Mr. Pit's place was the center of the black community in Greensville, and when you walked into the café you saw two things--right off--which shaped me for the rest of my life. Talkin' 'bout a piano and a jukebox. Oh, that piano! It was an old, beat-up upright and the most wonderful contraption I had ever laid eyes on. Boogie-woogie was hot then, and it was the first style I was exposed to. Mr. Pit played with the best of them… Well, one day when Mr. Pit started to playing, I waddled on up to the piano and just stared. It astonished and amazed me--his fingers flying, all those chords coming together, the sounds jumping at me and ringing in my ears. You'd think an older cat would be put off by this young kid hangin' round. Not Mr. Pit… But for whatever reasons, the man treated me like a son; he lifted me on the stool and put me right there on his lap. Then he let me run my fingers up and down the keyboard. That was a good feeling, and forty-five years later, it still feels good. I tried to figure out how he could make all those notes come together. I was a baby, but I was trying to invent some boogie-woogie licks of my own. Some days I'd be out in the yard back of the house. If I heard Mr. Pit knocking out some of that good boogie-woogie, I'd drop what I was doing and run over to his place. The man always let me play. "That's it, sonny! That's it!" he'd scream, encouraging me like I was his student or his son. He saw I was willing to give up my playing time for the piano, so I guess he figured I loved music as much as he did. And all this was happening when I was only three. << less