Morningstar Greene

February 1996- if anyone has a different memory of this...let me know...

February of 1996 was memorable to me in so many ways. None of them, at the moment, are more notable than two days that would live with me forever. I was working at Tuned-In Broadcasting in Nashville, Tennessee. At the time, it wasn’t a very glorious job in broadcasting. I had had a few air shifts, produced some hockey games, written and voiced a few commercials, but my main duties were manning the front desk, answering phone calls, and keeping track of the comings and goings of the staff (okay, that last one was probably not a job requirement, but a mental lesson in organization for me).

This particular day was a Wednesday—February 7th. Most of the Tuned-In staff was in Atlanta at the Gavin Convention. A few of the staff remained behind to keep us on the air. In-house that day were members of Bone Magazine, a publication that was part of the Tuned-In Properties owned by Lester Turner, who at the time was the owner of a series of semi dealerships across Tennessee—Kenworth of Tennessee. Other staff that were around included Turner himself, GM Ned Horton, Executive Assistant Kimberly Morrisey, and Rusty Miller (DJ). Others that were there remain sketchy to me, but throughout the day, I would see one or more of them for a conversation. There was also the Sales Staff that were atop the L&C Towers on Church St. They were perched on the 31st floor, helmed by Carl Brenner.

It was early afternoon, if memory serves me, when the elevator doors opened and several individuals piled out of the 6x6 car. They were seeking access to the observation deck, which was open at the time per our discretion. One of the visitors was a young girl who had an ear-to-ear smile and a desire to see the Nashville skyscape, which was not yet cluttered with numerous buildings that would eventually dwarf the L&C. I showed them through the sliding glass doors at the apex of the L (you see, the building was shaped like an “L,” and the balcony was on four of the six sides overlooking Broadway and the Cumberland River). An item of note, to be added later in the story, was the large green letters that were part of an old sign and were being used as decoration on the deck. I remember the other two individuals who accompanied me were Asian.

We generally did not accompany individuals past the outside of the doors, and as I was manning the phones, I went back to my job. Several minutes later—could have been half an hour—they returned, thanked me, and disappeared behind the elevator doors.

The following day, February 8th, at about 11 a.m., I was at my desk when the elevator door opened again and a familiar face emerged, but this time with no smile. A green hoodie covered her head, and she desired to go back to once again see the sights of Nashville. She went out on her own. Several minutes later, Kimberly Morrissey came to the desk and suggested I go to lunch… so away I went.

Now, this is where the events begin to be slightly unclear, but here is my recollection. Due to some of the air staff and management being in Atlanta, I went from my lunch break to the WRLG studio. (WRLG was a modern rock format that aired music from artists like Third Eye Blind, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers). Several songs into the hour, Kimberly came into the studio and told me that she had just gotten a phone call from the bank building adjacent to the L&C and that she needed me to go out on the deck and check on what she was told was a woman who looked like she was going to jump. I had no idea what I was preparing to see when I went out there. It had been two hours since the young woman had gone out on the observation deck, and I had no reason to believe that it was the same woman. My recollection is that I left the WRLG studio and was replaced by The Reverend Keith Coes.

Now, there are three access points to the deck—one outside the WRLT studios, which was on the opposite side of the bank building that had purportedly called in the situation. The other I mentioned before, and the third was from the offices of Bone Magazine. While Bone had windows along two sides of the building, they were always closed, and full-length curtains blocked the sunlight. So, I made my way out of the center of the building. There were three turns that had to be made before reaching the side of the building where the young woman was. After the second turn, I walked past the shuttered doors of Bone Magazine and instantly saw her.

Her name was Morningstar Greene. She was a recently divorced 20-year-old woman who had been married to a 46-year-old man and was living in a communal-type facility in Tompkinsville, Kentucky. Unbeknownst to me, the young lady was suffering from depression and, as I would later learn, was the victim of abuse. She had been saved from jumping off what is now known as the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge in downtown Nashville on two different occasions. But today, there would be no talking her down.

I was within five feet of the young woman, who was already perched on the outside of the observation wall and sitting on the metal rail above the concrete. She recognized that I was there, turning her head toward me and staring me straight in the eye. In less than a second, her gaze still upon me, she stood up on the concrete wall and stepped off. I am not sure if I screamed aloud or whether it rattled around in my brain—"NO!"

I quickly ran to the edge to see if I could reach her, but her descent had already begun. The picture is still alive in my head, even to this day, 29 years later. The woman in the green hoodie, her arms straight out to her sides like the Vitruvian Man sketched by Leonardo da Vinci, began to rotate her arms as if trying to keep upright. I could not avert my eyes—I was frozen, not only physically but also in time. In seconds, it was all over. Morningstar Greene hit the first-story protrusion of the L&C Tower after falling 30 floors. I stared for a brief second at the lifeless speck on the ground before the shaking began, followed by sobs and uncontrollable tears. I don’t remember who came to my side first to console me, but at first, they were unaware of what had transpired.

“What’s wrong?”

“She jumped… she jumped” is all I remember saying. As I was escorted back into the building, I looked down on the deck and saw the large green sign letters that could be plainly seen from the elevator lobby—"LEAP" is what they read. I pointed to them and said, "It spells LEAP!"—still shaking and sobbing. It was ironic, but not malicious, nor did anyone ever believe that it would be the sign that one person needed to confirm their destiny. The letters were quickly rearranged by several members of the station, knowing that the publicity would be detrimental to the station.

I was brought to Ned Horton’s office, and shortly after, he and owner Lester Turner were there to support me and discern the course of events. Within about what I perceived as 15 minutes, the Nashville/Davidson police were in the office asking me questions about the situation and how it unfolded. The aforementioned story is what I told the officers. And now that I am remembering, I believe they called the pastor of the church I was attending, and he came and visited with me. The police said that she had a crushed Walkman with a Green Day tape in it—Insomniac. When they shared that with me, I remembered her whisking past me, hearing the song “Brain Stew” blaring from her headphones.

Several minutes would pass before I slowly calmed down, yet all that I could hear in my head was, What could I have done to save this young woman? Was there anything?

The days that followed were equally as stressful as Morningstar’s family came to the L&C Tower to see where she was when the incident happened. Of course, they wanted to visit the last place she was before her death, but being on the observation deck would not be allowed. I was at the desk when they arrived, and her mother introduced herself to me, as well as a brother and sister. I learned from them of the troubles that she had been having, and they were quick to reassure me that they knew it was not my fault, nor did they hold any animosity toward me. I also learned about her living in a commune and the tumultuous relationship with her elder husband.

It was a tough day, and the trauma was not quite over. On Monday, I returned to work, and after parking my car, I walked to the building and looked at the place where Morningstar would come to rest. All clean, as if nothing ever happened. But then I walked past the Kinko’s that occupied the first floor, and I was quickly triggered again when I saw pieces of the young woman still on the outside of the window—small, but noticeably human flesh. I went inside, took the elevator up to the building offices, and told them they needed to wash the windows.

Now, the last thing of note was several months later when the musician Junior Brown’s video crew was at the building and was allowed to film on the observation deck for a music video—a video that would eventually depict a woman falling to her death from the exact spot where Morningstar had leapt to her death. And in case you don’t believe me… you can see the video yourself: Venom Wearing Denim. In poor taste, to say the least, considering what had happened.

Now, as a side note: when I mention the trauma continuing, I have to say that it was more indignation on my part. I have never had any wild or crazy dreams or sudden outbursts from having witnessed this and have even used humor at times to brush off any of the effects of the events of those two days in February—1996!

Part of My Journey

 

Here is a piece of information for you. For you to determine whether it is cool or not...

In 1973, I was 12 years old. I went to Sacred Heart School on 1st and Ft. Lowell in Tucson, Arizona. I was in 8th grade. Our school was set up in a horseshoe, with the first-grade room on the tip of the left heel of the shoe. Second and third grade followed, and then a breezeway. After that, I believe there was an office of sorts. I kind of remember it that way because it had a ditto machine.

After that was a small room off the porch that had a window. Inside the room was a microphone that was connected to the loudspeakers in the courtyard. Next, in the left corner, was the cafeteria, then the fourth-grade classroom, the nun’s office, and then a catechism room. After the turn were the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th-grade rooms. By that time, a hole had been cut through the concrete walls on that side of the school, and a self-paced learning system was implemented with science, language arts, math, etc.

I don’t remember when lunch was served, but after grabbing a quick bite, I would go to the room with the microphone, plug in a small record player, and start spinning tunes—announcing the songs and the artists. (Occasionally… if I remember, George Toto would join me.)

At that time, I had no idea what significance that would have on my life, but here I am, 52 years later, the owner (with my lovely bride, Deb Jameson) of Coast Radio—KCST and KCFM—with our partner, Jon Thompson.

To further point out the path, I was in Greenville, South Carolina, going to a very strict Bible college and was taking a break after the first semester of my second year of undergrad. I was dating a young woman who worked for the local 100,000-watt Christian/classical radio station. One evening, I arrived to pick her up after her shift and was introduced to Willie Thompson, the program director of the station. When we spoke, Willie said, "Have you ever thought about a job in radio?"

Oddly enough, I had. He hired me right then (sort of like Jon Thompson did 36 years later).

Back and forth across the country—marriage, struggle, moving to Nashville to become a hit songwriter—I ended up in a crappy restaurant job that fired me because I was blowing the whistle on all of the drug trafficking that was occurring with the kitchen manager and the regional vice president in cahoots. (I complained to the RVP, which was my mistake… who knew?)

I then took a job in telemarketing, and after several weeks, I began to think about those radio jobs I had and how well they fit my personality. But the trick was, "How do I get a job like that?" Well, this was in the early '90s, and faxing was the norm. I wrote a letter and faxed it to several radio stations in the area, and I heard back from three of them. (It was a comical piece of writing where I "tongue in cheek" purported to be the perfect candidate for toilet cleaning, car washing, and whatever else I could do to get in the door.)

It was here that I met Kimberly Morrissey. She was the assistant to the GM, Ned Horton. To my surprise, they hired me and put me at the front desk to answer phones... but I wasn't destined to stay there. I was one of those multitaskers who simultaneously knew the exact location of each sales staff member, wrote copy for Bob Dale, wrote a marketing plan, and researched air handlers for the studios. It was only a week before I was able to procure my first "fill-in" air shift for the legendary Keith Coes.

I then got the chance to do production, voice commercials, and produce the Nashville Knights hockey broadcasts as the board operator. Unfortunately, a traumatic incident that I witnessed kind of turned the tides momentarily, and I left to work for the president and CEO of Gibson Guitars. Through my restaurant experience, I was able to convince him to let me operate his coffeehouse music venue on Broadway, next to Planet Hollywood, as COO.

I did that until one night, when another staff member and I were counting the money, and she was turning in her tips, the door burst open. A cocaine-fueled individual accused us of stealing because I was giving her the cash for her "ones" that she was turning in. We managed to calm this person down and show them what we were doing, and he left satisfied. But it was at that moment that I realized this was not a good relationship.

So, after about six months there, I revisited the radio station "Lightning 100." It was under new management with GM David Tune and Sales Manager Erin Rosiello. They hired me for sales but soon realized that I was much more valuable in production, on the air, and in marketing. (Many cool stories surrounding that, but another time.)

I remained there for several years until 2000 when, out of a sense of fatherhood, I left for North Carolina. My father-in-law gave me one of his businesses to run so that we would move closer and he could be part of his two grandchildren's lives.

To make this extremely long story even longer—that lasted until the marriage fell apart. I left for Arizona with my son, Kai, and we stayed away for a year before moving back to North Carolina. I then got a job with WTZQ Radio and met my buddy, Mark Warwick. I worked my way up, got the morning show, paid well, and then left for Oregon.

With the exception of a year-long stint with KXL News in Portland, I landed in Florence—where, as I mentioned before, I was hired in the parking lot less than five minutes after meeting the owner and now partner, Jon Thompson.

The end… but not!

Pork Roll Obsession Defined

 If you follow my posts, but don't read my blogs, I understand.  I actually don't write them for anyone but myself, but I thought that many of you who are not family would probably like to know what the obsession is with posting pictures of my Taylor Ham sandwiches.

We all have that one memory, don't we?  The one that brings back a smile or a warm feeling that we haven't experienced since we were children.  Not that we haven't had warm feelings and smiles all along the way, but that somewhat special time, that nostalgic time that we hold on to, because nothing in the present will bring it back.  That is what Pork Roll is to me.  Those of you who were not born or had family ties to the Garden State of New Jersey, will have little to no knowledge of what a pork roll sandwich is...but there are many deviations.  There is just the meat, grilled with a little char, on a toasted and buttered Kaiser roll, and by kaiser roll, i don't mean those soft, preservative filled ones that you can buy on the grocery store shelf, I mean the bakery ones that have a crisp outer shell and tender bleached white dough in the middle.  You place a stack of sliced pork roll in that and you have all that you need to satiate your apetite.  However, there are those that like it different.  My cousin, Jim Klak, posted that I did not have the egg and cheese in one of my latest postings, so I made one that way and posted it.  Oh, and I ate it too and i hat to say it but Jim was on to something!  But I still favor the plain, buttered kaiser, toasted, with the pork roll.  and here is where the obsession takes root...

My sister, Georgette, was getting married to Edwin Stromenger back in 1973.  I would have been 12 years old then. She was living in New Jersey while the rest of the family had moved almost a decade prior to Arizona.  So we traveled to the great state of New Jersey for the wedding.  I clearly remember one day, when it was just my father and I heading to my great-aunt Agnes' house on Lindbergh Boulevard in Bloomfield and we stopped short of her house to a little deli that was somewhere near the Garden State Parkway and Lindbergh.  We sat at the counter and my father seemingly knew the owner of the establishment, we ordered.  Both getting the Taylor Ham on a Kaiser.  It was the last memory of Taylor Ham in New Jersey with my dad that I remember.  There were several times in Arizona when my great-aunt Mary on my mother's side of the family would send a christmas care package with a roll in the packaging, but it wasn't the same.  I mean it was the same, but different.  and in fact one year, we had gone on a short trip and the package came and we had to toss it out because we feared that it had set too long without refrigeration. But back to the origination of my obsession.  I lost my father in October of 1984.  12 plus years after my sister's wedding and 12 plus years after the last childhood memory of pork roll and dad.  When I think of the ability to get pork roll today almost anywhere in the United States, dut to the wonderful world of the web, I know I can relive that memory with just a single  bite of the sandwich, even though you cannot get a fresh baked Kaiser Roll to save you life.  I honestly cannot eat pork roll without reliving something about my dad and New Jersey.  A birthright of sorts I guess.  

That's my memory and my reason for obsessing over the overly processed meat treat that few know.  Recently I saw an interview with Jon Bon Jovi and he was discussing the Pork Roll phenomenom.  he had expressed that many think of New Jersey in halves.  the North and the South, one likes mustard on their pork roll and the others like ketsup.  Well, Jon, I have never heard of such a travesty, but I guess there are those who just don't like the greasy, salty flavor or it all by itself.  as for me...just give it to me like i described earlier.  No need to doctor it up with any condiment!  And for the record, Jim Klak, I have been doing the egg and cheese on occasion, and I admit, I kinda like it!  I think it is because I can't find the right roll to put it on!

 Some things to think about:

Have you ever entertained the thought that being pro-choice is not automatically being pro-abortion?  The thought that someone has the right to choose for themselves when it comes to their own body, their own health, their own well-being should be about personal responsibility.  I could not see myself standing in someone elses shoes and telling them "this is what you should do."  Is there a possibility that someone would do something morally wrong or even morally reprehensible?  Absolutely, but that is the case in so many acts of life.  I have actually witnessed someone ranting about women who get abortions and then turn around and get in a car after having one too many drinks.

I understand those that have a personal belief based on their religion.  But even in that I have noticed that people tend to pick and choose what parts of their religion to support, while dismissing other important tenets. 

I still think the best way forward is to be introspective and fix the things in our own lives and live  fully according to our belief system.  If that were done, I believe you would see a much kinder world.

I made the observation that being pro-gun does not mean you are pro-murder, however murders do occur sometimes from a gun. There are so many comparisons that can be made to things inherently good that have the potential for bad outcomes, and again it should come down to personal responsibility.

Mirror Mirror on the wall...

When I look in the mirror I don't see what you see when you look at me.  The blemishes are different, the faults are different, the beauty is different.  But what is even more evident is that the mirror itself is not without its flaws. While inanimate, it also has a perspective that differs from our own.

What initiated this train of thought for me was a recent text conversation with one of my grown children.  He was seeing me from a light that I did not know existed.  Harboring resentment towards me for his upbringing and the turmoil that he witnessed from the father and mother dynamic.  While, I believe, we tried to provide the most for our children, we were often embattled in our own relationship with bitterness, and anger  (which both parents will have a different perception of).

He said he felt discarded by me, and while I cannot characterize it as he did, there were circumstances that led him back and forth between his mother and I after the marriage crumbled.  Backing up, I watched him as he grew up and he was an angry child, battling demons that may or may not have been a result of the home environment. but abandonment was not one of them.  It is complicated, no doubt.  I can think of many things that I could have done better, many ways I could have improved upon my own life and by osmosis improved upon his.  But over the years, he always had a home should he have chosen to be with me.  But my desire to fight with his stubborn nature waned and as he grew older, any advice I had for him was heard, I suppose, but not heeded.  So as a parent of an adult child, I felt it was time for him to make his way.  Still willing to add advice, but never unsolicited.

So during our conversation, he said he needed me as a mentor.  A role I honestly was not aware of him needing.  Mostly due to the fact that he oft times did it the way he wanted, against better judgment.

When he said that i was not there for him, I started the list in my head.  The list of times that may or may not have added up to sufficient.

He quit school in his freshmen year - Helped him get his GED.

Wanted to go to school for mechanics - arrainged funding through my sister to pay for it.

Got a call....needed money (several calls over the years) - was there most if not for all of those calls.

I know that money is not a substitute for personal interaction, but i helped him where he said he needed help.  Do I wish that things had been different?  Sure, what parent can't look back and see areas where improvement could have been made.

Was I a bad or neglectful parent?  I didn't think so until this conversation.  

But when I look at the circumstances I see how perspective can rule how we see life.  My perspective is obviously skewed, as I believe his is.

But what it all comes down to is that he and I both miss each other.  We have different ways of expressing it.  And now at almost 33 he feels it, as do I.  It was never my intention to let so many years and miles go between us, but it has.

We have something that I did not have growing up.  You see, I lost my dad when I was 23.  I never got the chance to ask him advice as a young father, worker, husband.  And that is not what I wanted for my kids. yet at the same time, I never pictured my dad coming to me and offer advice unsolicited.  I am who I am because of the decisions I made on my own, and to be perfectly honest, I am in a great place.  But it took me a few years to recognize it.

We HAVE to be thankful for what we have, where we are, and the road it took to bring us to the place we are in.  To harbor ill will, regret, and anger will only serve to bring us poor health, poor wealth, and unhappiness.

To my children:  I love you. Maybe not how you want to be loved, but it is how I know how to do it from my experiences.  Room to Grow?  Most Definitely.

Living in a Dream.

 As some people may know, I consider myself an Arizonan.  Most of my formative years were spent in the desert.  Catholic school for most of my education until college and growing up in the family business of restaurants. But my mother and father were born and raised on the east coast in New Jersey.  It was actually the place of my birth, and for some weird reason I shyed away from that part of my heritage.  As I am growing older, the place has taken on more meaning for me, so much so that what little memory I do have is being replayed over and over in dreams.  Dreams that have a similar theme or place that change ever so slightly with each time they occur.

My birthplace was Bloomfield, New Jersey. For the first three and a half years we lived in two different homes in the same general neighborhood (within walking distance of each other).  The first was on the corner of Hickory and Sycamore street in a neighborhood where many of the homes were built by my great grandfather whom i never met.  Some of the homes were taken when the state constructed the New Jersey Turnpike, but many of the homes still exist.  I was going to add "oddly enough it was the same street (Hickory) that my mother grew up on", though history tells me that it was not odd at all, it was how many families lived.  I visited the area several  years ago, and as i have recounted at least once before in a similar post, the concrete outline of the above ground swimming pool that was erected in 1960 was still prominant in the back  yard.  My great-aunt's home, now inhabited by my cousins, still looking the same.  There are pictures of me and my family that jog memories of those early years, but I can still remember several of them as if they happened yesterday.  One vivid one was that of our pet pig, Willy, (yes we had a pet pig) running through the house and out the back door into the pool area, my mother swatting at it with a broom.  I can also remember my dad taking me in the pool and bouncing me up and down and pulling me around in a plastic inflatable doughnut.  My father, at this point in his life, I believed was a salesman, possibly working for Proctor and Gamble (i know that was one of his jobs), but had previously been a Bloomfield Police officer and a fireman.  My godfather was the mayor of Bloomfield, Ralph Conte, a close friend of my Fathers. My mother, if memory serves me, stayed at home and raised the children (4- I was the youngest).  She had worked for Bell Telephone for a while and had dreams of being a clothing designer in New York.  

At some point in my first three and 3/4 years we moved out of that house into a home on Belleville Avenue.  The home was marked by a bright red front door and sat upon a hill.  At one point the circus came to town and was sponsored by the Jersey Jaycees (junior chamber of commerce).  As a publicity stunt a trailer loaded with two elephants pulled up in front of our house and unloaded.  The elephants were brought up our driveway and posed for a picture of several men trying to fit them into our barn (it seems odd now that we had a traditional barn in our yard complete with a loft).  There are a couple of photos of my dad holding me while I feed one of them a peanut and a photo of the men pushing the elephant's behinds into the barn.

I could go on and on, but I know how attention spans work, so I will get to the inspiration of this post...

We moved to Arizona in the summer of 1964.  I was three and a half years old.  We only lived there for a short time before heading back to New Jersey.  I am not sure why we moved back, maybe home-sickness, maybe a failed attempt at the restaurant business, maybe my dad didn't like working for the mines as security, I don't know, but we left.  We returned to Bloomfield and stayed for a short period in an apartment while my parents looked for a home.  I am not exactly sure of the time frame, but i remember attending first grade at Sacred Heart School.  So, to the point...Last night I dreamed of a little deli/sandwich shop that my father would take me to get a pork roll sandwich on a toasted, buttered Kaiser roll.  It seems that is was on a main street, possibly Bloomfield Avenue, but time and memory have changed that truth.  My first dreams were that of my father interacting with the owner, someone he was obviously acquainted with, from his youthful years in the town. But through my years the dream has changed with the location being different, yet oddly familiar. The way you ordered, the seating setup etcetera. Thankfully the memory of the smell has remained even to this day and in last night's recollection.  But last night there was a new owner of the establishment, an older, grey haired woman that was working the grill with patrons standing at the raised counter where you could view the making of your sandwich.  There were rolls slathered in marinara and cheese awaiting a meat ball topping and pork roll sizzling on the grill.  There was an older gentleman sitting with another in a booth and I told the lady that he was the son of the original owner, late 70's in age.  She told me that he was also in a band that went around on tour that played for the likes of Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennet.  While the dream was a total fabrication of my mind, there were many familiarities.

So going back to my original sentence...I may have grown up in Arizona, called it home, and told many a folk that it was where I came from, the truth is that I cannot escape my geographical DNA.  I'm a Jersey boy.  It is in my blood and most definitely in my dreams.  Mom and Dad are gone, ties are no longer there, at least not for me.  You see we moved again back to Arizona within two years. This summer some cousins are organizing a family reunion which my oldest sister plans to attend, but that is because she did not return to Arizona with us in the late 60's, she went back to Bloomfield where she attended Trenton State College.  I thought about going, but I don't know any of them, not one.  I remember brief interactions with some, but not enough to buy a ticket and spend a day with them.  Most of the evidence of my Jersey roots are gone, leaving Arizona in the forefront where I went to school and made friends that are still around today.  but the one lasting, vivid memory will always be me, my dad and pork roll on a grilled, buttered Kaiser roll.

Hopefully I will feel inspired to continue the story, there is so much to tell...

Lucky Me

 I have said it many times before, but I consider myself the luckiest man alive (my apologies to Lou Gherig).

I grew up blessed and knew at an early age that I had an angel on my shoulder, albeit there was a devil on the other one, but nonetheless.  I had opportunities and experiences that I deem as wonderful and transformational.  some of the stories I have shared in this blog, so I will not go into all of those, but some of the highlights, which obviously molded my path stick out.  as those of you that know me know that I am somewhat enamored with celebrity.  Not because they are anything special to deserve praise or adulation, but rather that they found a path that led them to success.  Okay, that's a little bit of BS...yes of course it is because they are famous, but let me tell you how my reverence for the celebrity came about...

I was introduced to my share of celebrities in my formative years, individuals that came off of the television screen and wandered into my life.  as early as 8 years old I can remember meeting them from Bill Bradley to Forest Tucker to my all time favorite Ricardo Montalban.  then when my parents opened a restaurant just 2 1/2 miles from Old Tucson, the famous movie studio, they kept coming.  in my early 20's it was religious leaders, rock stars, pro wrestlers and a few politicians.  then in the 90's it was all rock and roll.  working for a AAA format radio station I was introduced to folks like Billy Preston, Jewel, Bernie Taupin, Keith Urban (the Ranch version, not the current one), Natalie Merchant and the list goes on and on.  in the 2000's it was politicians and more musicians/actors.  Football players turned Congressman, first ladies turned Senators (wink wink), Playwrights, famous songwriters, etc.  it took a little different turn in the 2010's it was all about authors.  Judy Collins, Lee Child et al.  Most recently I got to meet La Femme Nikita actress Peta Wilson.  She and her partner were at our house for dinner and for a brief moment she considered maybe settling down in Florence and working for our Radio Station.  and as I am reminiscing through the ages I realize that this was just the tip of the iceberg and many were left out.  Yes I know it is name dropping and I say so what.  I am sharing my experiences.  

All this to repeat that I have been blessed.  and I have gravitated towards the famous and sometime infamous for some reason.  the thing that I have learned through all this is that they are people.  Just like me, just like you, and at the same time, not like anyone else on earth.

If you ever hear me complain...mention this to me.  I have not reason to complain.

Thankful, blessed.  but wait, that's not all. over the years I have been married, divorced, married and divorced again, tried and was not as successful at the end as I thought I would be going in to it, but that too has come full circle:  A loving, beautiful, joyful creature to spend these days with, who also considers herself blessed.  Thanks!  Her name is Deb.