PUDDIN' PIE'S MAMA

PUDDIN’ PIE’S MAMA Fabled Missouri raconteur, Mark Twain, has written a lesser known novel, PUDDN’ HEAD WILSON, that is every bit as good as his other books, though it is not as well read . In my 1960s teens, in Rockhill, Missouri, the radio, record player and our sweet music were all of the teenage rage! Singing groups consisting of males and females sprouted, flourished, faded like spring’s colorful flowers in a verdant field in Rockhill @ the Webster Groves School District. One of our greatest crooners, ever, was a brother by the name of PUDDIN’ PIE. I never did know that singer’s real name. I guess that Puddin’ Pie was the name that his mother bestowed on him as a child. For he was a righteous man. Puddin’ Pie was, locally, a well renowned singer in our 1960’s black neighborhoods . He was virtually, if not literally, a true doppelgänger of Smokey ‘Bill’ Robinson in voice, looks, style, personality. Puddin’ Pie was older than me, but I respected, revered, his suavity. He never made it big. Nor did any of the members of his group, whose names I do not recall, except one: Wank Woods, who lived down our street, Eldridge, in Rockhill, St. Louis County, Missouri. None went big time . Frankly, I only heard Puddin’ Pie’s group sing once, up at Douglass School in the gym during some kind of concert when I was about 13 or 14 years old. It was enough. It was almost too much for me, their harmony, rhythm, grace, steps! The brothers were bad! A few years later me and my late, incomparable, friend and brother, Theodore Roosevelt Bush, jr, a/k/a, Ted Bush, who lived just down the street on Eldridge, would, with me, attempt to reprise Puddin’ Pie and Wank’s example at the Steger Junior High School talent show in 1966. We sang “What’s Your Name” by Don and Juan, to great fanfare and acclaim. But we did not win a prize. Yet “What’s Your Name” is the only song reprised at our class’ 50 year’s reunions. Puddin’ Pie , Ted, me and others also came together in the summer of 1969 around a lighted candle stick in sort of a communal expiation ritual of a spiritual genre. Me and Ted had just graduated from high school. Yet we “never could say goodbye” to our convivial camaraderie fostered in our creative struggle to establish dignity and respect for our black fellows via our club called “Students for Black Awareness and Action” at Webster Groves High School. So, in the after-glow of our graduating, we began to commune around a burning candle with friends, like Clarence Moore, Carlos Thompson, Victor Falwell, Charles Thomas, Delores Simmons and more, for one night a week, after work, in a circle. Hereby we “grounded” with brothers and sisters. Well, into this mix, one night, swooped Puddin’ Pie to our complete surprise and utter delight! “What is Puddin’ Pie doing here?” I asked myself. We soon found out! Ted, who was then the more spiritually affianced communer among us was declaiming on certain matters of religious ritual, as the candle flickered. Puddin’ Pie said something inaudible. Ted , who knew Puddin’ Pie from his previous visits to see Ted’s older sister, addressed Puddin’ Pie familiarly directly. “Who you gonna call Puddin’ Pie, when your stuff gets real deep ? When it’s too deep for you to handle by yourself? “ Ted inquired pointedly. Ted pressed on passionately! Ted repeated “Who are you going to call on Puddin Pie?” The candle’s flame flared up. Puddin’ Pie squared up to Ted, paused perfectly, briefly said: “I’m gonna call on my Mama!” Needless to say, Puddin’ Pie’s on-time repost to Ted’s direct personal challenge to testify, very dramatically broke up the communal meeting that evening. All Mama’s indeed ranked with God in our group. Little-knowns, indeed, unknowns when recalled,by someone, after death, become better known. For life is but an episode, not the end of human drama. Memory is divine conservancy.