Truly: Can't We all Find Common Ground?

 WTF!

I just don't know anymore. I can't get a handle on all of the misinformation that is being passed out as truth. But now, I am not only seeing it from online, made up, targeted videos to my algorithm, but I am hearing it from people that I normally would have thought of as intelligent, reasonable individuals.

I know there is debate out there on who was the worst, Biden, Trump, Obama, Bush, etc., and honestly, depending on what particular policy you are talking about, there are valid reasons for choosing any one of them. But here is my take on what I am hearing:

Did Biden drop the ball on border security? I think the statistics would say, for the most part, yes. Up until 2023, more than 2.4 million people illegally crossed the border into the U.S. That is roughly the entire number of those deported under Obama. Under Trump’s first term, about 1.5 million were deported.

Yet you hear from each side how ineffective each administration has been. I heard a conservative pundit yesterday say that Trump is doing more than Obama did... it is just not a verifiable stat.

Now I am not criticizing the administration's policy. I think that getting rid of the worst of the worst is exactly what we should be doing. I would be surprised if not everyone agreed with that. But when I hear someone say (metaphorically) that you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet... I have to draw the line.

When someone says an illegal immigrant raped and killed someone, and if they had not been here that would not have happened. Yes, without a doubt! But that does not make the tactics being used acceptable.

I mean, if you want to use the situation to bolster your support for going through neighborhoods profiling everyone that looks like an immigrant, then what do you say for the American citizen that is still out there that has committed a similar crime?

Let's see what available data has to say about that. Texas is one of the few states that tracks data from immigrants, both legal and illegal. And what we "know," not what I am trying to convince you of, is that based on the Texas data is that more U.S.-born citizens are consistently in the higher percentages for violent crimes, with legal immigrants falling in second and undocumented immigrants having the lowest rate of violent offenders. Don't take my word for it, look it up.

There hasn't been one mass school shooting that was by an undocumented resident. Don't get me wrong, I am not minimizing the crimes of those that might be coming over the border illegally, but I want some common sense discussion on the totality of violence in America. It is a problem in our society today, and I know in my heart that there are many factors that contribute to it. Society in general is seeing a decline in decorum. Respect is largely out the window when it comes to peaceful discourse, and when it comes to who is at fault in places like Minneapolis, it is multi-faceted.

Should a peaceful protester bring a gun to a protest? They have a right to, but common sense says it is not the smartest thing to do. Why? Because you never know how you might be perceived by others. Should an ICE or Border agent shove people to the ground just because they are being filmed, or should they shove someone into oncoming traffic? Of course not, but what I believe is that not all protesters are law-abiding and not all ICE and Border agents are thugs.

I would also like to see us quit comparing this president to that president, this demonstrator to that one, or this ICE situation to that ICE situation. We need to look at every situation as unique.

We all felt sorry about Alex Pretti, then video emerges of him spitting and kicking a patrol car. Some said, "see! he's not the sweet guy you thought," as if to say he then deserved to have 10 shots fired at him while he lay prone, unarmed on the ground.

1st Amendment? Yes, we have the right, but what we choose to say should be self-edited so as not to be filled with algorithmic inaccuracies.

I am much more willing to hear an opposing viewpoint when they are articulated with clean facts and not through the lens of rhetoric.

All our awareness is heightened, and it is our desire to be heard more than our desire to be accurate that is filtering through.

Let's all take a breath. Admit that both sides could do better and have a dialogue that promotes those conversations.

I Never Expected This...

Holy crap.

I am about to tell you something that I don't like to talk about, partly because it exposes my youthful indescretions and my inability to make right a wrong.

You think you have all the time in the world to make up for mistakes in the past, but the stark realization is that it all passes too quickly, and sometimes that moment of opportunity is suddenly just an image in a rear view mirror.

When I was going to Bob Jones University in the late '70's, I was there because I was heartbroken. Someone I thought was going to be in my life for “ever after” had disappeared. She was taken away secretly by her mother, who was in an abusive marriage, one that left her daughter vulnerable to a sick, perverted man who shrouded himself in the gospel but was anything but godly. He was the reason that they disappeared without notice. It could not be known to anyone where they went for fear of this man finding them. My family knew the family, familiar with them. He knew that his stepdaughter and I were a couple, and if I knew where she was they might be in jeopardy. So... they disappeared... and so did I... not physically, but emotionally. I had to move ahead, despite my heart being attached.

So I started going to a church, a small fundamental Baptist church that the love of my life had ties to. Her best friend was the preacher's daughter.

I was introduced at that time to a world that I had never seen before. It was the mix of religion and constitutionality, the likes I had never seen nor knew existed. While attending the church, I met Jolyn. She was sweet, but more than that for a teenage boy, she was present. I took all the heartbreak and emotions and switched them to Jolyn. She was preparing to go to Bob Jones University in the fall of 1979. So I said, why not. My other plans of going into the Air Force had fallen through, so why not religion.

What I knew, and what was realized, was that Jolyn would never be the replacement for what I had lost. No surrogate love there. I left for Bob Jones as soon as I could that summer. I wanted to get acclimated to the area, the climate, and the people. I worked at the commissary on the campus with all of the other summer workers and realized that this was a huge new world for me, and I refocused my attention to the work, the studies, and the new restrictions the university would put upon me.

When Jolyn got to BJU, it was quite evident that we would not be together. Frankly, I was relieved. I was newly focused. School became my love, and I jumped in wholeheartedly. First semester came and went, and I realized that working on campus was not going to pay my tuition. In fact, I was in debt to the university and was told I could not return until I had made the balance of my tuition (which is another story... one that I have shared before).

But anyway... I got the money... gifted to me... and I returned for the next semester. It was uneventful, well, except for accusations against me not living up to the social requirements the school had set (yet another story). I stayed through the summer, continued working for the university, and began semester three. I decided that finances would not allow me to go to my fourth semester, but I would hang around and hoped that God would provide for me to continue.

I dated some during this time, hung out for Christmas in Dade City, Florida, with the Tillmans. Twins Rebecca and Rachel... (you get their family was religious... right?). When I came back to South Carolina, I got a job with the local radio station, the one associated with the university, WMUU. It worked into a pretty good part-time job that I supplemented with a cook's job at the local Shoney's restaurant.

It was in February of 1981 that I met my first wife, Deena Maerene Hester. She was sweet, simple, and was dealing with a lot of demons that I had no knowledge of. You see, the way BJU was set up, you couldn't really get to know the real person, probably why the divorce rate among BJU students was so high. Deena and I dated in accordance with the BJU policies. Never alone, always supervised (if even from afar), met in the dating parlor, ate in the snack shop, talked extensively.

Somewhere in the whole four months that we had known each other, I began to think about what life would look like and did not have the foresight to see what was to come, only that I wasn't going in any direction that showed promise. I felt that I could move back to Tucson, work for my parents’ restaurant, and eventually take it over. So I did the most stupid, and what I realize now was the most insensitive thing I could have done. I asked Deena to marry me, and she said yes.

Being honest with myself now, it felt like a surrender. A pitching aside of the potential I believed was there but stymied after the loss of my first love. It was unfair to Deena.

What makes it more hurtful was the day of our marriage. We decided on a church in Traveler's Rest where a mutual friend of ours played the piano. Everyone was going to be there. Her mother and father (aunt and uncle that raised her), my mother and father who flew from Tucson to be there. And then it happened, the shitty, selfish-minded event that spun me out of control, but not enough to call off the wedding.

My mother handed me a stack of letters that had been accumulating. On the top of the pile, I saw it. I froze. My heart felt like it wanted to beat out of my chest. I was wanting to cry, I was wanting to scream, I wanted to run from the chapel and never look back, but I did not. On top was the familiar handwriting I had seen many times before. The envelope still had the smell of strawberry. It was from my first love.

My mother handed me the stack, and I looked at her when she said, “This came several weeks ago for you.”

“What?” my inner voice screamed. “Several weeks ago? You have had this in your posession and you are just now giving me this? On my wedding day?” All those words still silent in my head.

I walked aside, found a private spot, and opened the letter. “How are you, how have you been? I have been thinking about you, are you seeing anyone? Here is what happened to me...”

That is not the letter you want to get when you are about to make the biggest mistake of your life. No, of course it is. But I did not do the right thing. I opted to move forward and marry despite knowing that Deena would never be loved like “she” was loved.

This began the downhill spiral even before the “I do’s” were spoken, but we moved forward. Married, moved to Arizona, worked for my parents. I was angry, and not only that, but I found myself with someone that I really did not know. Someone who had deep-seated issues due to a father that was not there and had been abusive when he was, leaving her to be raised by her mother's aunt and uncle. Her mother struggling with mental health issues and Deena dealing with a lot of anger as well.

We hid it well in public, but in private it was volcanic. The yelling, the screaming, the frustration, the disagreements, the pregnancy. Yup, that's right, the pregnancy.

I decided, or we decided, not sure now after all these years, that we needed to be in a place that was nurturing for both of us religiously, so it was back to Greenville with the hopes of me returning to the ministry and finding my footing and the peace that had thus far escaped me. We left in June of 1984. Found a place nearby the college, and I started to work on building a life. I got a manager's job at the Shoney's I had previously worked at and began working 10, 12, 14-hour shifts. At first, stressful, but as the months went by, a blessing.

It was later that year in October that another twist of fate occurred. October 8th, 1984, 6:30 in the morning, the phone rang. I instantly knew it was bad news. Deena handed me the phone, and my mother told me my father was dead. It was at that moment that everything fell apart. The floodgates opened, and I could not hold back the years of feeling that I had been holding in.

Now Deena tried to be supportive, but I think her relationship with her own father might have had something to do with the ineffectiveness I felt in that support, or perhaps it was just my grief.

Fly to Tucson, alone. Deena was six months pregnant, and we couldn't really afford to both go. As it was, I got a grief rate, and my mother paid for it.

God was no longer on the table. Dismissed, forgotten, blamed. Everything else was on autopilot. And because the autopilot was set with the wrong heading, it was only a matter of time before I started to make changes that would affect my life, Deena's life, and our soon-to-be-born son, George's life.

Needless to say, by the summer of 1985 the marriage was done. Divorce court was tough. No lawyer on my part. I just said “whatever” and succombed to the wishes of her and her lawyer, even as the judge said, “Mr. Henry, are you sure you don't want a lawyer on your behalf?”

Hindsight, right?

The next several years were rough. A new relationship, new responsibilities, more and more separation from my son. Deena dragged me into court several times over the next year. I just kept mailing the check.

Eventually, we were all estranged from one another. Deena took George in the middle of the night and moved out of state, despite my visitation rights. (Learned later that Deena's aunt and uncle counseled her to “make it as hard as possible on him,” me, and he would come to his senses and come back and get on track.) I think that when she saw that had the opposite result, she would just move away and separate herself in distance from me.

At the time, I didn't know where she went, only that she was gone. I was still supposed to pay support even though I no longer had visitation... that was tough. In fact, after about six months of no communication, no updates from family court, and neither hide nor hair of them, I did the worst thing possible. I stopped writing checks. They were going to family court in South Carolina. Deena was no longer in South Carolina, and she refused to let me know her location so as to reestablish contact with my son.

Now I know there will be judgment by some, support by others, but that is not what I am after here. I have fallen on my own sword time after time over this.

But I want to get at the whole reason I started writing this... Every now and then, when thinking about the son I never knew, I take a look online, or at social media, and see if I can find him again. We had a brief encounter around 2010, but Deena shut that down quickly.

So yesterday I got that urge again to see what I could find. I found a few references with my son's name on it, and one struck me odd. It was the sale of a house with his name and the name of another man on it. So I did a whitepages.com search, which will bring up his name and usually family members with which he is associated. Sure enough, the last name of the man appeared again, so I made the assumption that he was the stepfather to my son. So I googled his mother's name with the new last name, and it popped up on Google.

An obit. February 21, 2021, at the age of 61. It was linked to a mortuary website, and I clicked on it. No posts, no pictures, no messages at all, just one picture of forget-me-not flowers. I used the same tactic and went to Facebook with the same name, found a blank Facebook with everything erased. The only thing that made it real was one profile picture. Everything else... gone.

Even with what I just wrote, I maintain that I had no regrets, but I must say, I wish I had the chance to at least make amends to the mother of my son. Now as to my son, not sure what comes next, but the last time we connected, he reached out to me. Perhaps it is my turn, and be prepared to be disappointed.

My Best Friend?

 My beautiful, talented, compassionate wife asked me last night randomly as we were standing in the kitchen: "who's your best friend?" Without hesitation i said "you are!" I got that look. you know the one that says "no i mean the real answer!" Which was shocking to me, because that was the real answer, but she pushed me for more information. I told her, "I don't really have 'another' best friend." I have people that i call friends, some closer than others, but none that i would comfortably call up and bare my soul to. That's not to say that there are not people that i like hanging around and doing stuff with, but i have never been the guy that calls someone up and says: "Hey, let's go do this, or that!" It is just not comfortable for me to do that.

On the other hand, if someone calls me, and I have the time and the inclination, I will usually say "sure!"
Again, I am not sure why I am like that...deep seeded (or is it Seated) issues? Low maintenance in that i don't need a lot of outside stimulation for survival? or something else? Not sure.
Am I the only one that feels this way?
I can look back on a time when i think something of significance changed me for all time. I was 12, I went to my sister's wedding in New Jersey and then up to my grandmother's house in the Catskills for most of the summer. When i came back, my dog, Sam, was gone. I was told by my father that they (actually my mother) gave the dog to a farmer (desert arizona..farm? hmmm?). Sam and I had always been inseperable. We explored the desert side by side. She went everywhere I went, except of course school. I think something broke in me when i got home and Sam was gone, and even worse that she was given away, because a parent did not want to be responsible in my absence. Whenever I am asked a question like my wife asked me today...I draw a blank because I immediately think "human" In the animal world the answer is instant: Sam.

Have you ever written something that you want everyone to read, but know that you can’t publish it because if everyone read it than they would know way too much about your life?

I have.  More than once.

What I have learned from that is that it is important to have friends to lean on and share those times with.  Friends that won’t judge you, just listen.

In my case, however, I am not prone to making those kinds of friendships and therefore haven’t got the support to share my stresses.  Being married is great, but because your spouse has a vested interest in your emotional state they cannot really remain neutral.  No matter how much you ask them to remain that way.  There will always be words of wisdom, sage advice, and positive feedback.  But if all you are looking to do is vent…you better find another outlet.

Again, all those things are great in a spouse, but I drive myself crazy trying to figure out a way to vent that doesn’t illicit conflict.  So what do I do?  I hold it in until I can’t.  And then ‘kaboom’!

I have been accused of not being a good communicator, and I guess that’s true in some respect.  The difficult part is that I have so much to say, but feel stifled.  Stifled out of my own fear.  Fear of rejection.  Everyone wants to feel accepted by the ones who love them and sometimes the only way to get that is to say as little as possible.  I have often put my foot in my mouth and since shoes are rarely made out of leather any more, the taste is quite plastic.

This is certainly not a blog on being discontent.  In fact it is merely rambling on about wanting to be more verbal and not being able to find the voice to do that.  So I blog it.  Knowing that if anyone does read it, I don’t necessarily get a response.  And if I do…I don’t have to read it!

So I guess to sum it up…  Shut up or live alone… okay, that might be a bit drastic.  But I have to do something to relieve stress…or it’s going to kill me.

What hope is there for us?

Oh my, What have we become?

 On my YouTube podcast page, I posted a video on my thoughts about the recent murder/assassination of political influencer Charlie Kirk. I expressed my sadness and my hurt over the senseless taking of his life. I mentioned that I did not agree with everything he said or stood for, which is true; however, after reflecting on the body of work that I had seen prior to his death, I realized that the principles he stood for were good. He spoke often about the construct of the family and how it has broken down and is now part of the problem in society. How we have made it more financially beneficial for single moms to raise children rather than supporting the two-parent family model. Now, that is just one issue, but I received some comments after posting that video, and one was a woman who is on my Facebook page, and she said that she asked another friend of mine what I was. This, in reference to what my political leanings were. This alone tells me that this person is not concerned with having conversations with a broad spectrum of beliefs, but rather only wants to know that she is talking with someone who will support her belief system. So, as I ruminated on this, I came up with some math with a little help from Pew and Gallup, and my initial estimations were not far off from their research. I estimated that about 5% of America fell into the fringe category of Left and Right—5% each side that is—and the polling concluded that somewhere between 5 and 8 percent each were the numbers. Which leaves about 84–90% of the rest of the country somewhere in between. It is within those percentages that I find myself. And depending of the topic of conversation, I can be a little left of center, and others a little right of center, but definitely center. I fall within the groups that want less government involvement on some issues and more on others. I am with the group that believes that the system is likely broken beyond repair. I am with the group that strongly believes in the First Amendment and equally with the group that believes in the Second Amendment. I believe in compassion for the downtrodden, and I also believe in making people earn what they receive in handouts. Even if it is just picking up trash on the highways. I believe in the family model, but also believe that resiliency in people make it possible to thrive in a single-parent household. There is no one answer or one solution to America’s problems, but to start solving them, we have to start communicating, make concessions, and treat those that don’t believe like we do with respect and common decency. And most importantly, we need to Think. Use our brains. We cannot continue to go in this direction without utter disaster reigning.

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!