Jack White Obituary
Published by Dallas Morning News on Aug. 28, 2022.
WHITE, Jack 12/17/1939 - 1/16/2022 This is a love story about a man known by three names; Harlan Robert White, aka Jack White, aka Jack Wylde. He had many talents, and crammed several lifetimes into one. He was born in Bogalusa, Louisiana a week before Christmas, 1939, and was named after his grandfather Harlan White, aka "Big Daddy" Big Daddy owned White Wood Products, a spin-off of the huge Great Southern Lumber Company paper mill in Bogalusa. White Wood made wooden mop handles for the Navy during WWII. As a boy, young Harlan spent hours with Nana and Big Daddy in their white three story house built in the early 1900's by the founding CEO of Great Southern Lumber. (And decades later featured on A&E in a show about houses with secret passages.) Young Harlan, aka "Honey Boy" to Nana, grew up on the privileged side of town. He ate his first lobster at age six in the famous Blue Room of the Roosevelt Hotel in New Orleans. His parents, Charlene and Wallace White, built a large ranch-style house in the neighborhood to raise their two boys: Harlan and Craig. But "Honey Boy" did not wear his privilege like a pair of blinders. He was a keen observer, charted his own course, often veered from crowd mentality and early on displayed a penchant for poking the pompous, prosperous bear. At 15, he taught himself to play drums to join a band with two classmate brothers. They regularly played the Pearl River Jamboree. He sidestepped college, to tour Venezuela with a band. One night he and his band mates watched from the roof of their hotel as an attempted coup unfolded below. He joined the Army (recruited for the elite ASA, Army Security Agency) and was stationed in Turkey during the height of the Kennedy-Krushchev Cold War. He came home to build small, affordable housing in Bogalusa with his father. At that time, the mid-60's, he repeatedly confronted the Ku Klux Klan: publicly outing the local Grand Wizard at every downtown sidewalk encounter by yelling "Hey Green Lizard"; and for a week crossed an angry KKK picket line to eat lunch at a newly desegregated restaurant. Late one night, he fired a warning shotgun blast to disperse a hooded crowd that was lighting a cross on his lawn. He sold commercial real estate in New Orleans, and was more than surprised when he found himself sitting next to Carlos Marcello at a local Italian restaurant to talk about selling a large property for the reputed Gulf Coast mobster. Ever-cool, he sealed the deal. About 1970, it was time to reinvent. He build a home radio studio and taught himself the skills to launch a new career in broadcasting as Jack Wylde. He began as a country music disc jockey (WIKC, Bogalusa). He moved to New Orleans (WGSO) to be a part-time production assistant. He was asked to fill-in ON AIR for vacationing regulars, and pretty soon, he was full time talk and news talent. KRLD in Dallas recruited him. It was in 1980, in the KRLD newsroom, that Jack Wylde met BJ Austin. He thought she was a bohemian "Second Hand Rose". Her first impression of him was too coiffed and pressed. But they quickly became a couple. New Orleans wooed Jack home. BJ followed. They married, had a brilliant son Will, and became a well-known radio duo (WGSO, WTIX, WSMB). Jack also did a stint as the national voice of Barq's Root Beer, as well as the N.O. Regional Transit Authority. And, he owned a bar in Fat City (section of Metairie, N.O. burb) Jack named it "Group Therapy" Fast forward to City Tavern on Main St in Dallas. In Jack's retirement, City Tavern became his "happiest place on earth". He was content to sit alone at a table on the sidewalk and watch the world go by. Or to hold court, tell stories, and laugh with friends he dearly loved. His final three years were a steady decline in physical and cognitive function. 2 1/2 years in a nursing home, after repeated falls. But he faced it all with extraordinary bravery, grace, and wit even as Covid stalked the hallways and family was locked out for six months. (Thank God for the phone and Facebook Portal) He could have rational, insightful discussions about his frailties and frustrations and the next second, say "Okay, Let's go". He would try to lift himself out of his wheelchair, insisting he most certainly COULD walk. Everyday, he seemed to lose more words the building blocks of his identity. The sadness in his eyes was palpable. But he did not complain, lash out or rage. Instead, he decided he would do the best he could for as long as he could. Every morning, he stared down the inevitable and with appropriate "Jackitude" said "Bring It". He faced his cascading weaknesses with surprising strength. Family and friends gathered Saturday at City Tavern on Elm to raise a glass to the man we called JACK, who offered great conversa tion and sported an epic, white ponytail. He is missed. BJ