Charlie Jackson was a great man. He was a small businessman, a biker, a good family man, a tool and die maker, a combat veteran, a musician, and the best friend you could ever want. Knowing Charlie meant you got to meet his amazing friends. He loved his dogs and they loved him back. Way back, he was a corrections officer in Alabama. Yet he was no hateful racist. He once told me he was ashamed of his last name because of Andrew Jackson and his Trail of Tears. He was not some jerk biker out of central casting. He had no tattoos. He rode his Harleys in shorts and a tank-top. He was more of a Dead Head than some Sons of Anarchy star.

He loved going to concerts and music festivals. I remember him walking into the big grass bowl in Shoreline Amphitheater. He let out a loud piercing Rebel Yell. I noticed him doing this every show. It took a while to figure out that he did this so his dozens of friends at the concert would know he had made it so they could find him and enjoy the show together.

His long-time girlfriend Lee Webster even got a job at Shoreline directing parking and helping out. She did this long enough to earn an all-access badge. She could go hang out with the bands, but rarely did so, not wanting to take advantage of her position. Charlie treated Lee’s son Charles as his own. There was no shortage of life lessons or wisdom imparted.

Charlie had a son, Charlie Junior. I remember when Charlie Jr was about 13 or 14, Charlie was worried because his son cared about knives and comics, not girls. A few months later, Charlie got a 600-dollar phone bill. Charlie Junior had discovered 1-900 phone-sex. Charlie got the phone company to drop the charge, but they also disconnected him from 1-900 service. That was fine with Charlie. I teased him, “So Charlie, are you still worried Junior don’t like girls enough?” All I got was a sheepish smile back.

Charlie Junior went to Texas to live with relatives when he came of age. By then Charlie had hooked up with Lee and taken Charles as a proxy son. I know, it’s confusing, Charlie, Charlie Junior, and Charles. There was a period they were all under the same roof. I tried to help Charles by being his bad Uncle Buck. I let him drive my car when he was 12. Hey, it was an automatic, no big deal, and it was only in a parking lot.

Charles had one blue and one brown eye.
Lee’s son Charles had a rare medical condition. Heterochromia is when your eyes are different colors. I remember Charles getting teased by kids in his school. I printed up stuff off the internet proving to him that it was nothing bad and certainly not a trait of disability or retardation. Kids can be cruel. Maybe to vamp off this teasing, Charles had a T-shirt, “My mother says I’m special.” Kids can be great.

After Charlie and Lee split up, her son Charles had his own tragedy. He was riding his bicycle and ran into some angle iron on the rack of a construction truck. He had severe brain injury, but it has gotten way better over the years. Seeing him in a hospital bed with all those tubes and ventilators shook up all of us. Charlie, with his big heart, was especially saddened.

It wasn’t just people that Charlie loved. Charlie built a little fenced circle in the front yard. That was for his Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. I named the pig “Bacon” and Charlie was not amused. Like happens a lot, the cute little pig got gigantic, over 200 pounds. My breakfast recommendations went unheeded and Charlie gave his pig to a rescue organization.

Charlie liked his pig, but he loved his boxer dogs, Ginger and her son, Chopper. When Ginger had pups, Charlie and Lee gave most of them away and kept Chopper. You could tell the dogs were full-fledged family members. The dogs went to the concerts and made road trips. After Charlie’s business got booming, he rented houses with a lot of land, so his dogs could roam and explore. The dogs seemed to be having as much fun as Charlie. But Charlie was not all fun. Work was important.

Charlie’s business was a sharpening service. He ran it at 795 E Brokaw Road in San Jose, CA 95112. It was a small shop in a tilt-up building. Charlie’s team did not sharpen knives and wood chisels, but things like the end-mills used in machining. When Rutland tool started selling decent imported end-mills for less than Charlie could sharpen a used one, we all got a little worried. It turned out that, while the end-mill sharpening business declined, Charlie found plenty of work doing slitting saws and other industrial machine tools. His reputation was such that he could hold on until times got better.

I saw that reputation twice. I was at his shop and realized my little Spyderco pocket knife was way beyond dull. This was in the 1980s, when I would use it to open oil cans, and as a pry bar. Charlie asked, “Do you want a working edge, or a razor edge?” I replied that a working edge was better for a guy like me, who is hard on tools. I expected him to set up the knife in some jig or fixture. Instead, he went to one of his diamond grinders, put on a machinist’s magnifier, and did the job by hand, zip… zip. I could then shave the hair off my forearm with the knife. A razor edge from Charlie would have been like a scalpel.

After that perfect knife job, done for free, I wanted to pay for some work. I asked if he could sharpen my drill set, work he rarely did since new drills were so cheap. I think his employee Raymond did the job. A week later I was talking to Charlie and Raymond.

“Charlie,” I said, “There is something wrong with those drills you sharpened.” Charlie furrowed his brow, but Raymond looked really worried. They soon smiled when I finished the joke. “Yeah, they don’t leave a burr anymore.”

Years later I wanted to tighten up the front brake calipers on my 1979 Sportster. This involves replacing two bolts with hard metal pins that the caliper floats on. To get the caliper holes perfect, I needed a reamer that had the cutting edge not on the tip of the reamer like normal, but where the teeth start, by the shaft. That way I could have the shaft in one side of the caliper, and draw the reamer towards me, cutting the other side of the caliper, all while remaining perfectly aligned. I thought this was a crazy idea, but Charlie was unfazed. A day later, the reamer was done, to perfection. I still have in my toolbox. And my 1979 Sportster no longer has front calipers that rattle at stoplights. Charlie was a man whose work was very important to him. But he was not all about work.

Charlie was not just the life of the party, he was the party. Owning a tool-and-die shop in San Jose California gave him the means to host and attend as many events as he wanted. He was a pot-head, smoking weed every day. But he only did weed and booze. In my 30 years of hanging out with him, I never saw him snort a line of coke or meth.

Now that brings up that little arrest Charlie experienced up in Mendocino county. It wasn’t for weed, it was for coke. It was a typical California soft frame-up. One of Charlie’s ex-employees, an office manager, had gotten busted for dope. So to get more convictions, the cops convinced her to call anyone she knew and ask them to get some more dope, “for a friend”. Charlie didn’t want to do it, especially since he didn’t do coke or any other powders. She begged and begged. “For old time’s sake, please Charlie.”

So Charlie relented, got a friend of a friend to get an ounce or two, and rode up to Mendocino county to deliver it to the “friend”. My lawyer (all Harley guys need a criminal lawyer) told me Charlie got “home-towned”. This is when his lawyer is a Mendocino country local, and is more on the side of the cops than his client. Anyway, Charlie paid a bunch of money to that lawyer and to the court. That’s what is is all about anyway.

Taxing the middle class, who will bounce back, so the cops can rip them off again. As a first offense, Charlie didn’t do any time. This was rare, since Charlie refused to give up the name of the friend of a friend where he got the dope. No biggie, it was out of the county and Charlie was just a revenue source for some corrupt cronies in Mendocino County.

Charlie never griped or complained about the injustice of it all. He just went on being Charlie. Like many of my biker pals, Charlie gave up on Silicon Valley. He moved to Northern California. After a few years, he got in a bike wreck, but fully recovered. After that scare, it was an infection that caused septicemia, my mom would say blood poisoning. He got to the doctor and got admitted to the hospital in Chico. He was in a coma for a few days, and his son Charlie Junior rode his Harley up from Texas. On the way back to Texas, Charlie Jr. got in a wreck and was killed. When Charlie came out of the coma, he was in such bad shape, drifting in an out, we never told him about Charlie Junior. Charlie died a few days later.

Charlie was certainly not a bully, but he was stubborn. He liked getting his way and being the center of attention. I remember one party when a big fellow biker wrapped his arms around Charlie and swung him around like a plush toy. Charlie backed off and said, “Hey, don’t manhandle me.” I saw the point-- it’s a bit degrading to have somebody toss you around like a kid. Most times you have to earn respect, but it doesn’t hurt to demand respect every once and a while.

Charlie earned a little respect when he drove his Harley through the Lakewood Lounge, our main hangout for socializing. It was no big deal. It was a straight stretch. Everybody thought it was fun. Not Joe and Trudy, the owners. As Charlie came back inside and sat down, Joe banned him, or “86ed” him, as we used to say. It was never clear if that was for a day or forever. It didn’t matter, it was time for Charlie to demand respect.

There were about twelve people in the bar. Charlie exclaimed, “Fine, I am going to Bogart’s (across the street) and I will buy a drink for everyone here that comes with me.” Every single person left with Charlie and Bogart’s became the new hangout. They didn’t just leave for a free drink. Charlie was so loved and respected that nobody wanted to hang out at a place where he couldn’t be at. The Lakewood Lounge is long gone, but Bogart’s is still in business. I credit Charlie.

Charlie was in the 101st Airborne. When Charlie was 50, he told me that his doctor had said he “had 70-year-old lungs, an 80-year-old liver, and 90 year-old knees,” those from the parachute jumps. My favorite Vietnam story from Charlie was about the time Hubert Humphrey, the Vice President, came to the post. Charley recounted that he was playing cards with some pals. Humphrey walks up and asks how Charley was doing. “OK.” Then he asks another question. “Ya.” Then another, and with that, Charlie snapped, “Can’t you see I’m playing cards?!” Humphrey brushed it off, but man, did Charlie get it from the brass afterwards. I think Charlie is a great American. A soldier does not work for politicians.

Charlie was generous, but not to a fault. One Christmas, he gave out gifts to a few of us. Mine was an electric cord reel you can mount to the wall and pull out when you need it. I am using it right this minute, to charge my electric lawnmower, 25 years after Charlie gave it to me. To repay the kindness, the next time I visited, I stopped at the 7-11 and bought 20 Bic lighters. Like I said, Charlie was a pot-head, and pot-heads are always losing lighters. I don’t think they lasted a year before they “wandered off”.

Since Charlie liked kids, he would set up a fancy Halloween house of horrors. He and some pals would set up a bunch of stalls and put sheets and blankets between the support poles. They would build them together to make a complex winding path. They they would fill the stalls with various horror scenes. I don’t know who loved it more, the kids, or us.

Charlie combined his love of music and his need for attention by taking up the drums. I am pretty sure he was over 50 by then, but he was undaunted. With so many friends, it was not hard for him to find people to play with him. One musician told me the great thing about Charlie was he didn’t get all fancy with a lot of drum runs and flourish. “Just a solid, simple, straightforward beat. It is a joy to play with him.” It’s no surprise, Charlie was a solid guy.

Charlie even wrote a blues song, “Riding down the highway, smoking a J”. Here is my crappy box-camera recording of one chorus.

Charlie’s places

I noted Charlie lived in Alabama and I think Georgia before that. When I first met him in Sunnyvale California, he was sharing a house in Lakewood Village with Sammy Whitesill and some divorced executive named James. Divorced = poor = shared housing. Like I said, Charlie’s friends were always interesting. Sammy had done time in San Quentin. He told me he got to “walk alone” by acting crazy. Sammy didn’t want to align with the gangs, so he made a little imaginary “leash” out of some imaginary coat hangers. Then he used to walk his imaginary dog in the yard. Even murderers leave crazy people alone. At least that was Sammy’s story.

After getting together with Lee, Charley left the shared house in Lakewood Village. In the mid-1990s, Charlie moved to a ramshackle house on Ferguson Drive in Mountain View.  There was a shed/lean-to in the front yard. This is where Charlie set up a ping pong table so we could all stay in shape. Charlie and a few others got pretty good. Charlie also set up a hot tub in the front yard, between the house and the shed. He loved the way it eased his aching bones after a long day working on his feet.

Where Charlies house would be before they leveled it. That old house was part of the last orchard in Mountain View. Inevitably, the property sold so a big company could build a big building and rent it to a big company. Charlie had to go.  This is the way the property looked in 2011, after they tore down Charlie’s house but before the built on the orchard next to it. You can see they had already leveled the orchard.

A satellite photo from 2000 shows Charlie's Ferguson house next to the last orchard in Mountain View California. A wide shot from 2000 shows how built-up Mountain View already was by then. And by 2025, the orchard and Charlie's rental house are long gone, it's all businesses now.

I don’t know how Charlie found the next rental house. It was way up in the San Jose hills, at the barn of 12780 Clayton Road. As I write this, I note it is for sale, 60 acres, for $4,990,000. In 2008, it had a small house with a big barn. It was perfect for Charlie, Charles, and Lee. Charlie could keep his Harleys in the barn, and then the barn became a band rehearsal place, with a stage in the front, no less. Around 2011, the place had that lived-in look. When Lee and Charlie grew apart, he moved up to the barn and they just hung out together as friends. I guess sleeping in the barn is a rural couple’s version of the man sleeping on the couch. Before long, Charlie started asking about common-law marriage rules, since he had been with Lee seven years and thought that was some magic number. I assured him that California does not recognize common-law marriage, like some states. Not only that, California is a community property state, so it is not like she could marry him, divorce him, and take his Harleys. This was the last place Charlie rented in San Jose before moving to Northern California.

Before long. Lee moved out of the house and Charlie or the landlord rented it to someone else. Charlie and Lee were still friends, but not lovers. That reminds me of when Charlie started taking Viagra. He said that he and Lee were frolicking for six hours. The next day, he said the Viagra has a bad side effect, it caused back pain. I reminded him of that six-hour marathon session, and he gave that same sheepish smile again, “Oh... yeah. That.”

Charlie’s transpo

The Charlie’s Panhead was his first, but not his only bike. I guess a man is defined by his transportation. Charlie had an old Panhead, a newer Dyna, and a camper. He was still at the Ferguson house when he bought a clapped-out step van, like they used to deliver newspapers with, back in the 1970s. If he was going to the Hog Farm picnic, he would have a pal or Lee drive the camper, and he would take a Harley. If he was going to Shoreline, a few miles from his house, he would pile a bunch of friends into the step van and head out.

Charlie’s step-van, parked behind Bogarts Lounge in Sunnyvale CA.
That picture of the step van is a story in itself. The thing isn’t the van, it’s the buddies around the van. There was always a swarm of cool and interesting people around Charlie. He had that animal magnetism, no matter it be Boxer pups, or bikers, or machinists, or engineers like myself. I was pals with a Samoan singer in a Reggae band. I brought Etene Fau over to Charlie’s Ferguson house and he and Charlie hit it right off.

Etene Fau and Sam Albert prepare the pig. Etene knew how to roast a pig in a pit, the Samoan way. So he and Charlie and Sam Albert went to a place up near San Francisco where you could pick out a live pig and have is slaughtered on the spot. With the squeal the pig let out, Sam told me, “I don’t think I can every eat pork again.” Nevertheless, when the pig came out of the ground, Sam had to admit it was the best he ever had. I suspect it was a combination of freshness and the slow-cooking Samoan way. Sam is still in Silicon Valley, but last I heard, Etene is out in Hawaii now.

Charlie's people

Etene Fau was just one of the stars in a galaxy of friends that swirled around Charlie. Here are some of the pals that I happen to have pictures of.

Lee Webster was Charlie’s ol’ lady for many years. In the early days she helped him as office manager at his tool and die business. She raised her son Charles, and did a fine job of it. She took car of Charlie and had a great circle of friends. She had a nice gig at Shoreline Amphitheater direction parking. She went back to the old Bill Graham days of Shoreline. She had worked there so long, she had an “all-access badge that let her go backstage.

Sam Albert are Cheri Huerta a great couple and close friends to Charlie and the whole crowd. Sam was born on Okinawa and moved to the Bay Area when he was young. Cheri is a Sunnyvale “home-girl” that grew up in Sunnyvale and knows everyone.

Doug McGill and Barbara Hall. Doug is another Sunnyvale home-boy, thought they live up in Boulder Creek now. Doug is a biker who know a bunch of outlaws, and Barbara also worked Shoreline directing traffic. She too worked long enough to earn an all-access badge. When Bill Graham died, both Barbara and Lee stopped working there. It just wasn’t the same.

Lori Kessinger was a professional musician that worked club in Europe with her brother. Her marriage brought her to San Jose where she eventually worked at Bogart’s, our hangout in Sunnyvale. With her great singing, she was a natural to sing in Charlie’s band and play with other musicians in Charlie’s orbit.

Karen Brown and Jake are two more true bikers, despite Jake’s disability. When she gave birth, the nurses told Karen that Jake had severe birth defects, and that she should put him in a home. Karen said, “I came in with him, and I am leaving with him.” Her intensity ended any other discussions. She became an expert in disability services, and got Jake education, therapy and what ever he needed, despite Karen being a single mom. Karen rode a kick-start Sportster for the longest time. She did get a newer Evo Sportster, but tragedy hit up north when a pickup truck turned left in front of her, and she lost her lower left leg. She is still working out how to ride a bike. She once gave me a van full of Sportster parts. I sold most of them on eBay and flabbergasted her with an $1,000 check, just when she needed it.

Johnny Bird was a young friend of Charlie that followed him out of Silicon Valley.
When Charlie retired and closed his business, he moved to Northern California, like a lot of Silicon Valley ex-pats. He moved up near Bean Creek, by Lake Oroville. The bass player in his band, young Johnny Bird, went with him. I was in Florida by then so I can’t tell you much about Charlie’s setup after he left Silicon Valley.

Eli Benzor was Charlie’s good friend. He was a true brother and a good biker. Charlie threw a great party for him back in 2000. There are 32 pictures of the party in the photo gallery.

Don Leahy was Karen Brown’s ex ol’ man. When he passed away Charlie put on a big wake to honor him and bring his friend together in remembrance. The gallery section has a whole folder of that party.

Fernando Villasana is a Sunnyvale home-boy that grew up playing in the Mariani Orchards. A 13-year-old can drive a car if it’s on private property. A dirt-bike nut as a boy, he took to Harleys like a fish to water. He puts more miles on his Harley in a year than most people do in a lifetime. He is an amazing ping-pong player, often besting everybody when we all played in Charlie Jackson’s shed at the Ferguson house in Mountain View, CA. Fernando was a precision machinist, both hand-crank and CNC at the best company in Silicon Valley, Armstrong Technology. He lived over the hill in Mountain House, but since he retired (young) he moved to Las Vegas. He gets back to Santa Clara often to help his sister take care of their mom.

Preacher, aka Bob Brown, is about as true blue as a biker can be, RIP. He went to the Vietnam war to the get the hardship and hazard pay. That way he could buy his 1969 Sportster brand new. He would do things like ride to Colorado, then decide to turn right, or turn left, to see Montana, or Arizona. Once his Sportster broke down on an Indian reservation in Arizona. I guy came along with his whole family packed into a VW microbus. He stopped and commiserated, and was about to leave. Then he saw the little patch on preachers jacket, that was rolled up and bungied to the back seat. “Marines,” he asked, “you were in the Marines?” When Preacher said he was in-country in 1968, the guy squished everything in the buss, including his wife and kids, and they managed to get Preacher’s Sportster in the buss, so they could get him off the reservation and to an auto parts store. Preacher was yet another Sunnyvale home boy, who worked as a manager at a office construction company, installing cubicles and such. Preacher moved up to Shingle Springs CA, where he passed away a few years ago.

In July of 2000, Charlie’s niece came up from Texas. Charlie took her in like she was a daughter. Charlie made sure she got to play ping-pong and go to the parties. We went to the 2000 Hollister motorcycle run. There is a section in the gallery with some pictures.

Charlie’s events

The people were enough reason to hang around Charlie, but he always made sure to have some events lined up as well. He really was the party. I mentioned the Halloween party, but that was nothing compared to the 4-20 parties Charlie would hold. If you look at the three galleries of pictures, you can see the 4-20 party got fancier and fancier.

Charlie’s events were not all about fun. He held a wake for his buddy Don, and a bunch of people showed up at the Clayton house.

Charlie had a Christmas party in 1999 that I was lucky enough to get invited to.

There was a Blues festival in San Jose in May of 2005. We started at the festival, and ended up at Charlie’s house on Clayton Road.

And there was a party for his pal Eli Benzor, though I can’t remember the occasion. I wish Charlie was still around, so I could ask him. Maybe his other pals will fill me in next time I visit Silicon Valley.

Everyone loved Charlie’s events, but some were more somber than others. When Don Leahy passed away, Charlie did a big wake up at his Clayton Road barn.

The sun sets on Charlie Jackson’s Clayton Road house, but not on Charlie.

When someone like Charlie passes away, it hits hard, since he was such a life force, such a powerful spirit. Miss Manners, the advice columnist, says that every table at your cocktail party should have a sparkler. A person that gets conversations going, contributes but does not hog the limelight, someone who brings out the best in everyone around them. Charlie Jackson was that sparkler. Don’t worry Charlie, you are still remembered and still touching peoples lives.