It wasn’t easy to find Waldo. He changed his name a few times over the years. In the 1930’s and 40’s, when he worked as a sideman in several big bands, he didn’t work as Waldo Byrd. I discovered that he was born in 1896, and finally tracked him to a retirement home in northwestern Pennsylvania in 2022. His friends knew him as “Dough,” or “Old Dough,” later in life. Only when I talked to the nephew of one of his old friends, I learned his uncle had called him, Old Dough, but he didn’t know why. No one seemed to know where he got the moniker in the first place.
Waldo didn’t give interviews as a rule, especially if someone asked for him by the name, Waldo. And he had successfully kept his age out of the news for two decades. The staff at the nursing home was under strict orders NOT to share that information with ANYONE, under penalty of losing their job. So, his secret was safe. I got an interview by asking to see “Old Dough.” Apparently, he told the administrator an interview would be OK only if someone called him by that name. Now that Waldo has passed, I should let him tell his story. The following is a transcript of our conversation last year.
“Hello, Old Dough. I’m Marty. Glad to meet you.”
Waldo’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Hi, Marty. How the hell did you find out my nickname?”
“I asked a relative of your old friend, Roy Eldridge. But he had no idea how you got that name.”
“That must have been one of his nephews. He musta been the last to use that nickname. Cat Anderson and Cootie Williams passed before him you know.”
“Dough, would you please tell me how you came to be called, Dough?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Ya came all this way, so I might as well tell ya. Louis Armstrong.”
“What! Satchmo called you Dough?”
“Yeah. He hated the name, Waldo. I can’t say I like it that much myself. When I met him after I got back from the great war, he dubbed me, “Dough.” And the name stuck, like…uh…dough…” (chuckles).
“Wow…”
“That’s right. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Satch was a great guy. He was only five years younger than me you know. I went off to France to play in the infantry band, but he was only a teenager when the war broke out. I heard him play in Chicago after I got back. When I introduced myself, he called me, Dough. Some of my Army buddies heard it and…well, you know how it is.”
“Amazing. So…you fought in WWI.”
“Well, I didn’t really fight as much as encourage those who did. Lucky for me I had better aim with a trumpet than I did with a rifle!” (chuckles)
“Is that your trumpet over there on the dresser?”
“Yeah. That’s Maggie. I’ve had her since the 30’s. She’s been by my side through thick and thin.”
“That’s a vintage French Besson, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And I guess that makes me a vintage model too.”
“It’s in remarkable shape. And so are you.”
“Thanks, Marty. I’ve always taken care of her, and she’s always taken care of me.”
“She must be worth at least ten-thousand dollars. A horn of that age, quality, and condition…I’ve seen old beaters go for nearly three grand. Maggie looks absolutely like new.”
“I could never part with her. I bought her new and I’ve kept her new. Maggie and me…Let’s just say, we’ve been through a lot.
“Why do you call her, Maggie?”
“Oh…there’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I got her about the same time I married the love of my life. Her name was Maggie. And back then, Maggie, over there, didn’t have a name. I scraped together all the money I could to get a new horn and somehow my new wife understood. It was the depression after all. But I needed a good horn to go out on the road. My old clunker wasn’t going to cut it. Maggie knew how much I loved to play and how much we needed the money I could make from playing. As much as she would have loved to spend money on other things, she said the horn was OK. And she loved how I sounded on it. Remember Satchmo said later on, “Man, if your chick don’t dig your horn, get rid of your chick?” He got that from Maggie and me.”
“That’s remarkable. So, how long has she been called, Maggie, then?”
“Since Maggie died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must be a difficult subject.”
“Not really. That was a lifetime ago, for you at least. She died in 1963. On the same day as JFK. She had cancer, and back then there wasn’t much anybody could do about it. Still, we got almost 33 years together. And that ain’t bad.”
“So…were you with her when she…died?”
“Yeah. She had a rough time. I remember hearing the news about the president just after she passed. It was a pretty dark day for me. But I also recall going home and picking up Maggie, over there, and sayin’, ‘Well, it’s just you and me now.’ That’s when I decided to call her Maggie. In memory of my dear wife.”
“It looks like you never remarried. Am I wrong? Did you ever find another wife?”
“No, Marty. I never found another woman who would put up with my trumpet playin’ like my Maggie did. Not that I didn’t fool around some. (chuckles) And I almost tied the knot once, back in the 70’s, but it didn’t work out. She was one hell of a kisser, though, and not bad in the sack either.” (chuckles)
“Are you kidding me? You had to be in your…what? Late 70’s?”
“Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there ain’t fire in the furnace!”
“OK, then. Why didn’t it work out?”
“She said she thought I was ‘too old’ to fool around playin’ the trumpet. Funny, she didn’t seem to think I was ‘too old’ right before she said that!” (laughs)
“Can we please talk about something else?”
“Sure, Marty. Anything you want. I won’t be around forever.”
“Why have you never sold your trumpet?”
“You’re not a trumpet player, are ya?”
“I am. And I’ve bought and sold dozens of horns.”
“Have you ever regretted selling one of ‘em?”
“Well…now that you mention it, yeah.”
“Then ya shouldn’t hafta ask. To be more specific. After my wife died, I made a promise to Maggie, over there, that we would never part. My Maggie and I never had kids. My horn is all I have of her. And, somehow, I believe she is with me through that old Besson. For years, whenever I played Maggie, I could feel her near me. It was almost…spooky. As if the horn promised something to me too.”
“Like what?”
“To always take care of me. I think I’ve made it to 126 because of Maggie, over there. She watches over me. I’d never sell her at any price. She’s my sweetheart and I love her. Almost as if she was my Maggie. I don’t know how else to put it.”
“I can see how you feel that way. Many of us have things we won’t part with because they remind us of loved ones. My mom was like that. She kept everything. Even old artwork and report cards from my grade school days. I think that was her way of staying close after I no longer lived, ‘up home.’ That’s what she called it.”
“It’s more than that. I let go of everything else. I’ve outlived all my old friends and relatives. I can’t play anymore. But I still keep her close. She’s the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see every night. When I say, ‘goodnight’ to her, I hear my Maggie sayin’ ‘goodnight’ to me.”
“What would happen if you couldn’t be near Maggie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I would just…die.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s like that damn Grandfather Clock song. Maybe I won’t be able to live without her.”
“But you’re in great shape…”
“For a man of 126, but ya never know, do ya?”
“I guess not. Say, why did you change your name? And why did you work under different aliases? Do you have any idea how many old photos I had to look through to track you down?”
“Well, that’s three questions!”
“Please pick one.”
“I have no idea how many photos you looked at. I can imagine quite a few. You probably saw me in a bunch of group shots. I played in a lot of bands. A lot of us did.”
“But the other guys didn’t go by more than one name. Why did you?”
“D’ya remember Prohibition?”
“I didn’t live through it, but I understand the 1920’s was a real interesting time.”
“Interesting ain’t the half of it, Marty. I used to play in a lot of speakeasys. D’ya know who ran almost all of ‘em?”
“The mob?”
“Bingo!”
“What’s that got to do with your name changes? Unless…?”
“Unless I got into a little trouble with one of the bosses?”
“You did? That explains it, then.”
“Not all of it. Satchmo ran afoul of a mob boss one time, but he was famous enough and had a good enough manager to leave Chicago and live his life. I wasn’t in his league. Let’s just say I might have seen large amounts of cash changing hands, and maybe a couple of guys getting whacked. I didn’t, but that’s what somebody thought. This was in 1929, just a few months before seven guys got murdered in a garage. Capone was out to get anyone who might point the finger at him. Fortunately, one of his rivals was on my side, and anyhow the guys that might have had a beef with me were already gone. The guy must have liked my playing because he gave me enough for a train ticket and told me to ‘get the hell out of town before it’s too late.’ That’s how I ended up in New York. And how I got to meet Maggie.”
“And why you kept changing your name.”
“Yeah. But that’s not all.”
“You mean, there’s more?”
“A year or two after Prohibition ended in ’33, one of the New York bosses figured out who I was. He sent a lieutenant with a bag of cash. The guy said his boss wanted to thank me for ‘keeping my mouth shut,’ which is hilarious because I didn’t know anything anyhow. I didn’t even know their names. I put some of the money in in a good stock and let it ride. I didn’t think about it for a long time. But that’s how I can afford retirement.”
“Incredible. The Saint Valentine’s Day massacre. A mob payoff for doing nothing. Making a killing in the market. Just…wow… What did you invest in?”
“A friend of mine gave me a stock tip: Electric Boat. I think it’s called General Dynamics now. When WWII broke out, their stock hit the roof. Let’s just say by the 1960’s I was playing trumpet for fun instead of money.”
“So, why do you think you’ve lived so long?”
“I don’t know. I’ve travelled a lot. Like I said, Maggie, over there, and I have been together for a long, long time. I played here and there until I was 105. Then I retired to cruise ships for 15 years. And now I’m here. I have no worries. It’s just Maggie and me and the TV. Life is good. But Marty, I’m getting a little tired. Maybe we should call it a day.”
“Sure, Dough. It’s been wonderful to meet you. Thank you so much for chatting with me.”
The retirement home called me a few days ago to tell me Waldo Byrd had passed away in his sleep at 127. When I asked about Maggie, the young lady said, “Who?” I said, “The trumpet. That’s what he called his trumpet.” “Oh,” she said. Then she told me that the trumpet had been stolen the day before. Maybe someone realized how valuable it was or overheard our conversation.
Normally, I wouldn’t believe there is anything magical about a trumpet, even one named after your true love. But in Dough’s case, there might be something to the magic. He told me he couldn’t live without Maggie, and it turned out he couldn’t. Old Dough probably said, “Goodnight, Maggie,” one last time and hearing no reply, died of a broken heart.
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