.jpg)
David Scherer Water
By David Scherer Water
One night years ago, driving from Seattle to Olympia with Montana’s Rappin’ Cowboy Chris Sand, Chris told me his godfather was dying and asked if we could stop in Tacoma to pay our respects. When we got there, we sat in chairs next to an old man lying in a mechanical bed. Even though he didn’t have long to live, he was alert, his voice was clear. Chris had a surprise for me. The man in the bed was The Laughing Bear.
The man
Tom Heidlebaugh was born Feb. 1, 1942. He was also, by the time I met him, a man who listened closely. He was a storyteller of mixed Lenape, Amish, and Irish background, and the great-grandson of the medicine man Yellow Lark, author of the popular "Oh Great Spirit" prayer.
After serving in the Peace Corps in 1965, Tom became fluent in Swahili and, under the pseudonym Mr. Onion, authored six books of poetry. But when he published a work of historical fiction exposing the Kenyan president for encouraging land theft, Tom became an enemy of the state. With the police and army closing in, he escaped on foot, trekking north until he hit Ethiopia. It was there he met and married his wife.
After returning to North America, Tom served as program director for the National Indian Youth Council and later settled in Tacoma. There, he worked with the Quileute, Makah, and Lummi Nations as a spirit dancer and Quileute storyteller. His original songs were translated into Native American languages and sung at traditional feasts.
In 1992, Tom played a part in the rebirth of the Tribal Canoe Journeys. He joined calls for having the work of traditional restoration move between communities rather than staying in one location. The canoe was the vehicle, both figuratively and literally. His songs and good humor inspired the Canoe Nation as he pulled with them during their historic paddle from Washington state to Bella Bella. Twenty-three canoes participated, but only two did the entire round trip. Tom was on one of those two.
Divine vinyl
I didn't know any of this history yet. At the time, I was just a 19-year-old kid trying to get a show on my college radio station. I wanted to get on the air so bad, I would’ve done anything. So, when an unpaid student internship opened up, I said yes before asking what was involved. Turns out, it was the thing nobody wanted to do: clean the basement.
Two stories below street level in a windowless dungeon, a chaotic archive amassed over decades. The collection included cobwebs and busted radio gear, but the bulk of it was spilling from broken boxes — thousands of forgotten records. They’d never thrown anything away.
David Scherer Water | The JOLT News
First thing I did was tape a sign to the door. Then for one whole day, I hauled trash, swept the room, shelved records, plugged in a few lamps, and shut off the fluorescents to make the place cozy.
It was common back then for college stations to receive multiple copies of a record to use as prizes and pledge drive giveaways. The ones in the basement were the worst, the rejects, the ones nobody would take — sometimes 50 copies of the same horrible record. Before the days of portable four-tracks or GarageBand, musicians thinking they were the next Tony Orlando saved up for studio time. The result: a heartbreaking mountain of over-polished crap. And I listened to so much of it.
On one of my trips hauling out trash, a record slipped from the pile and fell on the pavement.
There was something about the cover that had me pause. The simplicity of it, a black-and-white image of a man in a mask playing a flute. When records are falling like fall leaves, it’s hard to save a straggler. I could have so easily tossed it. But I didn’t. I brought it back in. That record changed my life. The first time I played it, I knew I’d struck gold. In Raven Song, I found the opening track for my radio show, and my lifelong personal anthem.
Lost magic found
I told the dying man my story. He cried. I cried. His wife brought out a fresh copy of the record and told us, “I think Tom was born fifty years before his time.” He wrote the following on the back:
"The people who look for lost magic are often found by magic.
For Fezda[k], Random, and the music jamboree of salt-edged perfection:
may the fog illuminate your dreams,
may the rain extrapolate your prayers,
may your music reverberate on my forest as you sing your way to phase 17.
Thank you, oh thank you…”
This might have been the last thing he ever wrote. A few days later, Tom Heidlebaugh, The Laughing Bear, was dead.
I was a little bummed out that I only had that one time with him, but at least I had that.
I’d love to see the record released as a memorial. I’ve been unable to reach Tom’s wife, but I’ll keep trying. Until then, you can listen to Tom's magic for yourself on my Substack.
Some records don’t want to be thrown away.
David Scherer Water went by the name Fezdak Clamchopbreath from 1991-1997. During that time, a local newspaper (a competitor of JOLT) famously wrote,“The Happy Squad is a cult of morons led by a clown accomplishing nothing while promoting a dogma based on the merits of purposeless creative expression. The 1960s are over. People need art with a message, not merry pranks or silliness for silliness' sake. This group should be retrained for use in a hospital, resort or preschool.” You can listen to the Laughing Bear album and discover more of David’s work here.
OlyGirl
What a great story! Seems like a "meant to be" encounter.
Saturday, December 27, 2025 Report this
DRamsey2
Nice history lesson here! Glad you found your personal anthem and shared the magic.
Sunday, December 28, 2025 Report this
DougRiddels
Great story! Thank you!
Sunday, December 28, 2025 Report this