One Saturday night Polly suggested that she and Mother go out to a dance. My daddy was the leader of a little band that was performing that night, and he spotted Mother as soon as she arrived at the dance hall. During one of the songs Daddy turned to his brother, who was also in the band. “You take over for a minute,” he said. “I’ve gotta go meet this girl, but I’ll be back soon.” He climbed down from the bandstand, made his way across the room, and asked Mother if she’d like to dance. I guess that was it for both of them. Mother was a beautiful woman, and Daddy was quite a handsome guy in his younger days. They both adored music and loved to dance. It was love at first sight.
Mother and Daddy married in 1933 and made their home there in Maud. My father worked various jobs and played music on the side. He was working at a gas station by the time I came along on October 20, 1937. He soon found work driving a delivery truck for a bread company.
I was born prematurely, and my family says it was the last time I was early for anything! They tell me I live on rock-and-roll time. Mother was scheduled to have a C-section, which was pretty unusual at that time. I’m not entirely certain what sort of complications she had during her pregnancy, since people really didn’t discuss those matters openly in those days. I do know that she had a very difficult time. The plan was that I would enter the world at a hospital in Oklahoma City, but when Mother unexpectedly went into labor, she had to stay in Maud. That’s where I was born on October 20, 1937.
Mother wanted to name me Roberta, because my dad’s middle name was Robert. He wouldn’t have it. I don’t know where he came up with it, but Daddy said he always wanted to have a daughter, and he declared, in no uncertain terms, “Her name is Wanda. It’s got to be Wanda.” Since he was set on the first name, Mother came up with my middle name, which is Lavonne. I don’t know why it wasn’t Roberta. Maybe she thought she’d save that name in case she had a second daughter.
But another child was not part of the plan for the Jacksons. Not only was Mother’s pregnancy difficult, but natural childbirth was an extremely painful challenge for her. She was always number one for Daddy, and when he saw what a problem she had, he didn’t want her to ever risk going through that kind of pain and discomfort again. He went to the “chopping block,” as he called it, so there would be no chance of Mother getting pregnant a second time. And, with that, Wanda Lavonne Jackson’s fate as an only child was sealed.
A lot of people have asked me over the years if I feel like I missed out by not having brothers and sisters around. I didn’t know any different. Truth be told, I kind of enjoyed being the center of attention. I think being an only child helped me grow up a little faster. I wasn’t real interested in kid things, even when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time around adults, so I was like a little adult very early on. Even though it’s the only thing I ever knew, I don’t think I would have wanted it any other way. Mother and Daddy put all their focus and energies on me, which is almost certainly the main reason I would later be successful in my music career.
Even though I remember very little about my early childhood, I’ve always thought of Maud as my hometown. In the late 1980s the city launched an annual Wanda Jackson Day. There was a parade, a carnival, food vendors, a car show, and booths with handmade crafts for sale. The festivities would culminate with a big concert in the evening, featuring some of my Nashville friends whom I’d invite to perform. Eventually, we added a talent contest. I thought maybe four or five people would participate, but we were flooded with applicants. One year we had seventy people pay the entry fee to be a part of the competition. I would typically serve as one of the judges, and we would recruit radio personalities and others to join me. The winner of the contest would get to open the show that evening, which was great exposure for them.
We celebrated Wanda Jackson Day for thirteen years, and it turned out to be a really good thing for Maud. All the profits went to the city, which allowed them to get the things they needed for their local government. My dad’s sister lived in Maud and was killed in a house fire. The fire department didn’t have the equipment they needed to rescue her at the time, and I’m proud that funds we raised allowed the department to obtain the equipment to assist them when entering a burning building. That was very important to me. I’m also proud that our benefit allowed the police department to purchase new cars. I’m thankful, too, that we helped Maud officials get the attention of their legislative representatives, resulting in new highways and other improvements. They even named a street after me one year. Just think, if my mother had not gone into labor early, I would have been born in Oklahoma City and might not have had the opportunity to make the same kinds of contributions to the birthplace I called home for the first few years of my life.
One of the more distinguished residents to come from Maud was Edmond Harjo, a Seminole Indian who was one of the famous code talkers who helped transmit secret messages during World War II. He received the Congressional Gold Medal for his service in Normandy and Iwo Jima, and was the last surviving Seminole code talker until his death in 2014. I’m honored to hail from the same town as an American hero, and I suppose Edmond and I have been Maud’s ambassadors to the world over the years.
When I was around five years old, our family moved from Oklahoma to Los Angeles. That was a pretty common thing back then. All us Okies and Arkies and Texans couldn’t find much work, so we headed west in search of better opportunities. All the images you associate with The Grapes of Wrath were a real thing. People were desperate for a better way of life, and California held the promise of fresh opportunities. As an only child, I had what I needed. I never suffered. Mother saw to that. But Daddy had friends in California, and he thought maybe we could go out there, and he could learn a trade that would give us more chances to make a better way in the world.
We had a two-door Pontiac coupe with a small storage space behind the front seats. Mother was quite a seamstress, and Daddy built a little frame so they could put a mattress for me to sleep on back there. One of my earliest memories is that car ride on Route 66 headed for the West Coast. There were no interstates then, so it took a lot longer to wind our way out there than it does now.
The war was on at the time we arrived in California, and the war industry brought an even larger wave of migrants than those who had come out during the Dust Bowl era. I remember seeing signs picturing Uncle Sam that talked about “the Japs.” You didn’t see the word Japanese then. It was always “Japs.” I could have never imagined as a little girl that one day I would be a professional singer who would have a number one song in Japan, become a superstar there, and tour the country for weeks at a time. But that moment, of course, was still a long way away.
When we first arrived in Los Angeles, we rented a single-room upstairs apartment in a large house called Gramercy Place near downtown. Mother had a hot plate, so she could fix soups or open a can of something simple for us to eat. Built in the early 1920s, the old mansion is still there today, and is still operated as a boarding house and hostel. Mother had lived in Oklahoma her entire life, and Los Angeles was an enormous new world. She was protective of me anyway, but being in a new environment made her pretty nervous. The kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh’s one-year-old baby in the early 1930s caused a lot of people to realize that the world can be an unsafe place. Bad things can happen even to children, and it seemed that these things were more likely to occur in big cities.
When we went out in public, Mother held my hand tight for fear of a stranger snatching me away. Even when we were home, she didn’t like it when I was out of her sight. The bathroom was down the hall from our tiny apartment, and I would usually bathe in the early evenings when Mother was fixing supper. She’d tell me to sing while I was in the bath. She’d pop her head in and say, “Sing louder, honey. I can’t hear you!” A few minutes would go by, and I’d hear her call out to me, “Keep singing, Wanda!” She was afraid I was going to fall in that tub and drown, but she knew if she could hear me singing I was okay. One time I heard he
r coming toward the bathroom, so I lay down in that tub real still to trick her. I about scared her half to death. That was me being a little prankster, I guess. Those must have been the genes from my dad’s side of the family!
Mother and Daddy were pretty different in that regard. She tended to imagine the worst-case scenario and was somewhat of a worry wart. She was a fairly nervous person and was always in motion. My dad was more laid back. He was a joker and she was a workaholic. Even though my parents were complete opposites, they were real cute together and were affectionate toward one another—and toward me. From my earliest memories, our home was always filled with love.
By the time I started school, we had moved to a small apartment at 2727 Menlo Avenue, just east of Vermont. I attended Vermont Avenue Elementary School, which was located on the other side of the street from where we lived. Vermont was, and is, a busy thoroughfare running through Los Angeles, but there was an underground pedestrian tunnel that would take us to the other side. Mother felt it was safe and usually let me walk to school with my friends. I didn’t like that tunnel, though. It seemed so dark and scary, so we would take a deep breath and run through, not daring to breathe until we got to the other side.
When I began school, I was known to everyone by my middle name, Lavonne. I’m not sure why, but that’s what I wanted everyone to call me then. I was Lavonne to everyone, including my parents, during my elementary school years. That’s not the only thing about me that would change later. Even though I’m known for my dark hair, I was actually a blonde when I was little. It would be quite some time before blonde Lavonne would transform into the Wanda Jackson you know today.
Both Mother and Daddy were still at work when I got home from school each day, so they hired a woman named Ma Settlage to watch me for a few hours. I went through a clumsy phase where I would knock over milk—or whatever I was drinking—all the time. I’m sure it was maddening. One time I knocked some milk over on the table, and Ma Settlage made me scoop it up with my mouth. Mother happened to walk in at that very moment to see what was going on. She was steaming mad. “You don’t have her licking stuff up off the table,” she barked. And that was the end of Ma Settlage.
There were about four other kids living on our block on Menlo Avenue, and since the entire country was preoccupied with the war at the time, it was only natural that my friends and I would stage pretend battles in our backyards. I also loved Tarzan. One girl’s house had a balcony, so we imagined that balcony was our treehouse, and we’d make up all sorts of adventures. When we weren’t playing war or Tarzan, it was usually cowboys and Indians. I had a couple of toy six-shooters tucked into holsters with a hat, vest, and the whole getup. Later on, I’d be known for introducing high heels, strappy dresses, and glamour into the world of country music. As a kid, however, I was no demure little girl having a tea party. I was running around the neighborhood like a wild banshee. And I loved it!
The other game I remember playing with the neighborhood children was “preacher.” There was a Baptist church at the north end of the street where Mother attended regularly. She enrolled me in Sunday School class and took me to services pretty much every week. I’d go home afterward, line up the other kids on the stairs outside, and start preaching to them. I don’t remember what I would say, but I remember I’d be pacing back and forth and shaking my finger at them. That must have been what the pastor did at the church. I was just a little girl, but I was showing off already. I guess I had the performance bug from an early age and was already looking for my stage.
Church was always an important part of Mother’s life. She was a fine Christian lady. Daddy thought her dedication to the church was great, but he didn’t feel like it was for him. He never interfered, though. He thought it was wonderful that Mother enjoyed being a part of the life of the church. She wasn’t the type to get involved in all the various activities during the week because she worked outside the home, but we were there every Sunday morning in little matching outfits. She’d curl my hair and treat me like a little doll on Sundays. I liked going, but as soon as I got home, I was ready to put on one of my costumes and go tearing off into the neighborhood to get into another adventure with my friends.
I don’t remember much about the music I heard in church on Sunday mornings, but I seem to remember it was a little uptight. I did like the sound of the piano, but that music just didn’t make much of an impact at that age. I do remember a lot about the Western swing music that was so popular on the Coast in the 1940s. Back then, church music was pretty reserved. Country music back east was fairly polite, too. It was made for sitting and listening. On the Coast, though, country music was made for dancing. Fortunately, Mother and Daddy never lost their love for dancing. They were both beautiful dancers who would go out nearly every weekend.
People didn’t get babysitters very often then. They took their kids along with them. If Mother and Daddy went to a dance, I went too. There were several venues and dance halls around the city, but the Venice and Santa Monica Pier ballrooms were the most popular. They drew literally thousands of dancers to hear the likes of Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys or Tex Williams and his band. My favorite bandleader was Spade Cooley. I absolutely loved his group. He had two or three pretty girls in the lineup, and I thought they dressed so beautifully. The Maddox Brothers and Rose were big at the time, too, and were known as “the most colorful hillbilly band in America.” I just thought Rose was the greatest. She was so feisty onstage! Heck, the whole family was a feisty bunch. I was paying close attention, and all this music was having a significant impact on me.
Even though Mother worried about me all the time, she always said she never had to worry about me at a dance. She knew exactly where I’d be. I would stand right in front of the bandstand staring up at the performers all night. I wasn’t about to wander off! As a little girl people would ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I’d always tell them, “I want to be a girl singer.” I don’t suppose I really could have been any other type of singer, but that’s what I told them. I knew I wanted to sing, but I also wanted to wear shiny clothes and be pretty and glamorous while doing it!
Daddy put a guitar in my hands when I was about six. He got me a little Kay brand guitar from the Sears Roebuck catalog and, like any good cheap guitar, the strings were so high off the fretboard you could barely push them down. But that’s all you had to learn on if you couldn’t afford a nice instrument. Every night after supper Daddy would listen to a popular news commentator on the radio named Gabriel Heatter. After that I’d get my little guitar and we’d have a lesson. He’d show me some chords and teach me to push down on those big ol’ high strings. Daddy had a guitar and a fiddle and, after I mastered a few simple songs, we were able to start playing music together.
Chapter 2
CALIFORNIA STARS
Even though music was such an important part of our life as a family, Daddy didn’t get into playing publicly in California like he’d done with his brother back in Oklahoma. He would play his guitar and fiddle at home, but I don’t remember him ever going out or meeting up with other musicians to play gigs. Instead, he poured his energies into working various jobs to make ends meet. I can’t remember what they all were now, but I know he had a laundry service at one time. He’d go to the movie studios to pick up laundry, and then come home and tell me about all the interesting things he’d seen on the sets. I was already somewhat of a dreamer, and I was mesmerized by his tales.
Mother was a workhorse and generally provided a steady income when Daddy hopped from one job to another. She could always find work wherever we went. She’d go around and knock on doors if she needed to, but she was going to give it her all. Mother was exceptionally honest, invariably serious, always meticulous, and a model employee for anyone who hired her. When we were living in Los Angeles, she went to work for Virture Brothers, which was a company that made the chrome and Formica dinettes that are now so popular with my retrominded rockabilly fans. Mother worked in their
upholstering division, and she later got Daddy a job there, too.
After we’d been in Los Angeles for a little while, Daddy decided he needed a real trade that he could depend on. I don’t know where he got the idea, but he decided to go to barber school. His classes were down on Skid Row. The drunks would go in and get their hair cut, which is how the students learned. Mother and I would have to go pick him up in the evenings when his classes were finished. She would just hate to go down there where folks were passed out in doorways. It kind of scared me as a child, and it might have scared Mother even more. She took me with her because she was too nervous to leave me at home. We always stayed in the car with the doors locked until Daddy came out. Then we would hightail it out of there!
When he completed his barber training, Daddy searched around for a job in Los Angeles, but wasn’t able to find anything. We had relatives who lived outside Bakersfield, about a hundred miles north, and they told Daddy about an opportunity nearby. We eventually moved up there, a few miles south of Bakersfield, where he started barbering in a little town called Pumpkin Center. In fact, the barber shop was responsible for the town’s name. California’s Central Valley is a rich agricultural region known for its abundance of crops ranging from cotton to fruit to almonds. Apparently, pumpkins were plentiful in the area in the 1930s when a full-blooded Cherokee barber named Lone Bush dubbed his shop the Pumpkin Center Barber Shop. Even though the area had been called Giminiani Corners previously, the name stuck, and a Pumpkin Center post office was opened in 1942.
Every Night Is Saturday Night Page 2
