By Frank Roberts

It would have been in the mid-‘40s when I met the man who “invented” the blues.

My father had a one-man printing company, which, among other things, published sheets of paper that were turned into sheet music. Some summer days I worked for him, delivering to clothing manufacturers and PRC, which produced grade-B movies.

I got on the subway, packages in hand, and delivered his finished work to his variety of customers.

On this particular day, I wound up in an area near Times Square called Tin Pan Alley, headquarters for music publishers and others in the entertainment business. I was bringing my package to the “Father of the Blues,” the man who, it is very safe to say, invented the genre. The man meant nothing to dear old Dad, who was a classical music enthusiast, but jazz meant the world to me. I owned a fair-sized record collection and played ’em often to the accompaniment of Dave Roberts yelling, “Turn that damn stuff off!”

Among the songs I loved was the first major blues hit, “The Memphis Blues.” By far, W.C. Handy’s biggest hit, of course, was a song that is still played and revered today, “St. Louis Blues.”

On that wonderfully fateful day I found myself in an office with a piano, pictures of musical stars of the day, and a scattering of notes.

I delivered the goods to a very handsome gentleman — quiet and soft-spoken — W.C. Handy. I should have been shaking a little bit, but I was too busy staring at the man whose music I played so often.

I remember him as a white-haired, dignified and friendly gentleman. I was about 14 at the time, and I remember thinking about his age with awe. Now I’m even older than he was when I met him and told him how much I loved his music, how much I loved jazz in general.

He got around with a cane and a wheelchair. He was blind, the result of an accidental fall from a subway platform in 1943, resulting in a skull fracture. In 1954 he suffered a stroke.

A year later a birthday party was given for him at New York City’s most prestigious hotel at the time, the Waldorf-Astoria. More than 800 people attended — a tribute to this great man of music.

Later, more than 20,000 people would attend his funeral at a Harlem church, with thousands more lining the streets.

When I met him, among other things, we talked about music in general, the people he knew, the many people he influenced, the people who performed his songs — the songs of a man who had become world famous.

Before I left, he gave me an autographed sheet music copy of the first blues song he wrote — “Memphis Blues.”

Much later, he published, believe it or not, “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” Times changed, and he changed with them.

After the death of his first wife, Handy married his secretary, Irma Louise Logan, whom he referred to as his eyes. They lived in Yonkers, a fairly upscale area just out of New York City.

It was a far cry from the neighborhood of his childhood, Florence, Ala. In Memphis he published his first song, “Mr. Crump” for a man who was running for mayor that year and who, later, became famous nationally for his iron thumb ruling of the city. The man, himself, was not into music, but so many people he knew were so, for a big to-do he hired Handy’s band. That song, by the way was re-worked and later became “Memphis Blues.”

The song was becoming famous, but Handy was close to becoming broke. He sold the copyright for $100. His publishing company, Pace and Handy (his partner was Harry Pace) was in downtown Memphis, sort-of a Times Square of the South. Later, his band, with him playing trumpet, went to New York, where they recorded for Columbia.

Once there, he knew Broadway had to become his home base. The “Memphis Blues” fiasco had been a wake-up call. He copyrighted about 150 of his songs, both secular and religious. Handy’s orchestra continued to record, working for both Columbia and Paramount. In the ’20s and ’30s he was at his peak. He penned his autobiography, “Father of the Blues,” and he published a compilation of Negro spirituals, and a compilation called “Blues — An Anthology.”

The autobiography became a movie with Nat “King” Cole. The title? What else? “St. Louis Blues.” By the time the film came out, the blues king had passed away of pneumonia. To honor their favorite son, Memphis named a park after Handy.

During a 60-year career spanning newspapers, radio and television, Frank Roberts has been there and done that. Today, he’s doing it in retirement from North Carolina, but he continues to keep an eye set on Suffolk and an ear cocked on country music. Email him at froberts73@embarqmail.com.