Apr 28, 2007 By Glenn Tunney For The 9 min read

Editor’s note: In April 1999, Glenn Tunney interviewed Brownsville’s John Claxton and wrote two columns based upon that interview.Two years later, Claxton passed away at the age of 94. In this second of two columns we are reprinting, Claxton spun some fascinating tales of his life in Brownsville – a full life that began on May 14, 1907, 100 years ago next month.

John Claxton has lived and worked in the Brownsville area for most of his 91 years. Many of his memories revolve around his places of employment. In last week’s column, John reminisced about his brief period of employment at “Bowman’s” castle around 1923. After John left his job at the castle, he found work at the Bush and Marsh drug store in the Snowdon Building, next door to Union Station. That was before the construction of the new Union Station building, which opened in 1929.

“So the old station was still there when you began working at Bush and Marsh?”

“Yeah, I worked there when the old station was there. I used to go over there and loaf.”

“That was a one story building, right?”

“Yes. You’d go in there and loaf, and the station master, old man Labin, he knew everybody in town and whether you were going to catch a train or not. In the winter time, it was a good place to loaf.” John began to chuckle. “As long as you kept your foot going, why, he wouldn’t bother you.”

“As long as you kept your foot going?”

“Yeah, you know. You had your legs crossed,” he began moving his foot back and forth, “if you stopped, why, you had to go out.” Apparently, the lack of movement indicated sleep, and that spelled eviction from the waiting room.

“There were a lot of trains in and out. Monongahela Hotel was across the street,” John told me. “It took care of all the salesmen. They’d come in and they’d go over to the Monongahela, then they’d show their goods downstairs. Even if you didn’t have work, you could always pick up a couple dollars by picking up the salesmen’s grips, you know.”

The Monongahela National Bank was also located across the street from Bush and Marsh Drug Store. The bank, which was founded in 1812, failed in the early 1930s, a victim of the Depression. John remembers when the bank “went under.” He was still working at Bush and Marsh at the time.

“You didn’t have money in there, did you?” I asked.

“No,” he laughed, “that was the only one I didn’t have any in. ‘Course, I never had over $25 in any of them.

“Ruby Goldstein’s store was next to the drug store,” he said, “and they used to all loaf over there. They were talking one day.” Here, John mimicked how Ruby, with her slow, drawn-out phrases, regaled her listeners.

“Ruby said, ‘You know, I didn’t mind losing my money. But they waited, they pulled the shades down. I’d knock at the door, and they’d run up there and open the door and let me make my deposit. Now, they KNEW they were going to close,’ she said dramatically, ‘and STILL they took my money!'” John started laughing. “You could die laughing with Ruby.”

In 1936, John married Pauline, while he was still working at Bush and Marsh. Next, he worked at the Monongahela Hotel. “That’s where I learned how to cook. I was a jack of all trades.”

“Is that where you picked up your famous barbecue recipe?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, I made that one up myself.”

In 1943, while working for the P&LE railroad, John was drafted into the army at the age of 37. Following the surrender of Japan, he returned to Brownsville. Not wishing to return to the section gang on the P&LE railroad, he got a job at Kart’s women’s store in Brownsville, where he worked for many years.

I asked John to recall what recreation or sports were available in Brownsville when he was young.

“Dunlap Creek, that’s where we played ball. You know where Second Arch is?” He was referring to one of the stone railroad bridges built over Dunlap Creek near Brownsville. “We played ball there, right along the creek. B.C.A., Brownsville Colored Athletics.”

“You had a league?”

“No, you’d buy your suit, and they just called the team B.C.A. We played teams from all around. Anybody who had a team that wanted to play, we played them.”

“Did you play on Sundays?”

“Anytime. I pitched, most anything but catch,” he recalled. His wife Pauline laughed, “He still has his glove!”

“Are we talking about fast pitch baseball?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded.

The discussion moved to entertainment.

“Has anybody told you about the Opera House?” he asked me.

“Well, no,” I said, “most folks I talk to can’t remember the Opera House.” The Opera House, which was located at the approximate site of G.C. Murphy store, burned in February of 1919.

“Last show I remember seeing there was ponies. Live show.”

“How many floors were there in the Opera House?”

“I think three. Now, I wasn’t very old. I just do remember.”

John also remembered the Arcade Theater. It stood almost directly across Market Street from the Union Station building. It featured silent films and live entertainment.

“Six cents to go to it,” he said. “Then raised to 11 cents. It was run by Mr. Hummell. The Arcade and Republic would run pictures the same day, then when it would go off, they’d transfer them back and forth. On the weekends were your serials, like Tom Mix, Buck Jones, Ken Maynard.”

“Are these all cowboys?”

“Yeah. They’d last about 18 weeks. You couldn’t miss one of them. During the week, they had different shows, but kids weren’t interested too much in those. The weekend was our big showtime. That’s where I saw all of the Tom Mix silent films. We used to come into town when I lived in Braznell. You could go to the Arcade and the Bison on the same day. There would always be five or six of us. We’d pool our money and go to the five and 10. It was an all-day affair. If it was light at the end of the day, we’d walk. If it was dark, we’d catch the train.”

“Did they sell food in any of these theaters?”

“No, just popcorn machines. We’d go down to Fiddles and get hot dogs.”

John remembered Fiddles as a favorite eatery long after his childhood years. “That was the place to go to get your hot dog. I remember Johnny was there working. He would beat the devil out of a hamburger.”

I asked about another theater in Brownsville, the Plaza.

“The Plaza was more expensive. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday, they’d have stage shows. Vaudeville.”

“Were you ever upstairs in the Plaza?”

“Yeah, they used to have dances up there. On the top floor, they had a club, the Valhalla Club. This group of men had it.”

“Were these public dances?”

“Oh, yeah, they brought in Lunsford . . .”

“Who?”

“Jimmy Lunsford. You never heard of him? He was a big time band!” John laughed and looked over at Pauline, then back at me.

“Have you heard of Fats Waller?” he asked.

“No.” There was a pause. John and Pauline looked at each other again with a look of amusement. Now I started laughing. “I’m sorry! I’m not from the Big Band Era!”

“How about Cab Calloway?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Cab Calloway.”

“We had his sister here, Blanche Calloway. We had Fats Waller here, Fletcher Henderson, Chick Webb, Jimmy Lunsford, all big time bands. The leader of the band would come into Pittsburgh, bring their own music, and go to the musicians’ union and pick up instrumentalists and come to Brownsville. They were booked out of Steubenville for a week. They might play here, then maybe Jim Nagg, he’d have a dance out at Rosefield, that’s out at Richeyville. They had a dance hall and skating rink out there. Book ’em into Uniontown and little Washington.”

“How many people would go to these things at the Plaza?”

“Three or four hundred,” John replied.

John also remembered dances held by several lodges, all of which met in a building called the Oddfellows Hall, which stood near the top of High Street hill on the west side of the street.

“The Oddfellows Hall took care of all of the colored lodges, the Masons, the American Legion, the K.P.’s.”

“What are the K.P.’s?” I asked. “The Knights of Pythias,” he replied.

John said that Oddfellows building was torn down a few years ago, and a new home was recently built on the site.

Of course, no conversation with John Claxton would be complete without discussing one subject that hadn’t come up yet. I asked how he got started in the business of barbecuing ribs and chicken over charcoal, a skill for which John became locally renowned and sought after by organizations and festivals.

“The chamber of commerce had a wagon train, and they went over in Maryland, then they came back and I barbecued at the castle. A lady over at the covered bridge festival from near Washington called me up and said, ‘John, how would you like to barbecue?’ I said I didn’t have any way of getting there. My brother-in-law had a station wagon, so he said that’s no problem, we’ll go. So we got barrels, cut them in half, put mesh wire over top of them. And that’s how it started. Then, it was so good over there, there were festivals all around with more entertainment, so I used to have four or five hundred chickens and ribs . . .”

“Now how did that work? They’d buy all the meat, then …”

“No, I’d buy the meat. At the butcher shop where I dealt, the man would trust me. I’d have a bill of fifteen hundred dollars and wouldn’t have fifteen cents! Takin’ a chance. I always made money.”

“What did you do with the leftovers?”

“When I worked over there, you didn’t have no leftovers. You’d sell out.”

“So you’re not going to reveal your secret recipe?”

“No, I have nothin’ to tell you,” he laughed, “I make it just like you do.”

John Claxton still takes daily walks. He told me that perhaps this year you could see him at the castle again if his health permits. To many folks around Brownsville, it just wouldn’t be the same without him.