day. I played guitar.
“Play it like you mean it,” The Old Man would say.
I always meant it.
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I was 9 years old when Maggie and Scotty came to Crandon to play at the Forest County Fair.
I’d been around a few guitarists in my young life — my brother Luke was already a fine player, and still is — but I'd never seen a band quite like The Maggie & Scotty Country Music Show, a group from Eau Claire.
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| This photo of Maggie and Scotty (at left, holding his double-neck Gibson) hangs in a restaurant in Eau Claire. The guitarist at right is Jess Goin. |
Scotty played a black double-neck Gibson electric guitar, wore the spiffiest of cowboy threads — the ones with the bright flowers on the front and back and the piping on the sleeves and slacks — and a distinctive cowboy hat.
I was pretty sure Scotty hung the moon.
Opportunities to see a show of this caliber were rare, and well, this was northern Wisconsin in the 1960s. I couldn't pass up their Saturday and Sunday evening shows.
Opportunities to see a show of this caliber were rare, and well, this was northern Wisconsin in the 1960s. I couldn't pass up their Saturday and Sunday evening shows.
I was in front of the stage, staring at Scotty and that double-neck Gibson, wondering how any mere mortal could decipher such a marvelous instrument.
I drooled. And for two nights in August 1966, I drooled a lot. They had my full attention, and I would have followed them to the ends of the earth.
The next night, I had the chance to do just that.
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It was Monday, Aug. 22, 1966, and I was looking forward to an evening of watching TV and playing guitar when The Old Man came home.
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| The Danelectro, circa 1950s. I had new volume and tone knobs, and new switch installed in 2017. It was in disrepair. |
He'd said that, and we’d done that, quite a few times. He would come home with an urge for me to play for his pals, while they sat at the bar or the tables of a restaurant. He wasn’t a drinker, and nothing bad ever happened.
But, no doubt, it was a different thing for a father and son to share. My brothers learned how to hunt, how to trap and how to fish. I learned how to overcome the fear of public speaking and performing in front of an audience.
He was proud of me, and happy to show off his youngest.
I threw my tiny solid-state amplifier in the back of the pickup, carried my Danelectro guitar with me, and we went to Nellie’s Café.
I plugged in, and for the next 15 or so minutes, played a few of my greatest hits … “Freight Train.” “Blue Hawaii.” “Blues on My Mind.” “Sugarfoot Rag.”
I was playing well and feeling good, and not at all sure why I was there.
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| From The Forest Republican, Crandon, Wisc., July 23, 1966. |
Maggie and Scotty had come to hear me play.
The Old Man shook their hands, they nodded at me, and I said hello.
And I played. Lord, did I play. Chet would have been proud.
“Windy and Warm.” “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” “Jambalaya.” And on and on. I emptied my guitar-playing clip in Nellie’s Café, saying no more than a couple words.
After about 30 minutes, Maggie broke the ice.
“Well, Danny, what do you think?” she asked.
“What do I think about what?” I said.
“Joining the band,” she said. “We’ll get you a cowboy outfit, and a hat. You’ll look just like the rest of us. You can already play all of our songs.”
No one had told me this. I’d been auditioning for a gig.
You might think it took a minute or so for a 9-year-old guitar picker to think this through. You’d be right.
My first thought: I actually didn’t want a cowboy outfit. And I was not — and am not — a fan of cowboy hats.
But Maggie was right: I could play every song in the Maggie and Scotty County Music Show repertoire, and I would not have held anyone up waiting for me to figure things out.
As I recall, My Old Man said nothing, signaling his support for whatever I decided.
I kept thinking. About important things, things that would change if I became a member of a touring band.
“How will I go to school?” I said.
“We’ll get you into a school,” she said. “You won’t miss anything.”
Still, a bigger question was eating at me, and no one could answer it to my satisfaction.
“How will I see my mom?” I asked. “When will I see her?”
Maggie was ready. Sort of.
Maggie was ready. Sort of.
“Oh, we’ll bring you back to see your mom every so often. Don’t worry about that. We’ll make sure you see your mom.”
Even at age the usually curious age of 9, that answer wasn’t very comforting or specific.
And so, Danelectro guitar in my lap, I cried. More than a little.
I weighed the life I might be leading against the life I definitely would be losing.
And I cried.
And I cried.
“I can’t do that, I can’t do that,” I sobbed. “I can’t leave my mom.”
Bless them all, there wasn’t much more conversation.
Maggie, Scotty and The Old Man let a 9-year-old kid be the adult in the room.
Maggie, Scotty and The Old Man let a 9-year-old kid be the adult in the room.
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I think about this episode a lot. I wonder where I would have gone as a musician and as a person.
According to their obituaries, Maggie and Scotty — his real name was Jules Swan; her maiden name was Magdalen Culbert — had no children.
Yes, it has occurred to me that I might have filled that void, if it actually was a void.
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| From the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram, June 23, 1982 |
I recently found a few newspaper articles about them, and discovered that show business is all Scotty had ever known. As a duo, they had radio and TV shows in the Eau Claire market as far back as 1949, and apparently, played just about any gig they could find.
They also worked as a booking agent for county fairs, covering most of the upper Midwest states, and developed a side business in coordinating and promoting centennial celebrations for communities that reached that milestone birthday.
The latest Maggie and Scotty performance I could track down was in 1981.
After that ... I don't know. But it doesn't seem to have ended well for Maggie.
In 1993, four years after Scotty's death, police officers entered Maggie's home and found dozens of diseased and debilitated cats. A story in the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram (Aug. 14, 1993), based on police reports and court records, describes disgusting and horrific conditions, and the response of a person who had clearly lost her way.
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| From the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram, Aug. 14, 1993. |
Maggie died on May 12, 1995, in the same house, according to her death notice in the Leader-Telegram.
Less than three months later, an advertisement for the estate auction described dozens upon dozens of items available for purchase. Four Cadillacs. Two campers. Antiques. "Hundreds of old dresses and suits of various eras. Hundreds of hats including many like-new derbys, felt and furs, fancy ladies hats, stoles, canes, umbrellas, shoes, float trim, balloons, etc."
And this cryptic message: "NOTE: The sheds and house are full, more items will likely be found during sale preparation."
You get the picture. I do.
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So, yes. I wonder.
About the good and bad of what might have come from a different decision on Aug. 22, 1966.
About what other decisions I might have made after that.
About the relationships I would have forsaken, and the relationships I would have developed.
All of that, and more.
But mostly, I wonder because my Old Man and I never talked about it again. Not once did he explain anything about that night, how he talked Maggie and Scotty into listening to me, or how he planned to make this life-change happen for so many people.
I have suspicions about his motives, however.
I have suspicions about his motives, however.
I think The Old Man wanted the best for me, and saw a fleeting opportunity for me — well before puberty — to build a career that simply wasn't about to happen in Forest County in 1966, or any other year.
I think he understood that he had no other means to provide me with a better chance to make a splash with whatever talent I have.
We were not wealthy. We had no indoor plumbing in a old house with a leaky roof and thin walls that slowed the wind, but were powerless to stop it.
I think he thought he was doing the right thing for me, honoring my ability, putting me in a position to shine.
He was taking a chance on my life, with my life.
I think he understood that he had no other means to provide me with a better chance to make a splash with whatever talent I have.
We were not wealthy. We had no indoor plumbing in a old house with a leaky roof and thin walls that slowed the wind, but were powerless to stop it.
I think he thought he was doing the right thing for me, honoring my ability, putting me in a position to shine.
He was taking a chance on my life, with my life.
My mom was shocked when I told her what had happened. About the night in Nellie’s Café, about Maggie and Scotty, about my job offer, about the possibility I would have left home for a life on the road — or maybe just in Eau Claire — at age 9.
I told her about this three years ago. The Old Man had never mentioned it.
She's 96 years old.
She's 96 years old.
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It wasn't long after I turned down Maggie and Scotty that The Old Man suggested I start looking for a new guitar.
I didn't really know much about guitars, except that Chet Atkins played Gretsch guitars, and that should be good enough for everyone else.
Almost eight months after that night with Maggie and Scotty — 51 years ago this week — I came home from school to hear my Old Man tell me there was something on his bed for me.
I didn't really know much about guitars, except that Chet Atkins played Gretsch guitars, and that should be good enough for everyone else.
Almost eight months after that night with Maggie and Scotty — 51 years ago this week — I came home from school to hear my Old Man tell me there was something on his bed for me.
It was the case holding the best guitar I've ever played.
“But before you open that case,” The Old Man said, “you have to promise that you’ll play it wherever and whenever I want.”
Of course, I said OK.
The Old Man had traded in a Yamaha motorcycle plus a couple hundred bucks at a dealer in Rhinelander. The Gretsch catalog listed it for $558, including case.
Over the past 51 years, that guitar has played polkas and disco, country and jazz, weddings and funerals, taverns and chapels, in bands and without bands. A few million notes in a few thousand compositions from Atkins to Gershwin to Williams.
I don't know if the gift of the Gretsch was The Old Man's way of saying he was sorry for putting me in a difficult situation. I'd like to think that, but he was not a guy who used "sorry" in any context.
I don't know if he expected that I'd be a professional musician. I was for a while, but ultimately chose another career.
But I do know one thing.
In an unusual, nonverbal way, The Old Man was proud of me.
No, I don't wonder about that. And I don't second-guess it.
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| Playing my 1962 Gretsch 6120DC at Appleton's Mile of Music Festival in August 2013. Given to me by The Old Man, it's still the best guitar I've ever played. |