By Alice Embree / The Rag Blog / September 27, 2025
On September 7, 2025 at a memorial for Sam Jones, there was music. Friends and families shared memories and sang along to songs Sam loved. His younger brother told tales of Sam growing up in Arkansas. Sam’s older daughter shared a poem she had written, Cedar of Lebanon; his younger daughter led a song Sam sang as a lullaby, Sweet Shiny Eyes. She accompanied the final song, I’ll Fly Away, with flute. Music carried the day, as Sam would have wished.
I’m sharing a few memories gathered from email as the news of Sam’s passing and memorial were shared.
Bill Meacham: I’m going to a memorial service today for Sam Jones, with whom Gavan and Paul and Henry and I used to play music back in the day. We called ourselves The Transients, after a disparaging remark by someone in power about folks hanging out on the Drag. Sad times. I’m grateful for those of us still here.
Pat Cuney: I am sorry to hear such a kind soul has departed this plane. I will never forget the night he, Jeff, and I had a car breakdown somewhere in the country in Arkansas that stuck us getting help from a local garage, attached to the family house of a group that is held in my memory as Ma and Pa Kettle and their large family. While I was consigned to the women and tortured to take sides in a preference in the great Rainbow Girls or the Daughters of Job debate; Jeff stayed as quiet as the proverbial mouse and did his best to fade into the walls, and Sam, long ponytail and beard, whipped that accent out and charmed all the men and boys, and we departed in good repair and warm feelings.
Martin Murray: We are losing comrades pretty regularly now. I remember walking with Sam Jones once and a car hit a dog on the Drag. Sam, who was a medic in Vietnam I believe, jumped into action and did the right thing.
Sam would always greet you with these words, “Let me hug your neck.” Then he’d ask about your adventures. My favorite expression from Sam seems to sum up much of life, “If we had some ham, we could have ham and eggs, if we had some eggs.”
He had fashioned the garage at his home into a craftsman’s delight. It was filled with tools and vacuum hoses to remove dust. He made beautiful guitars and other musical instruments there, adorning the necks with lovely inlays.
He also was an accountant. He prepared income taxes for my in-laws for years, putting the reports into three-ring folders, a practice I copied. Sam advised Carlos Lowry on how to pay Varsity mural workers, and helped prepare the forms that needed to be filed. His daughter Alyssa said that he really liked helping musicians who often showed up with long gaps in reporting.
He worked from home, holding down the home front, caring for children and later a grandson. I took Victor Agosto to meet him one day because Sam was a Vietnam Veteran Against the War and lived nearby. Victor, a soldier stationed at Fort Hood, was facing a court-martial for refusing to deploy to Afghanistan. Sam, who was normally so laid back, straightened up to attention to shake Victor’s hand. It was a moment of bonding over shared experience. Then Sam showed off his woodworking space.
Will the Circle Be Unbroken.
The following obituary was carried in the Austin American Statesman for Sam Charles Jones.
Sam Jones Obituary
September 8, 1942 – June 6, 2025
Sam Charles Jones, beloved husband and father, passed peacefully surrounded by his family. Sam is survived by his wife Regina Rogoff, daughters Sarah Jones and Alissa Zachary, son-in-law Billy Zachary, and grandchild Elijah Zachary. Sam was born in Pasadena, Texas on September 8, 1942 and was raised in Helena, Arkansas as one of six children born to Carol and Inez Jones. He became native to Austin as an active anti-war protestor after serving as a Navy Corpsman from 1962 to 1967. Sam’s life long love was making music and building guitars.
[Alice Embree, an Austin writer and activist, is the author of Voice Lessons, published in 2021. She is an editor of Celebrating The Rag, published in 2016 and Exploring Space City!, published in 2021. She posts on Substack as well as The Rag Blog.]
