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Will It Be A Third Time? (Finale)

(Part 5B of 5A/5B)

As the continued efforts of craziness transpired through the balance of summer and fall in 1980, which also happened to include my ambulance ride for what was thought to possibly be a heart attack but turned out to be an ulcer, some normalcy began happening. I had the station staffed with quality air-talent and we were the #1 Station in Borger, Texas as of the most recent Arbitron Ratings. We had created the cast of The Magic Stars! (I listed our names in writing IV but did not talk about this part. Too long for this time.) So, at this point all seemed fairly right with the world.

It was about two weeks before Christmas when the call came into my little office desk area: “Paul, Line 1 is for you. He says he is Scooter McDonald.”

Scooter McDonald? Now there is a blast-from-the-past name for me. Mike Dry, Scooter McDonald and I had become good friends back at Elkins in Dallas. However, Mike and Scooter (the only name I ever knew him by) proceeded with a different life course than myself. They both still had to go through Licensing Class and that meant more months together for them in Dallas. That happened in 1978 while I was off working at KMUL in Muleshoe.

Mike and Scooter’s idea of a good time included a good dose of that weed stuff folks talk about even still today. (Lollipop anyone??)

By the time Mike got to work at Muleshoe the ties between Scooter and myself had been dissolved. Nothing contentious or anything, just time and space thing. Well, also lifestyle. So, Scooter McDonald is on the phone for me and I have not spoken to him in almost 3-years. Hmmm…

We him-hawed around for a few minutes and I learned that he was working at a top station in Fort Smith, Arkansas. (I must say here that of all the guys at my Elkins Studio Training Class, Scooter was the only one of us that had a natural radio voice already built-into his system. I immediately remembered that when he began speaking.) As I mentioned, I had not spoken to him in years and he and Mike had also drifted apart so, I had not a clue how he found me or why he was calling. And then it came out: “How would you like to move to Fort Smith? We have a morning slot open and I thought of you.”

Yes, pride can runneth amuck. But, in this particular situation being stunned trumps pride, and I said “Are you serious?!?”.

Honestly, the only Arkansas city I had really ever heard of was that one where the Pigs play football, Fay sumthin’ or other. (No Glenn, You May Not Digress!! But I Loved Me Some 1969!!! Hook ’em! Right Dan?)

I asked Scooter if his station needed an air-check (an abbreviated recording that is taken from your shift on the radio). It was not needed and he asked how long it would take for me to think it over and get back. It took just over 3-days.

I immediately went into the studio there at KQTY and since Mike (Jim Wilson) was on shift we began talking about the call. Mike seemed stunned that Scooter knew where we were. I eventually figured that Scooter had probably called Mike’s parents in Winters and just asked. After all, he had been to Mike’s house during their time together. (I had been there too and it was one more impressive place. More like a really nice hotel.)

Okay, it’s time for a bit of reflection on my life at this moment in time.

I am 23-years old. I am Program Director at a #1 radio station. I am respected within the Zia Broadcasting Company. And… It is the dream of every aspiring air-personality to “Get The Call” for movement to a larger market.

Before that call from Scooter, I was enjoying life in Borger, even though there is the reality of someone else on the distance back in Clovis. And, after a few hours of my emotional high from the Big-time! possibilities? SHE became my 1st consideration. So, the next morning, a Friday when I was already planning to go to Clovis to see HER for the weekend as I did fairly often, I made the call.

“Jim, are you going to be around tomorrow? If so, I would like to come down to visit with you about some things.” Jim Davis still ran the Zia Broadcasting stations for Mr. Allsup and I knew anything I did would reflect not only on me but also on Jim. After all, he was the one who promoted me a year earlier. Jim and I met early the next morning, a Saturday when the station was vacant except for the d-j on the air.

I explained things to Jim. By now he and I were pretty good friends I felt. And when we got ready to leave he told me he would call me at KQTY on Monday morning. I arrived early that day.

I remember explaining to Karen what was happening and was happily surprised that, while she was not for me leaving, she did not want me to pass up the opportunity I had hoped for. As many of you know, it’s the same response she has given our whole married life. I mentioned that Jim would be calling and I would let her know what I thought was going to happen.

Back at the station on Monday in Borger, things were business-as-normal. The only person I had mentioned the details of that Scooter call to had been Mike and he had agreed to keep it between me and him. That was, of course, before I left Borger that weekend.

When the call came in from Jim I was very apprehensive. I had no clue how he would direct this conversation. Remember his “Now , what the hell do you want?” story I told? So, I was deeply hoping he remained friendly.

“Steelee, How about you come back to Clovis and take the afternoon drive shift and I will get you started in the money-making end of this business. I think you might do good in Sales.” A that was that. I didn’t even really think about it, I just said “Okay.”

To this day I have no idea what Scooter McDonald thought about my declining that opportunity. I have never talked to him again. Two weeks later I was back in Clovis, New Mexico and my newer life was reset to begin again. Mike stayed in Borger and worked and partied, probably should have put partied first there, and he met girls and then…

Karen and I got married in July 1981, about 7-months after I returned to Clovis. And before too long, we made a trip together to Borger. Mike Dry was getting married. (Say what??)

There is always a twist in the story when Mike is being discussed by me. Remember, I know him better than anyone at this point which means he will tell me anything and for the most part I reciprocated. Yeah, mostly I think.

I liked Mike’s parents. I had met them several times. They were the modern-day version of helicopter parents. They just flew in and out of Mike’s life at really random times. For example, they would come to Muleshoe and stay at one of the few and only hotels. None of them were really much to stay at. But, they did it to see Mike. And while they were there I would usually go visit them. Clovis to Muleshoe is a pretty quick drive and Mike liked me being around his parents. I think maybe it was because I was one of his more, dare I say normal, friends. Mr. Dry and I would visit like we were both real businessmen. Well, one of us really was. (By the way, Muleshoe has some nice hotels now.)

Mike’s Dad gave me a $100 bill when Karen and I met them in Borger for that pre-game thing that we folks do the night before the actual wedding. And, later that evening after the pre-game was over, Mike and I went back to the hotel and started talking, Privately. He did not really have a best-man for the wedding, just the cast of groomsman which included me. That all kinda fell in line as needed.

“Why don’t you have a best man?” I asked thinking he probably just forgot to ask me. The answer still bothers me.

“I had one. His name is **. He was here yesterday and while I was working at the station he and ** (Mike’s tomorrow to be wife) had sex. Then he left and went back to Winters.” His expression was devoid of any emotion except disappointment. And I sat there stunned while trying to figure out how best to respond.

“Mike, you don’t have to go through with this wedding you know. All these folks here won’t know what happened but you do and that’s enough.” I said it as seriously as I knew how. I never imagined myself telling someone to walk away from their wedding the night before it happens. Who does that?

After a bit we parted and I made my way to back to our hotel room. Then, I could not stand it anymore. I went to see Mr. Dry. Without revealing what I had been told, I expressed to Mr Dry that I really felt Mike was making a mistake and I asked him how disappointed they (Mr. & Mrs. Dry) would be if the wedding was called off. And then he stunned me too! A very short pause before he spoke which was usually the case. It was nothing like my usual rapid fire responses.

“I know he should not marry that girl. (Pause) If you can get him to call it off I am behind you. But, (Pause) if Mike decides to go through with it then tomorrow I will stand by my Son.”

That’s a conversation Mike never knew occurred. The next day the two were married and Mike’s troubled life began all over again. Within just over a year Mike and wife were living in Abilene, Texas in a place his parents bought for them. They were raising a little boy who had been born right at one year after they were married. (I am still really glad the child was born a year after that conversation we had that pre-wedding night.)

Karen and I would see Mike and his wife off and on. Then, when Mr. Dry got really ill in the mid-1980s,  Karen and I went to their home, now in Abilene on the golf course, to see him.  Well, to see them both.

At one point while Karen was visiting with Mike’s mom, I stayed in the private care area of the home with Mr. Dry. Just he and I. And the conversation came up.

“How do you think my son is doing, Glenn?”

That was a question I did not anticipate but, as always when visiting with him, I was honest. I explained that I knew Mike and his wife were having issues but that I always hoped for the best. I told him I realized that raising a little child had to be a hard thing for them to be doing. And then he said the most quote-worthy thing I have heard. Even to this date in my life I recall it as vividly as though I were right there sitting by his bed. The words came from a man who had worked hard to get what he had in life. So, while laying there in a hospital bed at his own home Mr. Dry says:

“You know, that baby was born to a silver spoon. I hate to think it will turn into a shovel.”

That, my friends, is experience and wisdom and… lots more of both. I hope and pray to never have to say that, even if only just to myself, about my grandchildren. That is a very, very hard statement. And, as expected, before too much longer Mike and his wife were divorced and the hell that is child-custody followed and the results haunted Mike for the next 16-plus years of his life. Neither he nor his wife got actual custody of that little boy. That went to the grandparents on the mother’s side. That was just more continued disaster.

Mike stayed pretty close to me and we visited each other’s homes from time to time. In 1988, while living in California with my wife Karen and 5-year old daughter Kristal, I got a call one evening. It was Mike. His Father had passed away of a stomach aneurysm while in the ambulance on the way to the hospital there in Abilene. Mike was very distraught. Then, before too many years passed I got another call from him letting me know his Mom had passed as well. Both Mike’s parents were interesting stories of money and parties and trips to Cuba before Castro halted that action and a daughter that had been kidnapped and held for ransom. After learning that last story fairly early on in my relationship with Mr. and Mrs. Dry,  I better understood the helicopter nature of their attentions with Mike.

Yes, they lived a life of opulence and of… sadness. Mr. Dry was a pretty serious alcohol drinker.

Life has a way of separating even the best of friends. Family too, I am afraid. But, through the years, the efforts to reach out are made and the memories and individual stories that only the two of you know about are reflected upon. Sometimes while laughing and sometimes in more somber tones. The relationship formed by two young men, who had met on a very chance occasion way back in 1977, somehow managed to create the very best of friends. Lifetime friends.

I got a call in early May of 2016. It was Mike. I had left a couple of messages on his home phone and, although he NEVER answered the phone, he was pretty good about calling me back. But, I usually waited him out a year or so before trying to reach him.

“Hey, I just got home from the hospital. The doctor says I have to quit drinking or my liver is going to quit working.” Mike was as chipper as always and I started giving him a hard time.

“You know you can’t keep taking all those pain pills (long story of illicit meds he was getting) and drinking. That will kill you for sure Mike.”

“Well, YOU know I am never going to quit drinking.”

Mike had several DUI charges during his life. Never a wreck that I am aware of. But, there were plenty of times when we traveled somewhere in his car where I insisted that I would be driving. He never argued.

In fewer than 3 weeks following the conversation over the phone that day, my friend  Mike Dry died. May 22, 2016.

Because of the relationship we both had with only each other, no one in his family knew me but his parents and they were both long deceased, I had not been made aware in any way of Mike’s passing. His ex-wife and child probably never even knew or remembered my real name. She only ever knew of Paul Steele.

In late June this year, 2018, I decided to make a serious effort to contact Mike. I had tried last year but got a “no longer a working number” and figured he had just changed the number as he was prone to do. He became very paranoid over the years and in the last decade or so would only make contact with me by phone. The last time I went to Abilene to check on him we stood on the front porch and visited for a while, but I could tell he did not want me coming inside the house and I never made an issue of it. After all, it’s Mike Dry.

Lots of alcohol. Lots more drugs of every kind you can think of. Lots and lots of money that created the hermit lifestyle of not needing to work outside the home. Some might say a great life. I know better. But, He Was My Friend!

When I first began writing these stories I asked: Why?

Of course the best and most simple response is: Why not. (A statement of resolved fact.)

Mike walked into class at Elkins way back in 1977. I too limped into the very same class. I was on a mission and really did not expect or want to make any close friends. But, that’s not how the Plan is set. It’s not by our wants that the events of life cascade from reality to reality like some never-ending waterfall. A waterfall that never splashes the same way twice, no matter how perfectly similar the effort may be to reproduce it. As I mentioned in the third writing: If you set into motion a single day, and then again tomorrow set into motion another single day with the precise same details as the previous day, the results will be: Different!

We are not living inside sterile test tubes of replication where the same things happen over and over. But, life does have its set of laws and we all must abide by them. If you do really bad things to your body for long enough there is no escaping the consequences. Even if those consequences don’t result in ultimate termination until you are in your fifties.

The title of these writings has been: Will It be A Third Time?

I now write the following only as an expression of my heart with a hope that anyone who reads it understands the unique nature we each possess. Some things are unique qualities while some are unique weaknesses. Many are common to all of us. Of what follows, you can accept and/or dispel whatever best fits you. I am not making judgement statements.

I have now conducted the Eulogy Services for more people than I can possibly remember. As a matter of fact, although I had told myself that I was done with doing eulogies, I very recently received a call asking me to perform one for a very special lady that I greatly admired here in Slaton. I did the Eulogy. And, that is the primary reason that so much time elapsed between these last two writings.

I have a folder in a mostly private closet that has almost all the written notes I have used to perform each eulogy service. I look at them from time to time and sometimes think…

“I really don’t remember doing that one.”

But then, I read some of the notes and my mind recalls a specific word spoken to me or an incident that was unique to that person’s funeral. And when that occurs, for me, only one of two things will happen. I will either smile and continue on or, I will stand there in that closet and reflect. I have discovered that it’s in the reflection where I discern some of the hard truths that fill my own personal life. Not bad things. Not good things. Just things.

The most relevant thing of reflection that I have realized is wrapped in the blanket of emotional separation. And then along with that separation, the consequences that result. So, here is the reason for the title of these writings: Will There Be A Third Time?

As of this date I have cried only twice in my life at the passing of another person. The first time was when my Grandad Maxcey passed away in December 1984. I was 26-years old at the time. His passing ripped my heart out and I literally cried for days. I still remember telling myself things like “I will never allow myself to become so close to another person ever again.” And I meant it! And for the most part I think I have done just that.

The second time I cried was so random. I have written about this before. It was at the funeral of a school classmate. When the whole thing was over the congregation filed outside to wait. The only remaining folks inside that church were the family and we who were singing. And then, I saw a Mother and Father who were so very close to my heart have their hearts wrought with agony as they walked hand in hand together to that casket. I was totally overcome with sadness and I cried uncontrollably for a bit. I had to sit down to compose myself but the crying had overwhelmed me suddenly. I performed the Eulogy for the Father only a few years ago.

So, that’s it.

However, that cannot be said to be the whole of the story.

For quite some time, as I mentioned, I have performed Eulogy Services as requested. And while most are not specifically tied to me in any way except through commonness of things like church, there can be times when the rules of my own personally initiated protocol of emotional expression must be placed under lock and key. It simply must. But, I have well learned that there is a serious consequence for doing this.

If ever I was going to cry again over the passing of someone I expect that it would have been when my Father died. But, knowing ahead in my heart and mind that I would probably be doing the Eulogy, the lock and the key and the chains of emotional bondage were pulled from whatever corners in which they resided and they were firmly applied to the emotional chambers of my entire being. Otherwise, I never make it through the Eulogy.

We humans are funny creatures. We most all handle emotional distress in a few limited ways. But, we handle it.

The lessons of binding my emotional expression carry within me a deep frustration. I would say guilt but, I will hold-off that indictment for a while longer I think.

The critical lesson learned is this: If you do not weep in the time allotted, the alloted time to weep passes with the deceased.

So very recently and within the first week or so after discovering, quite by accident, that Mike Dry was no longer living, I became aware that I had created a void inside myself. Something unlike I have known before.

While I have lost many of life’s friends to death, the impact here was totally different. And for days I kinda was just… whatever.

Then I asked myself: “How are you going to get over this constant feeling of sadness?”

The resulting answer has been presented from my thoughts through these writings.

No, it’s not been a eulogy. But rather, an opportunity for reflecting on the laughing and anger and frustrations and excitements that Mike and I shared together as the Best of Friends.

His life has been finished for a couple of years now. But the life ahead of me is still filled with wonder.

No more thoughts of tears and crying. It’s no longer an issue for me.

I suppose I will continue holding the Title of these writings within myself for a while longer. Though, I do hope it will be a lot longer.


So long my Friend.




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Will It Be A Third Time? (5A)

(Part 5A of 5A/5B)

Right off the bat, after posting the Part 4 of 5, I realized that I had thrown myself a curve ball by not progressing with my storylines as quickly as I had intended. So in fact, the Final-Final presentation regarding this specific topic, Mike Dry, will be delayed for another day or two. You know, it takes some time to type these stories out while making sure that anyone who drops by my office to visit is given my full and undivided attention. Perhaps I can reach a conclusion point no later than Friday, July 20th. After all, it’s kinda like what Red Pollard says in the movie Seabiscuit: “Yeah, well everything gets longer in the tellin’.” To which I say… “Amen Brother!” The longer in the tellin’ part of that sentence seems to be a motto by which I unintendedly live. Ugh, for others that is.

By the end of summer of 1980 I began to think that perhaps living in that trailer in Borger was becoming too comfortable. It seems to me that, although you still might be youthful, settling-in at work and life can become an impediment against youthful initiative that will eagerly search for pastures of the bigger and better things that might await. I guess it’s the we’re creatures of habit thing that can often deter us from seeking a better road upon which to travel. But by the winter of 1980, December 1980 to be more specific, I had a decision to make. It was The Decision that would direct the best parts of my life’s story right up and to this very day in good ol’ 2018. However, December does not come without first flipping the calendar through June and July and August and… here comes a rather long story that, in real time, evolved and concluded in less than 48 hours.

July 3rd, 1980: It’s funny how the mere possession of certain things can be such an attraction to others. These things may or may not be all that proper/legal to own but, if it’s the certain things that others are looking for themselves? Then it can become a daunting task to try and keep some semblance of order in your life while those others are constantly knocking on your door just hoping to attach themselves to those things you (you being Medicine Man Mike in 1980) consider to be “yours!”. This is especially true, the daunting task, if they decide to just walk in without so much as a courtesy knock.

Knock! Knock!! Knock!!!

“Dave’s not here man.” Oh, and neither am I.

By the time May of 1980 rolled onto the calender, Mike and I were living together in that newly leased trailer house in Borger. The both of us were very well acquainted with the other and, we were well acquainted with a fact that states: Sometimes you have to change your outlook on things. This becomes especially true if another life-experience has paid you a visit. However, changing your mind on something that has been at the core of your beliefs can indeed be a hard thing to see through to completion or, maybe a better word would be resolution.

“Hey man, Did you lock the door?”

I emphatically learned my lesson regarding this lock-the door debate which I had always seemed to carry within myself after leaving the farm. The lesson of this life-experience occurred on my last night before leaving Clovis and settling in Borger.

Let’s go back to December 1979: It was a “So long Paul Steele!” party. After all, I was leaving Clovis the following morning. This going away party happens inside my small Rent-house which is located several blocks north of the Clovis High School. This latest lesson of experience cleared the ground for a foundation upon which my better check again to see if all doors are locked mentality evolved into a serious matter of dedicated attention. So, even still today it occurs prior-to, make that, immediately prior-to exiting my home or office. Make sure ALL doors are locked. Why?

Someone rigged the backdoor of my small rented house that night. And then, when it was time for me to take Karen home for the night and, supposedly after all others had vacated the property, we took off to her house. When I returned I noticed a few items missing and I knew right then they had been stolen. I discovered that the back door was unlocked. Both the inside door and the screen door hook latch had been rigged. The front door was still locked when I arrived back after dropping Karen at her house. I always kept both the front and back doors locked. It only took moments for me to realize the how of how it had happened. To this day I still don’t know the Who of that night’s thievery. So, the double-checking of locked doors right before leaving has become an assured pattern of my life. Also, Mike had come over from Muleshoe that night to say goodbye. Then, on his trip back to Muleshoe it dawned on him. He had forgotten to take along some of his “medicine” that he had brought into my house earlier that evening. His ‘medicine’ and my Tootsie Roll canister filled with loose change along with a sentimental item that had been given me by the nurses at Scottish Rite Hospital were gone. It was an onyx chess set. Several of my younger nurses had gone as a group on vacation to Mexico and while there they bought and then brought that chess set to me at the hospital.

While things might be going great in Borger in May of 1980, Mike and I could still well recall that cold night only months earlier. We had both learned the same valuable lesson. And now we both ALWAYS locked the trailer doors in Borger, Texas.

That robbery in Clovis was done well on that cold December night. After all, I was only gone a few minutes but, that was all it took. The thief better be glad they did not leave any 8-track tapes at my house that night because I think we all know what those tapes would have had happen to them the following morning as I engaged my well practiced surgical art. It’s called: A Tapectomy. Traveling from Clovis to Borger would have given me plenty of enjoyable time to perform my little retaliatory procedure. I eventually concluded the following: At unsuspecting times some so-called friends who are in your home are not necessarily there for friendly reasons.

Work. Party. Play. Sleep. Party! Play! ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ work?

The Borger KQTY station manager (Bob S.) fancied himself as the Ultimate Promoter. And to be fair, he was very good at it. But the thing he most enjoyed was putting on a show for folks. Putting on a show meant aiming his attentions at whatever opportunities arose which could anticipate a large audience. That is exactly what was expected for the July 4th, 1980 fireworks celebration. At Bulldog Stadium in Borger there was scheduled a huge fireworks show. The primary idea was to strive to get the most mileage out of this opportunity while finding a way to be the Main Attraction. Bob had concocted such a plan. It included one of our KQTY on-air guys to dress-up as though he was the Iran Ayatollah. Remember that going into 1980 Ronald Reagan had just been elected President. And, at the very moment in January of 1980, as Reagan was being sworn-in as President, those hostages that had been taken by Iran while under the President Jimmy Carter era were being released. So, this was still great fodder for those looking to stir up the emotions of pride in this country. What better time for that than: July 4th! The d-j that was selected for Bob’s big show idea was our KQTY morning man, Michael John. The Ayatollah (MJ) was to run around on the football field and to go up into the stands and other seating areas to capture and detain various individuals inside holding pens that had been placed on the football field. After sufficient time had passed to be assured of crowd engagement, you could hear it. All those in Bulldog Stadium began looking up as the noise of the night air was becoming ever more noisey. In what seemed like hours, the noise of a US Military helicopter circled overhead while slowly descending toward the football field with each completed circle made. The people in the cage-like structures on the field began cheering at the presence of help from above while others grew ever louder in the chanting against the Iranian who had imprisoned our fellow Americans. Lots of action! Tons of effort! The help that came flying into the stadium is a huge military helicopter. A helicopter that Bob, the station manager, had secured from a long time friend he had made while fighting in Vietnam. He managed to secure a military helicopter that was fully decked out with soldiers standing outside on the copter rails. Some were hanging from the copter on ropes as they swooped down to rescue those Americans Held Hostage by our morning d-j, I mean the Ayatollah. The crowd chanting USA, USA, over and over. Many in the crowd were still booing and yelling at the Iranian culprit as the military help arrived to save the day and rescue those held hostages.

Soldiers piled out of that mighty helicopter. Then, when everyone assumed the show was over… out of the helicopter steps Bob, dressed just as though he were Ronald Reagan himself. He was wearing the Reagan mask. I was told his appearance that night as Reagan’s proxy caused an unbelievable roar of the crowd. Yes, I was told about this whole event. You see, while Borger’s event of the century was unfolding at Bulldog Stadium, both Mike and I were fast asleep back at our trailer. After all, we had just gone a couple days without sleeping. Sometimes things just happen, right? By the time the July 4th, 1980 evening began turning the night sky dark, and while the fireworks exploded overhead, two boys who had spent the previous 48 hours running around the northern panhandle of Texas were fast asleep. But, we were treated to that July 4th story over and again by the Ayatollah and President Reagan. I just called them by their reals names: MJ and Bob.

I made a couple trips that year, 1980, with Mike to see is folks in Winters. The home where Mike grew up was more akin to an overblown hotel than a typical fancy house. And, considering all the amenities that were inside that home, there was no excuse not to have an enjoyable time. I spent many hours splashing around their indoor pool. That room alone was larger than any home I have ever lived in. And, for whatever reason, Mike’s dad seemed to enjoy visiting with me. Mr. Dry was from the era of time that believed: Everything that should be done today, must be done today. And when that day ended, he would sit in his oversized leather chair with the news blaring while he drank his scotch. It was his life’s pattern, or so it seemed to me. But, more about Mr. Dry will be brought up later in the final posting of these writings.

There are many stories I could tell that involved Mike and me. Some, as mentioned in a previous posting, are best left in the cracks of earth where the details of youthful exploration reside to never be mentioned again. Well, at least we can hope that the cracks into which these details fell are left alone. Hopefully those cracks remained closed after a good rain occurs. Bury those details and then drown them too. Yes, I still like that idea.

1980. Borger, Texas. There were many unusual things that happened that year. And working at a radio station that broadcasts the National News and Local News almost every hour causes a knowledge of historical events to seep into the gray matter between our ears that contains a filing system larger than any man-made computer that will ever built.

An Explosion at the Phillips Plant only a couple miles from Borger. That explosion blew out the windows of Borger’s downtown buildings some 3 to 4 miles away. A church building in Phillips was leveled. The explosion happened a couple hours before Sunday services were scheduled to begin. That would have been a real disaster.

Mt. St. Helens explodes.

A Record Setting year in Borger of consecutive 100+ degree days throughout that summer.

Mike and I were candle lighters for a wedding that included a lady we worked with at the radio station.

Oh, and concerts. In 1979, 1980 and 1981 both Mike and I rode together to concerts held in Amarillo. AC/DC – Black Sabbath – UFO – Triumph – Van Halen – Def Leppard – and on and on. Yep, there were definitely concerts.

As Thanksgiving started making way for the Christmas season, I received a phone call. It was a call that I had hoped and dreamed might one day happen. When it finally did, I had the toughest decisions to make . But, that’s where we will leave off today.

Only one more writing left in this series. However, it might be a bit long.


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