Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, March 15, 1992 TAG: 9203150096
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: E1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MADELYN ROSENBERG NEW RIVER VALLEY BUREAU
DATELINE: FLOYD LENGTH: Long
There's no drinkin', no smokin' and no cussin'. But if Freeman Cockram's financial problems aren't cleared up soon, then later this month, there may be no more Friday Night Jamborees.
Last week, Cockram, who doesn't like to talk about money (and says he doesn't know what he'd do with it if he ever had any) appealed to the people who care about him the most - the hundreds of folks who come here like clockwork, to listen to his music.
But these people, though they're good-hearted, aren't rich. And it's going to take more than an old-fashioned barn-raising to keep this place going. It's going to take close to $30,000 to get him out of debt. Cockram needs the money by Tuesday.
"We can't do it alone," he said. "We've got a positive thing here. I'm talking to people, giving them a chance to help if they want to. The wolf is at our door."
Just how Freeman and his wife, Helen, got into debt, is a long story and not something they really want to go into in detail. But anyone who knows them shouldn't have a hard time figuring out what happened.
A number of people who owed them money came upon rough times and couldn't pay. To make more room for the jamboree, they've let some of the stock thin out. And the collection basket that is passed out once a week, though filled with generous donations, isn't enough to keep things going.
Jean Speer, a Virginia Tech professor who's into folklore, jumped into action last week and set up a fund for the jamboree at the First National Bank of Christiansburg.
"This is so much a part of what we think is good about our heritage," she said. "There's got to be something the rest of us can do. There are people who care about it a lot. We have to help."
\ Freeman Cockram is a soft-spoken man, and when he takes the stage with his Dobro, he usually has a joke or two about this old boy or that.
This time, his jokes seemed to run dry.
"If not for ya'll good people, we would've lost our homes and everything else by now," he said. "Well, we're in danger again. We need to pray for the Friday Night Jamboree and hope that the Good Lord sees fit to let things go on.
"Whatever his will is, we're going to have to live with it. What we need, worse than anything else, is prayer."
And when it came time for the prayer that begins the Jamboree, people prayed hard, eyes closed, lips moving.
Cockram was appealing to the people who love this jamboree the most, the people who are here, every Friday night, to hear bluegrass and gospel and to be together.
"Ya'll are the best friends we've got," Cockram said, the strains of a banjo floating from the upstairs, where the next group was warming up.
"I don't believe in bankruptcy. I believe God will pull us through."
He stands to lose everything, he said, as he waited for someone to hand him his Dobro. He stared at it and said, "But they ain't gonna get this. Let's forget all of our problems for now."
And he began to play.
It was hard to forget the problems, though. And as people took the floor to flatfoot and two-step, they worried. Would this be the last time they danced on this hardwood floor?
It's taken Freeman Cockram a long while to ask for money.
Glenn Wilson, who started this jamboree with Cockram about six years ago, remembers that someone else had to suggest passing around the basket for donations. They waited until Cockram was off-stage before suggesting it.
"This means so much to the community and the older folks," Wilson said, as he unsnapped his guitar case. "People from all over, if you say you're from Floyd, ask you about the jamboree."
He paused. "It looks pretty bad right now," he said. "But it's been bad before."
Woody Conner, taking a break while the music was stopped, pulled a picture of his grandson from his wallet. "Someday, if this is still going, I'm going to bring him here and get him out on the floor," he said.
To Conner, this is a place to go where he can see his friends, buy a nickel cola ("Well, they used to be a nickel. They're 47 cents, now") get on the dance floor and take up space.
The music starts up again, Conner closes his wallet, puts it in his back pocket, and does a little shuffle-hop closer to the stage.
"Oh, this is a great place," said Gladys Altizer, who's been coming here every Friday night for two years. "It's a good, calm place for decent people to go."
Altizer has made many of the quilts that are raffled off during the jamboree to raise some extra money. Both she and Raymond West, who's been keeping her company these many Fridays, think Cockram's will endure.
"I think God's going to straighten it out," Altizer said.
"Jesus'll pull him through, you'll see," West added, and he reached for Altizer's hand.
by CNB