Luck or Something Like It Read Online Free PDF Page B

the worst singer I have ever heard in my life. I feel guilty about saying so, but the fact is, it’s true. She was not only bad, she was loud.
    My brother Lelan got married at seventeen, and even young as I was, I recognized that his wife, Hazel, was a hot girl. Unlike other members of the family, Lelan and Hazel could dance. They would come into our living room, put on a record, and jitterbug for the whole family. The minute they left, my sisters Geraldine and Barbara would get up and pretend they were Lelan and Hazel. They weren’t very good, but it sure was entertaining.
    It was a thing to behold—music and dancing, people having a great time. My sister Geraldine had a special musical influence on me, though she didn’t often sing and wasn’t thought of as a particularly musical person. It was Geraldine who taught me to sing harmony. In church both of us would move away from my mom—sometimes to the other side of the church—because she sang so poorly. I wasn’t always sure that was even far enough. One day while singing “The Old Rugged Cross,” I noticed Geraldine wasn’t singing the melody, but it sounded really good. I asked her what she was singing, and she said they called it “harmony.” It changed my musical ear forever. I started listening to and appreciating variations of the melody from then on.
    I found that I loved singing this thing called harmony. I loved it so much, in fact, that I didn’t envision myself as a solo singer for years on end, just as a harmonizing member of a group.
     
    My mom’s family lived in nearby Crockett, Texas. There was Uncle Ocie and Aunt Dimple, Aunt Bill and Uncle Barton, Aunt Mildred and Uncle Pete, Aunt Beulah, Aunt Marie and Uncle Ted. They took great pride in never letting me get too big “for my raisin’,” as they loved to say. Uncle Ocie looked every bit the part of an East Texas farmer in his striped overalls, flowered shirt, and brown felt hat. When a film crew working on a TV special about my career came to Crockett and interviewed Uncle Ocie, he later told me: “All these people makin’ a fuss over you, sayin’ they’re glad to see you. Hell, I don’t know what makes them think you’re so special!”
    It was hot in Crockett in the summer, and the homes were cooled by window fans. All the younger cousins would crowd into beds and make small talk late into the night. Our dreams were pretty cut-and-dried back then. The most anyone hoped for was a red Chevy convertible. Most of our days were spent down at the local Dairy Queen, the social center of Crockett, Texas.
    My mother’s father, Wily Hester—we called him Papa—later shared a house with us on Clay Street in pretty much downtown Houston. Some of my best memories of early childhood were in that house with Papa, who was as much a character as Byrd Rogers. Papa had epilepsy and was also in what seemed to be the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Like Byrd, Papa was a man of few words. I remember him sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the house we rented, watching us kids run and play. He’d watch as long as he could stand the commotion, then stand up and say “Can that fuss!” at the top of his voice. And believe me, we did.
    My most unusual memory about Papa Hester was the time I took a late-night trip with him. Perhaps it was because of Alzheimer’s or just senility, but he had taken to walking in his sleep. The trouble was, he slept with me. I must have been three or four years old when he decided to take me on a nighttime excursion.
    I remember waking up as he lifted me out of bed, stood me on the floor, and took my hand. Then we went to the screen window, which was open on that hot, humid Houston night. Papa unlatched the screen and out we climbed. My parents found us much later, blocks away, just sitting in the middle of Root Square Park. Grandpa Hester was sound asleep at a picnic table, and I was sitting there just watching him and looking around.
    Other than the sleepwalking