Oral History Interview with Pee Wee King

[Reading Ralph Emery’s book] — they didn't steal the title — the guy who wrote the book dreamed up the title — but it was so fascinating — because that's all I had to offer was memories. Eddie Arnold had a good title — "from Scott County, Tennessee to Broadway and New York." It's a long way from Scott County and Pinson, Tennessee to New York City.

When Mr. Frank hired me, he hired me as accordion player for Gene Autry's band— and we came down here after a tour and went to WHAS — in the meantime, Autry got his call to California for a screen test for [a] singing cowboy role, which was his idea because before that there were no singing cowboys — they were all action cowboys — Tom Mix and Buck Jones. So, as we got together more and more, then when Gene went to Calif., I joined the Log Cabin Boys which was a novelty duo plus four musicians. And I brought one of the boys from high school with me here and he played saxophone but that didn't fit, but he could play the clarinet some and that sounded good with Country music. We got [to] talking about [it] and thinking more about things and I knew then I wasn't a singer. I didn't want to be a singer — I enjoyed music and I enjoyed entertainment.

When I joined his group, he called me the Plus One — said, “there's my little kid— he's grown up. He's got the Midnight Four Plus One.” But there were six of us. The one guy didn't want to be called by anything — he was the bass player — he wasn't sure he would be with Dad a long time because he drank too much, and anyway, Dad said, “there was John, and this Midnight Four, Plus One, so that made six.” I said to Pa, “people ask me all the time when I go up to get a drink or something to eat” — there were no festivals back then — they were all picnics — “why do you call them the Midnight Four Plus One — you got six?” He said, “well, it's good conversation — you got John, the Midnight Four, Plus One, then you really got your foot in the door.”

And in those days, they had dance cards, and all the pretty girls were booked, so you'd try for the last session — maybe three tunes to a session. And I watched him and he said, “now that you've made love and whispered in her ear, we're going to

change the tempo to one of these — oomph-pah, oomph-pah — “ and those he played about

five minutes — the love stuff, the serious stuff he played about three minutes —

all those people were happy — you didn't have fights or need a bouncer — so I thought, this is what I got to do.

So, when I got to high school, I got the King's Jesters and that was it. It wasn't easy to make a living in the Depression. I know. I recently went to get a new sticker for my license plate renewal and the clerk, Terry Shaw, who waited on me, recognized me and started singing "The Term Waltz." I gave her a good review in the section called Comments on Customer Service. I would now suggest that everybody come to this office just to hear Terry Shaw sing "The Fenn Waltz," I wrote down. She read it out loud and I broke up! [chuckles]

My birthday is Feb. 18. My mother's was the 13th. Jimmy Wakely was the 9th. Ernest Tubb was-- I was the 18th. Tenn. Ernie was-- . Martin Luther King, we're Aquarians. As time goes by, I was a Johnny Come Lately with the movie producing...! said, “I do everything over the same way. “ To finish the story about Mr. Frank — Autry out there — I used to sing with the Log Cabin Boys. And I think in his mind, he's the

one that brought me the horse. He said, “well, everybody expects a farm boy to ride a horse or know something about cows.” I was looking for a certain picture and when I show it to you, you won't believe it. I did a magazine article every year for Sun Round with a picture of me milking a cow is the caption: "Little did I dream that one day I'd be in the Hall of Fame." Farm boy, you know.

Ralph Emery was a WSM disc jockey — midnight announcer. He was not a performer [Pee Wee figures in it] I was born Feb. 18, 1914. On the south side of Milwaukee. I doubt much I was born in a hospital — I think it was at home. [He thinks the birth was performed by a doctor.] I'm the oldest. I finished grade school in Milwaukee, then we moved to a farm. I had thoughts of going to high school, so I lived with one of my aunts for a while and after high school came back to the farm. Mother & Dad passed away at the farm. The family moved to Abrams, to the farm about 1930.

My sister was born two years later [after me]. And then brother Irvin--Max they call him now. He's also in the Concertina Hall of Fame. And he was born four years after my sister, so that makes him six year younger than I am. And then Gene over here with me at the record shop. My sister Irene — born two years Later — and then Ervin — he's six years younger than I am — born in 1920 — and then my brother Gene, he's eight years younger. My mother lost twins. And I was 21 years-old before I found out about it and I gave her hell for not telling me. They kept it a secret. This was between Irene and Max . . . nobody talked about it.

[His earliest memory]: My Uncle Kelly who was married to my mother's sister — and she just passed away this week — but anyhow, he was in the service in WWI. He came back from the service, and we were living above a tavern. My dad worked in a if factory and atten[ded] bar at night, and we lived upstairs. For my birthday —he came back in 1917, I was three years old — and that's the picture I'm looking for, my mother taking me down the sidewalk and teaching me how to ride the tricycle — the first bike I had. I parked it under the steps — there was a cubbyhole under there — they had shelves and put rakes in there and I must have trusted everybody in the neighborhood because for a couple of days it was fine. Then one day, I went down there to check the bike and it was gone. The first memory I have of my childhood in Milwaukee. Never found it. My dad — he told a lot of the guys — watch for a little red bicycle going down the street. I was crushed, to think my mom and dad made so ittle money and go out and buy a bicycle for me — that really hurt me. Under the steps it was open but, they wouldn't bother the tools and rakes or whatever they cut grass with.

Then we moved to Windlake Ave. I was born on ... let's see, they go north, south, east. and west — South Fifth Street. That whole area later on became commercial. I remember one of my mother's sisters got married and they lived in a house just about a block away--that would probably bring back memories — because they used to write on the back of the picture where it was.

I was about eight years old when we moved. First, I went to the Catholic school, and then to the public school, Windlake Ave. It was named after a lake on the south side of Milwaukee, but the lake disappeared. They filled it up. The address was 901 W. Windlake Ave. It was an ordinary type of house — like you'd see in the West End. We had one-bedroom downstairs and upstairs we had two bedrooms and later on Pa added on another bedroom — my mother's sister lived with us, Auntie Anna, she just died. Anna Mielczarek. She married my Uncle Kelly. My mother was the oldest, then Aunt Anna, then Marie, then Lottie, then Stella. Brothers of hers were Tony and Vic. So, the Mielczarek family arc no more, they're wiped out. That's spelled M-I-E-L-C-A-R-E-K. That was my mother's family. I called my mother mom. And I called my father pop. Downstairs we had a dining room, and it wasn't a recreation room, but a room where Pa used to play his concertina all the time. so, he called that the music room. Today they call them dens. We'd always have parties downstairs because we had a big basement. Just get togethers, my mother's people and my dad's people would come over and visit and stay for Sunday dinner and Pa would bring the concertina out and play. First thing I knew they were dancing and everything.

My mother's father's people all came from Poland. My father's father was originally from Austria, but then he moved to America and met my grandmother. They were homesteaders in Wisconsin. My father's brothers and sisters — let's see. Dad, Walter, then a girl died--named Helen just like my mother and I was shocked when I went to the graveyard and I said, “my mother is still living,” and they corrected it. And I found out it was one of my dad's sisters. Then came, Pearl, Aunt Pearl and Tony come [came] after Helen. And then Pearl, And then Aunt Anna. I had an Aunt Anna on

both sides. And then Carrie. And that was it — Carrie was the baby. There was about

eight--Walter, Helen, Anna — seven, seven. They were a farm family,

grandpa and grandma lived nowhere but on a farm, where they homestead

is where they farmed and stayed there. Both of my parents' people were from the

farm. My mother's people lived in Sobieski above Green Bay. And my dad's people

in Little Suamico, after the lived river that runs down there. There's a Big Suamico

down there because that's where the river ran into a lake — I should say Green Bay.

That's Big Suamcio. And Little Suamcio is about six miles up the road, cheese factory, two taverns, a grocery store, and a post office. Abrams was not where my parents grew up. They bought a farm from a friend of theirs who was going to the city, and he wanted to sell the farm and my dad bought it.

My dad was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, and Mom was born in Chicago. My mother was working in Chicago, and my dad in Reading, Pennsylvania. They all drifted out for homesteaders and whatever, and my dad used to visit at the farm ever[y] chance he got, and Mom worked in Chicago as a seamstress, dressmaking companies, and she'd visit in Sobieski all the time and the church was in Sobieski. So, Mom and Dad met at the church--St. John's Catholic Church. They just hit it off right away. My dad was working then — he also, in the wintertime, when the train would come in, have a horse and buggy and in the wintertime, he'd have a sled and whenever these people came in by train, he'd drive them out by sled or horse and buggy from the depot. My mother worked at a little restaurant in a hotel, so if the people came in late at night, they could stay at the hotel. And she did the maid service. [She was a seamstress in Chicago and then she moved back home to Wisconsin], She was the oldest, and then these girls come along.

My grandpa was the head of the board of directors or something like that — he had a title — at the Sobieski Public School, at the school board. One time he and grandma had a big argument and he left and went to NY state and bought a bean farm out there, string beans. All those years they never went back together, but they're buried next to each other.

The kids all worked, the girls were all grown. They were moving to the city, one at a time. They'd come into the city and live with my mother and dad. I remember for a while, we had Anna and my dad's sister Pearl and my dad's siter Anna, Carrie and one of our cousins Adam Droebock — he lived with us a while. He had the farm next to my grandfather's farm. Before Irvin was born, I slept on a homemade couch — a cot..

The first school I went to was St. Cyril's School, I went there from about kindergarten to the 4th or 5th grade. The one thing I remember was this one sister — during recess, the windows were or one or two feet higher than the sidewalk of the playground, and the boys would sneak out and instead of taking recess we'd all go maybe to the corner and see what they do — some of the kids didn't even know that milk doesn't come in a carton — they didn't know where it comes from. To learn the value of hard work.

And you talk about sex. Our boys would see the bull and cow, and horse and mare come together, and would see kittens born, ducks born — you don't [wonder about] that no more [anymore]. It was life itself. If you didn't work, you didn't eat. You could go out for an afternoon or an evening and wouldn't have to lock your door. Of course, our sheepdog would chew them up. He used to go with my mom and pick up blackberries along the fence — and Lydia, too. She'd pick the snakes out with a

stick and put them up on the barbed wire fence and Shep would get them.

My mother and dad got their schooling from the religious angle of it — learned to read and everything — in church. They used what they learned in the 1st, 2nd, 3rd grade for their knowledge as far as carrying conversations and writing letters. Pa never was interested — you couldn't get my dad to write a letter if his life depended on it.

They both could read and write. I've still got the last letter my mother wrote me before she drowned. My dad told his brother Walter who lived on the farm next to him and Stella — two brothers married two sisters — Walter had about 5 or 6 heifers he wanted to put out in pasture and leave the hay field to the cows and he asked dad, he said, “John, how about my putting these heifers in the back part of your farm?” He said, “sure, go ahead and take them across the Wisauki River (??).” It ran right beside the porch of the house. It emptied into Green Bay, too. So, they put the heifers to pasture. In the meantime, they had about 5 or 6 weeks of pouring down rain. In the summertime, this river got down to about knee-deep and all of a sudden, with the steady rain, it was just high. Mom said, “I was at the butcher shop this morning and I heard a rustling back there,” and he said, “what do you want me to do about it?” And she said, “Walter's heifers — let's see if they're skinning them right there and taking the hides.” It was like a big animal reserve — big property with wolves, and animals and everything in there. She talked them into starting the tractor and going across the river. Pa said, “Helen, you're crazy. It's deep out there.” She said, “well I'll put on your raincoat and hip boots.” Pa had an extra seat put on the tractor — with even an umbrella.

So, she put on his big hip boots and raincoat that he went fishing in and he took the tractor through a part that he thought wouldn't be so deep, so he picked it out and went down in the ditch and the spot where we used to come out with the wagon and they hit a rock, and Helen said, “John, when you come back, move over about 6 inches and you won't hit that rock.” He says, “I won't do that.” He says, “let's go see.” The bossy cows, the ones that had bells on them, you couldn't hear them so they went to the other part of the 40 acres and sure enough, all the cows were there; the bell had come off. But coming back he hit the rock again and a wave come along and hit the carburetor and Mom fell off backwards and Pa didn't know she was gone, until it was too late. He got in the water but couldn't reach her. He saw her come around the curve over at Walter's and reached in and got her and gave her artificial respiration, but she was gone already. My dad left that damn tractor standing in that water all the time. He never would go back there. That's the way she passed away; she was seventy-one. That was 1967.

He died five years later at eighty-one. He died of loneliness. He fell off from 197 pounds to 110. He was sick, too. He was diabetic. He came into Milwaukee to live with Irene. We sold the farm. They've had two owners since then. I had my stroke in '78, so he probably died in '80 or '81.

I have several cousins around Abrams now. His nephew and niece-in- law live up there and they stopped through on the way to Florida. My grandparents came from Poland, but my mother and dad were born here. My mother's people were from Poland. My dad's from Austria.

My mother was born in Chicago; my grandmother and grandfather lived in Chicago before they moved to the farm; when land was being given away at that time, he — Grandpa Mielczarek — found out about it. He told several people about it. And there was a clan of people living in the same neighborhood like in Sobieski. My dad's people lived in Suamico because they had their cousin Drawbock (??) and Granpa Chapinski (??) had come from the same territory in Poland so there was their little clique. My grandmother's people came from Poland to Chicago. They heard about the land; Grandpa Milelcarek homesteaded 87 acres; the other grandfather had over 200 acres; he homesteaded the original 120 acres and added 80 to it later. They were living in Reading, Pa. when they came to Suamico [to homestead].

This grandmother and grandfather were married before they came to Reading, Pennsylvania. He worked in a coal mine over there. He had come from Austria. His wife from Poland. Looking at pictures of them when they were young, it was poverty over there in Poland. They came and were looking for a better living, I guess. I loved them. They were hard-working people. And my father's father was an old-time fiddle player — polkas. That's where he got [my father] his music from and [I] got mine from my dad.

My father played the violin and later got a concertina. That's the same way I went. I learned to play the violin first and then the concertina. Violin music taught me to play the accordion. When my sister quit, I got the accordion automatically. She played piano but she couldn't carry a piano everywhere we'd go, so. She was at the age where her breasts were big enough for the accordion sand she said, “I don't want it, Pa.” And he says, “Frankie, go ahead and take the lessons. You've got six more coming.” And he'd take me over there.

It tells it in that little booklet on Wisconsin I got there. Interesting article, you're going to be surprised when you see some of the people who were born in Wisconsin — Fred MacMurray, Liberace, Hildegarde, Woody Herman, you go down the line — oh, man, and I think I'm in that book, Jesus! My father would play the violin at home when I was a boy — entertain the relatives who'd come by. My godfather who lived close by would come by the house and they'd get out the fiddle, the concertina, kids would play the harmonica. In fact, that was the first instrument for me — I won $3 in an amateur contest. It was in a little shot-gun theater in Milwaukee — they had 100 seats or so. My buddies got together and said, “come on, Frankie, go up there.” And that's the song I won with — "Ain't She Sweet." $5 was first price, $3 second prize and $2 third prize. A movie theater that had amateur night. It had to be silent movies because they had that piano there. I would go to movies there. And my brother, Gene, was ushering there — that's how long that movie house lasted. A neighborhood theater.

As a boy, I also played basketball for the high school team and church team. My hero was Bud Foster, the coach of Wisconsin University. Every time I read his name or saw his picture in the paper, man oh man — because Wisconsin used to have a championship team then, but now it's all changed. I didn't want to go to college. I wanted what I saw my dad do — I said, “this is for me — music.” Poverty — a little money here, a little there, and you put it all together and you've got some put aside. My uncle Keene was an optician. And he asked me to come down and straighten up the office, but don't touch anything that has to do with opticians 'cause you're like[ley] to break something. And he said--that was five days, about two hours after school, five dollars. But, we'd play on a lake somewhere and I'd have$20 for three days work, and I thought, what am I doing working for my uncle for five dollars?

That was my aunt Frances' husband. We didn't go on any trips except to see relatives in Chicago and to the farm. No animals or no gardens when I was growing up in Milwaukee. Mom was more up on flowers — she bad the most beautiful flowers — and when he were going to that St. Cyril's Church the women would come by the house just to see — and ask what kind of flower is that — or the one against the porch. She had so many, roses, and tulips and winter flowers up there — that she would save for winter — she grew peppers and a thing that rattled that was used for seasoning.

I've got a Polish book a man put out recently for Chicago, well, that's just territorial. The girl in Germany which you translated for me — she sold that. And then the rock’n’roll guy and then the guy in Arkansas wrote the book featuring one of the movies we made: "Carolina Cotton" with Johnny Mac Brown.

I said, “you're saturating that territory. I've still got enough vim and vigor yet to move around the country and do these television shows and personal appearances.” And I get disc jockeys — Eddie Arnold, he had the first one, and he left me and went over to RCA Victor and within 3 years’ time, he had the first 5 hits on the billboard chart. I was 6th — was "Tennessee Waltz,” and then he come [came] back with 7, 8 and 9. And Jimmy Wakley was my guest on the road one time — he come [came] through to play some theaters. He says, “you make your movies and get paid and then go on the road and you make your money” — that was his theory. And he said, “think of that van going across the country with Gene Autry and his horse — for Republic Pictures.” Jimmy Wakley said, “what in the hell did you do to spark Eddy?” I said, “I didn't spark Eddie to nothing.” I said, “he sparked his girlfriend,” — Lydia's girlfriend — and he got married. That's the reason he wanted to leave.

He didn't want to hit the road all the time. He got a good contract with Purina and Grand Ole Opry was paying him a salary, RCA Victor Records, I said, “tell me about it,” he said, “ I'm tell[ing] just last month he had the top five — you were 6, Eddie was 7, 8 and 9.” And here comes Jimmy Wakley with Margaret Whiting way down the list of 12 or 14. We had the number one hit in the country, — Pop and Country. See, Jimmy, being a movie star, copied Autry to a letter. Gene knew it. He said, “let him copy. What the hell can he do — he's just starting out.” He had it made. He said, “it don't [doesn’t] bother me.” One time Gene was supposed to be grand marshal in the Rose Bowl Parade and was sick. He called Jimmy Wakley and said “hey, kid, how'd you like to be in the Rose Bowl Parade — I'm in the hospital.” And he said, “I've already fixed it for you — you can't say no — you little son of a bitch.”

Gene Autry is the oldest friend I've got. He called me Christmas. He says, “you and Lydia —we've got to call you on your anniversary.” We go back to '33 — '34. We call Eddie Arnold on his anniversary he just had an anniversary in Nov.

Lydia [King’s wife]: I was performing when Pee Wee met me. My sister and I sang together. We were called the Hoosier Maids. We were a duet — we sang mostly ballads. We sang in Chicago before we moved down here. Our first job was with Clayton McMitchen. We worked with him a while and then worked with the Log Cabin Boys. Then she married in June and Pee Wee and I married the following December. I was born in Chicago; we were called the Hoosier Maids, my dad did that, because we were living down here. We didn't live in Indiana — the first place we lived was right on Third and St. Catherine — it's a lot now for the Walnut Street Baptist Church. We were called Hoosier Maids — we worked the area which included Indiana; he never told us the reason [for the name] — he just did it. When we worked for McMitchen, we were called the Georgia Peaches. My dad is my stepfather, but we never talk about that because he was the only father we knew. He was born right on the line [near Tennessee and Alabama] and he's music [in the] Alabama Music Hall of Fame. That's the telegram Gene Autry sent when my mother died. My real father was a musician, but I was only 3 or 4 years old when he died. But he was a concert pianist. My older brother and sister were born in Shreveport, Louisiana, and he played with the orchestra down there.

My father died when he was very young, and left Mom with five children. Mom and Dad married, I guess, when I was 6 or 7. He was a good father, too. I was about 11 or 12 when he started in the music business. He went to WLS [Chicago radio station] and when Gene Autry went to Chicago, he was his road manager.

I think my sister and I were 10 and 12 when we first started singing on WLS, a noontime show. We used to sing for funerals, political functions, that sort of thing. Then, when I was 16 or 17, Dad got us a job at WJJD as one of Gene Autry's sisters — we had a trio — that was in Chicago, too. People say, “you've been around.” We took it for granted — it didn't mean that much. There were always performers at our house, And Gene Autry — his sisters and one brother were at out

house at lot, too. I mean I was never a big fan — impressed with stars — like Pee Wee was. Pee Wee always loved the people in the business and his fans — he's a big fan, too. He just loves people, period, and it shows.

[Pee Wee continues speaking]: One of the jokes that (??), he used to tell when I was a kid growing up in Arkansas, my dad used to say don't you ever go in that picture show house where girls come dancing with scanty outfits on, And he said, “I saw the funniest thing, I went in there one day and who should be on the front row, my dad!”

They used to have that when I was a kid. The foghorn used to wake me up. The thing I liked the most about growing up in Milwaukee was first of all, baseball. You had the Brewers in the park out there. And later on, the Green Bay Packers football team. And some of the best skiers in the world would come from Wisconsin, and I credit that to the fact that in wintertime most of the playgrounds

and school yards are frozen over. And you have grade school and high school championships — every kid learns to skate. Today it's all skiing or snowmobiles. The skates my father used to put on my feet — we were skiing even then — and nobody ever thought of a snowmobile. Ice skating was the main thing in the wintertime — Kosciucko Park. He was a patriot and a general in the Polish Army.

In our early days, the church didn't mean too much to our family, but to our mother and dad later in life — it meant a lot to them. I want don't it for publication, but I had arguments with them later in life about Jehovah's Witnesses. Mrs. S would say, “I saw your boy on television,” — it was used as a door opener. And still, I couldn't take it away from them. They were born Catholics, but when we moved to Abrams, they didn't have a Catholic Church there, so they joined Jehovah's Witnesses. They were Jehovah Witnesses when they died.

I'll tell you a true story and this is hard to believe. When my dad went it (??) & they were going to cut a leg off because he was diabetic. His leg swelled up. His doctor called me long-distance. He said, “Frankie, I want you to come up here to Wisconsin, your dad's in the hospital, very sick. And I've got to amputate a leg and he won't let me do it.” And he said, “I have to. He's a stubborn man, and your mother is right by his side,” and she said, “no, no way.” “So, I'm calling you in desperation.” So, I said, “whatever my dad wants, I can't go against his wishes because Jehovah’s Witnesses don't believe in transfusions.” So, I flew up there. I said, “see what you can do without it.” He said,” well, I can give him insulin and he can coast along, but eventually it'll have to come off.” So, I talked with my dad, and I talked with my mother, and I said, “Mom, if Pa has to die, you're going to be the one who has to take the blame because you're telling them not to let them do it. So let them operate on him.” And she say, “no, I don't think so. I'll tell you what I'll do; if he promises to not use a blood transfusion, I'll let him do it.”

And my dad like[d] to throw a fit because they were hanging that insulin bag down there. And he says, “Frankie, what's that — that's blood, isn't it?” And I said, “no, pa.” I said, “I won't lie to you — that's insulin.” And he says, “is that going to make me well?” And I says, “for a while, but it ain't going to last long.” And he said, “I'm going to tell you like I told the doctor — I came on this earth with two legs and I'll leave with two legs.” And he never had the operation because Mom drowned before he died. He lived several years after that, but it didn't get any better. I've dreamt this over so many times — I supposing they had taken the leg off, maybe Ma would have never died. Then what do

you do — one offsets the other. And our whole family knew there was going to be a big argument about it.

None of the other family became Jehovah Witnesses — just Mother and Dad. And they did real well by it — they made friends. My mom never met a stranger; she'd go in and say, my name is Helen Kuczynski. You ever heard of Pee Wee King?” They'd say, “yeah--yeah, I heard him on radio today in Green Bay.” “You visiting?” They'd say, “yeah.” “Why don't you bring them to the house?” We first went to the Catholic Church, and then for a while, when he [we] lived on Windlake Ave, when we went to the Lutheran Church over there for a couple of months. Do you have that picture in the scrapbook of Ma with the bicycle and Uncle Kelly with his uniform standing by me? That's the first thing I can remember as a little kid — that tricycle— Auntie Anna and him got married after that. I was 3 years old. And now I've got a grandson who's 2 years old, and he's got a tricycle. My father would play polkas and once in a while, he'd get a modern song. I'll use for instance, "When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain," something like that, but that's much later, "Kansas City Kitty.” I've still got that sheet music upstairs. He played the concertina and violin and read music. I took lessons on his fiddle for a long time and then finally bought me mine. The owner of a bar there — he said, “why don't you send Frankie to my daughter — he'll teach him to play the violin.” I can't remember her name — maybe my sister would remember it.

My father would play at home, at dances, weddings, and picnics at the lake — the violin and the concertina. His band was the Midnight Four Plus One. He asked me to join the band to fill it out a little. I played the concertina. Here's my accordion teacher [looking through pictures]. There's my brother with his concertina. ----- This was before Gene was born--that's me, my sister and ... here's with ----- Al Girard, one of the greats. Wisconsin and Nashville, polka bands 35-40 years ago. Best German music in Milwaukee, but during the war, they took them off the air, didn't want nothing to do with them ---Woody Herman--Max King, Pee Wee King. Got some good names, in good company, Lex Paul, he's from Walkerson (Waucason??) .

Minnie said, “I saw your souvenir book. It's pretty good. I saw the pictures of Eddie Arnold. How did you get by not — how did you get by not getting permission from Eddie?” I said,” for gosh sakes, Minnie, Jerry Purcell, Edddie's manager, scares everybody away with that.”

When I was growing up, we had a wind-up kind of phonograph player. I can't

remember the name of it, but I bet my sister could because she's probably got pictures

of it somewhere. The polka records that were so popular back then — my mother’s

brother Tony had so damn many, and I learned some polkas off of his records. I

remember Okeh Records, Blue Bird Records. But they didn't have influence on me wanting to be in music or writing songs. It was the live music. I didn't listen to the radio when [I was] a boy because I didn't have time — not till later in life did I listen to music on the radio. As a kid carrying papers, I remember Jack Dempsey, etc. — extra, extra, Dempsey knocked out by Tony, get your paper right here. That was 3 cents, but everybody gave you a nickel.

I always wanted to be a musician, but I served an apprenticeship in vocational school to be a draftsman. because Uncle Lawrence said, “you go to vocational school at night and learn how to be a draftsman.” Uncle Lawrence — the one I worked for. Because he figured being a draftsmen would be my forte. And see, in those days, I didn't say [anything] nothing about being a musician. I was happy doing what I was doing. In fact, I didn't know better. This was while I was still in high school.

So, I went to vocational school at night and had to make all those diagrams and hell, I saw no reason for me to use it. But to please him I did it. I went about a year and then quit. They called them pre-vo back in those days — where did you go to school — pre-vo! What's the matter, don't you have a trade?!

I always hustled for a living. I paid my mother board when I was selling newspapers. I paid her $8 a week. I used to drive Aunt Marie and Aunt Emma to their work. They worked at the Fried Ostermann glove factory; I used to drive them to work for 8 cents a gallon; that's when I got a little older and was finishing high school and had a car. A Marquette Touring Car — boy, was it snazzy, side curtains in the wintertime — 1932 or '33. Made by Buick, I think. My brother-in-law was the one who figured the deal. I've never had a foreign car.

I've never regretted being in the music profession. If the Lord had me start all over, I'd do it the same. I suffered through the good times and the bad times, but the main thing is I'm still here — that's what I tell these disc jockeys. Guys like Randy Travis making so much money and you guys started it. Jimmy Dickens says to one of the DJs the other day — “those boys don't make all that money; their

agent charges that, but when he pays off all the bills, how much does he have left?” And that's the only answer I give, too. I've had a good life. I've been married 55 years. I enjoy the kids' company and they enjoy ours, you know. We're still a close family.

I changed my name first to Frankie King because of Wayne King. He was playing a dance and we were playing a club. He told me what his name was and why he changed it. He says, “when you change your name, make it an easy name and they can't make a mistake.” So, from then on, I was Frankie King. The boys in the band said, “Jesus, God, we're hot stuff now.” One of the better things we ever did because we started playing the bigger dances and ballrooms all through Wisconsin, and that area. Frankie King and the King's Jesters. Wayne King's name was Krolalowski (??) or something. He was Bohemian. This Ted Fabian I told you about--he and I correspond and we'll put on the last line "God bless you" and then [says in Polish.]

We spoke Polish at home — had to. Our parents did, grandparents did. They spoke broken English and Ma spoke a little broken English, but Pa would always rattle off real good. He spoke better English than my mother. They spoke Polish to each other once in a while. I used to get a Polish newspaper when I first came to Louisville. I can’t write Polish, but I can read most of it. Polish was spoken more in my grandparents' homes than my parents'. Some of my brothers and sisters might remember a little Polish — I don't know.

St. Cyril's was a Polish parish. The sermon would be given in Polish. I've been a Lutheran since I've been married. Lydia's a German Lutheran. We're charter members of St. John Lutheran Church in Louisville. All our children were married by Lutheran preachers. (A bourbon and water is a Presbyterian — in Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota.)