As long as my two hands are fit to use...

Merle Haggard once recorded a song once called "Workin' Man's Blues" or something along those lines. As a radio DJ in a former life, I got the chance to play that record (and later CD) several dozen times. I actually enjoyed listening to it the first hundred times... but then like most repetitive practices, it got stale.

Back to the grind of working life after a week away has been an easy transition, but I miss being completely relaxed. Who doesn't miss that? It's Wednesday here which is one of my "long days." In at 9 and out around midnight... which a lunch and dinner in there somewhere.

Other than the purpose of putting my thoughts down in print, the only reason I'm posting today is because I just read an article about how to "future proof" your job. One of the reasons they list is blogging. Read about it here.

See you down the road.

Back on the blog-wagon?

There was quite a bit of time between posts here and if I said it was for good reason, I'd be lying. I just got away from writing for a while. I wanted to continue. But all that was coming to mind were people that have died. I didn't want to have a long list of eulogies here.

So here we are again. Why? I've recently re-discovered I don't need a computer to update the blog. A cell phone will do. So if you catch some a-typical spelling and grammar, blame it on the tiny keys and my opposable thumbs.

Austin, Texas

A major departure from the place our Texas forefathers ever envisioned. Instead of government and Texas heritage, today's average person will say "6th Street!" When you say Austin. They may have missed the point.

Well, most of the point anyway. It's so much more than that. But for now, it'll do. Technology has led us into the video generation. Austin has always had great music. Now the watering holes show video on lcd television sets and projector screens. Putting moving pictures with rhythm and notes is the next step. Radio will be dead in short time with video. They call that television. I've seen it before, but no more obvious than in my beloved capital. God save communication and preserve all of the point of it, not just part. Much like my hope for the public perception of this city I'm visiting right now.

Dear deodorant: Thanks for falling down on the job. Good thing I was planning on changing clothes before the convention. Love, -ch

On the road

I'm on the road today headed south along the busiest and more dangerous interstate highways in the country. I know this first hand based on several near collisions and one direct encounter with a wayward orange plastic construction barrel.

A while back I passed through Red Oak, Texas. I've never stopped there but two things come to mind about Red Oak. Back in my hometown, Mr. & Mrs. King ran the dry cleaners and men's wear shop across from my grandparent's flower shop. We went to church together, saw each other at town events, and were as close as folks in town could be I guess.

When Mr. King died, Mrs. Ruby Ruth moved off to be closer to her kids and grand kids. I remember hearing she settled at a nursing home in Red Oak. Back then I thought she was much too young for that. Even though she wore large glasses and had a large Texas hair do- it was white and poofy like clouds. Mrs. Ruby Ruth had a booming alto voice with a Texas drawl.

As a kid who spent afternoons at the flower shop once school was dismissed for the day, the only thrill of doing homework back when my pencil needed sharpening. If Tank wasn't around with his pocket knife, I could always head across the street to the dry cleaners. Mr. & Mrs. King had a pencil sharpener and we're never too busy to stop a visit for a minute.

Hot afternoon back home

It was one of those wickedly hot Sunday afternoons in my hometown… the kind of heat that makes it hard to breath. Combine the weather with the fact it was Sunday in a tiny place like

De Kalb, and you get an eerie calm all over the place. This atmosphere persisted on that day… even with someone running their lawn mower off in the distance. I rode my bike everywhere back then, and I remember not being able to find anybody outside… nobody to play with. Nobody to talk to. It didn’t matter much, because I wasn’t much in the mood for talking anyway.

My meandering bike trips back then would take me all over town… past city hall… the fire station… the elementary playground… the Ag farm… and all 3 cemeteries within De Kalb’s city limits.

Most kids my age would shutter at the sight of such a place. But to me a cemetery was nothing to be afraid of. I spent too many afternoons hanging around my grandparent’s flower shops to be scared of a graveyard… or funerals. And I’d spent more than a fair amount of time down the street at the funeral home. It was just 150 feet, which was close enough for any 7 year old boy to deliver pot plants in my spare time.

Back to this particular Sunday though… I ended up at Woodmen Cemetery, which was without a single living person except me. That is, until a line of cars rolled slowly through the front gate. When he got out of the lead car, you could see his shiny white hair blowing in the wind as the doors were opened for the family. It wasn’t a very large funeral. Only a dozen or so mourners filed under the green tent set up just a few feet away from the road.

That man I was telling you about was a towering figure… both in person… and in reputation. Noble Bates commanded this small gathering without saying a word… or so it seemed to me. It was the kind of class that’s lost on many professions these days. Even though I’d known him most of my life, up until that Sunday afternoon I’d never really paid attention to how he operated… and how small town America grieves for their dead. Words were spoken. Bible verses were read aloud. Hymns were sung and prayers were given. 15 minutes spent to commemorate a lifetime, however short or long this particular person was on this earth. But it was done with compassion and class.

What to do next?

It might sound strange to hear from someone my age, but I woke up today with aching joints in just about every movable part on my body. I know the culprit too, because it happens regularly.

I don't mind a round or two of hard labor outdoors, especially when it comes to meeting the needs of the house and the yard. Yesterday, I managed to mow and trim here and there, and was able to avoid getting stuck in the mud that's still underneath all that grass. The backyard will have to wait though. It's still a bit too wet to be properly cared for.

It's a fact that I'm out of shape. One of the more physically active guys here at work has challenged me to change that. He says he can help and I believe him. I keep putting him off though. And the reason? I don't own a pair of tennis shoes.

Since 1996, I've only bought 2 pair of tennis shoes. The first pair wore out after 9 months of running around the grounds at Texas A&M when I was a bald headed cadet in the ROTC Corps there. The second pair came around 7 or 8 years later, but they ended up at my parents' house and I haven't seen them since. I think my Daddy wears them from time to time, and that's OK with me. It makes me feel good that something that was once mine is doing him some good.

And just like this column drifted away from the topic at hand, I also keep drifting away from the solution to my weary feeling. As soon as I get around to it, I'll go buy some shoes. After all, you can run around and ride exercise bicycles or lift weights, or any of that sort of thing wearing steel-toe Red Wing boots.

Oh, I'm sure you can. But that would mean I could get started right away, and I'm in no hurry to do such a thing.

Sunday mornin' coming down

Well, good morning there. You've caught me sitting here at the coffee table with a cup of coffee (what else would you use a coffee table for?) and watching an old VHS tape of "Fox & Hound" the kids are tuned in to. They just had breakfast about 30 minutes ago, and already my oldest is asking about a snack.

I woke up this morning earlier than usual because my partner cashed in a long overdue favor. She wanted to sleep late, and deservedly so. She never gets to snooze. That chore is usually reserved for me due to my strange and mostly unpredictable schedule during the week.

Getting up early gets my mind to thinking on a long list of randoms that don't usually have a rhyme or reason for being in my head. One topic that is probably the most common, but least talked about is death. Yes, today death is on the brain (not mine, of course). There's a song by Kris Kristopherson that's floating around in my head too. A few gospel singers passed through too since I got a text from my good friend, Dwight as he sat in Cowboy Church this morning. Dwight's a big fan of gospel music and one of the deepest bass singers I've ever known.

Let's start with death and see if I don't get tired of typing before I get to the other topics.

I don't know what made me think of Barney Cannon this morning, but I did and looked him up on the Internet only to learn that ol' "Big Foot" Barney died last month. I was surprised to read that headline, especially since nobody from back home told me about it. I never met Barney, but our paths circled one another at radio stations across Northeast Texas years ago. His mother owned a flower shop down the road from me as a shirttail kid. My grandparents ran a flower shop too, so we had that in common. He hired on in radio while he was in high school. I did as well, even though it was 20 years later.

Even though I'd never met him, I once found an old business card at the radio station in Clarksville. It was a funky chartreuse colored card with the shape of a foot printed on it. "Big Foot Disco" in big bold letters were stamped on it, with Barney's name and phone number. Based on the information on the card, it was apparent that Barney ran a mobile DJ service once upon a time. After stops in Clarksville at KCAR-AM, New Boston, Texarkana, and somewhere in Kentucky, he developed star status and a bit of a listener following in Shreveport at KWKH-AM. KTBS in Shreveport did a fine tribute you can see here, and wikipedia has a brief on his life here.

Another passing that's been on my mind is Jason Hightower's. He fought off cancer for years. I could've written several chapters about Jason's influence on me, but procrastination corrupted the train of thought more than once this year. Jason hired me when I was a skinny kid fresh off the wagon in College Station. I'd move down there to go to school and, even though I promised my Mama I'd stay out of radio control rooms during my time at Texas A&M, I'm glad I broke that promise because I'd have never have met him. I had to honor of helping fulfill a musical request of Jason's for the graveside portion of his funeral service. While he was country to the bone, Jason wanted a Dixieland Jazz band to play his funeral. It was a costly endeavor, but we made it happen and I'm glad the Paulin Brothers made the trip to East Texas. You can read more about Jason and his legacy here.

Both were voices that people came to depend on for a variety of things, but the one reason is probably the biggest privilege is the fact they were both comforting to their listeners. It's one of the biggest honors any broadcaster can have, and that's to be a comfort.

That song I was referring up at the beginning of this dispatch has a depressing tone overall, but it went to number 1 on the charts and I can't tell you how many times people called asking for it when I was a disc jockey. Maybe it was because it was a comfort to hear too.

Waking the dead

I overheard a story this past weekend that I feel compelled to pass along. I don't know if it's a true story, but based on the characters involved I don't doubt it. Let me set it up before we get into the thick plot line.

All over my home country, it's rained a lot lately. Enough moisture to soak deep into the soil, soak into deep old tree roots. Enough to make a real mess out of soft ground like the dirt in an old country cemetary.

The story told within earshot of me went like this:

Nolan's been dead and gone for some time now and his body rests beneath the sprawling oak trees in the grave yard of his childhood community. In homespeak, he's buried out there at Spring Hill. Some folks call it 'Sprang Hill,' but that's for another column.

Nolan's daughter, Nona received a call last week from one of the locals out at Spring Hill. The caller was quite concerned over what she just saw.

"Nona, that big oak tree by your daddy's grave fell over last night during the storms and pulled up a lot of dirt with it. It was awful close to Nolan's grave and I wanted you to know," the caller said.

Nona was a little bit alarmed at the news, "Well, do I need to call Robby out there to put him back in the ground or what?"

"No, I can't see the casket under there. But I bet he shit his drawers when that tree fell over."

Without missing a beat, the clever Nona had a comeback.

"Now, we are NOT digging up Nolan just to change his drawers."


I don't know if that's funny to anybody else. But I got a laugh. Maybe it's because I know the folks involved and I knew the man resting in Spring Hill... dirty drawers or not.

When you gotta go...

It's Friday night where I earn the paycheck... and it's the end to an eventful week. Today was especially packed with meetings and interviews, including a sit-down appointment with some intern candidates from nearby colleges.

One intern-hopeful was a little nervous during his interview. I had to remember what it was like when I sat on the other side of the news director's desk, and tried to calm him by being myself (not the hard headed guy I can be from time to time). It didn't really help. After prodding for 10 or 15 minutes, it became apparent he wanted to be a sports intern. I said "no problem! Fill out this paperwork and I'll introduce you to the sports director upstairs."

The young man completed the application, the release form, and a piece of paper known as "substance abuse policy, chemical screening consent and release form." After a session with sports, the student left our building... and we all thought he was headed to the medical clinic to leave a sampling for the laboratory.

He never came back.

We didn't hear from him, and honestly I'd forgotten he was supposed to return with a receipt.

That was until an email came to the television station a few hours later.

The email went something like this:

"I had to run back to my college town for an
emergency and I am very sorry but I was unable to do the drug
screening. Also I have been given another internship so I don't think
that this is the right opportunity for me right now, mainly because of
the distance I would be driving everyday."

His college town isn't too far away. We've had bushels of young aspiring journalists make the trip. And if there was indeed an emergency, I sure hope everything turned out OK. Oh yes, and that other internship? It was never mentioned during the hour+ he was here.

Maybe another business called up while he was on the road to take the drug test. If that's the case, then good for him. Maybe he just had to go.

It's not procrastination... I'm just putting it off.

Have you ever looked up one day and realized you haven't done something in a long time that you should've taken care of?

That's how I'm feeling about these dispatches I put out from time to time. It's been an adventure since the last time we visited here in these pages. Since then, I went to Dallas and got on an airplane. Actually, I got on a few airplanes in a short period of time. I saw the Carolinas for the first time in my life, but only barely. I got to see some old friends and catch up on their careers, their families, and their lives. I got to see significant snowfall for the first time in a year too. I'm sure there's more, but it slips the mind.

Oh yes, I remember one more item. After our old Sony television stopped putting out a clear picture, we finally gave in. We went into more debt to buy one of those new thin models that puts out a high definition television picture. I'll admit I had buyer's remorse before I even got to the store, but the purchase was worth it. I even ordered it on the internet. In about 30 minutes, the television and the table that I bought to set it on were ready for me to pick up down the road at the store. How about that for convenience? My only complaint is with the business where I bought it. I dropped more than I make in a month in their store, and I didn't even get a smile or a thank you or even a handshake from the employees there.

No matter though. There are plenty of friendly people out there on the airwaves that make up for it. And they're much clearer and brighter on the new television on the living room.

Word to you burglars out there reading this. My house is equipped with high tech laser taser burglar alarms. It has 3 or 6 battery back-ups located in secret places about the home, so don't bother cutting our power off to gain entry. If you try to take my new television (or anything else for that matter), you'll receive an electrical jolt that will light you up brighter than the Denison fireworks show on July 4th. I have to say this because I'm sure even burglars read the blogs.

Will they have the bond of a hometown?

Have you ever been to your high school reunion? My partner tells me she goes all the time, but she does it on the computer thanks to facebook. I'll agree with that, but I'm talking face-to-face. In-person. The kind where you shake hands and pat each other on the back and say things like "good to see you," and "we'll have to keep in touch."

I recently crossed paths with some familiar souls who knew me in another life. There were nearly a dozen of us who'd all received a primary education at the same institution of lower learning. We'd all shared a meal or two at the Front Street Junction. We'd all crossed the Red River at one time or another to shop at a place known only as "Foreman," even though it was dozens of miles from the actual town of Foreman, Arkansas. And we'd all stood up and pointed our finger in the sky while singing the same school song.

It was a birthday party for a friend. The setting: A little roadhouse along I-35 that featured a Stevie Ray Vaughn tribute band. This group of hometowners is certainly dynamic. Some of them drove 3 hours to be there, and the guest of honor isn't even a blood-relative! At one point during the festivities, I was sitting away from the group on a stool and observing the surroundings. The guest of honor came up to me and thanked me for coming. He was truly amazed at everyone making the trip. I reached my hands out toward the crowd and motioned to him "They all came for you and you're not even dead!" He got a kick out of that, especially since his chosen career is 'funeral director.'

We spent the evening listening to the live band with a lead guitarist that dressed up just like SRV. We listened to the jukebox when the band was on break. We played pool. We took a lot of pictures and talked of old times. The big tall fella with the longhorns shirt was known for his trivial talents. He could tell with certain accuracy- what kind of vehicle any kid in De Kalb drove when he was in school, while I could tell you what year anybody in De Kalb graduated from high school.

Some of the people in this crew from Saturday have children, including me. Like most of the group, I left the hometown years ago. My children were born far away from Bowie County. They don't know the place I knew. I have to wonder about their ties to home. Not their house, but their town. Their community. Their place. How to people like military brats do it? Anytime I meet someone who moved around a lot as a kid, I'm in awe because of the adventures they must have experienced. I'm also in wonder at the adventures they may have missed.

Among the birthday party group, there's probably one kiddo who will know some of that ol'

De Kalb magic. A young man named Peyton may find it. But kids like Hattie, Sadie, Cooper, Ellerby, Riley, Princess, and Robb... they'll only know it if they spend enough time at their grandparents.

Maybe they'll all develop that bond their parents have.

The bond of a hometown.

I hope so.

Back east...

We ventured out once again for the weekend and headed for Texarkana to see my grandparents. Along the way, we stopped in what's left of Petty, Texas. This image is an old crossing over the T&P line. If you were riding a train across here back in the day, this would be known as mile post 109. That means you're more than 100 miles from the Texarkana terminal.

2 or 3 or more generations of my Daddy's family worked for railroads. I remember when Daddy worked the Texarkana to Bonham job across this very rail line.

On my Mama's side of the family, my great-great-aunt Nora lived at Petty. When she was living, she told me anytime a train passed through she wondered if my Daddy was on it.

Daddy still works aboard trains, but I suspect it won't be long before he makes his last run as a paid employee. Retirement is just around the bend.

The rail line? It's all but gone now, but it comes alive when you remember the people that made it happen and kept towns like Petty, Texas alive for as long as they could.

Aim High Texoma

Matt Ashcraft and I on break from surveying Lone Grove tornado damage. Feb 11, 2009

A trip home

The family and I spent the weekend back in a familiar place. One of my columnist mentors likes to call these kinds of places "the old hometown." He actually has several "old hometowns" that can be referred to with the same blanket phrase, and I catch myself doing that from time to time but this place deserves more recognition than that.

Brazos County, Texas only has 5 incorporated towns within its borders. There's Millican, Wixon Valley, Kurten, Bryan, and College Station. I love them all.

I'd been 18 years old for exactly one month when I packed my bags and left De Kalb and moved into a dormitory on the campus of Texas A&M. It was a family affair that I remember well. I'll spare the details of all that happened between the time I arrived in Brazos County and the day I left. We'll save all that for future dispatches.

I'll add to this later, because It's reading like there's a big hole here. And there is.
But I'll say now that I left a big part of me back there.

All roads (and rivers) lead home

By now, you've probably heard about the airliner that had to make a belly landing in the middle of the Hudson River. Just hours after all 155 people on board were pulled from scene, most every high profile government official has joined those affected in calling the pilot a hero.





It turns out that pilot, Captain C.B. "Sully" Sullenburger was raised in Denison, Texas.

Just after our 6pm broadcast, my office phone rang and for once I'm glad I answered. On the other end of the line was a frail sounding woman who struggled to speak to me. I could tell she had trouble communicating, but I was patient. She was eager to tell me that as a young man, Mr. Sullenburger learned to fly at Sherman's municipal airport. It was her late husband that served as his teacher all those years ago.

That's one of many stories we've heard tonight so far, and I'm sure there will be more to come in the next few days.

The overused phrase "It's a small world," certainly applies to this story.

Crash...

As much as I like that song by Dave Matthews, I don't like crashes by any other name. This is especially true when it comes to laptop computers like the family computer shown above.

This time it was my blackberry. It happened while I was attempting a software upgrade. Sometime during the usual process, an error came up on the computer screen and then the phone's display turned white and refused to work no longer. Its taken 4 hours to reload software, and another 3 hours to get the phone's features back to where I like them

There was a major casualty in all this. My phone book of contacts was well maintained but not backed-up. I didn't have to start completely over , but it was close.

So you may want to call, text, or email me if you still want to hear from me from time to time.