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"Dreamscape Presents," just a lucky, so-and-so
by Liza Klein-Ransom, illustrated by James Ransom.
In New Orleans, Louisiana, in a part of town
outside of Storyville, tucked in a corner called Back A Town
in a section nicknamed the "Battlefield."
Little Louis Armstrong was born, black and poor and lucky.
My whole life has been happiness.
On the corner of Perdido and Liberty,
Little Louis lived in one room with no lights
and no running water.
But it was home to him and his sister, Mama Lucy,
and his Mama Mayan.
The grandson of slaves, Little Louis
toted laundry, hauled coal, sold newspapers,
and scavenged through garbage to earn money for his family.
On the streets, Little Louis sometimes
made his own trouble.
But it was nothing his Mama's sharp tongue
and a switch from the Chinaberry tree
in Grandma Josephine's yard couldn't fix.
As they never worried what the other fella has,
as long as you're having fun in your own way.
Every day, outside his window, Little Louis
listened up and down the streets to the music of brass bands,
funeral marches, honky tonks on Saturday nights,
church services on Sunday mornings.
Across the street, he peeked through the cracks
of funky ********.
On Cornette, the sassy ragtime music
of punk Johnson, Buddy Bolden, and Joe Oliver followed him
wherever he went.
Johnson had tone.
Bolden blew hard.
But for Little Louis, it was King Oliver who
could out-blow, outperform any horn player in all New Orleans,
the King or all musician with Joe Oliver.
School learning at the Fisk School for Boys
began for Little Louis at 7.
Before school and after, on the Karnofsky's wagon
next to Morris, Little Louis tutored his tin horn.
Pinny for your rags, and bleated.
Nickel for your scraps.
Although I could not play a good tune,
Morris applauded me just the same.
Through the window of a **** shop,
a Cornette caught Lewis's eye.
A $5 loan from Morris bought the Cornette for Lewis.
Some brass polish and oil brought the horn to life.
Down Rampart Street, four boys harmonized, my Brazilian beauty.
Little Mac on drums, big nose Sydney on bass,
red-head happy Bolden as baritone,
and the gravelly tenor of Little Louis.
The boy with the smile so wide, kids called him Satchelmouth.
New Year's Eve in New Orleans was all music, fireworks,
and midnight shots fired in celebration.
Little Louis joined in with his stepfather's gun.
All his scrapes with the law added up, and at 11 years,
Little Louis was sent away.
I thought the world was coming to an end.
At the Colored Wafes home for boys,
Little Louis could barely eat.
He missed his mama, his sister, and his Cornette.
Through his open windows drifted the call of the bugle,
a bugle to rise, a bugle for chores, a bugle for bed.
The band leader, Mr. Davis, told Little Louis
that boys from the battlefield don't belong in a band.
Little Louis sang solos for everyone to hear.
Mr. Davis listened and started Louis with a tambourine.
Then he played the drums.
Mr. Davis made him the bugler, then he put him on Cornette.
Mr. Davis made him the band leader.
Me and music got married at the home.
The band traveled to play in every corner of New Orleans,
uptown and downtown, west end, Spanish sport, and front of town.
But for Little Louis, there was nothing like walking
through his old neighborhood at the head of the band,
blowing home sweet home.
Lining the streets was everyone he knew.
And right up front was his mama, Mayan.
I could not think of anything but my good luck.
At 14, Little Louis returned to Perdido Street, not so little.
By then, he could make any song swing.
Louis needed to hear a song just once, and it was his.
He worked all day hauling coal and all night playing
in honky-tongs around town.
Louis met Joe as Joe paraded through the town
with the onward brass band and followed him everywhere.
Louis ran Joe's errands, carried his horn.
But in between times, Joe taught Louis note by note.
In Joe's home, Louis filled up on rice and beans
and music lessons.
Louis traded in his first **** shop cornet for Joe's used one.
I prize that horn and got it with my life.
Louis listened to Joe's horn crawl like a luster,
growl like a lion, cry like a newborn baby.
Two horns side by side, so close.
Louis called him Papa Joe.
Aboard the SS Sydney, he blew swing,
waltzes and dance tombs all up and down the banks
of the Mississippi River.
On land, Louis blew with the Tuxedo brass band,
and then Kid Ory's hottest jazz band in town,
featuring baby Dodds, Pop's Foster, and his Papa Joe Oliver.
When I pick up that horn, that's all.
The world's behind me, and I don't concentrate on nothing but it.
I love the notes.
After a time, New Orleans honky-tongs
were too small for the king.
Joe hopped a train and blew goodbye to New Orleans.
Chicago was waiting.
Louis stepped in where Joe stepped out.
His horn had folks talking about the little boy
from the battlefield.
Night after night, Louis filled up the halls,
filled up the streets, filled up his pockets
with the music from his cornet.
Four years later, Joe sent a telegram.
Louis was ready to leave.
He sent for me to hear whatever he's doing.
I want to do it with him.
All aboard.
Louis stood on a train platform, fish sandwich in one hand,
cornet in the other.
Worried he'd catch cold in the windy city,
his mama made him wear long johns in the August heat.
Joe Oliver and Chicago were waiting.
I'd never seen a city that big.
On the south side of Chicago, at the corner of 31st and Cottage
Grove, Louis peaked into Lincoln Gardens Dance Hall,
a globe glittered from the ceiling.
A balcony looked out over the dance floor.
Joe and King Oliver's Creole jazz band warmed up.
Open night always make you feel as though a little butterflies
were running around in your stomach.
Louis's tuxedo was pressed and patched and small.
He walked to the bandstand where baby and Johnny Dodds,
Lil Harden, Honoré Dutri, and Bill Johnson waited.
From the very first note, they knew.
He played quietly behind Joe, softly in back of Joe,
echoing after Joe.
Someone yelled, let that youngster blow.
And Louis stepped forward and stood in front of Joe and blew.
My boyhood dream had come true at last.
Louis stood in front of bands in Chicago, New York, California,
and Europe, on records in Hollywood,
on Broadway, and on the radio.
The little boy from New Orleans, Louisiana,
from a part of town outside Storyville
in a corner called Backa Town in a section nicknamed
The Battlefield, was just a lucky, so-and-so.
I was so happy I did not know what to do.
I hit the big time.
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