The Lee Gilette Story, Part 1

As I travelled on I-26, trucking my way through East Tennessee, I passed Exit 57A and instantly recalled one of the most unbelievable times I lived through in my twenty two year radio career. This story begins with the history leading up to my departure from a long run at a heritage radio station in New Jersey and ends on a very sad note about a guy with a God given talent for broadcasting.

On June 14^th, 1994, I marked my 12^th anniversary at Magic 98.3, WMGQ in New Brunswick, New Jersey, serving the Central New Jersey region in the Arbitron rated Middlesex-Somerset-Union market.  It was the 36^th largest, nationally, from over 300 rated markets in 1994 with a population of 1.5 million. New York City, Market #1 was our direct competition and adjacent market.  Mattantan was 28 miles from where I lived near the crossroads of I-78 and I-287.

 I first returned to The Garden State in early 1982 after a busted econmy chased me out of my radio haven in Coastal Georgia.  Anxious to stay busy and keep working,  I jocked part time on the weekends as a rock music DJ at 105-5, WDHA, The Rock of North Jersey. In addition, I taught broadcast announcing at a school in New York City during the week.  It was a seven day a week schedule with both, and a lengthy commute to The City on a network of trains and subways. 

In June, a slot opened at Magic and found myself in the unfamilar territory of soft rock radio.  I originally didn’t think I would last 6 months at there.  This was truly a place of "corporate radio."

The Adult Contemporary music format was too conservative and stuffy for my tastes, but I longed for one skinny day off every week in a position that included full-time benefits. This would be a stepping stone to somewhere else or back to WDHA, if a fulltime slot opened there.  I loved the Rock format at DHA. The Program Director, Mark Chernoff, General Manager Bob Linder and the rest of the staff were great people to work with. Long time Midday Personality, Kathy Millar, gave Chernoff a thumbs up when he asked if she liked my demo tape when I interviewed with Mark in the production studio there. 

At Magic, I ended up making it past six months and the administrations of three American Presidents, three New Jersey Governors, three station General Managers, one complete studio overhaul, the ownership of six cars and the loss of a substantial amount of hair. This was my twelve year temporary job.

Tony Marano, the long time General Manager of Magic 98.3, WMGQ had retired about a 18 months before I marked 12 years. He had been at the helm of Magic and our sister AM since the 60's. Tony began his career in the 40's at his beloved WCTC-AM.  Mr. Marano was revered in the community and maintained a family atmosphere at the stations.

Broadcast Center, the name of our modernistic facility was built in 1978. All on one level, a center talk radio studio doubled as a conference room and was surrounded by four studios including the newsroom with broadcast glass windows peering into the center. Offices, a large engineering room and a kitchen formed the outer ring of the building. Directly next to this beehive of activity was a rare, free standing broadcast antenna tower.  Easily recognized as a free standing because of its wide base and lack of supporting wire lines. 

 Marano was a tall, white haired gentleman and he led the stations on a path of steady growth over the years in a competitive maket sandwiched between the two major markets of Philly and New York.  One year, as a commendation for a job well done, he took us all on buses to Atlantic City for a day and night of fine food and fun at Trump Castle.  Donald Trump, himself, stepped into our banquet room briefly and greeted our group, telling us “we sounded like a fun bunch.”  Some of us received color TVs as prize for good work in an in-house sales contest.  

It was a stable place to work. Most of the Magic Personalities had ten years or more of service invested. On the CTC-AM side, a few, like Jack Shreve had been on the air since the early 60’s. Grown kids remember him announcing school closings. Long time AM morning personality, Jack Ellery roamed the halls like royalty. We called him "Little Caesar."

 The benefits were good at Magic 98.3 and I had four weeks of vacation annually.  In fact, since most of us on the FM staff had passed ten years and had four weeks, I would usually do my Evening Show only 10 months out of the year. The other two months were spent filling in on the Morning or Afternoon Shows.  It was nice to get that much of a change of pace and experience life outside of the evenings ever year for so much time. Ron Fillepp, the Afternoon Personality, took the entire month of August off to go to Australia one year, so I made myself comfortable in Afternoons for that time. 

On a typical day,  I would calmly stroll into the on air studio with thirty seconds to spare as a song ended, sit down, open the microphone and talk.  Toward the end of my career there, a new part time announcer introduced himself to me and said “it’s great to meet you…I used to listen to you when I was a kid.”  It was then, that it really sank in as to how long I had been there.

At one point, during the 80's, I discovered that I had a following in England. This was in the era when the internet was still a rudimentary endeavor and before it featured audio.  A listener called and said she was in a record store in England and found "bootleg" tapes of my show on cassettes labeled "American Radio".  I never did get a copy of a tape, but it was kind of a heady experience to think I might have listeners in Europe!

By the time the summer of ’94 rolled around, we were on our second general manager since Tony retired and suddenly, there were cracks in the dyke.  I met the new guy in the hallway one day, impeccably dressed and “spit shined to the nine’s”.  After looking me over carefully, he said  “don’t worry, I’m a nice guy.”  When someone says “I’m a nice guy” or “you can trust me”, I become wary. Very wary.

We watched in horror as the very talented Mike Jarmus on the AM side was given his walking papers.  It was thirty years of talent and a very nice man walking out the door, never to return.  Long time sales executives whom all we had worked closely with were departing one by one. Every day it seemed like someone was being accompanied out the door by a station official, while carrying their desk items in cardboard boxes.  A terse notice was posted with instructions of not to let the vanquished back into the building. Heads were rolling like bowling balls and I knew this bad disease of terminations would make it to our side of the building…sooner than later.

As predicted, they began breaking up Magic. I was actually fortunate that they dumped me into the Overnight Show. I eerily had the feeling that they forgot about me, and it would buy me enough time to find another job.

Nothing to my liking was developing in the regional area, so I knew I had to “widen my circle” if I was going to stay in radio or remain in the ash pit of what was once a great place to work.  Returning South was a recurring thought that appealed to me. But where could I go?  Florida and Georgia were places I enjoyed being once upon a time and to return there might be a good move, I pondered. I recalled the glory days when I did the morning show on 101Q in Coastal Georgia.  It was a 100,000 watt blowtorch of a signal station, a Top 40 sound and good living on the beach.  Tennessee also appealed to me as somewhere new and adventurous.  My travels had taken me through East Tennessee on numerous occasions and I grew fond of the picturesque mountain terrain and friendly people.  You only go around once, so, with adventure in mind, I “crop dusted” Chattanooga, Knoxville and The Tri Cities market comprised of Johnson City, Kingsport and Bristol with audition tapes and resumes in the hope of landing a good opportunity there.

(At this point of the story, some of the names, except Lee have been changed to protect the innocent)

August of 1994 arrived when Robert, the Operation Manager from US-99 called on a Friday from the Tri Cities market and extended an invitation to come down and discuss their Afternoon Drive opening at the Country formatted station. After a brief question and answer session on the phone, I agreed to travel down for a Monday meeting and tour the facilities in Johnson City and the other two towns that comprised market number 96.  

It would be a drop in market size, but the money they were offering was good combined with the drop in cost of living. I would also be returning to Country, a format I hadn’t done since 1980. The Afternoon time slot would suit me as well, so I packed a bag and prepared to make the 9 hour trip.

Monday morning found me in the reception area of US-99 at nine am sharp.  Robert came out to greet me with a donut in his hand and invited me join him and meet the General Manager, Evan Gotan.  Upon entering Evan’s office, smiles and warm greetings were quickly turned to the business at hand. Robert was a more introverted and studious guy, close to my age. His premature gray hair belied a fellow who wasn’t yet out of his thirties. Broad shouldered and six foot, he was clean shaven, Dockered and penny loafered.  Evan immediately portrayed a classic Type “A” Personality.  At fifty-something, he was lean, as gray as Robert and ready to cut a deal.  His complexion was pock marked from an earlier skin condition.   He fidgeted constantly with items on his desk.  I remained firm with plenty of questions before I signed on any dotted line. I hadn’t started a new job in 12 years, and I wanted to tread carefully. 

Evan paused for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed a number and following a greeting to someone named Lee, he handed me the phone.

On the other end was this deep, booming and network sounding voice announcing himself as the new Program Director and Morning Personality, Lee Gilette.  He was straight-forward and said he hand- picked me for the Afternoon Show.  Lee added that he was in Iowa and it would be great to see me in about two weeks.  Oh, “and make sure you get as much money out of these guys as you can.”

As the day wore on, more information about the situation with US-99 was revealed to me.  They shared that the format would be changing from Country to Adult Contemporary.  They needed me for my extensive experience in the format.  I could attain the “Music Director” title, after an initial transition of the format.  Johnny Dark, of WNBC and Florida’s Coast in Miami fame was slated to voice track the evening show.  I was going to be surrounded by all this big market talent on the station, if nothing else, would sound like a winner.

Next on the agenda, was a steak dinner to seal the deal.  I said yes, and Evan said we start on Monday, Labor Day.

I called Joe DeRose, my longtime Program Director at Magic with the news of my impending departure.  His reply was “are you sure this is it?”  “Have you dotted all the I’s  and crossed all the T’s? ”  I said yes, this where I jump off.  I thanked Joe for his many years of support and related to him that I might not had lasted there as long if it not for him.  He then told me “nothing makes me happier than to see you walk out of here with your own two feet.”   Magic 98.3 would give me a last show. I looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. I knew it would emotional for me . How could it not be?  How do you spend that much time in one place, forging so many bonds with co-workers, audience members and personal friends without a long goodbye?

Part 2, Next

 

 

 

Jacksonville, Part 3

It was now 1979. I was coming up on a year, living in my latest bachelor pad across the river in the Arlington section of town. The Blue Fountain complex was a two story, u-shaped building on University Boulevard. There were twenty six units in the building and I was in number twenty six on the second floor in the corner, overlooking the kidney shaped pool in the middle with palmetto palms to accent the arrangement. It was a peaceful sanctuary to me and I enjoyed being there with its royal blue shag carpeting and light blue velour modernistic couch and chairs. That floor covering was such a deep pile, that if you dropped something in it, you stood the chance of not finding it for days. My boudoir was a collection of sixty’s era modern style furniture. It was a one bedroom plan of ample square footage and I paid one hundred fifty five dollars a month for the privilege of laying my head there. This gem was on the side of the twenty four hour Hess Gas Station, directly across from the air hose. If I didn’t close my bedroom window, I could hear the air bell ringing at all hours. Cooking was a mystery to me, so the kitchen was always spotless. There was a pot for boiling water for Sanka instant coffee and a spoon handy on the counter. My dinnerware was usually Styrofoam to go boxes. I occasionally dusted the appliances.



Everyone living at BF knew each other and we socialized often. Richard Hemingway was one of my neighbors and an actual descendent of Ernest. Another resident, named Jack, an older guy in the complex, fiftyish in age, was the oddball neighbor that we really didn’t consider a part of the close knit club. He had some sort of attitude that didn’t correctly match that of the rest of us in the twenty and thirty-something aged group. Balding and hefty, he didn’t even look like anyone else. But, we all made an effort to be nice to him and include him in conversation at the pool and common areas. Jack had a habit of “getting into” everyone’s business and created conflict whenever he saw the opportunity. He seemed to have a jealousy of the young thing going on. One day he pushed Richard over the edge in some sort of controversy involving his girlfriend Shilo. Richard was calm and collected most of the time I knew him, but on this particular day, he reconsidered his usual manner and approached Jack’s apartment on the ground floor. Jack was in a gossip mode of conversation on the phone in his kitchen near the window. Richard strode up to the window and punched Jack right through the screen with a Joe Frazier roundhouse in the chops and knocked him on the floor! Jacksonville’s finest arrived and after some discussion, our hero, Richard was led away in cuffs for a little vacation downtown. Following some anonymous decoration and disrepair to Jack’s Mercury Marquis, this walking agitator left Blue Fountain on the first of the month. A spontaneous celebration broke out in the pool area broke out as soon as he pulled onto University Boulevard. Good riddance to a human equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard.



I was also coming up on a year of experiences at Rock 95 and growing into the role of a Rock Jock. Still rough around the edges, I learned constantly from the other guys who had been in the business a lot longer and much more accomplished on air than I was at that point. I was “The Kid” and they all seemed to take me under their collective wings of protection. Rich and I became friends and I listened carefully to what he was teaching me about how to be and what to do. It turned out to be quite a departure from that very first night, when he zoomed out the door as soon as I got there. Often, I would sit in on his show watching him with great interest, picking up new techniques in operating the equipment and his handling of the audience. As the sun set and the city lights on the tall buildings began to twinkle through the big wall of windows, he would dim the studio lights to give the room a nighttime ambiance. Rich was the Music Director and did the job with an unmatched passion. I remember his enthusiasm the day he added the Tubes song, “White Punks On Dope” to the playlist. As he played the song at “Level 11” on the studio monitors for the first time, the request lines jammed before the song was half over. He led his listeners on a nightly rock journey like the Pied Piper.



My other role model was Steve, the Afternoon Jock. With Steve, came a wealth of experience and the talent to virtually work any format of radio there was or could be. He was polished, confident and lit up the control room when it was time for his show. Steve was a giant on the station and was generous with his knowledge and all around fun to be around. I enjoyed his stories of different stations he worked at in other cities in his career. The welcome mat was always out at his studio door and I watched as he effortlessly segued from a conversation we would be having to a live on air spiel. Control board volumes, switches, turntables and records danced as if he had a magic wand to make it all work. My education under this radio genius included making my first commercial for the station, using techniques that would stay with me for a long time. He was as cool as a New York éclair and I gained the confidence I initially needed in the business from watching him and the positve reinforcement he gave me. He made being on the air, look like the easiet job in the world.

Being on top of the Jacksonville Civic Auditorium offered features that made working there an adventure. Behind the studios, there was a master record library. On the floor, in the back, there was a trap door. A big sign in ominous lettering read "UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS ANYONE EVER TO OPEN THIS DOOR". So what do you think we did? Of course, opened the door which revealed a metal ladder that ended up back stage of the Auditorium. A couple of us "envelope pushers" gained access to some awesome major concerts backstage. It sure beat waiting in line or having to actually buy a ticket to the show. It was great! Just ladder in!


The other part of being on Rock 95 in that era that you should know is that Jacksonville was ground zero for Southern Rock. The Lynyrd Skynyrd Band were the undisputed kings of the genre and royalty in town. They were from Jacksonville and many claimed to be their friends and neighbors. I remember pondering at one point, how many next door neighbors can they possibly have had? Infamously, several band members, including leader Ronnie Van Zant were killed in a plane crash in Mississippi, heading to their next concert, the October before I joined the station. That was a sad day in The Bold New City. It was the day the music died in town. I recall seeing the breaking news on TV and flags being flown at half staff. The mourning continues to this day in circles of devoted fans. The “Freebird” anthem by Skynyrd was always played with reverence at Rock 95. The other main players who carried on were Thirty Eight Special, Molly Hatchet and Blackfoot. Even though they were famous for being from Macon, Georgia, The Allman Brothers Band was actually formed in Jacksonville in 1969. Our core audience of Southern Rock fans, in a town where it all began, were largely responsible for the success of the station. I even got to visit the Jug, where Ronnie Van Zant wrote the song “Gimme Three Steps”. Our listeners were devoted to their music and we were more than happy to give them an endless supply.



As fun and rewarding as radio broadcasting was, there is the ugly underbelly of political games, ingenuous behavior by management types and those who seek to advance their careers at the expense of others. There are only about 900 terrestial stations in America, so the competition can be fierce for relatively few jobs. With degregulation and consolitdation in the 80's and periodic poor economies, it's tougher to hold down a a radio job than ever before. Online sources for music and information have further fractionalized the media pie. Job performance and audience ratings compound the stability of this kind of career greatly. Throw in diverse egos and drama and you have situations that are affected much more than other livelihoods. In my twenty plus years in the business, I saw almost every type of volatility you can imagine at different stations. On one occasion, I witnessed a guy who had just been fired, nailing his pair of loafers to the manager’s door with a note that said “fill these shoes”. Another time, I talked a fellow jock with a long barrel .45 caliber revolver out of settling a difference with the manager who was a mere feet away in his office up the hallway. He was the same guy who was just learning to walk again when I met him, after falling off a two story balcony in his previous town. Another guy, who was covertly hired at one station, walked down the halway and told the guy on the air that he had about fifteen minutes to work there and that he was his replacement. Management hadn't fired him yet. At Rock 95, I was about to experience my first station upheaval. By the end of February, 1979, the wolf was at the door.

Jacksonville, Part 2

Over the weekend, I told everyone I was going to be on Rock 95. I told people on the street I didn’t know. I told the telephone pole. I called my folks and talked their ears off for an hour. I was pumped, psyched a revved up for the opportunity. Sleep wasn’t plentiful that weekend. Images of what it would be like filled my mind constantly. The only question I had was “could the earth rotate a little faster?” I don’t think I had ever looked so forward to a Tuesday in my life!


The big day came and I walked into the control room at the station ready for a lesson in how Rock 95 worked. I greeted clean cut looking Rich and he energetically pointed around the studio and said “there are the records and there’s the control board…rock and roll! I have to go!” Go? I asked in amazement. He had one more thing to add as he was halfway out the door. It was something that I kept in mind for a long time. “I believe in bringing myself down to my audience’s level, don’t forget that.” As quick as I met him, he was out the door with a stunning blonde girl and I was left to figure it out. The format was written out on a card near the controls, so I was able to gather a clue of what to do. Listening to the station as much as I did, gave me an additional idea of what was going on. Rock 95 played ABC contemporary news at 7:55, then at 8:00pm sharp it was my debut. I carefully placed my first album on the turntable where it took me a few tries to get the needle on the record. My hand was shaking so badly, I had to use both hands to steady the tone arm. I hoped no one would be watching me through the sound proof glass windows. This is what I had wanted so badly for so long. To be on a big city radio station was the holy grail at the end of a long road for me.



The newsman from the network in New York ended his newscast with “…I’m Joel Vaughn, for ABC Contemporary News.” Now, it was my turn. I reached way down and came up with my best announcer’s voice and proclaimed “ THIS is Rock 95, W-J-A-X, FM, Jacksonville” . I potted up (increased the volume) and hit the switch in one fluid motion for turntable number one on the left and was met with instant horror. Rich’s last song was a 45 RPM record on that turntable and I failed to notice that the speed selection was not correct when I placed a 33 and 1/3 RPM LP on the platter for play. I WAS PLAYING MY FIRST SONG ON THE WRONG SPEED! OH NO! My reaction was to grab the speed control lever and slam it down to the right speed. The record wowed from Mickey Mouse in distress to a more discernable Lynyrd Skynrd sound. I was horrified. My complexion felt like a sizzling red. The next thing I noticed was the request lines on the phone were lighting up like a Christmas tree. My career at Rock 95 might be over before it started. I squinted and pushed down the first line on the phone bank and a Tommy Chong sounding guy on the other end came on the speaker and marveled “wow…that was kind of cool, could you do that again?” At that moment, I settled down. Maybe this rock and roll thing wasn’t as serious as I had pumped myself up to believe. Maybe this is what Rich meant by “bringing yourself down to you audience’s level.” The WJAX-AM guy stuck his head in my studio next and quipped “looks like you got a baptism there Bud..” Yes I did.



In many ways, Rock 95 resembled the legendary Q-Sky in the movie “FM”. Management was the enemy, making us play US Army commercials and interfering with the integrity of what we, the Jocks felt was essential to the sound of a Rock station. Our social lives revolved around the station. People connected with the Rocker were constantly coming and going. We ALL went to personal appearances at clubs and concerts promoting Rock 95 together. Listeners sailed boats down the St. John’s River and held up bed sheets with requests for us to see from our vantage. For the 4th of July we played the ENTIRE Woodstock Concert Album, un-edited. I recall with a smile hearing the “Fish Cheer” at my apartment complex poolside in the courtyard. FCC? What FCC? That was mild, considering the night I played the Pope album by David Peel and The Lower East Side in its entirety. During that endearing broadcast, the afternoon guy called in and said "I can't believe what's coming out of my radio!" On another occasion, a guest in the studio accidently bumped into my turntable while I was playing “I Want You (She’s So Heavy) by the Beatles. I watched in what seemed like slow motion mortification as the needle on the record bounced up and then down three times on the vinyl before hitting the exact beginning of “Octopus’s Garden”. Instant Ringo. Wow. Too bad Tommy Chong wasn’t listening. He would have liked that one.


New Year’s Eve 1978 was my show. Everybody showed up and a party formed in the studio. One of the fellows brought in a couple of suitcases of liquor, comprising a mobile tavern, so there would be an open bar next to the records. Protocol? There wasn’t any protocol. Protocol was whatever was happening at the moment. There was Rock and Roll, and plenty of it. All the time. Big time acts came in for interviews. I remember being especially enamored by seeing Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart. The guys from Uriah Heep were down to earth and cool. Henry Paul from the Outlaws put his arm around me and told me that he loved radio people. I actually met him again at a Country radio event almost exactly 20 years later and kidded him that it was 20 years between handshakes. Then there was the night that Patti Smith sat on Rich's lap for the interview. It was a heady time for 22 year old kid like me.

Jacksonville, Part 1

Every time I cross into North Florida, as I did about a week ago, I’m reminded of the place where I came of age while living out an important time of my life. Jacksonville. “The Bold New City of The South” was the slogan. Today, I’m proud of what Jacksonville has become. It’s a thriving business center with miles of beaches and a new slogan, “The First Coast.” They have the NFL Jaguars who play in what was once exclusively the Gator Bowl. Duval County is Jacksonville, thus making it the largest city in America in terms of square mile land area. The St. John’s River, which cuts directly through Jacksonville, is the only major river in America to flow from south to north. The only other two, I can think of, in the world are the Amazon and the Nile. Correct me if you find another. New communities with cutting edge retail now fill in once barren stretches of highways. The beach area is now a complete makeover from what I knew. In my day there, you could drive on it like Daytona. Police gave out speeding tickets on the beach! The neighborhood I lived in isn’t exactly a chamber of commerce destination anymore, but nice parts of town outnumber the bad. Indeed, there were low points and adversity within in the 5 years I resided in the metro area, but as with the grandest healer of all, time itself, they are now obscured by my fondness for an era filled with great hope and accomplishment.


By the time 1976 arrived, all I cared about was getting into radio. Jacksonville wasn't even close to being on my radar. I had always thought if I moved to Florida, it would be somewhere like St. Petersburg or Ft. Lauderdale. I had travelled with my buddy Glen to visit his cousin Michael several times at St. Pete Beach. Michael had bleached blonde 70's hair and a Alfred E. Newman (What Me Worry?) attitude which appealed me, considering I was living in a more serious Northeast setting. Emjay was his 6 year old daughter and her mother’s whereabouts were a mystery to all. His home was a modest ranch with a converted garage room we called the "Moon Room" because he installed a foot of foam rubber underneath the carpeting to give it a real springy feeling underfoot with every step. You would bounce on it like the astronauts on the moon. It was also a great place to sleep. All you had to do was grab a pillow and fall down. Falling down was a favorite pastime in the 70's. That decade was an example of life in free form. We wore clown clothes and long hair. I owned a pair of orange and blue suede platform shoes, if that gives you any clue. I was smart enough to not to include an ascot.

Following a year of meaningful (read: sarcastic) liberal arts education at Somerset County College and my fourth working at the A&P grocery store, it was time to put the dream in gear. Hanging around my hometown radio station, AM-1170, WBRW wasn’t getting me a job there. A failed attempt at starting a radio station at the local college soured my desire for sticking around. I called my old high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Cartwright to see if she had any ideas regarding my quest for a path into radio. She invited me back to the high school and several meetings later, suggested that I apply to Jones College in Jacksonville, Florida. The only focus I had in high school was radio, and that didn’t provide a grade average allowing me to choose Princeton or some other prestigious university with a posh campus radio station. Florida seemed like a good destination to me, but Jacksonville was like a foreign country. I recalled passing through on I-95, but that's about it.

After investigating the school, I learned that they offered a dedicated Broadcast and Business Program. There was an AM and a FM station on campus as well as a TV studio. The admissions counselor, Dave Zorn, inflated my hopes by telling me that a lot of Jones graduates went on to radio jobs in the Jacksonville market. That's all I had to hear. I was going. Later, I would learn that comedian and personality Joe Piscopo was a Jones Alumni. It was now March, 1977 and nearly two years after high school graduation, I finally mined the gold nugget that I considered my entry into the Promised Land called radio broadcasting.

It still felt like winter in New Jersey and the departure date of March 26th wouldn't arrive soon enough. But when it did, I had my gold 1969 Pontiac Catalina packed with all my worldly belongings for the move to Florida and a chance to live out the dream. In retrospect, this car was my first "Fat Cat" considering her 455 cubic inch V-8. It was actually a police interceptor motor that was modified to 462 cubic inches of displacement. She was a beast. I suspect that thing could do one hundred fifty. The speedometer only went up to one twenty. When I stepped on the accelerator, the speedo went one way and the gas gauge went the other way. Now, with $600 in my pocket, I set out for the Sunshine State.

As I travelled over the Delaware Memorial Bridge and out of New Jersey, the Theme from Rocky blasted appropriately from my Pioneer Supertuner in Goldie on WIFI 92 from Philadelphia (that was a radio station in Philly, not wireless internet in the 70's!). I had felt like destiny had caught up to me. I knew every radio station on the route and exactly where to tune to the next one when one faded out.

Following a one night stop for rest in Dunn, North Carolina at the Wind Mill Motel, I arrived at Jones and stood before the 12 story monolith of a building on the banks of the St. John's River in admiration. It almost didn't seem real, it was a long wait to get to this point. I entered the big white edifice and advanced to the second floor Jones Administration offices where a hip seeming 30 something woman with reddish blonde hair assigned me to room 5N at the end of the 5th floor with my new roommate Dave from South Jersey. She seemed so proud that she was able to match up two guys from New Jersey. The dorm rooms were actually one bedroom apartments with a nice balcony view. Dave was a big gregarious dark haired guy with a booming voice and a hearty handshake. We hit it off immediately and I felt comfortable in my new surroundings right away. He assured me that great things were to come. Dave left quickly for an evening out and it was time for me to settle in for a quiet Sunday night in a bathrobe and a reclining chair to rest up from the long trip and get ready for my new career.

I heard a noise and the sliding glass door opening on the balcony. As I got out of the chair to investigate, a girl emerges from the curtains in a quite abrupt manner with a rapid fire “Hi, I’m Sheila. I heard you were coming tonight and I wanted to come down and say hi!” She had nice big smile with perfect teeth and straight classic, shoulder chesnut length hair. I was confused now, somewhat startled and asked if she had been on the balcony all this time, because they were separate to each apartment. I hadn’t seen anyone else come or go. “Her reply was no, silly, I live on the 7th floor and just climbed down on the outside concrete trellis of the building. It’s fun!” Yeah, and death is fun too if you fall off. I asked if she lived directly upstairs and her answer was no, it was actually up and over about 6 apartments. The thought of climbing out of a 7 story balcony on the outside of a 12 story building gives me the willies to this very day. As this point I figured that living in Jacksonville would be anything but dull. And it wasn’t. I bid Sheila a "nice to meet you" as she hoisted herself off the balcony and back up the trellis into the night.

I quickly made many friends at Jones that spring with fellow students from all over the country. Some, I'm still in contact with today. Everyone seems agree that those were great days at Jones. We were young and fearless...and determined to do something with our lives. And so, I began my radio career on the small AM campus station, 740 WJCR, beginning to learn the things that a DJ needs to know and say.


Professor Kent Murray beat my New Jersey accent out of me and taught me how to announce in a Midwest tone. Kent had perfectly chisled features including light brown TV hair and he exuded the confidence of a national news anchor. Mild mannored Professor Pete Trenkler showed me how to edit recording tape with a razor blade and the art of cueing a 45 rpm record on a big Garrard platter. Pete's easy going style was legendary at Jones and years of classes learned volumes from a humble guy who always had time to listen and encourage. We studied about Lee DeForest, the father of the vacuum tube and Edward Armstrong, the grand master of FM. The beginning of KDKA, the first licensed station in America was included in the history lesson. My very first song on the air at WJCR was Foreigner’s “Feels Like The First Time.” All the pieces fit. That summer I learned lots of things quickly, like the breaking news of Elvis Presley’s death after being handed AP news wire copy by one of the news guys while doing my afternoon show on JCR. Reading the news, I felt like a real broadcaster with something important to say.

I also learned to break concrete with a sledgehammer on a construction site in 97 degree heat as a part time summer job. I made my share of 20 year old mistakes that first year, but the rewards were much greater and the dream a little closer.

1978 developed into another big spring. Next up on the Jones curriculum, it was the campus FM station, WFAM, which had become renowned for its Jazz music programming. As part of the total broadcasting learning experience, I was now a news anchor doing twice hourly newscasts in the afternoon at Woofam, as we called it. I even covered a murder shooting at my own apartment complex where I had just moved. I remember asking a police officer if the man lying on the ground was dead. His respose was "does he look like he's moving?" The sight of a dead guy laying on the ground in a Florida afternoon summertime downpour was quite sobering to me. That's news. That's what they told me. Just report it. Accurately.

One afternoon, on a busy day as I found myself in a sea of news copy, getting ready for another newscast when there was a call for me. It was Butch Piker on the phone wanting to know if I wanted to come down and talk to him about a DJ job he was offering on Rock 95 WJAX, the number one Rock station in town. I was stunned. I stammered through the rest of the phone call and accepted his invitation to meet him the next day.


The Rock 95 studios were on the top floor of the old Civic Auditorium in Downtown Jacksonville. As I pulled into the u-shaped driveway where Butch told me to park, I hoped I could find a men’s room conveniently located inside, before I trekked to the top floor. Filled with anxiety, I pulled the big glass door open and entered.


As I walked down the hallway to the studios, one side was a floor to ceiling continuous wall of glass with an impressive view of the St. John’s River and Downtown below. This place was awesome. Major concert artists performed downstairs at the Auditorium. It was also, thee place to be in town.



Butch was on the air when I arrived and he invited me to take a seat in the control room and interviewed me while he did his morning show. From the u-shaped control area, you could see the downtown skyline. One wall was a dream collection of rock albums where Butch would pull the correct title out without much of a search. Butch gave me a warm welcome and motioned me to take a seat while he interviewed me while record albums played on Garrard turntables. He was full bearded and seemed extremely relaxed in an evioronment that was continually busy. I kind of recall answering yes to everything he asked me and was awarded an overnight show on the most happening Rock station in town. In his down to earth folksy manner, Butch instructed me to return on Tuesday evening, when Rich the evening guy would “show me the ropes” and have me actually do a couple of hours of his show from 8 to 10 to get acclimated with the control room and records.


Tuesday night would be icing on the cake of an astonishing first year in Jacksonville. Rock 95 would be quite an eye opening experience for me with diverse personalities and a clash between a music director and a program director. It was my first taste of radio politics. This is where I would begin my career in radio and just about finish out the Seventies. Those were amazing days at Rock 95.

(to be continued)

80 Days Out

June, marked the two year milestone of Long Haul Freight Expediting.
Merced, California was the place I was picking up in when the day arrived. The
thought crossed my mind, but I was too overwhelmed in the thought of the
business at hand and the impending 800 mile run to Fife, Washington to give
it much thought. Over two hundred thousand miles have found
their way under my belt since I left company orientation in Green, Ohio for
that very first run to Detroit.

In these first couple of years, I’ve actually driven four different trucks for
this company. A Hino, from the heavy duty truck division of Toyota, which had
a nice big oak sleeper berth, the short lived “Barney” Freightliner, the “Berry” Freightliner with the dog sled Mercedes motor and two separate tours in the Fatcat Freightliner, until I could wrest her back into my control. Under my command, she’s received three sets of headlights, three sets of
windshield wipers, various gauge bulbs, twelve tires, and a replacement of
pedal rubber and a laundry list of repairs that escalates all the way up to a
rear end assembly. That one wasn’t pretty. When it blew up and spewed fluid all
over the road, I was in Minneapolis where I coasted to the road shoulder next
to a cemetery. That one wasn’t my call. My fleet owner wanted me to limp it
into the repair shop. I would have towed it. But, I got a nice little vacation
in a hotel with a pool and a spa for four days out of the deal. The ‘Cat has
979,694 on the odometer, getting ready for her second million. With proper
maintenance and maybe one rebuild, the Caterpillar C-15 engine should go 3
million. Too bad they can’t make cars that last like that.

Along the way, I’ve had a couple of trainees, a couple of co-drivers, including one,
whom I almost stuffed out the window. He liked to slurp peaches out of can with
no spoon, which is fine with me as long as it isn’t within ear-shot. Among other
things, this fellow was the human equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard in other
very significant insignificant ways. Gordon Lightfoot once said that “being
satisfied is knowing I got no one else to blame.” That works for me.

The Fife, Washington run got shortened in Medford, Oregon. Because of a change
in delivery time, dispatch called and said I would have to transfer the load to a team
operation at a company facility. The pay remained the same, and I handed off to another
truck that could run the load non-stop to Washington. I was disappointed because I was
hoping to visit my old pal Dave in the Tacoma area. It’s the nature of the business. I’m
always in a fluid situation it seems. Time is either my best friend or my worst enemy. However,
I am grateful to have the opportunity to visit friends in just about every region of this
country. We are a far-flung generation and have put down roots everywhere, but where we're
from.
After a nice break in summertime weather which felt like springtime in Central Point,
Oregon, I weighed anchor and headed back to California for some runs in the
Bay Area starting with a special delivery to the University of California in downtown San Francisco. The highlight of that trip was seeing a homeless guy in Oakland on a
street corner, holding up a cardboard sign with a drawing of a house en-circled
with a slash through it. If I could have stopped, I would have given the guy a
buck for creativity.

At this point in time, the calendar was approaching the third month on the road. My runs had taken
me all over California. On this western swing, the road also led to Las Vegas, Nevada,
New Mexico and several places in Arizona. In Vegas, the 35 buck a night stay at the Lucky Club
with $9.99 steak and lobster plate enticed me in.  Two nights later a Braves win in the sports betting parlor nearly paid for my stay. Tucson, Arizona was a great stop, visiting my old friend KC.
The the day trip down to Tombstone was absolutely unforgettable. It was a "Bucket List"
accomplishment. The buffet at Casino Arizona in Phoenix was awesome and I had wild horses
running along the side the truck in St, Michaels. I spent a couple of cool nights sitting on a
hill overlooking the City of Albuquerque below. The Fatcat and I covered a lot of ground
entering all four continental time zones and 24 states. It was a successful journey, but I longed
to be home. Freight now took me back to California. My previous record time out was 64 days.
The soap rule wasn’t working (when I wear down a bar of soap, I consider it time to go home). Wearing down a brand new bar of Dove For Men was long enough to be on the road.  I was
almost out two bars at this point!

On the phone with dispatch, my contract coordinator and whoever else would listen,
I pleaded to at least get what they call a “Relocation” heading east. Kim, in the contractor
department finally offered me a move from Planning to Dallas, Texas. Just so you know,
Planning is like those bankers who sit in the dark on the show Deal or No Deal. You can
communicate with them, but you can’t talk to them. They’re just one of the Oz types at
the company. Now, I could gain two time zones and put on my Texas hat, 1,738 miles ahead.
Knowing that I would be in the Fort Worth area, I messaged my old friend Tom to
alert him that I would be in the area. He messaged me back that it would great to get
to together, but he was visiting his son in Georgia! My response was “I need to be in
Georgia!” Wow…how ironic is that. About a week later, I end up where he was in Columbus,
Georgia, about the same time he got home! Now, there’s some good timing. Dam.

I rolled down I-5 to begin my Relocation run and was able to stop in Castaic, just north
of LA, and load up on more Carnitas from Senor Jimenez at my favorite stop. The California
hills became the Arizona desert. The desert turned into the painted rocks and eventually the
high plains of New Mexico. The stockyards of Amarillo, Texas turned into the Metroplex of Dallas.
When you take Relocation from the company, you have to agree to stay in service and take a
load when you get to your destination. So, based on my experience, I knew I would run
around Texas for a few days until I could get any further east.

Monday, July 5th arrived and following several runs back and forth from Dallas to
Houston, I was awarded a trip to Jackson, Mississippi. My heart almost skipped a beat
when I crossed the mighty Mississippi at Vicksburg. In Jackson, the following day, the
company sent me several offers to go back to Texas. I politely declined them and
instead pointed the Fatcat toward home on I-20. Sweet Home Alabama turned into
the Georgia state line soon followed by the “Entering Eastern Time Zone” sign.
Eastern Time hadn’t been mine since April 30th.

On the 80th day away from home, I pulled the truck up behind my barn where
I could see Louie's little face and hear his high pitched bark along with little feline faces
peering out the window at this stranger pulling in. This trip had taken me from
Atlanta to as far north as Londonderry, New Hampshire and then directly 3,054 miles
to Gardena, California and back. I’m going to draw that route with all the stops on a large map
of the United States with a big red marker, frame it, and put it on the wall.

#46

Yesterday, when I was plotting my course down from Minnesota, I noticed an opportunity on the map that absolutely could not be passed up. Earlier, I had to forego the trip up to Brainerd, Minnesota to see the ten story statue of Paul Bunyon and his ox, Babe for lack of time. My disappointment included the lumberjack breakfast in the nearby restaurant. The brochure promised flapjacks unlike any I've ever seen. The massive Spam Museum in Austin on I-90 was out too. Maybe I was being saved from a couple of certain cholesteral bombs. I do have a vivid memory of being curled up in the fetal position in Louisiana from something enormous and deep fried.


What I did see was a window of opportunity that would take me about 10 miles out of my way just north of Sioux City, Iowa. Here, I was looking at the chance to say I was in South Dakota, one of the three missing "lower 48" states I need to complete this American puzzle. All it would require would be a quick jump off US 75 in Iowa and a short jaunt up I-29, over the river and into the most southeastern tip of the great state of South Dakota. Time wasn't an issue, there was time, precious time.

My facebook buddy Phlash Phelps does the morning show on Sirius XM 60's on 6. He has been to all 50 states and all the US posessions. This man has literally been everywhere in America. He's not only done all these states, but he's done them twice! I believe he's working on a third go 'round. In addition, he travelled to 48 states in 14 days at one point, driving in a Cadillac Escolade. Plot that one on a map. One other thing you should know about Phlash is that he substitutes every single letter "F" with a "PH". I don't think he knows how to make an "F". I could have used a pal like him in school.

Phlash has a phenominal grasp of the geography in this country and can relate to callers to his show on a local level no matter what part of the country they live in. There aren't too many people who can pull it off like he does. He's the perfect guy to do a national radio show and make it sound local. No listener is left out. He's been in their neighborhood. It's got to be a profound love of country to do it the way he has. The more I see of America, the more I understand what this nation is about and find myself inspired to do it like Phlash.

The catch in all this is the fact that my esteemed broadcaster acquaintence has only done 45 states since the first of the year. I have been to 45 states since the first of the year too. In fact, in the past year, I've been to all those states at least twice with the exception of Maine. Fate has only guided me there once this year. Probably because Maine is the only state with one syllable. South Dakota would be #46 for me! I almost became giddy. I was going to pass Phlash by one! A chance to move into first was at hand.

The sunshine beemed into the cab of the Fat Cat as I wheeled her down that pleasant stretch of US 75. I could feel a twinge of anticipation as my coveted desitination drew nearer. I stopped twice to check the map to insure that I wouldn't miss the exit for I-29 and the promised land. As the exit approached for the northbound interstate, my pulse quickened as the truck jaked and downshifted into the curved ramp. Within minutes I could see it, the welcome sign proclaiming "Great Faces, Great Places" imposed on a background of Mount Rushmore. My heart just about skipped a beat as I passed the marker and into history. South Dakota was mine! Now, to make this whole thing official, I needed to put two feet on the ground in my newly aquired state. Ahead, there was an exit and I could see a convenience store and a place to pull up next to the car wash. With the truck now parked, I felt like Neil Armstrong as I prepared to open the door and step down onto #46.

As I hopped from the Cat and planted both feet on the ground, a wave of accomplishment overcame me. Where's the Men's room, was my next thought. I ended up picking up a South Dakota postcard and a South Dakota lottery ticket as further proof that I had been there.

I have to admit, this type of state by state travel is quite amazing for Phlash, because, most days, while I'm out on the road, he's broadcasting from his stationary studio in Washington, D.C. I don't know where he finds the time to travel 45 since the first of the year. There are still three and a half months left to the year and Phlash could take two weeks off and do the whole country again, but for now, I'm in the lead.

Scurrilous Commitment

Monday, July 26th began abruptly with stereo alarms on each side of me. Now, let me tell you, waking up at a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike will make you feel real ambitious, especially at the crack of dawn. It could have been cold. I did wake up next to a frozen bottle of water last winter. At least the weather was the best I'd seen since embracing Maine about a month ago. When it's nice, summer mornings are the best in my book. The GPS told me that the delivery was 27 miles from where I was. I just wanted to get this one over with. The Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn isn't one of my favorite places, but they don't tell you exactly where you're going until you commit to the load. Commitment can be a scurrilous affair in this business. After splashing some water on my face, I jumped in the seat and pulled all the controls into position. As the Fat Cat purred to life, I updated the obligatory Driver's Log after a ritual beating of the tires with my rubber mallet and a light and undercarriage check. Back in the driver's perch, I pushed her into gear and let the clutch out with care.


The morning sky was an advanced version of 5:45 am at this time of the year compared to what I'm accustomed to at home in Georgia, which is further west in the Eastern Time Zone. The fabled Turnpike was light on traffic and figured I'd be in Brooklyn in no time. Passing over the Goethals Bridge provided a vantage view of a calm city poised to erupt. As I wheeled onto Bushwick Avenue, the King's Borough was eerily quiet, much like a morning after a great party. I spied a dog walker here and there and a lonely sanitation truck. Wow, my thought was that I picked the perfect time to do this.

The address was easy to find and there was plenty of room to pull the truck right in front of the drop. Immediately, I was greeted by a guy who reminded me a lot of George Carlin in appearance and how he carried himself. We struck up a little conversation about the nice, cool weather and the benefits of starting early. It was 6:30 am and I wasn't expected until 8. My new found friend said "I'll get you unloaded, no problem!" Privately, I thought this just might turn out to be a great day.

There wasn't a loading dock to back up to, so George brought out some chains to go with the forklift. When there's no dock, we attach chains under the wooden freight pallets and drag the goods to the edge of the cargo hold so then the forks of the lift can take the pallets off the truck. George asked "are you going to get into the back of the truck?” He added that he just turned 61 and that jumping in and out of trucks wasn't really part of his repertoire any longer. I replied that I could appreciate that, but not to worry, I have my own little system for hopping in and out of the back of this truck.

We were able to pull all the freight off easily and I thanked George for his help with a "yoos have a good day." It was 7 am, aHEAD of schedule. I almost wrenched my arm patting myself on the back.

Next, all the fun began all at once. As I headed for the Williamsburg Bridge for Manhattan and The George Washington to New Jersey, I was halted by a NYPD Police Cruiser parked sideways with his lights blazing away, blocking the approach to the Williamsburg. Newsradio WCBS informed me that a tractor trailer had rammed the underpass and that there was a fuel spill to go along with that mess. My first thought was "did this guy have fuel tanks on his roof?" Dam. What kind of a truck is that? Well, just about that time, everybody in the borough of Brooklyn woke up and jumped in their cars. Complete and utter gridlock decended from the heavens. You've heard the phrase "...in a New York minute." That's about how long it took for traffic to lock up completely. I watched the same signal cycle through green, red and yellow about six times before moving an inch. I flashed back to Friday, July 2nd when I got caught in the holiday traffic nighmare on the Cross Bronx Expressway. That little number took five hours to go ninety miles. My arse is still sore from that ride.

The other approach to the Williamsburg was blocked as well, so this trucker idiot must have really screwed it up good. After playing with a series of lefts and rights I came upon an electronic sign for the Holland Tunnel that said a three axel truck was ok to use tunnel. Great! I'm now thinking I can now cruise right into I-78 and the safety of New Jersey. I pulled up to the checkpoint area before the tunnel and get "pointed over" by a NYPO. I popped out the truck and looked at the overhead height checker and see a bunch of swaying batans. The officer came over to me where I could see that his uniform cap with the patent leather brim was pulled down so far, I couldn't see his eyebrows. From underneath the that cap, I heard the thickest Heinz Ketchup New York accent tell me "you're too high, you got to take the Bridge" Ok ouffisa, I responded, yoos have a guood day. Crap. Now I have to to go all the way uptown on the Westside Highway, over to Broadway, through a piece of the Bronx and then to the George Washington Bridge, affectionately known to the locals as simply The GWB.

I made it to the Vince Lombardi Service Area off the New Jersey Turnpike (NJTP). The locals call this gem of a road simply The Turnpike. As I was getting comfortable, my stomach was rebelling for breakfast. Again, in a New York minute, Betty from Company Central calls and nicely asks "did you get the opportunity we sent from Springfield Gardens, NY to Poughkeepsie?" I said "yeah, I saw it Betty. I just came from three hours of molton gridlock and it would take something extra special to get me back into the city right now. You'd have to give me twice what you're offering to go." Now, keep in mind that these girls are very skilled at getting loads covered. She then happily proclaims "Great! I'll put you on it for twice and send the info on your Q-comm!" At this point, I'm reeling. What in the H E double toothpicks just happened?" Now, I get to go back over the GWB, The Whitestone and to JFK INTERNATIONAL FREAKING AIRPORT! Yes, I'm hip to that nice little trick. Springfield Gardens is a quaint little name they give to the freight terminal adjacent to one of the maddest airports in existence. At this point, I'm looking around the truck for a paper bag to breathe in and out of.

I made JFK in good time and wheeled the Fat Cat through some barbaric midday traffic, then, proceeded to send my arrival time on the Q-comm only to realize they had bumped the time from 1300 hours to 1500. No, problem, I'll just hang out and play with facebook while I wait. At three, I approached the logistics desk to acquire the paperwork needed to receive an international shipment, this being computer equipment from Korea. About an hour later Jeanette, with jet black pulled back into a pony tail New York hair calls me over from the waiting area and informs me "they cuolled and sed that the computa went down and the shipment won't be ready until tuomorra." Dam. My dreams of a King's Ransom in pay, dashed into the ground. It cost me $24 for the GWB, $18 for the Whitestone and about $10 in fuel from NJ. And...it will cost another $18 to do the Whitestone again. The GWB is no charge to NJ. Do the math. Back on the phone with dispatch, I was able to plead my case and get my tolls reimbursed on my company card.

Now returned to Jersey in one piece, at the Vince Lombardi, barely parked, my Q-comm chirps out a series of load opportunities that I sniffed at like a snob. Then, Jamesburg, NJ to West Haven, Connecticut appeared. Ok, we'll double that price for jollies and see what happens. I'm sure your momma said "be careful what you wish for, you just may get it." Well, double it came back, and like a jolly Santa Clause, I pressed "1" for accept. I thought this one would be a piece of cake...down the Turnpike a few exits and then back up to 287, making the wide turn around New York and up to 95 on up to West Haven. No problem! What I missed was three little words that read "one additional stop". When the load info starting spitting out, it was glaring right at me in computer font, "Stop #2, Syosett, NY" SYOSSETT FREAKING NEW YORK?" OH, NO! Syossett Freaking New York is on Long Island. The only way to get to Syossett Freaking New York is through freaking Brooklyn and freaking Queens and bridges with tolls, mayhem and who knows what ever else. At this point, I looked around the truck for rope. I felt like the professor on Felix the Cat when he operated that contraption with the shoe. Pulling on a rope, he would cause a big shoe to kick himself in the butt proclaiming "I made a boo boo, I made a boo boo." Well, I made a boo boo. What was that about "scurrilous commitment?" It was right here, served up on a silver platter, for me to enjoy.

I'll survive the drama. I'll make money. I just wanted a break from New York for one skinny little day. Maybe I'll get it on Wednesday. Just one little day. One can only hope. I will surely read the next opp in its entirety!

Random Thoughts For July 1st

The company offered me a run originating in Athol, Massachusettes. I declined because I didn't want to go to a place where there are a bunch of Athols. Is that Daffy Duck talking?


Why can't I-95 in Connecticut be as smooth as I-95 in New Jersey? Oh, that's right, in New Jersey it's a Turnpike and not really an Interstate. They charge big bucks for smooth. Smoother than Connecticut anyway.

The company offered me a pick up at JFK Airport. I hit decline so hard I nearly broke the button. For starters, the run involved two NYC bridges. That's about $64 in a truck.

The State of New York has new license plates. That's car tags for you Southerners. They're going back to the old orange background with black letters and numbers. For some reason, it prevokes a mind's image of a banged up 1976 Plymouth Fury with the rear orange New York plate hanging by one bolt. Don't know why I envision that. Life is funny that way. In addition, I've always been very wary of states that require both front and back plates...I mean tags.

I had Peter Pan Creamy Plus peanut butter with Premium saltine crackers for a snack this afternoon. I thought of how there was always a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter for all to share in the kitchen at Bristol Broadcasting in Bristol, Virginia. The handed down story was that someone came in one morning a discovered two little rodent feet and a tail sticking out of an uncovered jar.

The Pilot Truck Stop in Milford, Connecticut was jammed packed last night. Some guy was selling dinners of pork chops or spaghetti and meatballs and all the fixin's with sweet tea included for $10 over the CB radio. Probably better food than the Wendy's in the stop. A driver threatened to call the board of health on the guy. I understand strange food from strange people, but does everybody have to be a cop?

As I pulled out of my parking space and drove down the aisle, two separate trucks pulled out in front of me without looking! I know it wasn't one way. What's going on here?

The weather is quite spring-like up here. Sunny, breezy and 73 degrees right now. It doesn't feel like July, but hey, I'm not complaining. Good sleeping weather.

Two guys look like they're practicing Kung Fu in the parking lot of the Walmart where I'm parked. I guess you got to be ready up here.

A lot of the gas stations up here are small...like a kiosk and offer no public restroom. Not even a shrub or bush around the corner. I don't see pork rinds either.

I have passed Mystic several times on this trip. I wish I had time to investigate and see if there is a Mystic Pizza.

Now that I've been "up north" since June 19th, I think my accent is changing. I'm saying "yoos" and "how you doin'?" I'm even grousing more.

There are lots lof Subaru automobiles in the north. Every Subaru has all wheel drive.

Does anyone want to start a pool as to when I get back to Atlanta?

Many More Miles To Go

Today, it’s been one year on the road. One year ago, as I sat in the company orientation class in Green, Ohio, I was revved up and ready to get my new profession started. The economy had beaten me up pretty good and by October of 2008, I knew I had to give up nearly ten years in sales. It was over for me. At that point, I determined it wasn’t a good idea to be selling people homes and autos, so I decided another re-invention of myself was in order. Over the road trucking appealed to me and the notion of seeing the country with no one looking over my shoulder seemed like the right way to go. I’ve never had a traditional job, working traditional hours so this type of way to make a living appeared to be in my comfort zone. In December, I enrolled in a truck driving school for a January start. Lora, my career counselor said everything was going to be just fine and soon I would have a new career. I believed her and immediately felt like I made the right decision.


January came quickly and it was a relief to see a lot of guys in the class that were my age and that the instructors weren’t the Gestapo I thought they’d be. The whole staff was a group of seasoned professionals and had some good stories to tell. After a week of classroom study taught by William, I passed the permit test with flying colors and then it was time to get in the truck and drive. My road instructor, Jim was firm and helpful. At one point, I was having trouble with a maneuver when he came up to the window of the eighteen wheeler and pointedly asked “do you go to church?” I perplexedly replied that indeed I did at which point he rolled his sleeve up and revealed a tattoo of Jesus on his forearm. He then continued “you have to have faith that if you set this maneuver up correctly, this truck and trailer will go exactly where it’s supposed to go.” Now do it! With Jim’s instruction, I went on to pass my over the road driving exam with confidence and receive the coveted “Class A Commercial Driver’s License.”

The year since has blazed by and now, I’ve travelled over a hundred thousand miles. I'll never forget my first dispatch. After making a "clean break" from the auto business, they send me to Detroit to deliver..what else...auto parts! Another example of how ironic my life is at times. As the earth rotated quickly, I’ve covered a lot of ground. Criss-crossing the country has become a dance routine on a different scale. Moving from one side of the stage to the other like a Bugs Bunny vaudevillian, I race from coast to coast and border to border. The mission has usually been a cannon ball run around obstacles and events that prevent a straight line. Some things that have occurred on the road are just as I imagined they would be. Other things are a little different and even yet some things are far from what I expected before I began life as an Over The Road Long Haul Trucker. I thought I’d have more time to see old friends and sightsee, but not so with some of these dispatches and travel times. For the most part, the truck stops and shower facilities are better kept than I imagined and sleeping in a truck is not as foreboding as one might think. It’s more like a camping experience, except the campgrounds are truck stops with hundreds of trucks sitting in snap line rows with the sound of their diesel engines droning on incessantly. I found that foraging for food can be a fun experience in new places.

Expediting has turned out to be a form of this business that has a strange appeal to me. It’s like having to urgently go to bathroom, but you don’t know where it is. You just know you have to get there, quickly. The time sensitive nature and destination of the freight I carry have turned this type of trucking into a “pants on fire” adventure at times. It’s also kind of like the hot air ballooning I did extensively in the 80’s with my old friend Jim Mount and his “Looking Up” balloon. You go up, but you really never know where you’re going to land. Somebody once asked “can’t you steer those things?” The answer is no, it all depends upon where the air currents take you. You control when you take off and what your altitude will be, but the rest is up to God. Landing is the real challenge in hot air ballooning as is slotting in freight on time in expediting. Fire the burner to go up and pull on the rope to let hot air out of the balloon to come down. That’s all the real control you have in the sport. In my job, as in ballooning, I have to know just when to fire the burner and when to yank on the rope. Part of that expertise in this kind of work is to know when to take the opportunity and go and when to decline it. Sometimes you have only precious moments of time to decide. Being decisive is a requisite in this job. I have to process in short order the question of “will this run take me to a good freight hub or will I be potentially stranded out in left field and have to travel long distances with no freight?” I take all of this into consideration while calculating fuel costs and profit. Like a poker game, I’m drawing and tossing out cards all day. As Kenny Rogers sang in “The Gambler”, you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away and when to run! By run, I mean that I avoid places like Long Island, New York at any cost. It’s a hard place to drive when you consider the traffic, the way people drive and how much it costs to get there when the tolls suck money out of your pocket like an Electrolux. Plus, there are no truck stops on the Island. I’ll go to New York City because I know I can get to the relative safety of New Jersey fairly quickly, but getting out of Long Island is a tall order.

When I speak with freight agents, it’s usually a compact negotiation that takes place quickly, because the freight has to be somewhere soon. In addition, sometimes I’m competing for the same freight with other nearby drivers from my company to make it even more challenging. From another perspective, it’s like a huge board game that’s fun to play!

After years in sales and negotiation, this type of work suits me perfectly. When I contemplated trucking, I never once thought I’d be using skill sets from my previous career. Life is funny to me like that sometimes. You’re being guided and prepared without ever knowing it. It confirms my faith.

A lot of Long Haul jobs in trucking companies have dedicated routes and drivers know what to expect on a regular basis. With my company, I do get to run some dedicated routes from one shipper in particular, but the destinations vary. When I pull up to the warehouse, I know the drill for this company. It’s nice to have at least one place I can go to and not have to think too much. Typically though, when I accept a freight opportunity, it’s a sprint to complete paperwork and a mad dash to locate a shipper and a consignee (the one who receives the delivery) in a location I’ve never been to. It's kind of like another version of “Where’s Waldo?” Sometimes, too, it’s similar to an Easter egg hunt where they hide the eggs real good.

Strangely, the country is getting smaller to me. What I once perceived as an arduous journey across the nation is now just another task on another day. I drive 400 miles for breakfast. Eleven hours behind the wheel isn’t the intimidating thought it once was. It’s all a state of mind. The truck I drive doesn’t feel as big as it once did. This can be a real trap, and I always adhere to the teachings I learned in school regarding safety procedures. Yes, you can get too comfortable with these trucks! A mechanical pre-trip inspection is a must and I walk around the Fat Cat to make sure lights are working and I beat on the tires with a rubber mallet to make sure they are inflated properly. I look for leaking fluids and to see that nothing is askew. I have learned to operate ratchet load securing straps (these things can give you fits!) and work the temperamental landing gear that props up my cargo hold from the rear. Mine has a manual crank that operates with finesse at times. Who says a trucker doesn’t get aerobic exercise? I use heavy metal load securing bars to insure that freight doesn’t shift or move. This is especially important when I haul hazardous materials like flammable liquids or sensitive items like a jet engine.

Prior to a run, I avoid sugar and concentrate on protein before I depart to regulate my system before a long run. I prefer un-sweetened ice tea to drink. It’s good to make sure things that I will want will be close at hand, like additional water and snacks. I insure that my satellite radio remote is close by and my cell phone has a good charge with the head set within reach.

Trip planning is an important part of my routine. I have a GPS unit, but I don’t follow it like some drivers do. A GPS unit will lead you right off the edge of a cliff, if you allow it. You have to physically look at a map and plot out a route on a motor carrier’s atlas. A GPS unit is a computer and it will send you on remote two lane roads through a series of small towns with lights and 35 mile per hour speed limits to save you a half mile on the trip. Trucks can’t go on every road a car can travel. You have to be constantly aware of your surroundings by watching further up ahead than a car for low bridges, power lines and tricky road configurations. This is especially true in cities where sometimes roads are narrow and intersections are tight. One time, I had to do at pick up in Central Falls, Rhode Island where the loading dock was in a garage right at the edge of a narrow road, on a busy afternoon rush hour. It was necessary to stop traffic by sticking the rear end of my truck right into traffic to get to it. Once inside, I learned that my cargo would be thousands of pounds of delicate glass tubing to be transported over rough New England roads. Double whammy! I hate transporting glass, even more than the skull and crossbones stuff.

One thing I have noticed is that we are increasingly becoming a national chain nation. There are Wal-Mart’s everywhere. The grocery stores are more regional because of the way fresh food is distributed, but the big chains dominate. There are surprisingly few towns in America where you can find local drug and department stores. Craving a McDonald’s Big Mac? You will never have to go very far ANYWHERE in the country for two all beef patties on a sesame seed bun with special sauce. It will just cost a ton of money in places like Connecticut. Take an exit off just about any interstate and chances are you will see something familiar. I look for local legends and anything that is unfamiliar. That’s how Route 66 used to be they tell me.

Having been to most states, I now open the state by state section of USA Today and the whole page looks local to me. I hear national news on TV and most times when they talk about a town somewhere where news is taking place, I either have been there or know where it is. America has become one big local community to me. The one thing that is different and interesting to me is the regional dialects of language. Mid Atlantic people tend to leave off consonants on the ends of words. In Brooklyn, New York, they add “R’s” and say “terlit” instead of toilet. New Englanders add a dimension of nasal acoustics to speech. Just put a clothes pin on your nose and talk, you’ll fit right in. Southerners have different tones of accents, but for the most part they just open their mouths and the words fall out. To think that all Southerners speak slowly is a myth. Try to keep up with a native Atlantan. True Cajuns from Louisiana and Mississippi have a certain aristocratic sound. I can pick out a Texas southern easily. Appalachia is a whole different world. You might need an interpreter there. Words and gestures are baffling at times. I knew old timer from Big Stone Gap, Virginia and “yes” was “yay-ya” and the bathroom was “the howsa.” Upstate New York, Ohio and Michigan are somewhat alike and unique sounding. I would say their accent is probably the hardest to imitate. Nearby Indiana doesn’t have and accent. That’s what the so-called language experts say. I tend to agree. They have a straight ahead Midwestern tone. The rest of the Midwest varies slightly. Now, if we’re talking about Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas, you really need to see the movie “Fargo” to get a true upper Midwest accent. They kind of over play the dialect it to create somewhat of a comical touch in the movie. A good portion of Florida and Urban California sounds like New York City and New Jersey. It’s got to be the huge transplant influence. I haven’t been to Alaska, but Sarah Palin has made me aware that there is an accent there. I like the fact that Hawaii economizes words. I understand “Aloha” means hello and goodbye. The accent is on the ring of flowers. In reality, you can drive three thousand miles and understand what everybody is saying, for the most part. Even if we can’t hear one another, there are some great hand signals. In Los Angeles, Chicago and New York In traffic, I’ve seen people waving with one or no fingers! Such a friendly places.

The physical beauty of America is outstanding. There is something worth seeing in every state I’ve been to. A month ago I had the good fortune of driving on one of the most scenic routes I’ve ever been to. Route 285 which runs down though the center of Colorado is breathtaking. At the same time, the elevation at 9,000 feet will make you short of breath. It’s literally breathtaking. The road winds and dips and at times is just like a roller coaster. When I was there, the snow covered mountains were truly dramatic. Campsites and interesting little towns popped up all along the way. I yearned to be travelling in a motor home instead of the Fat Cat. I’ve enjoyed the Sierras, Cascades and the California ranges out west as well. The east offers some great trips though the Catskills, Adirondack, Appalachian, Blue Ridge, White, Green and Ozark mountains too. There is no shortage of mountain scenery in the United States.

Mighty rivers traverse our land on a grand scale. The Mississippi is a sight to behold and I’ve crossed it in several regions of the country. The Columbia which separates Washington and Oregon is awesome to view. The Rio Grande in Texas makes a long border between us and Mexico. The Ohio probably has more quaint towns and impressive all American cities on its banks than any other. Located right on the Ohio, Cincinnati is a picturesque and well rounded metropolis as viewed on a hill from the Kentucky side with plenty of riverside attractions. Pittsburgh, where the Monongahela and the Allegheny form the Ohio, has transformed from a dirty old steel town to a land of high tech and a cleaner environment. The St. John’s River that runs through the middle of Jacksonville, Florida, is the only river in North America that flows from south to north. Add the Delaware, The St. Charles, The Hudson and The Tennessee and you know that we are a nation of great rivers.

As for coastline, we’ve got plenty of that too. The problem is though, there aren’t a whole lot of truck routes that hug the coastline. I’ve been on a few good ones like the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA in Florida, just not in the truck. Many of us yearn to be on the coast to feel the sand, the sea and the air. There’s just something very therapeutic about the beach. It soothes the soul and fills the senses with serenity.

When I think of over- all friendliness, there are lots of places in all regions of the country where the people are amiable and smile a lot. California is a pretty happy place for the most part. They don’t seem concerned that the next big earthquake, forest fire or mudslide could be moments away. My favorite Mad comic, Alfred E. Newman must have been from here. His motto is “What, Me Worry?” The south is a generally hospitable place, but Mississippi and Louisiana seem to stand out to me in addition to my home state of Georgia. Kentucky and Tennessee are also good for hospitality. I like Texas for over all niceness and New Mexico gets my vote as well. Colorado and Utah folks will make you feel comfortable and right at home. Pennsylvania is a tale of two cities where Pittsburgh gets the advantage over Philadelphia. Florida is problematic with lots of crabby old New Yorkers and Boston can go either way depending on if you’re a Sox fan. Generally, we’re a good nation willing to help each out with a kind word or a good deed.

The weather in the past year has had its challenges. I’ve driven in 12 sizeable snow storms and seen some frigid temperatures along the way. Ironically, the coldest I’ve been was in my home state of Georgia last February when the mercury hit 10 degrees with no power because the truck wouldn’t start. Michigan came in second with a brisk wind off Lake Michigan at St. Joseph in November. I didn’t feel the cold as much out west in the Rockies in Places like Salt Lake City and Idaho because of the elevation and dry air. I have definitely been hot in a few places. Laredo, Texas comes to mind first where it hit 107 when I was there. I could have popped out of my truck like bread out of a toaster. Phoenix was 97 at ten in the morning when I was there. Yuma, Arizona was the all time hottest when I felt 119. The only other time I feel that kind of heat is when I check my cornbread in the oven. I have to remind myself to drink extra water and wear a cowboy hat in the sun. I’ll stick a fan in my face and idle the engine for air conditioning as much as I can. As for good weather, California is a good place to be, when it’s not raining buckets. I’m very fond of the south in spring. The far north becomes comfortable in summer. As far as driving, fog is my least favorite. I hit a lot of it on several trips, at night, in Indiana. Snow doesn’t bother me as long as the road departments clear it off good and I don’t have to “chain up” the tires. Rain just makes the truck dirty when all that road grime splashes up on her and can be wicked in cities regarding the way people drive.

In all, I like this type of work, but I’m not sure how long I can be out on the road. It can be a real grind when you’re away from home for long periods of time. But, for now, I’m taking it days at a time, not wanting to get too far ahead of myself or too far behind. I have a few ideas of what I want to do next, but I haven’t fully thought them through. So, for now, I’ll continue this gypsy way of life. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. As we speak, I’m working up my Top 10 favorite lists. The lists will be of favorite small towns, favorite cities, favorite road songs, favorite food stops and favorite truck stops to mention a few.

To me America is a great place. I’m not done seeing it all. Figuratively speaking, I want to meet all the Americans and see the places that the locals love to be. There are many more miles to go, many more places to see and many more stories to write.

A Garden of Paradise

The call came on the trusty old Q-comm and it was an offer of a run from Louisville, Kentucky to Rockville, Maryland. The pay offered made me raise one eyebrow concerning the importance of this load considering it was a stone’s throw from Washington, D.C. It was the right money without even trying. Ok, I’ll go, was my thought. The commodity was “electronic equipment”. When I received the rest of the load information, the picture was clearer. This fun little excursion was taking me to the Federal Justice Center. I then had visions of being ordered to spread eagle for a pat-down search before entry to the compound would be granted. So, I prepared my paperwork and pre-trip inspected the Fat Cat for the run. Rockville is like a branch of DC and a bastion of activity…kind of like a beehive. But, hey, the weather promises to be nice and roads look good on the map. I’ve got twelve hours to get there from the point of freight pick up.


I arrived in Louisville the next morning from Florence, well rested and ready for a nice drive through Kentucky, West Virginia and Western Maryland. With the freight loaded, it was on to Rockville by the nine pm deadline.

Night had barely fallen when I pulled up to a non-descript building in suburban Rockville. I got out of the Cat and felt like someone was waving a checkered flag at me. It was mostly a straight drive through to meet my deadline.

Now, I was facing the highest chain link gate I think I’ve ever seen in my life with an intercom box near the gate. As I reached to push the button, a voice like the Wizard of Oz boomed out of the speaker and said “please state you name” in a terse tone. At that moment, I felt very small. I responded with my name and continued in a back and forth question and answer period with the great Oz. Apparently, they had sixteen cameras trained on me and knew a lot about me from probably as many TV monitors in some control room. Good thing I brushed my teeth.

The voice in the box ultimately communicated that they would be sending a uniformed man to question me at the gate. I felt like saying “I haven’t done anything wrong and I only have equipment that someone in your office really needs!”

After a few minutes, an impeccably dressed officer sporting a Clark Gable moustashe in a starch white uniform shirt appeared with a decidedly amiable air about him, quite different from the sound of the intercom. His purpose was to question me further. He said no one in the compound knew anything about any delivery from my company and that I would have to return the following morning and talk to different people. I responded that I would check with my dispatch and see if they could offer any assistance. I got Kelly on the phone and explained the situation and she mockingly informs me “your load doesn’t deliver until 9:00am tomorrow morning. “ She then laughed at me and said “at least you’re not late!” I shot back with “there’s no laughing at a government installation!” At the same moment, I picked up the Q-comm and sure enough, it said in our military time mode 0900 to 0900. Dam, double dam. I had turned 0900 to 0900 to 0900 to 2100. Wow. At least I wasn’t late. I apologized to the guard and said “my mistake, I’ll be back in the morning.”

After a hot meal and a good night’s sleep at the South Baltimore TA truck stop, it was time to return to Chain Link City to unload. When I spoke with the daytime people, they told me “someone should have taken that load off your truck...we are a twenty-four hour operation. They should have recognized the names on the paperwork. There will be some meetings on this.” I privately thought to myself, “What have I caused here? What kind of meetings? Prayer meetings?” But, then I realized that that this is the federal government. Nobody is supposed to know what is going on!

From Rockville, my expediting life picked up in pace. The loads were coming to me fast and furious. I back-tracked to Hagerstown to take a load to Boston. From Boston, I slid over to Central Falls, Rhode Island where I had to stop traffic to back into a narrow garage type loading dock. This one was going to Manchester, New Hampshire. At that point, it was a turn- around and a cannon ball of 1,130 miles direct to Atlanta. From Atlanta, a jaunt back up I-85 a bit to Lavonia, Georgia to run to Charleston, South Carolina. Next, it was over to Columbus, Georgia for some necessary repairs at Fleet Base. My fleet owner gave me a car to go home for a few days and I would catch up on house chores and wait for the room to stop spinning.

After a blazing fast four days at home, I drove back to Columbus to get the Fat Cat and take an opportunity. This time, I was awarded Cottonton, Alabama to pick up a roll of paper heavier than my Buick to take to Omaha, Nebraska. Next up, I ran up to the only part of Iowa I haven’t been to in the north west corner of the state near Sioux City. At the loading point, I remarked the forklift guy that Sioux City must be where all the lawyers live. He looked at me kind of funny like he didn’t get the joke. I didn’t dwell on it. This load was over 10,000 pounds of concrete patio furniture being rushed to Novato, California, on the North Bay side of San Francisco.

There would be no time to put on a Hawaiian shirt and do tourist duty in San Fran, for the next destination was Los Angeles. Unfortunately, most of this trip would be on truck friendly I-5 and not the more scenic and interesting Pacific Coast Highway 1. The scenery on that road is stunning. But, I had the good fortune to make a trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco at a leisurely pace in a car at one point. The PCH as the initiated call it, is a must drive experience. If you’re looking for the one road in America that will provide scenery, history and great beaches, this is it. Put it on the bucket list.

At the end of this line, I stumbled into Castaic, California on the north side of LA, next to Simi Valley and a Ventura Freeway ride to the coast. This is ground zero for the musical group America’s song Ventura Highway. The lyrics say it all. “Seasons crying no despair, alligator lizards in the air…” Castaic is a tidy little town with picturesque mountains surrounding a bustling community of commerce and shopping. The wide boulevard through town conjures up images of American Graffiti and hot rods and woody wagons with surfboards cruising up and down the blocks.  I felt like I was stepping up to receive an award just for arriving here.

The Pilot Truck Stop here is the best Pilot I’ve been to. In my initial scope of the premises I found an inviting patio with concrete tables and umbrellas, perfect for setting down with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar. In this little garden of paradise, the landscaping was well tended to and perfect to the point where I thought the trees came from Michaels Craft Store. The April weather was absolute perfection for human inhabitation. I then discovered an authentic taco stand next door with an ample selection of Mexican offerings. A couple of times I sat down to a meal of the real deal with an amazingly good non-alcoholic bottle of sangria. The Bell is no match for this place. I spoke some Spanish with some local men who had gathered around and asked them when the boulevard cruisers appeared on the street. They were happy that someone as white as me would speak their language. I even got a compliment on my accent. Thank you Senoras Rossi and Fuentes (my high school Spanish teachers). 

With perfect palms and dark sunglass inducing sunshine, you could conceivably find a petrified version of me here years from now. This part of Southern California is my speed. Laid way back.

Amongst these pleasant surroundings is where I met David and Susan, a travelling couple from Southern California with two dogs and three cats. David was a self proclaimed country boy with wavy light brown hair and a matching moustache. His slender wife had long dark brunette hair with a nice smile. I was intrigued when they paraded the cats into the Pilot courtyard on leashes like dogs. This family of felines and canines seemed to be doing just fine on the harness type apparatus. They had the pet carriers for the cats to go in and get out of the sun and rest, but they seemed to enjoy sniffing around and pawing “kitty holes” under the bushes to do what kitties do. These were nice folks about my age and we enjoyed a long conversation about animals and things that go on in Southern California. They let me hold one of the cats, a perfectly white boy which was a special treat to me. I miss my own animals at home, one of the things that makes life on the road tough.

After a great weekend, Monday came crashing through the window and it was time to go. I could have spent a week here, but Phoenix, Arizona beckoned and I readied the paperwork for the load. To the desert I go, leaving behind a perfect little place. I’ll be back. You can put money on that bet.