Christmas Blues
written by: Richard Wall
@writinblues
The sharp wind, chilled by the Mississippi River and carrying the scent of damp, fecund soil gusted across the flat delta land surrounding Mud Lake, filling the air with an otherworldly sound like a choir of ghosts moaning the blues. In its path stood a solitary shotgun shack about a mile outside the town of Walls, Mississippi.
On the porch, Rufus “Slide” Hawkins shivered, more from the sound of the wind than the sudden drop in temperature. The ancient swing seat creaked as he buttoned his faded red flannel shirt to the collar. Slide reached down to lift the bottle of bourbon then held it up against the porchlight. “Half empty, or half full?” he asked himself. “Who the hell cares?” came the answer.
He took a swig, winced at the harsh liquid, set down the bottle and returned to strumming a 1930s archtop guitar that looked almost as tired as his soul.
It was Christmas Eve and Slide wore a Santa hat he’d found somewhere years ago, the pom-pom sagging like his spirits.
Fifteen years to the day since Lauren-May died. After forty years of marriage, the pain of her sudden loss never truly went away, but every Christmas Eve it returned tenfold. She still occupied his every waking thought and he still ached for her presence.
Slide knew that his best days were diminishing fast in his rear-view mirror, soon to slip over the horizon. Despite that, each day he tried to heed his wife’ last words, and make a point of reminding himself of the good things in his life.
At seventy-five years old, he knew he was blessed, all things considered. Not only that his body still functioned more or less as it should, but also that he was still around to experience it; unlike the buddies he saw struck down in Vietnam.
And, as far as he knew, his brain still ran on eight cylinders; unlike the 1947 Ford Pilot saloon parked in the broken-down lockup behind Slide’s house; the car his father had bought the year Slide was born and had stayed in the family ever since. The engine needed a major overhaul, nothing Slide couldn’t fix, just a chore that kept being put off.
Maybe in the new year.
Slide spent most days alone and his evenings on the swing seat, playing the blues until the early hours. Making music was his way of forgetting the despair that, despite his best intentions, sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.
Usually, Slide followed his muse, the tunes that appeared often little more than a couple of bars, ephemeral scraps of songs never to be written. Occasionally, he might come up with a riff that interested him enough to make a note of it, fully intending to follow it up at a later date, but so far it hadn’t happened.
Maybe in the new year.
As he played, he imagined the notes he released from the old guitar drifting upwards, pausing to make the moths dance around the porch light then floating onward into the sky like Chinese lanterns, taking the blues who knows where. Maybe to a place where Lauren-May could hear it.
He strummed a few chords, calling out to the night as if it could answer him.
“Christmas lights, ain’t shine so bright,
When you’re down and out, on a cold Delta night.
Ain’t no stockings, ain’t no gifts for me,
Just got the blues and my own company.”
As the final note faded into the darkness, Slide heard a sound – soft footsteps on the gravel road. He squinted into the gloom. A figure appeared, looked like a small boy bundled in an oversized coat, carrying something wrapped in a tattered blanket.
“Mister Hawkins?” the boy called out.
“Who’s askin’?”
“My mama said you play the blues better than anyone in these parts. Said you could fix just about anything that’s broke, too.”
“Your mama said that? She know you’re out tonight?” Slide said.
“No sir,” said the boy. “But I left her a note.”
“A note? Where is she?”
“She ain’t home,” said the boy. “She’s working an extra shift at the hospital in Memphis. Won’t be back till the morning.”
“Where’ve you come from?”
The boy pointed down the track. “About a half a mile that way.”
“You shouldn’t be out on your own at night. What are you, eight years old?”
“I’ll be twelve tomorrow,” the boy said. His voice sharp with defiance.
Slide chuckled. “Well, I’m sorry. It’s kinda dark and my eyesight’s not what it was. What’s your name, son?”
“My name’s Robert,” said the boy. “My daddy named me after Robert Johnson.”
“Where’s your daddy?”
“He died last year,” said the boy, his voice catching. “The cancer got him.”
“That’s rough,” Slide said. He stood up, placed his guitar on the swing seat. “Well, Robert, named after Robert Johnson, guess you better come inside out of the cold wind.”
The screen door opened into a room that was furnished with a sofa, an armchair, coffee table, and, in the corner an old Victrola gramophone player.
Slide fetched a propane heater from the back of the shack, fired it up and almost immediately warmth began to fill the room. “Now,” he said. “What’s so important that you come all the way here on Christmas Eve?”
Robert unwrapped the bundle. It was an old Stella guitar, its body cracked, strings missing, and fretboard worn smooth. “It was my daddy’s,” Robert said softly. “He used to play for us every Christmas. He kept saying he was going to fix it, but then he got sick. Mama says I gotta sell it cos we need the money, but I thought maybe you could fix it and teach me to play it instead.”
Slide choked back the lump in his throat. He looked at the boy, then at the guitar. It was in a bad way, but he’d seen worse. He ran his fingers along the worn body, reading the instrument like a blind man reading Braille.
“Well sir,” Slide said, “I reckon a boy shouldn’t have to sell such a fine guitar if he really wants to keep it. But if you really want to keep it then you gotta show your mama that you’re serious about learning how to play it, and that means you gotta practice every day. Are you willing to do that?”
Robert nodded. “My dad started giving me lessons, showing me chords and such. I can play some, I just need someone to show me how to move on.”
“Well, OK,” said Slide. “Let’s see what we can do. But first we gotta call your mama, let her know where you are.”
***
For the next few hours, the two worked on the guitar. Slide handed Robert a screwdriver and showed him which screws to tighten, how to mix wood filler for the cracks and which grades of sandpaper to use to make the best job of smoothing down splinters and rough edges. Slide even replaced the frets with some from an old neck that he found in the lockup.
Finally, as the first light of Christmas morning crept over the horizon, Slide strung the guitar with an extra set of strings he’d kept in a coffee can. “That’s the best we can do for now. How do you want to tune it?” he said.
“Daddy said that Robert Johnson played in Open G,” said Robert.
“A lot of the old timers did,” Slide said. “Other times he played in Natural. You know what that is?”
“That’s what they call Standard Tuning,” Robert said. “Like when you buy them from a store.”
“Guess you do know something about guitars, huh?”
When it was tuned, Robert cradled it like it was the most precious thing in the world.
“Now,” Slide said, “Lemme show you a little somethin’ you can take away today.”
He picked up his own guitar, then produced a bottleneck from his pocket. He was about say, “You need to get one of these,” when Robert pulled one out of his shirt pocket.
“Well damn, looks like the boy got the blues in him. Now, watch what I do.”
Slide played a simple twelve-bar blues riff, slow and steady. “See what I’m doing?” he said. “You go from this fret to this fret, hang around on this fret then go back where you started.”
Robert watched intently, then placed his small hands on the fretboard, mimicking Slide’s movements. The first few notes were clumsy, but soon, the boy found a rhythm.
Slide’s weathered face broke into a smile he hadn’t worn in years. “That’s good, now let’s do it again.”
They practiced it over and over, then, when they got right, Slide began to sing:
“This old guitar got a story to tell,
Of joy and pain, an’ heaven and hell.
But tonight it sings with a sound so true,
A Christmas gift wrapped in Delta blues.”
Robert’s grin stretched wide as they shared a clumsy high-five.
“You just played the blues, son,” Slide said. “Lemme show you something else then we’ll get you back home.”
He stepped over to the Victrola, wound it up then reached down to a cardboard box filled with gramophone disks, pulled one out, took it out of its sleeve, then showed it to Robert. “This is Walking Blues by Robert Johnson,” he said. “He starts off on the twelfth fret then walks it down and struts his stuff using the third, fifth and seventh fret. Just like I showed you. Now listen carefully.”
Slide placed the disk gently onto the turntable and lowered the needle.
For a moment, the sound of scratches filled the room, then the screech of a brief slide guitar riff, the walk down and then Robert Johnson’s voice. As the song played, Slide played air guitar to mimic the fret positions.
When the song ended, Slide placed the recording back into the cardboard box. “That’s the blues, right there. Learn to play that and you’ll always find a friend,” he said. “You practice enough and you’ll sound just like him. Now, we better get you home before your mama gets back.”
“Would you mind bringing your guitar?” Robert said. “I want mama to hear us play.”
Together they walked along the gravel road to a modest house in a small community just off Highway 61. “You want to come in?” Robert said.
“Not until your mama gets home. It wouldn’t be right.”
Slide sat on the front steps, tuned his guitar and as he started playing variations on the twelve-bar blues, Robert sat next to him, watching intently as he tried to copy Slide’s every move.
Thirty minutes later a ten-year-old Toyota pulled into the drive way. Robert’s mother got out of the car; her expression quizzical. “What’s going on?” she said.
Slide stood up and offered his hand. “My name’s Rufus Hawkins,” he said. “Folks call me Slide. It was me that called you last night.” He explained all that had gone on and convinced her that Robert had been safe the whole time. “He shouldn’t have done what he did,” Slide said. “But it came from a good place and now he’s got something to show you.”
Robert appeared next to Slide. “He fixed daddy’s guitar,” he said.
Slide smiled. “That ain’t exactly true, ma’am. We fixed it between us. Robert helped me a lot. Your son has a gift and that guitar’s worth more to him than any money you could get selling it.” He turned to Robert. “Why don’t you show your mama what you learned?”
Robert’s mother stared as her son began to play for her, tears filling her eyes as he concentrated on getting it right. “His daddy made that same expression when he played,” she whispered.
“He passed it on to him,” Slide said. “As someone once said, the music’s in that boy and it’s gotta come out. Don’t be too hard on him, it’s Christmas Day.”
Robert’s mother wiped her eyes. “I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Michelle. Michelle Perry. Would you care to come inside and share the day with us? I’m afraid we don’t have much but you’re welcome to share it with us.”
Robert’s eyes opened wide. “Please stay, Slide.”
Slide chewed his lip for a few seconds. “Well,” he said at last. “If you’re sure I’m not imposing, and only if you let me help out.”
“That’s a deal,” said Michelle. “Let’s go inside.”
Between them, Michelle, Slide and Robert rustled up a Christmas lunch that Slide said afterwards was the best he could remember eating for a long time.
Afterwards, once everything was cleared away, Michelle produced a bottle of Bourbon. “My husband used to drink this,” she said.
“So did my wife,” said Slide. “It was her gave me the taste for it. I think of her each time I take a sip.”
Michelle poured two generous measures and they clinked glasses.
Slide smiled, “To absent friends.”
“I want to thank you again for helping Robert, and for keeping him safe,” said Michelle.
“You’re welcome, he’s a talented kid.”
“Our community has a tradition of coming together to celebrate Christmas,” said Michelle. “We meet up in the street and share food, and some folks play music. Robert and I would love for you to join us.”
“Maybe we could play guitar,” Robert said.
Slide laughed. “Maybe we could.”
A couple of hours later they stepped outside. The party had already begun and the street was alive with laughter, singing, and the kind of warmth that no fire could provide.
Robert took great pride in introducing Slide to the neighbors as, “My friend, the bluesman.” A few bourbons later, Slide was persuaded to go and fetch his guitar. Someone produced a chair and Slide began to play the blues.
The sound of his music spread through the community. More neighbors began to gather, drawn by the notes drifting on the cold air. Then someone pulled out a harmonica, and another brought a tambourine. Before long, it was a full-blown jam session, with Slide leading them into singing spirituals and blues standards, blending joy and sorrow into melodies that lifted the spirit of all who gathered there.
Robert appeared next to Slide, his confidence growing as he followed him through every slide note and chord change. The boy’s small hands moving ever more surely over the strings, his face glowing with pride. Slide couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such pure, unfiltered joy.
“You’re a natural, kid,” Slide said between songs. “Your daddy’d be proud.”
The celebration stretched long into the evening, and the street seemed to transform into a beacon of hope. People shared stories, laughter, and even a few tears. For the first time in years, Slide felt a sense of belonging he thought he’d lost forever.
As the moon climbed higher in the sky, Robert looked up at Slide with wide, earnest eyes. “You think we could we do my dad’s favorite hymn?” He leaned over and whispered into his ear.
Slide considered it then nodded solemnly. “I think we can do that. It’s a simple chord change, G, D, G, C. Follow me then join in when you can.”
He began to strum a familiar melody, one that everyone recognized immediately. The crowd joined in, their voices lifting together in harmony:
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright…”
Robert joined in soon after and the song echoed through the Delta night, carrying with it a message of hope and renewal. For a moment, it seemed as if the weight of the world had lifted, replaced by the simple beauty of shared music and connection.
***
That Christmas Day changed something in Slide. Robert’s courage and determination reminded him why he’d fallen in love with music in the first place. It wasn’t about fame or money, it was about connection, about passing on stories and feelings that words alone couldn’t express.
In the days and weeks that followed, Slide began to teach Robert everything he knew about the blues. In return, Robert taught Slide about social media by making videos of their lessons and uploading them to the web.
Word spread, and soon Slide and Robert built up a huge following of blues fans from across the world.
Slide’s front porch became an international gathering place, a makeshift music school where the next generation of blues players could watch and learn from both master and student, and where Slide found purpose and joy and a reason to keep playing.
When he wasn’t teaching, Slide began to record his own music and, with Robert’s help, started his own, “Blues from the porch” video channel.
The old V8 Ford got some well overdue attention as well, and was back on the road within a few weeks. Once again, Slide was the teacher, allowing Robert to take the wheel on deserted back roads.
***
A year later, the little community came together again on Christmas Day. Slide and Robert played side by side, their music weaving through the crowd like a thread of shared history. The porch lights twinkled, the harmonica wailed, and Robert’s old guitar sang with a voice as strong and true as ever.
As the night wore on, Slide looked out over the smiling faces and once again felt a warmth that went deeper than the music. He couldn’t remember, or maybe chose to forget, the last time he felt alone. The blues, he realized, weren’t just about sorrow. They were about survival, about finding beauty in hardship and sharing it with others.
Slide turned to Robert, now playing with a confidence beyond his years. “Merry Christmas, kid,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re gonna be OK.”
Robert frowned for a moment, then grinned and strummed the final chord. “Merry Christmas, Slide.”
And so, in the Mississippi Delta, under a winter sky filled with stars, the bluesman and the boy played on, their music a gift to the world and to each other. It was a Christmas memory that would linger like the sweet echo of a guitar long after the music had stopped.
As he walked home that evening, Slide was happier than he had felt for a long, long time. He didn’t want the night to end so he sat on the front porch, reached down for the bottle of bourbon, took a long swig then began picking tunes on his faithful old guitar.
“Still sounding good, Slide.”
Slide looked up to see Lauren-May standing on the porch steps, her smile lighting up the night. She stepped towards him and reached out her hand. “Why don’t you come and play some more for me?”
The final notes from Slide’s guitar drifted upwards, paused to make the moths dance around the porch light then floated onward into the sky like Chinese lanterns, taking the blues who knows where.
Richard’s stories reflect his life-long fascination with the dark underbelly of American culture, be it tales of the Wild West, or of the simmering menace of the Deep South, or the poetry of Charles Bukowski, or the writing of Langston Hughes, or the music of Charley Patton, Son House, Johnny Cash, or Tom Waits.
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