Here's the reason I attended the Last Friday Blues Jam. That's Mike Cook of Winnsboro, Louisiana, on the left and his nephew Joe Cook of Tullos, Louisiana, on the right. Joe volunteered to be the designated driver.

With Joe on guitar, Joe's 12-year-old son, Luke, on drums, Mike on bass, and Junior on vocals, we're trying to learn to play and sing the blues. Call us the Tullos White Boys Blues Band. We're concentrating on Little Walter's version of "Key To The Highway" and Muddy Waters's "Electric Man." One of these days we're gonna show up at the Roque's Last Friday Blues Jam and bring down the house.

Just past Joe's right ear, notice a good-lookin' woman looking either at the camera or at me. Just past Joe's left ear, that's philosopher and Cane River Creole Mike Dupree sitting on his regular stool at the corner of the bar beside the jars of pickled pig's feet.

When the CNN crew filmed in Roque's and the filming ended, we relaxed and partied like everyone else. I sat where Joe is sitting in the photo above. The CNN producer, Susan Mittleman, a cute and skinny little thing from New York City, sat on that vacant stool to Joe's left at the very corner of the bar. Mike Dupree was sitting on that vacant stool to his left at the other very corner of the bar. The two hit it off famously. You never heard such laughing and carrying on.

Mike discovered that Susan was a vegetarian. So, of course, he began a long discourse on the merits of ‘possum meat versus armadillo meat followed by an even longer discourse on how to cook ‘possum, including a vivid description of the grease and how it oozed out of the corners of your mouth. All of that was accompanied by exaggerated groans, gasps, sighs, and choking sounds from Susan.

My sides hurt I laughed so much.

Mike suddenly rose and stuck his hand in his pocket. Out came his hand, holding a pocket knife about five inches long. He quickly unfolded it, making it about ten inches long. Then th-whack he stuck it in the bar beside Susan. "Look-a here," he told her. "I got to go to the restroom. If somebody gets my seat, you stab ‘em!"

She grabbed the knife, twisted it and extracted it from the wooden bar top, and there she sat, guarding Mike Dupree's stool.

Here in Junior's Juke Joint, I've often talked about the black girls in the beer posters on the walls of juke joints. Here's a sample straight from the walls of Roque's Blues Hall.

In my opinion, the two Schlitz girls are gorgeous, but the Bud Light girl is a goddess. She could make David Duke join the NAACP.

Here's the boss man and the boss lady: Stanley and Teresa Roque. They're salt of the earth people. When I left for the long trip home, Stanley was leaning against the wall beside the front door. I said to him, "Stanley Roque, I love you." I meant every word.

On the sidewalk outside the City Bank of Natchitoches there's a "Walk Of Honor" consisting of engraved marble plaques in the sidewalk. Each plaque contains the name of a famous Natchitoches citizen such as Grits Gresham and Bobby Harling or the name of a famous person who did something famous in Natchitoches such as John Wayne, John Ford, and the stars of Steel Magnolias. One of those plaques should contain the name of Stanley Roque.

Stanley provides a place where people of all races can and do come together in harmony. Stanley and his place, Roque's Grocery, Pool Hall, and House of Blues, are jewels in the crown of Natchitoches, and, indeed, the State of Louisiana. Lots of foreign tourists visit Natchitoches, but many of them visit for the express purpose of sitting at the bar in Roque's and soaking up the atmosphere.

Mike Dupree, from his position guarding the pickled pig‘s feet, told me of talking to people from France, England, Australia, Austria, and other countries I can't remember. Some of them told him that Roque's was the highlight of their visit to Louisiana.

Speaking of atmosphere, Stanley installed two $1,800 smoke eaters on the walls. When Roque's is filled with people, smoke haters such as me are barely aware of smoke.

Here's Roque's Blues Band's keyboard player, Henry Riggens of Leesville, Louisiana. It's about 8:45 pm, and the band just arrived. We see Henry setting up his keyboard. Notice the cast on his left arm and just the tips of his fingers poking out. I wondered how in heck he could play in that condition, but when the band got hot, he pounded a rhythm with an up and down motion from his left hand while his right hand flew across the keyboard like a black Jerry Lee Lewis.

Man, even one-handed, Henry Riggens burned that keyboard.

Here's the band around 9:30 pm and just beginning to play. I took this photo from my stool at the corner of the bar opposite Mike Dupree. He is just out of sight to my left. The front door is perhaps 15 feet behind me. Notice the crowd beginning to arrive.

Let me introduce the band: From left to right, first we see David Dupree, Mike's nephew, on guitar and sitting in for the blues jam. Next and in the back, we see James Wagley on bass. The man in black on guitar and in front of the microphone is none other than Jerry Beach, the author of Albert King's classic "I'll Play The Blues For You." Jerry drove down from Shreveport for the Roque's Last Friday Blues Jam. More on him later.

Beside Jerry and on saxophone we see Hardrick Rivers. Beside Hardrick and on keyboards we almost see Henry Riggens. Beside Henry and against the wall we see Rick Seale on guitar. We can't see the drummer, Pop Hymes, because he's hidden in the corner behind Hardrick.

Before the band started I told Pop, "Pop, you never get in any of the pictures ‘cause you're hid in that little cubbyhole in the back. I'm gonna do something about that tonight."

"Alright!"

We're now nearing 10:30 and the band's break, i.e., a pause for the cause. The place is filling with people, and the dance floor is crowded. Around the bar, it's standing room only and good luck on regaining your stool and your girlfriend if you have to go to the restroom (as once happened to me in Roque's).

Here's Hardrick, his eyes closed and putting his soul into Johnny Taylor's "Last Two Dollars."

At some point during that song, Mike Dupree waxed philosophically—as he is prone to do after one too many $1.15 16 oz Budweiser Natural Light beers. "Look-a here," he said to me after I took this photo. "One of these days that song is going to be a classic."

"Yep," I agreed. "Like Marvin Gaye's ‘Let's Get It On.'"

"That's right," Mike said. "In the year five thousand and six, people on space ships going to strange planets will be playing 'Let's Get It On.'"

"Yep," I agreed again. Then I nodded toward a couple on the dance floor and added, "And dancin' down an' dirty like that."

Mike turned and looked toward the dance floor. The couple was white and in their twenties, and I need a better word than grinding to describe what they were doing. Mike turned back to me, and he said, "Look-a here. What's the world comin' to—got white folks dancin' like brothas."

The song finished, and the dance floor emptied. Stanley Roque was standing on the other side of the bar. Earlier, I had noticed a new floor board on the dance floor. I said, "Stanley, is your dance floor wearing out after all these years?"

"Sure is," he answered. "I'll have to either put plywood down or put new boards down and run them in the other direction."

"Hate to see you put plywood on the floor. It'd mess up the atmosphere."

"Look-a here," Mike Dupree said. "I can tell you how to fix that floor."

"How's that?" Stanley asked.

"You brick up all around the bottom of the building," Mike said. "Then you knock a hole in the floor somewhere, and you rent a concrete truck and you pump in concrete. When it dries, all the boards'll be sittin' on solid concrete."

I was laughing, so I don't really remember Stanley's reply. I think it was, "Dupree, that's the dumbest idea you've ever had."

I felt a hunger pang, and I thought of Mike's brother Patrick and the Crock Pot^® restaurant he once operated on the bar near the front door. He sold the world's most delicious hot link sandwich. I nodded toward that end of the bar and said, "Dupree, how come Patrick doesn't sell his barbeque sandwiches any more?"

"He don't do nothing but sit on his ass and get fat."

"Hell, he's the fattest man I know. Don't you mean fatter?"

"Look-a here. Let me be ebonically correct—mo fatter!"

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#3	#4

Here is a series of photos taken while Jerry Beach sang his signature song: "I'll Play The Blues For You." Albert King's version has always been one of my favorite songs, and I told Jerry that fact.

I asked him the circumstances around his writing it: "I wrote it for another musician—a guy named Jetter Davis," Jerry told me. "I'm not a singer. Jetter was. He sounded like Bobby Bland. We made a demo tape and Albert King heard it."

Jerry Beach may not be a great vocalist, but I can testify to the fact that he's a world-class guitarist.

In the series of photos, notice that I caught Pop Hymes in #3 and #4. I took maybe a dozen photos from that position, and in every one but those two Pop was leaned over and out of sight. Pop, I did my best.

Here's the musicians on the porch during the 10:30 break. From left to right, James Wagley, Jerry Beach, some guy from Memphis named George Sluppick, and Pop Hymes.

I asked George what brought him to Natchitoches from Memphis. He answered, "I got caught in a skirt."

I understood because I've been caught in a few skirts myself—highly entangled, also.

Outside again: Left to right, James Wagley, Pop Hymes, Junior Doughty, Hardrick Rivers, Rick Seale, and Jerry Beach.

More outside: Left to right, Pop Hymes, Henry Riggens, Mike Dupree, and Unidentified.

We're back inside after the break and a few more beers. The time is around 11:30 pm. This was my view toward a table directly to the right of my stool. All three are fine looking women, but the one on the right, in black, has a standing invitation to ride in the Bluesmobile. If you know her, please tell her that fact. Every time her date went to the bathroom, I had to fight the urge to lean over and say, Howdy, my name is Junior, but you can call me electric man.

Roque's was full of eye candy that night. This little sugar pie, honey bun, you know that I love you is none other than Kedria Hymes, daughter of Pop and Mary Hymes.

Her t-shirt says, CRAZY. There's no doubt in my mind but that she drives the boys crazy. Full growed men, too.

In the background, that's a little cutie from two photos above. In the foreground, that's Mary Hymes with Kedria on the other side of her.

That's Mary Hymes in green on the bar stool to the left. To take this photo, I stood in the front door.

The photo shows Roque's racially diverse crowd, about half black or Creole and half white. It would be nice if all people of different races, creeds, and colors could live together in harmony like they party together in harmony in Roque's. Stanley Roque has truly created something marvelous.

Maybe the State Department should send Stanley to Northern Ireland or to the Balkans to oversee the construction and operation of a juke joint.

My two blues buddies were waiting for me in the Bluesmobile as I snapped the above photo. I was not ready to go, but go I knew I must. I made my goodbys with Stanley, and I left. As I do every time I leave Roque's, I made a silent wish that I would return.

With Joe driving, we began the long trip home. On a lonely stretch through the piney woods we crossed the edge of a huge clear-cut. Far across the black distance I could see lights. It reminded me of driving at night beside a vast Delta cotton field, the far away lights on the other side looking like lights on the shore of an ocean.

The urge to get up the next morning and pack my tent and hit the Blues Highway came to me. Then the beginning of "Key To The Highway" came to me: