'Timmay' says goodbye to 'Mr. Cooper': Loyal friend also a father, musician, journalist, historian, brother, beloved ex-husband, damn nice guy

                                                 

Somehow, Peter Cooper is dead.

I already wrote a blog of sorts on Facebook after his death December 6.  But I haven't really been able to process it.

                                           Photo by Peter's friend John Partipilo

I stuttered through possible remembrance thoughts at all hours, day and night. And I ran through some of the things I liked best about Peter, who I hired as my chief music writer after old Jay Orr left The Tennessean for ventures that ended up with him in the deserved and honored position of Grand Old Man at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

This isn't about Jay, though I really love that guy, and he served well as a journalist on my staff at the old Nashville Banner and then The Tennessean.  He took his glorious knowledge and kindness with him to the CMHOF and M. He is a great man who has made a huge impact on me, personally, and on his colleagues, the music world and his family. 

About eight years ago, Peter packed up his desk at The Tennessean and joined Jay at the Hall of Fame. It was his dream job. He wasn't writing much any more, but he was hanging out with visiting dignitaries like Bill Anderson and Tom T. Hall and Joe Walsh and Albert Pujols and working with nice guys like Jay Orr.  

My favorite quote from a Jay Orr story came early on in Garth Brooks' meteoric rise, Garth, who I actually like, talked about some big honor he'd won, and how he went home with then-wife Sandy to their Goodlettsville home to celebrate. "Sandy and I balled all night," Jay quoted Garth. Of course, Garth and his wife actually "bawled all night," meaning they wept tears of joy. Either that or Garth spent the entire night singing "I'm Back in the Saddle Again."  It's a night he probably doesn't like to talk about with Trisha, though perhaps they ball all night, too, when she's not making cookies on TV.

The bawl/ball incident -- and no one complained, by the way -- was actually my fault. Jay, who was as diligent as anyone about making sure his stories were excellent and scholarly, turned this one in -- as was his nature -- right on deadline, if not later. I had to spin through 55 inches of copy about Garth in about 10 minutes. I read right through the bawled/balled miscue without a thought of its sexual content. 

Jay was a great journalist and museum executive and I still love him more than most people I've ever known. In my mind, I saw Peter, who succeeded Jay at The Tennessean, similarly maturing, perhaps growing a scholarly beard, and becoming the next Grand Old Man at the Hall of Fame and Museum. After all, Jay is almost my age, and surely he has plans to step down and spend his time writing cowboy songs and polkas in his golden years.

Seriously, they loved Peter at the museum, although life began catching him by surprise in the last three years or so.  It became obvious that he wasn't going to be the next Grand Old Man at the Hall of Fame when director or whatever Kyle Young and a half-dozen of his frat-style-dressed minions formed something of a receiving line outside Room 5 of the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. They were all taking turns telling the fallen and frail friend, Peter, "goodbye."

I'd already said "goodbye" to my friend, several times over, by the time the receiving line got there.  

Peter was forecast to die that day, or really the night before, according to the SICU doctors and assorted medical experts. But he fooled us. He'd fooled us a lot over the years. He didn't die on schedule. Sadly, the when is not as important as the what ... and he did die, after a few days of giving us false hope by fighting to stay alive. His fight came too late, when he was too weak.

Now, I'm not in the family, but I was there a lot during the four days he was alive in the hospital. Hell, on the Saturday and Sunday of his mortal stay in the SICU, he was even "recognizing" people, a little.

As my friend, I had asked him long ago to write the foreword to my book, Pilgrims, Pickers and Honky-Tonk Heroes, that comes out in March.

He wrote that foreword. He read much of the book, chapter-by-chapter, via my email dispatches. Then he stopped responding. I thought perhaps his interest had tailed off. I didn't realize that life was the problem.

 Still, once I had it assembled, I had a full manuscript printed out that he wanted to edit. But he had excuses. And he didn't. I was not critical of him. Bobby Bare wanted to edit it, too, and he had a copy, but it's a tough job.  Hell, John Sebastian, Lovin' Spoonful honcho and a friend of sorts, volunteered to read it, too. He stopped, though, blaming dyslexia.

As for Peter's participation, it was clear, in sort of a muddied way, that he just couldn't do it. His mother died. He got sick and spent a couple of weeks in the hospital. And he had two or three bouts with COVID that required isolation, not hospitalization. He got divorced from the woman who loved him the most of anyone ever and who held his hands while he died. For some reason or reasons, he was runnin' like he was runnin' out of time, to lift a snippet from my good friend, Kris Kristofferson. Take it all, take it easy, til it's over. And now, it is.

                                                                     Peter Cooper: Photo by John Partipilo

On Sunday, December 4, I held Peter's hand, stroked his forearm, and told him how much I loved him. I talked about the book -- he loved my writing -- and about his foreword and how much I appreciated it. I told him that I was planning on having him play the guitar and sing, if he wanted to, during at least one of my book-signings. He squeezed my index finger and moved his legs and his left arm. There even was the semblance of a nod. Of course, it all was, or perhaps it just fueled, wishful thinking. 

Doctors had said that when he recovered from the brain injury from what turned out to be his mortal fall, he'd be in good shape mentally, but perhaps his motor skills might be diminished. He may not be able to work the frets on the guitar seemed to be a major worry. So, I figured maybe I could get my friend, Thomm Jutz, to join on guitar while Peter sang at a book-signing. 

I was sure he was going to make it, so I was planning for the future. 

I think he was, too, until the next day. Monday, December 5, he was still and struggling. He was not responsive to conversation. He was running a fever. Jason Ringenberg (yes, the Scorchers' front man aka Farmer Jason) stood at his bed and talked to him. Jason recited a long passage from Ezekiel. I rubbed Peter's hand and cried in my heart. I pretty much lost hope that night. He lost life the next day. 

I had to call our mutual friend, Bobby Bare, to inform him. I'd been calling him all weekend. Bare wrote the preface for my book, by the way. I love that guy and it pained me to have to tell him that the fellow I regarded as my best friend in Nashville had not survived. I spoke briefly, tearfully, with our mutual friend, Nicole Keiper Childrey, who spent her share of time at the hospital, with so many others who loved Peter. I messaged our beloved photographer pal, John Partipilo. They already knew.

I dashed off a quick note to Kris and Lisa Kristofferson, as well. They also knew Peter, and they had told me back when their friend, Vince Matthews, died in 2003, to make sure to let them know when folks in the music community had died. It is a solemn honor, though tears drove my fingers as I typed the news about Peter Cooper to those wonderful people.

You may remember that Kris and Lisa delivered Jerry Lee Lewis his Hall of Fame medallion in his Memphis hospital bed, about a week before "The Killer" died October 28.  It had to be a hard task, as Jerry Lee's friend Kris has endured his own medical struggles.  But, at 86, he is proud and determined to live.

Peter's body couldn't measure up to any such determination.

I've been fiddling with this blogpost for more than a week now. I did post one, a mournful and angry lamentation, on December 7, the day his kind baby brother, Professor Chris Cooper, sent out this message: "There's no good way to say this, but I wanted you to know that Peter passed away in his sleep last night."  

Chris wrote the note, and the gentlest guitar genius I know, Thomm Jutz -- Peter's dear, dear friend, who pretty much stayed at the hospital through the ordeal -- forwarded it to those of us who had been keeping what we had hoped was a life watch. It turned out the opposite.

An early effort at this farewell began with me somehow thinking the phrase "Thank you for being my friend."  I think that's kind of a trivial way to say it, reminiscent, I guess, of the geezette sitcom "The Golden Girls," that ran from the mid-1980s into the 1990s. That comparison really doesn't work, given the fact that my friend was not able to reach the golden years. Frozen in time at 52 years old.   

I've had a few days to think about it since Peter Cooper died December 6 in Nashville.

He had fallen and injured his head and his brain. And there was hospital-developed pneumonia. Nothing much else needs to be said about how he died.

It's just that he is dead. The day he fell on his spiral to death, he called me. He'd been MIA for quite awhile, a couple of months really. He hadn't answered calls or texts in which I expressed my worry and my love. My encouragement. He sounded tired, but he was "the same old Peter," and he told me he knew what he needed to do for his health, that he was fine.  He praised his ex-wife Charlotte and talked about his love for his son, Baker.  "It's all going to be OK, Timmay. I love you." "I love you, Mr. Cooper," I said. 

(I've been calling him "Mr. Cooper" pretty much since I've known him, after an old sitcom, "Hangin' with Mr. Cooper," that was about a teacher, which was the world Peter came from, perhaps even where he made his biggest mark. He called me "Timmay," because of the "South Park" character. I'm not sure who really understood why we so-addressed each other. Course, it didn't matter.)

In that phone call, though, Peter said he was going to the Waffle House for flapjacks and hash browns. A pescatarian, he didn't think he'd try the fish there, if there was any. He did that, as far as I know. He was hungry. 

But shortly after, some friends found him, mortally wounded from a fall.

Of all the friends I've made in Nashville since beginning the second phase of my newspaper career here -- I began with a 14-year stint at The Leaf-Chronicle in Clarksville -- Peter was at the top of my list. I told him often he was my best friend in Nashville, "and I hope you don't fucking mind it."   

After I lost my job to corporate change -- I was "bought out" at The Tennessean 15 years ago -- Peter was one of the only members of the newspaper staff to keep up with me.  The rest of them, for the most part, were very kind.  But they had, it turned out in most cases, good reason to want to separate themselves from the outcasts.  The less they knew about the folks who were kicked to the curb, the better.

Most would find out for themselves soon enough how it indeed does feel to be cast out on your own.

Peter and I spoke regularly, from the very first day I was out.  For years, we'd meet every other Wednesday or so at Athens in Melrose (now gone, victim of Nashville-brand progress and greed) for lunch. He seldom let me pay, though I was able to rip the check away from him on occasion.

It had become the place where I'd meet interview subjects for freelance pieces, potential freelance clients and/or simply to grab a cup of coffee and chicken souvlaki or spanikopita (spelling?) while watching the wheels go round and round. I'd tell Peter to meet me at my office. Those were lunches filled with laughter, lullabyes, legends and lies. 

I'd tell him the latest I'd heard from Kris or Bare. He'd talk about his adventures with Whisperin' Bill or maybe even Joe Walsh, the "life's been good to me so far," singer who is the best thing about the  Eagles. Joe really does have that Maserati and gold records on the wall, Peter told me. And I don't want to be hard on The Eagles, especially since they took on young guitarist Vince Gill to take over for the lamented Glenn Frey.  George Jones called Vince "Sweet Pea," I think for his wonderful voice that actually is at its best when he sings "Go Rest High On That Mountain," Nashville's funeral song. I'm going to settle for a recording of John Lennon's "Working Class Hero."

If a country music or roots artist came into Athens who I didn't know, Peter would introduce me, tell them I was the guy who brought him to Nashville from Spartanburg, South Carolina, in 2000, and that I was the nicest man in Nashville, a great writer.

Mostly, the thing that he said though was that "this is my good friend."

I pretty much stole the lead of this post with the "Somehow, Peter Cooper is dead" from the obituary my friend wrote for Johnny Cash.  He had taken three weeks or so to craft the obituary, working full-time from his home. 

You see we all knew Johnny Cash was ill and that things were not likely to get better, so our chief music writer was assigned the role of producing what became a full-section tribute when the inevitable day arrived.

"Somehow, Johnny Cash is dead," the lead of that obit, was also the best part of what was a sprawling, multi-faceted tribute to a great man.

Johnny Cash was 71, had a hard life, some of it self-inflicted, and he was older than his years.

Peter Cooper was different. He was only 52.

Somehow, Peter Cooper is dead.

November 22 doesn't seem to mean much any more. Is that because most of us who were stunned to tears are dead? And Thanksgiving wishes

 I shouted out "Who killed the Kennedys?" When after all, it was you and me.

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards wrote that line for their masterful "Sympathy for the Devil," on the album I consider the band's best, Beggars Banquet, released December 6, 1968.

This short blog tale isn't about that album -- the last one with their troubled and soon dead founder Brian Jones on it fully (some post-mortem work appears on Let It Bleed) -- though it and The Beatles Revolver super deluxe remastered package have been my main music in recent days while pedaling my bike.

It is a solitary ritual: An hour spent on the road to nowhere, the same figurative path I've traveled all too often. But this is literal, in that every day, seven days a week, I climb on my stationary recumbent bicycle and pedal as fast as I can, until my heart begins pounding and perspiration soaks my body.

I love it. I've been doing it for several years now, going from three or four days a week at a gym to the last couple of years when I've been riding in my basement, next to my office and the nearest music source, seven days a week.

I'm purging my tensions and disappointments during those rides. I'm thinking. Mostly, though, I'm just singing sometimes in my horrible voice that's perhaps a notch below Johnny Cash's in all of his waiting-to-die splendid albums, produced by Rick Rubin.  The pain in that faded American Recordings voice,  is part of what makes those albums must-haves for anyone who ever liked music.

I do sing better than that arrogant little squirt, Barney Fife, though, if you need some sort of comparison. Anyway, sometimes I just listen, sometimes I sing along with this music turned as loud as I can stand it, while pedaling.  Perhaps the odd thing is that out of all of the thousands of recordings I possess, I return to the same 20 or 30 as my menu.

Most-often, it's Beatles and Stones, though I do a lot of Traveling Wilburys (a relative of The Beatles, of course), Petty (a Wilbury as well), Kristofferson, Dylan (also a Wilbury), Cash and Bobby Bare.  Speaking of Bare, well, he's one of my best friends and I am fortunate to be able to pick up the phone and call him and wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. I love that young man and his family.

I'll wish you all that as well. Happy Thanksgiving.

But, for a moment, I guess, I'll return to the opening lines of this little blogpost. I'm not going to write long, I don't think, as I have real work to do. And a long bike ride to make before the network news comes on and I see the results of the latest mad-man's killing or perhaps asshole Putin's rain of death on Ukraine. Do you remember back when you were young and we always called Ukraine "The Ukraine." The Beatles didn't use "The" when they sang of that country's treasures: "Those Ukraine girls really knock me out, they leave the West behind."

I also use "The" when discussing the other-than-Putin modern scourge. To me it's "The COVID." 

It strikes me that most people alive right now have no reason to regard November 22 as anything other than two days before Thanksgiving this year as well as an ad-whacked predecessor to Black Friday. If they hear "Sympathy for the Devil," they don't place it at a bleak period in their lives. It's just a song by those old, naughty Rolling Stones who Pops likes so much, younger people might say.

I am no Santa or Hallmark movie, so to me Black Friday really is Bleak Friday, signaling the black dogs and the ghosts of Christmases past it's time to begin their monthlong residency in my house and in my brain.

To those of us in my generation and older and to a whole lot of dead people, November 22, which is today, marked the beginning of the darkest holiday period in our history.

It was 59 years ago today that some miserable weasel-faced dick in a book depository and other assorted conspirators, Castro lovers, mobsters and famous Texas politicians -- take your choice in a mix-and-match -- gunned down America's hope.

Whether it was Oswald in the Texas Book Depository or the mafia on the grassy knoll or perhaps jealous politicos and other friends of Jack Ruby, someone blew John F. Kennedy's mind out in a car as it cruised through Dallas. He didn't notice that the lights had changed.

My memories are strong. Mr. Schultz, the social studies teacher at Alan B. Shepard Jr. Junior High School in the Chicago-area town of Deerfield, was summoned to the principal's office. All teachers were. By intercom.

Tears ran down his cheeks when Mr. Schultz came back into the classroom, kicked a trashcan as far as he could, and he left.  It was explained to us that Mr. Schultz had been a JFK campaign worker, a young Democrat who believed in Camelot.

He left the school and never came back. He left teaching, and he went into the milkman business. That was back in the era when the milkman came predawn daily, filling up the little metal-insulated box by the back door with the daily order of milk. If mom wanted eggs, chocolate milk etc., she'd just leave a note in the box and the milkman would add those. Eggnog was big during the holidays. Cider in the fall. 

That really was a more peaceful era, even though it was the Cold War. Today if a milkman left jugs of milk by the door, some asshole would steal it or poison it.  The dry cleaning man used to open up the backdoor and holler "Dry Cleaning!" and hang dad's suits and shirts on a hook in the hallway. The electric, gas and water meter men would let themselves into the house and go to the basement to read that month's usage for billing. 

In the summers, Jimmy Haan and I would meet the milkman in the dawn hours and he'd let us ride in back of the truck. All the ice we could eat and laughter.  Such would be idiocy, of course, in this time of murderous perversion and society's deadliest beasts.

So, thinking back today, I wonder if Mr. Schultz really did spend his life as a milkman. Probably the last generation of that species, because of the nation's loss of innocence trailing back to November 22, 1963.

In some writings I've referred to the people who have ruined it for us all as "the darkest underside of the human spirit." 

I first used that phrase to describe the men who abducted and murdered a pair of teenagers, in separate cases but at the same time, decades ago when I was in charge of news coverage for The Clarksville Leaf-Chronicle.

Now that underside is represented everywhere.

How many times a day do you check your locks? Do you park your car near the lights in a parking lot? How many security lights do you turn on every night?

These are all things we have come to accept as daily precautions, because of that darkest underside, as personified for the first time on a mass scale by Lee Harvey Oswald.

And his friends from Cuba, the New Orleans mafia or Austin, Texas. Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today, we used to chant at anti-war rallies. That's a different topic. Or is it, really?

There really was a time, before that day, when we trusted each other. People didn't lock their doors and we could put a bill payment in the mailbox and know it was going to be delivered to the recipient.

I know I'm old, and I know most people this is directed at have no idea what happened 59 years ago today. They likely have stopped reading by now so they can check on their latest tattoo or nipple ring.

It wasn't the day the music died: that came in Clear Lake, Iowa, on February 3, 1959, or December 8, 1980, in front of the Dakota, or perhaps when a fat guy clutched a commode on August 16, 1977, down at the end of lonely street in Memphis.

But looking back from a 71-year-old relic's perspective, that November 22 really was the end of innocence, the beginning of fear, perhaps just the realization that evil lurked in every shadow.

JFK was a symbol to us all, I had just turned 12, of hope. We didn't worry too much about politicians bedroom adventures back then. Because of JFK we thought about what we could do for our country.

I remember that the only good thing that happened that day is that when I got home, I had a belated birthday present from Grandma and Grandpa Champ.  It was a teenager's version of writer Lowell Thomas' "Lawrence of Arabia."

I still have that book, but I don't keep it within eyeshot of my desk, because, as heartening as it is, the jacket reminds me of the day Mr. Schultz kicked the trashcan of hope down the road.

The changing society perhaps was perfectly described by Msrs. Jagger and Richards back then when they added "Every cop is a criminal and all the sinners saints." 

Hope you have a wonderful holiday. But please be careful. Have some sympathy and some taste and use all your well-earned politeness.

Shades of Gray: The truly nice fellow who worked for me but, regardless of that setback, found fame and glory as an acclaimed archivist and The Veep

 In country music circles, they call Michael Gray "The Veep." At least in my country music circle, which mostly includes Bobby Bare, Kris Kristofferson, Jon Byrd and Thomm Jutz. But that's extraneous and you don't care, although they are nice men. 

Now, back to our story: A long, damn time ago, when I was features/entertainment editor at the still-lamented Nashville Banner newspaper, I was in search of a No. 2 music journalist after Cowboy Cal Gilbert went to cash in his chips on Music City Row.

 I love Calvin, but it really worked out amazingly well for me (and him, as he got wealthy and wise and spends his free time playing volleyball with his grandson on his acreage in Bellevue).

You see, it was 30 years ago or so when Cowboy Cal turned in his notice, and I looked to my lonesome No. 1 music writer Jay "Bird" Orr and said: "All right, what the fuck we gonna do now?" I'd been at work since 4:15 a.m. and Jay came in at 10, so I suppose that was a gruff greeting. Fuck it. It's history, which is what this tiny treatise is focused upon.  

Once he got hold of himself, Jay told me he had a young friend who worked in a used records store while polishing up some sort of high-level degree at Middle Tennessee State University, aka "Little Cambridge" down in Murfreesboro.

I told Jay to bring me the head of this Michael Gray fellow, so I could interview him.

I hired him immediately, after getting proper clearance from Banner Editor Eddie Jones (who is late and lamented now, but was one of my liveliest of friends and my mentor back then  -- I'll tell you about our drunken night in D.C. sometime. Bill Clinton was never the same after that.) Eddie and I went out into the parking lot in front of the historic newspaper building at 1100 Broadway (recently nuked by progress or by North Korean grifters) and fired up two or three cigarettes apiece while consulting on this new hire, aka "The Michael Matter." I wasn't going to ask the publisher, because he wouldn't really care who I hired or take time to learn their names. 

In fact, when he and his partner sold all of us out and closed the Banner, the publisher looked from me to Michael and asked: "Who is the side-burned kid, and what is he doing in here?" I bummed one of Michael's clove cigarettes, fired it up and laughed until I farted.

 
Anyway, the end result of that interview with Michael to fill the Cowboy Cal vacancy is that I had made the acquaintance of a guy who needed his first job and who also smoked clove cigarettes, I also made a friend for life. Hell, he'd have even thanked me if I told him he didn't get the job.  

Course he did, and I've come to realize lately just what a gift I gave to Nashville by hiring him so he didn't go to his hometown of Detroit where he had aspirations to be a backup dancer for Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.

 
We don't run in the same circles (I have been known to go round in circles and fly high like the bird up in the sky), as Michael is sort of an academic sort. And my circle of friends really is sitting in this office right now, cheering me on.

Joking about that. My friends know I ain't got no melody, so they mostly don't bother calling or perhaps they are ill or institutionalized or have their own lives.

But I've really got to brag on Michael, something he won't do for himself.

A few years ago, he bought me lunch at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. Now, he got up in the middle of lunch because some alcoholic R&B artist needed some sort of handout, so I finished my lunch with Jay "Bird" Orr and Peter "Mr. Baseball" Cooper and the notorious Chicago folksinger Robbie Fulks (a fine fellow who told me his discs don't belong on the same shelf as Dylan's. I had to explain that my shelves are based on the alphabet not on Isis or anybody's 115th dream, so he needed to butt out and make more fine music so the "Fs" didn't end up on the "E" and "D" shelf.)

I don't see Michael much anymore, as he no longer works at Phonoluxe, the used record store in Little Mexico (It's one of my favorite neighborhoods, especially since the ladder store moved.)

I still remain friends with Cowboy Cal (he called me three years ago to offer condolences after my Dad died, and he told me he was fine, but not to expect a lot of phone calls). And a treasured friend is Jay "Bird" Orr (I called him yesterday at his palatial Oak Hill Retreat). I may make a little fun of Jay in this tale, but truth is, he is one of the three men I admire most, though he's not the father, son nor holy ghost nor did he take the last train to the coast. He's smart and he's tough.

 
But this tale isn't about them. It's about the kid with the vertically-greased hair (here come old flattop) and the clove smokes, one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, if you are lucky.

When the Banner folded.... well, shit, this is getting too complicated..... Suffice it to say that Michael eventually ended up as a fast-moving, hard-working cog in the artsy and musical mechanism that is the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

By the way, I wrote more about the CMHOF&M than any journalist ever, even getting in trouble with my former newspaper's long-vanished editors and sub-eds and dickheads. I never could get a job there, because I wasn't "part of the culture" I was told long ago. I really could have used the work. Water over the DAMN, 

That's OK. All the culture I need is in my head and hand. And, truth is, I really wasn't part of the culture. They were right. I may fancy myself some sort of archivist, but really all I am is a junk collector.  And to me, the most important moment in music history began in a bedroom at 251 Menlove Avenue.  I do love the Bristol Sessions, but I love "Love Me Do" much more.

 
Michael, however, had all the qualifications, interest, degrees and just the right hairstyle and clove cigarettes to qualify for a job there. I don't think he told the boss, a nice fellow named Kyle Young, that he'd rather listen to Thelonious Monk than Hank Snow, however. And I'm sure not going to tell anyone. 

All of this is jokingly spirited but very true, right down to the greased coif (since turned into a neat, corporate pompadour). "Corporate" because, unlike this old fool, Michael likes to look the part of a successful archivist, programmer, finger-snapper, jazzman and R&B-crazed advocate of country music to the whole world. He'll give you an hour's-worth of wise words about every member of The Foggy Mountain Boys, including why they could whip The Smoky Mountain Boys in games of beer pong and penicillin.

    

He also is just about the nicest guy you'll meet and one of his kids went to school in New York on a trombone scholarship. If you are in Brooklyn and you hear the long, midnight wail of a jazzy trombone, it is Alex (named for Alexander the Great and Alex Van Halen and that cat who inspired "Hamilton.") But that's another story, and it perhaps isn't true, as I'm one of the few who didn't become enamored of the Constitution in hip-hop. The last great musical I saw was "Hair," because I was a 17-year-old boy and sitting in the front row.  Down to where it stops by itself, indeed.

 
I wrote a little note last week congratulating Michael (only the R&B guys can call him "Mike" without getting clove smoke blown in their faces, or, worse still, a lecture about Waylon Jennings' ties to Beethoven. Mike's the only one who knows that story.)

All of this is to say that Michael, who really is a wonderful human being and who does not cuss (he did say "darnnit" to me once in a fit of rage when I told him his story made no sense) has been promoted to a very important position at the CMHOF&M.

Michael was promoted to vice president of museum services. The VEEP.

According to press reports, Michael will be responsible for the care and and feeding (or actually management) of the museum’s diverse artifact and archival collections, which include stage wear, instruments, films, photographs, recordings, a reference library and more. (I'm hoping he'll loan me Hank's suit to wear if I ever go to church again). 

Michael will also oversee all planning, design and installation of exhibitions in the museum’s gallery spaces, as well as the museum’s online exhibits and digital archive.

All of this is to say that if I ever gave you your first job, there still is a chance that you may rebound from that curse and become successful.

By the way, much of the museum's important staff, Michael, Jay (I'll not call him Jay "Bird" again or he'll box me in the ears with his pink eight-ounce gloves; Jay's tough, brilliant, determined, kind and, like I said, one of the men I admire most) and Peter Cooper (currently taking a much-needed breather) have been on my staff over the years. 

And I also worked with Michael "Call me 'Michael', too" McCall. OK, Mike. 

And, to think, I still have to pay my way in at the Hall of Fame and literally beg for favors over there.

That's a smart attitude, by the way.  I'm just a friend and while my pockets may be deep, they are mighty empty.  I do love the folks at that Hall, apparently more than they love me, again, something I can fully understand.  

When the Hall of Fame moved from its Music Row location down to become part of Nashville's tourism and commercial confab, I told then-honcho Liz Thiels that I would happily drive Webb Pierce's Nudie-designed 1962 Bonneville down that short stretch of Demonbreun from the old joint to the new one. Not realizing I was serious, she just had to laugh, she feared the photograph, I'm sure.   

Been joking around with fables and half-truths or less above, but I'm completely serious here, I'm really, really proud of Michael. He more than deserves this role. He is among the most ethical, hardest-working, humble and kindest people I've ever known (though as a journalist, man, it took him days to turn a story, something he learned from Jay. I do exaggerate here. They both offered the roles of academicians to country music coverage here in this city. Brains are horrible things to waste, but then so were deadlines, in the real newspaper days. Still, to me, Jay always will be The Professor. And Michael, well, he was his "Little Buddy.") I suppose Kyle's the Skipper and Peter is either Mr. Howell or Ginger.

 
Sometimes, perhaps too seldom, great things happen to great people.

I love this guy, so this is my way of letting him smell the verbal roses, which he is more able to do in the years since he gave up the clove cigarettes.

As R&B bandleader and great man Jimmy Church would say: "Shit, we love Mike."

Elvis, his Uncle Vester, Mason Rudolph, Seve Ballesteros and a drunken Danny Thomas all are on my mind on Dead Elvis Day 2022 (45 years ago, it was a helluva day for a journalist)

 Uncle Vester made sure I took my time at the gravestones of the king of rock 'n' roll and his family. Actually, Elvis' uncle was the closest I got to visiting with rock's royalty.  

It was a few months after Elvis died, or however long it took them to move the body from the cemetery to Graceland, where a visit to the grave is the cornerstone of tourism to that Mecca.  I was in Memphis to cover a golf tournament -- Clarksville's Mason Rudolph made the cut for the last time in his professional career at that Danny Thomas Classic. I liked Mason a lot, and as newspaper sports editor by that point, I was following him around the old Colonial course.

It was the same weekend where I met Seve Ballesteros, then an unknown tour "rabbit" who was sharing the Holiday Inn room next to mine with three other "rabbits."

Seve was a helluva guy and we had some nice conversations. I was sorry when he died in 2011. Brain cancer, I believe.

Anyway, that's not the story today.  I also met Gary Player, who walked with me to the beer stand, and Lee Trevino, who joked around with the press on the practice greens. I think he wanted me to take a shot, but I deferred. I only can putt well when an alligator's mouth or a windmill is involved.

In the morning -- Mason had a late tee time on Saturday --  I went to Elvis Presley Boulevard, to pay my tributes to The King.

Graceland was not a big Walt Disney-esque production then. Just a big house on a grassy hill. The stone walls were covered with graffiti, but there were not tons of people trying to get in.

I parked my old Falcon on Lonely Street and walked right up to the guard gate. Vester Presley, Elvis' uncle, was -- historically -- the main guard.

It was a quiet morning, so after he collected the $2 entry fee (I did "expense" it when I got back to Clarksville) -- he took me up the hill and to the graves. He told me all about his nephew and pointed to the house, which not yet had become open to tourists, to describe what had happened inside.

He was sad as he stood by the graves of Elvis and his folks, but he was glad to be sharing this time with me.  He looked down the hill to see a few folks gathered down at the foot of the driveway and said he needed to get back. If I remember correctly (this was a long, long time ago), I walked with him. I had a limited time to get back to Germantown and Mason's time at the first tee.

I thanked Uncle Vester, who really was a nice guy, and took a left on Lonely Street, where my car was parked right near the gate and the stone wall. I've been back a few times since, and, of course, as they capitalized on Elvis' death, it became a fortress and they charged a king's ransom to get in.  

Anyway, as you likely know, this is Dead Elvis Week in Memphis, where the folks who have turned a guy who has been dead for 45 years, found clutching a commode after heart failure on the john, into that city's sort of Mickey Mouse.

I include both Vester's image and Elvis' here (I think you can tell the difference.) I chose a later image of Elvis in is early 1970s kung fu getup or whatever it was, because that's the Elvis I saw July 2, 1973 at Municipal Auditorium in Nashville. I think my brother, Eric, and a friend at the time, an asshole named "Wizard" joined me. No, it wasn't Jailhouse Rock Elvis, but it was The King, and I was glad for his performance and all of its judo-chopping., 2001: A Space Odyssey theatrics.  

I'm not going to go on a long verbal binge here, but I thought it worth noting that Elvis remains important to, mainly because he got me ready for John, Paul, George and Ringo, who helped shape my life.  Elvis' music inspired me to buy my first recordings -- I got most of his early singles when a friend's father changed out the singles in his bar jukebox in Grand Rapids, Michigan -- for a nickel apiece. Oh, I bought other stuff, too, anything the old man was ditching.

But, of course, Elvis was the treasure.  My first LP, bought for $2 at the 1959 equivalent of a big box store out by the beltway in Grand Rapids, was "Blue Hawaii." By Elvis movie soundtrack standards, it's a fine album. But those soundtrack standards were pretty low.

I bought all of them until early 1964, when the band from Liverpool, changed my perception of rock 'n' roll and changed my life.

While Elvis introduced me to rock music, The Beatles captured my heart in different way, an almost religious fervor that still burns in me today. (Sorry, Padre).

This afternoon, when I take my hourlong trek on my stationary bicycle, I already have plans to play The Rooftop Concert, because it lifts my heart and makes me smile.

But, of course, the backbeat of my life did at least get initiated by Elvis' original drummer, D.J. Fontana, who I regarded highly in his later life. The backbeat, of course, was extended and amplified by Ringo Starr, primarily, but also by Charlie Watts. Ginger Baker. Keith Moon. Bonham.....I'm getting off-topic here.

John, Paul, George and Ringo were my guides, remain so, through life.

But Elvis always has been there. Whether it was when I was talking with my late, great friend, Scotty Moore, who had been Elvis' guitarist and first manager, or with D.J.

It's come up a lot lately when people talk about the movie that I haven't seen. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

Maybe I'll leave my Elvis knowledge to the books by Peter Guralnick and the long, drawling and smiling recollections by Scotty Moore.

I remember when Elvis died, and I ripped the bulletin off the Associated Press teletype machine in The Leaf-Chronicle newsroom in Clarksville ........ Bells rang when some sort of news bulletin happened. I can't remember, but it seems a certain number of bells signaled how important the story was.

I was drawn to the teletype machine by a chorus of nonstop bells. I still have that yellowed piece of paper with the bulletin that Elvis was found dead in his bathroom.

Of course, we put out a special run of the newspaper (back when there were such things) and worked on follow-up stories.   

I was a sportswriter, so I didn't do much of that. I cleared my pages out of the way so the news pages could have as much time as possible as they pushed past deadline.

I guess city editor Richard Worden, who is dead these days, and probably reporter Richard McFalls, who is not, and copy desk chief Jim Monday (who I speak with frequently), likely were the ones who put together the special pages.

"Have you heard the news?" I kept asking them. "Elvis is dead. On his toilet." 

We all laughed. That's what newsmen do when grim reality strikes them in the gut. 

Actually, whether on the toilet or near it, accounts vary, it was as good as anyplace to die, as the cleanup would have been relatively simple.

The guy was only 42. After doing what I could to help the news guys, I had to go cover a football practice. Then I went to a box store and went to their record department. I bought a new copy of Elvis' Golden Records, I believe. Or maybe it was a new copy of Blue Hawaii.

Didn't matter. I just wanted to reconnect with the guy who got me into the rock 'n' roll mindset in the first place.

As I walked out of the store, I met George Smith, the newspaper advertising director.  "It's a shame that Elvis died," said George, a nice-enough fellow that to me was an old codger back then. Of course, I'm now probably 15 years older than he was in 1977,

"He was a good boy," said George. "Not like those other ones who died because of drugs."

I didn't say anything, though I was thinking that 42 years old is probably not the age when one dies of natural causes while taking a shit. And I'd been brokenhearted by the drug deaths of Janis, Jim and Jimi.

I mean, I liked Elvis a lot.  And that night I spoke with a former colleague over in Memphis, Steve Jones, a copy editor at the Commercial Appeal newspaper, I believe, and we listened to Elvis records each played over the long-distance phone lines.

When I got to the 18th hole at Colonial and made my way to the clubhouse, there was a message awaiting me. Richard Worden was sick back in Clarksville and I needed to leave Memphis and get back to Clarksville to take over the Sunday paper.

As Sports editor I was second in line. 

So, I hugged Mason and told him I'd call him that night for more quotes when I got back to Clarksville. And I said something to tour sponsor Danny Thomas. For all of his great work with St. Jude, the beneficiary of his tournament, I found him to be a cold asshole.

Of course, he was drunk and I wasn't. That difference sometimes flavors perception.

So, I drove back to Clarksville on the same day that I'd spent the morning at Elvis' grave. 

I didn't have much time to worry about it or to be sad. As soon as I walked in the door of the newspaper, everything was in disarray. I needed to get things in order so we could get the Sunday paper out.

After awhile, I called Mason back at his hotel room. 

I told him it had been a good day. I'd met Uncle Vester and got to walk 18 holes with Mason Rudolph. Oh, and then there was the beer I shared with Gary Player.

Happy Dead Elvis Day. 

 

(FYI: I have a new book coming in March. Pilgrims, Pickers and Honky-Tonk Heroes: My Personal Time with Music City Friends and Legends in Rock 'n' Roll, R&B, And a Whole Lot of Country now is available for pre-order on Amazon or wherever fine books are sold. It is published by Backbeat Books)

Long ago cast from daily newsrooms and classrooms, I find the rewards of checking in on my friends, like this 105-and-a-half-year-old man filled with cheer, greens, love

 Doing a little research for my next book project -- the one to come after the spring release of a book I wrote by working for 18 months during the first 1.5 years of the pandemic -- I came upon something I wrote about an older gentleman in Nashville. Well, actually I wrote about him plenty. And spent even more idle hours with him on the porch on the front of the house he and his wife have occupied for 69 years. Probably 90 percent of the people I wrote about during my long and eventually ill-fated newspaper career have died, as will I, of course, eventually. And I worry about this gentleman. He doesn't want to be bothered for stories and such any more."Done that with you. No need to do more." Besides that, with COVID in the air, he still stays inside, all the time. But it cheers him (and this old man) up when I check in on him now and then. "I'm 105 and-a-half now, so I must be doing pretty good," he said, with the laugh that lifts my heart when I called him Friday. The young woman he took as his wife long ago is 99 and was cooking and cleaning the house when I called. "She's doin' pretty good," he said, happily. "Gunsmoke" or some cowpoke drama was playing on the television behind our conversation.

This nice home in a bustling part of the city is a property that developers lust after so they can plant three or four of those shitty tall-skinnies. The young white people have come in and landlords and greedy developers have chased most of his neighbors away. 

My friend is not attracted to the streams of cash offers left on his front doorstep and mailbox. "If I sold this, I couldn't afford anyplace else," he said. "And we like it here. I can't remember how long ago it was I paid my last note."
He asked me to call back, which I'll do. And he doesn't answer every call. "I just thought it must be you when the phone rang."
My time long ago ran out at the local newspapers. They didn't want my stories about regular people, particularly minorities, in their pages. Not the demographic they were after, I was told.
It was my demographic, though. Still is.
So, I sit here in my office and try to remember to check in on my old friends, who began as story subjects. The dead ones don't answer their phones, although some have answering machines I talk to.
Friday I got lucky to be cheered up by this old friend. Nope, not making money doing this, but, fuck, as my old pal Ricky Nelson said one day, "you can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself."
If COVID ever goes away, I have a standing invitation to rejoin my old friend on the porch. And maybe his wife will have a pot of greens. My favorite food.

I'll tell you more about my book, due in the spring,  in the months to come. And, now, I'll get back to my research for the sequel.

Right now, I think I'll just sit back for a bit and remember how lucky I have been to have such great friends, because of the business I was in and because so many story subjects actually took somethihg of a liking to this old, white guy.

If the newspaper industry didn't appreciate me, that's fine. 

I've got friends more valuable than paychecks.  Those living and dead are with me always.

July 4, 2022, when a punk with an automatic weapon blasted away brains, babies, hopes and my memories of peace on the beach

 

I first filed the first part of what follows, with the photo above, on July 4, 2022, on Facebook, as soon as the horrid slaughter of innocents and innocence in Highland Park, Illinois, was reported. I am reposting on my "They Call Me Flapjacks" blogger space, because I want it included with the other essays and nightmares and celebrations on that site. However, this is expanded. After the first section, join a sort of mournful Class of '69 reunion of souls. My classmates at Deerfield High School all grew up thinking Highland Park (and Deerfield) were sisters of peace and love. Or maybe that peace and love stuff was just me....

American nightmare. Here's a CNN photo of downtown Highland Park, Illinois, the lovely little city turned national tragedy and crime scene on Independence Day. Automatic, high-powered weapon and some punk mutilated people as they gathered to celebrate our nation's greatest holiday. I grew up in Deerfield, just to the west, a fistful of miles from this scene. Highland Park was virtually our "twin" and students from there were part of the same school district and went to high school with me. I was lucky enough to even date a girl from there on a couple of memorable nights. This blood-spattered downtown often was my after-school destination when I -- generally an introspective loner or at least a lonesome fellow -- drove my 1965 Ford Falcon to the end of downtown, to the Lake Michigan overlook, sometimes going down the trail to the beach, where I would think -- and smoke -- while the waves crashed. Sometimes I just drove down to the beach parking area if I didn't feel up to the climb or if I was in a hurry to get to the water and wander in peace, wondering where I was and why. The city and the lake were good for me, the lake one of my most-reliable friends. It was peaceful and safe. A half-century-plus later, "peaceful" and "safe" downtown Highland Park probably was what people expected on July 4. Instead, another powerful weapon in the arms of some crazed fucker turned the day to terror, a terror that never will be forgotten on future Independence Days. That pastoral site of my smoke-filled after-school sojourns was changed forever. And there are people who believe that these types of weapons are protected by the Second Amendment. .... If you are among those, well, fuck you. Even my lonesome memories have been scarred. I haven't been there in more than 50 years, but it felt like I was there on this July 4, when I saw that bloody downtown. I believe it was Rosewood Beach back then, I can't remember. But to get there, I had to drive right through the scene of what has become yet one more example of our American nightmare. God damn it. When will this country's leaders wake up? What matters in America? Well, when I was reading things about this bloodbath in a great little city, I was greeted by pop-up ads advertising that July 4 after-sales are underway. It's the American Dream.

----------------------- 30 -----------------

New thoughts, July 6, 2022, from a violence-addled man.

I have been in contact with some of my friends from my years at Deerfield High School, and they are also shaken.

Josh Hecht, who has turned into a real friend, even as we were pass-in-the-hall or smoking area classmates.

He, too, remembers seeking solace at the beach in Highland Park. He, too, has been asking why.

We have no answers, either of us. Any of us.

And Dee Gerson, as she was known when I took her to a high school dance and probably made her sore during the slow dances, is now an acclaimed artist by the name of Dee Tivenan who lives in the San Francisco area.

I actually reconnected with both her and Josh when it was time for the 50th class reunion of the Class of 1969.

None of us were going. But all of us used the occasion to reconnect with each other and with our classmates who actually did get together.

Dee, who was a lovely young woman (and I believe remains lovely) actually grew up in Highland Park, rather than Deerfield. We all were in Lake County Schools District 113 back then. I'm sure that has changed. Some Highland Park students attended our school.

Actually, Dee's family only lived a mile or two from where my family lived in Deerfield. She was a cheerleader with a great smile, shape and was among the smartest in the class.

In response to my Facebook post above, she wrote "Thanks for writing this, Tim. I'm so sad about it all."

I responded: "I know, Dee. I thought of you today, it's mind-numbing.

Dee: "Thanks. It is, and it's not going to stop."

My natural optimism began to show in my next response: "No. It will get worse. It is sad. I always try to remember most of us are good. But we aren't winning."

She responded: "I agree."

Josh wrote an email: "Hey, Tim: Hang in there. Just wanted to say I am thinking of you and hope to see you this year.

"Your writing yesterday was moving. And helped during a difficult day.

"BTW, I, as a loner, also used to drive to the beach and sometimes sit in the parking lot and sometimes go down to the beach or pier and smoke. Although I was in a 1963 Ford Fairlane or my 1958 Chevrolet Apache panel truck."

Then, in a follow-up note, he wrote: "Sad day and a sad reality came to a place that was part of our youth.

Both Josh and Dee, coincidentally, live in the same part of the country, though didn't know it until we all began to correspond back in 2019, when we explained our reasons for not attending the reunion.

After the shootings, seven dead now, I wanted to embrace them.

Also, thought about my other classmates, many of whom still live on the North Shore, all affected by this horror.

In a way, thoughts of them, of the horror, of the blood-spattered street where I once drove to get to the beach, was a mental reunion. We all shared that feeling. After all, other than the occasional football injury -- I twice was taken by ambulance to Highland Park Hospital, which received most of the July 4 casualties -- there wasn't a lot of blood shed at "dear old DHS," or whatever it was called by the suckers.

I felt closer to them than I had in the 50 years since I rolled out of town on the tollway, threw 35 cents into the first bin and fired one up and popped open a Bud. I was leaving home. Bye-bye. As a later poet would put it, I was runnin' down a dream. Still runnin' it down, but this isn't about me.

So, I posted the Facebook reverie of slaughter on the Deerfield High Class of '69 page, the one that was established to organize the reunion that a couple of loners and a fine artist from the Coast did not attend. There also are a number from that class who died of various causes during the decades. But that's not this story.

I did get some reactions to the tale of blood on the streets in the town of Chicago.... ahh, got carried away thanks to Jim Morrison in my brain. The slaughter was in Highland Park, in the generally pastoral North Shore, where privilege meets the lower-middle-class in the school system.

Here are some of the reactions to that:

Kathy Omillion Prazenka: "Innocence lost. ... I may have just moved to Colorado, but my heart is in Highland Park, and it's broken."

Madonna Maze: "No words."

Kirk Gustie: "What happened to good parenting? Social media is also to blame."

Tony Gutman: "I grew up in Highland Park (Ravinia school) and spent so much of my time in downtown H.P., and was there just last week. Terrible what is happening."

Jo Anne Caruso Roler: "Thank you for expressing the sadness of broken memories and the grief for the lives destroyed yesterday. This shit has to stop!!!"  (If I remember right, Jo Anne was also a real stunner in the halls of dear old DHS, but this isn't about that.) 

Steve Price: "Really sad. Even though I live in the St. Louis area now, Highland Park will always be home." 

I may add more to this. Or I may not. All I know is it makes me sick. And, strangely, for the first time in a half-century, kinda homesick for a town that is long-ago in my rearview. Nashville is my real hometown and I don't plan any returns to Deerfield, so perhaps it is heartsick rather than homesick. 

I am not, at least at this time, running the picture of the punk, a "nut job," as my good, Brit pal Ivor Smith says, from a land where they don't see this sort of thing on a nightly news basis.  A guy from the relatively peaceful land of Jack the Ripper, Ivor doesn't think all Americans are like this.  (We have become connected only online, but I regard Ivor as one of my closest friends.)

He's a good guy. And that's not the exception. Like I told former cheerleader Dee Gerson Tivenan, most of us are good.  

I am running the pictures -- pulled from CNN -- of the victims. Just those who are dead so far.

Man, as Jo Anne said, "this shit has to stop."

Meanwhile, if you want to, you can do what this nut job did and go to the big box gun shop and get yourself a high-powered semi-automatic weapon and just sit at your front window, waiting for the bad guys to come get you. 

Or maybe some genius in Washington will push through legislation to stop the sales of weapons meant only to kill and mutilate.

As a couple of other poets once said: "Paint it black," because the carnage is just getting cranked up.

A fictional, completely fabricated tale about an anonymous old man and how a so-called 'Christian' university repaid his dozen-plus years of hard work

Of course, what follows is pure fiction. I just felt the urge to explore fantasy and the sometimes disappointing world of make-believe. 

It’s a short bit of make-believe about an old man who had spent more than a dozen years spending half of each week preparing for and teaching journalism writing classes at a relatively small, Christian university someplace above or below the Mason-Dixon Line and on either side of the Mississippi River.

The old man liked the job, because he thought he was helping the young people learn how to better use the language skills when pursuing careers in journalism, either print or broadcast, public relations or even marketing.

“Bless you for what you are doing,” said famous TV personality Robin Roberts after visiting for a few minutes with the old man. “Writing is at the heart of it all. If you can’t write, you can’t do anything.”

Roberts was at the school to sell books but also to help generate interest among the young people in the business of journalism. She goes lots of places. Even went to Ukraine to interview the first lady and host coverage of the Special Olympics.

"The business of journalism" or some such she had said.

It wasn’t until just this moment, when writing the sentence above, that the old man realized again that journalism is indeed a business.

He knew it all the time. It was the business of journalism and the fact he was writing too much about Black people and old people – “those don’t fit in our demographic,” the high-powered exec told the then not-quite-so-old man 15-plus years ago when he was working at a 300,000 circulation daily newspaper whose numbers now are about 10 percent of that.

It was not long after the demographic “discussion,” that the not-yet-so-old man was given a buyout, sworn to secrecy and against lawsuits, reminded that he had no grounds for age discrimination  complaints, told to sign the paper, slit his finger with a knife for a blood oath and leave.

Taking the “voluntary buyout” was the only way the man was going to be able to feed his family, and he was tired of the assholes he was working for, so he left.  The story goes that he really had no choice, anyway.

Feeling older every day, this mythical man was too old to get a job anywhere in his village. Even guys who had worked for him, who had learned from him and used him as a primary reference for new jobs, didn't hire him when writing positions came open in their organizations. 

So, the man spent about a year walking around Radnor Lake, pondering the future and yelling at the alligator snappers. Then he found at least part-time employment and purpose as an educator.

First came a one-year contract as journalist-in-residence at a wonderful school for wealthy white people, Asians and Blacks with athletic skill of mid-major quality.

Good year. The man, while growing older, really loved working with those young people at the student publication. Some remain his friends, have found success, marriage and children and they keep up with the old man.

After that contract ended, the old man continued his freelance writing career, walking around Radnor and meeting his best friend for lunch at a Greek greasy spoon. Chicken souvlaki or spanakopita with water and four refills of coffee. 

The freelance business wasn’t bad at all. He was picked up as the stringer for a major wire service, where he wrote about mass murders and missing bull semen and country music deaths. He also  continued writing for local outlets. It was some of his career's best stuff. Much of what he wrote was about aspiring and forgotten musicians and 104-year-old Black fellows and others ignored by so-called major publications.  A pizza and fish place that doesn't sell pizza, for example. The Palestinian used tire salesman. A beautiful heart doctor who also was a talented singer-songwriter, mother and wife.  

Sometime, around 13 or more years ago, a small, Christian university – where the old man had friends in the journalism department – called on him to help them launch a student news product. A web site. The old man didn’t know much about web sites, but he had been honored as one of the country’s top word men by various journalistic organizations and associations. One year, in fact, he was proclaimed the nation's top features writer. 

And that university hired him to work, a few hours each week – even though, obsessive by nature, he treated it like a full-time job – helping students improve their writing skills while also teaching them about such things as news value, ethics and how to avoid academic rhetoric in their stories.

It was a great job for the old man. He loved the students and loved talking with them about their stories, their story ideas, whatever troubles they had, academic, professional, medical or personal.

The students constantly gave the old man high approval ratings, and he had been told he was important to the university’s continued growth in the journalism-education business. He was told he was there as long as he wanted to be there, which furthered his loyalty and passion for the job.

The old man felt good. Felt like he was part of the journalism department family. Heck, he’d gone so far as to recommend the small Christian university to young people looking for a good higher education option.

Things looked good for the old man.   

Oh, the money was basically crap, but it was crap he could rely on as he toiled to keep his freelance work above water.  But a major pandemic had ended most of the freelance work.

Instead, he began writing a book in the rest of his time. There will be a good end on that story, when that book is published.

So, the old man continued to relish his time with the young people at the small, Christian university.  Oh, he struggled to remain upbeat with the occasional unmotivated reporter or editor, but he liked them all and never gave up, worked hard to try to show them the way. They were far from unique in their  post-millennial attitudes and excuses.

The old man was planning on how he was going to shake things up – he each year did this, trying to improve his writing classes as well as his work with the student publication.

Summer approached, and the old man was already planning out summer coverage, scoping out campus events and thinking ahead to next year.

That’s when the old man was told – not by the one who made the decision, but by a substitute – that the Christian university was going to take its journalism program in a different direction.  The old man wasn’t needed any more. It was clear, by the color and length of his hair that he didn't fit the demographic.

Sure, he counted on the income through the summer, and summer had arrived. But he wasn’t needed, effective immediately. It was a hard thing for the old man. Harder still when he found out that even though he had just been told as final exams for the students were beginning, others – so-called “friends” in high places who had promised to keep him up to date on his future – had been working with a new boss (who never talked with the old man or visited his classes) for several months. They apparently had sworn each other to secrecy, even to the point of intimidation. If a friend is being hurt, secret pacts should be damned: You let your friend know. Or else you are not a friend.

The plans were to get the old man out of there.  As noted above, people he regarded as his family, as he's a sucker for loyalty, decided to get rid of him, but kept their mouths shut for a full semester. When he asked even the highest-ranked among his friends and colleagues if they'd heard anything about his classes for the next year, about his future, he was told the old "I don't know of anything" regarding any changes.

When bosses in a journalism school lie, bold-faced, to a long-time colleague and so-called friend, the old man wondered just how ethical and truthful the journalism department was .... When the old man went to school, many, many decades before, the journalism department where he studied put the highest priority on truth-telling.  Lying was not a thing practiced by his professors, many of whom were former big-time anchors and also covered World War II with Edward R. Murrow.  Murrow, it is said, did not approve of lying in life or in the news. Not even to get the biggest story.

The old man felt gut-jabbed by the action, but even more so by the subterfuge that kept him from making alternate employment plans. Sure, writing was important. But, apparently not as important to the school as it was to the old man, who loved his classes and told others his classes had been the best yet this year.

“I really love these kids,” he said, when called into an office to be told his time was up. The substitute – remember, in this fictional story, the person who made the decision did not visit with the old man about the decision – shrugged and said “It’s time.”

The old man was told he should come to the end-of-the-year luncheon, when seniors would be saluted. He figured he should, just for the kids. Remember, in his mind, it all was about these kids. He was expecting to be thanked for his work. He neither expected nor appreciated a half-ass collage of so-called “memories” – mostly including things that had no bearing on what he did for the school -- in a Walmart shadow box. Nobody even knew what he’d been doing for a dozen-plus years, apparently. He was gracious and said some words about how much he loved his time there, especially loved the students. He did not bring up the lies, as this was a program for the students, and they all loved him.

The frame soon will hold a Rolling Stones poster, probably the one he got from Mick and the Boys during the Voodoo Lounge tour of years before.

The old man went home and took about the task of writing letters to officials at the university, remember it is a Christian university in this fairy tale, about how he was wronged. He was careful and non-accusatory.  The letters did not address lying and subterfuge. Only hurt.

Despite hours of fashioning well-written tales, he got terse, one-sentence replies from the highest and mightiest at the Christian school. "You have been terminated," one official wrote.

"I'll be back," the old man countered, thinking of the "Terminator" jargon. But he knew he was done.

Basically, the officials said he was as lucky as Jesus on Good Friday. Christ, you know it ain't easy, the old man said, spittle on his chin, water in his eyes. You know how hard it can be. I guess that's the old man's cross to bear as he works through his moments of doubt and pain.

The people he regarded as friends at the small Christian university didn’t even bother to answer his letters, or attempt to help him chase off the Black Dogs of Depression. Good thing he has a family and a cat. And real friends.

Former students, once they heard about what had happened, burned their diplomas, forever forsaking the small Christian university for its treatment of the old man. Remember, this is a work of fiction, of  course. No diplomas would be burned if this was a true story. 

But the figurative diploma-torching didn’t matter in this little bit of fiction.

“God bless you for what you are doing,” Robin Roberts had said about the old man and his work, his dedication to the students at the Christian university.

But, in the end, God had nothing to do with it. The old man was told to leave.  You don't look like you're from this part of the country. They see a free individual, it's gonna scare 'em, he'd been told long ago.

The best his friends at the Christian university could do was call him up the next day after the public flogging to ask if he could work with them this summer on what were the things that worked best in his classes, so they could be incorporated into their planning for the person selected five months before to take over the old man's classes. “So, I lost my job yesterday, after more than a dozen years, and you want me to train my replacements?” said the old man.  Here comes that spittle again.

He would have told them to go to hell, but they already were working at a small, Christian university.

I am glad this is not a true story, because surely they couldn’t be that mean-spirited at such a place.

Tagging my friend the motorcycle guy, Jake and his "woman" in the other room, his father's dirt pile and the two Veras (and thanks to Peter Cooper, Jim Myers and Brad Schmitt)

Jake scrunched down in the filthy, red-brown sofa and pointed to the two young boys.

I didn't know their names, but I figured I'd get to it. I asked him if his wife was around, and he said "No." 

In fact, he wasn't married. "Their mothers aren't here," he said. "But my woman is."

"His woman," he said, was in the other room, where his dad, Jake Sr., was with his own "woman."

Both of these women had to be tough to put up with this, I thought to myself, as I scanned the porch where we sat.

The women, I discovered, both were named "Vera."

Jake said he was "18 or 20" years old. And yet he had these two kids, probably 4 and 6, who were drooling around with toy trucks.

I'd only ended up here because I had lost control of my Saab and sped, recklessly, into the service station fill-up area -- a few feet from Jake's house -- and hit a motorcyclist and his vehicle.

Well, actually I just tagged both. The motorcyclist was a guy I knew, a former pressman named Richard Salmon, a fellow I considered a long-time friend from our days spent at 1100 Broadway, where I would go to the pressroom to check on special section covers and other issues. I had no worry that they always would be done right.

I just went there because I liked the pressmen much better than most of the assholes up in the newsroom, especially the management types and their ass-kissing supplicants.

Anyway, I had steered the speeding Saab between Richard and his Harley. I bumped him in the hip. I worried because he had been seriously injured recently in another spill. And I scraped the front fender of the bike.

"Don't worry about it, Tim," Richard said. He brushed the hip I had tagged and said he was OK. As for the bike, it was just another scratch.

"You should see what kind of scratches I get on this thing when I'm riding," he said. 

After hugging Richard, I looked over to the house near the gas station. A man, I later learned was Jake Sr., looked like he was splitting wood.

Seemed like it might make a good column for the paper.  I was only out here looking because my friends back at the newsroom -- Peter Cooper, Jim Myers and Brad Schmitt -- had encouraged me to do it.

"Just get back out there with your people," said Peter, Jim nodding. Brad rubbed at his blood-red eyes and concurred.

Problem was, and they knew it, that the management had taken my column away from me. For almost a half-century in journalism, I spent my own time, after the work at the newspaper, going out to find regular people to write about.

People are more alike than different. We have the same hopes, dreams, fears and ambitions. That was the basic "message" of my half-century of columns, many of which were about lovable losers, no-account boozers, honky-tonk heroes, barbecue chefs like Ole Steve, barbers and, well, really the salt of the earth of various shades.

The column had been taken away because "the people don't fit our demographic," I'd been told. I'd been offered the chance to write about young, white professionals instead.   I thought of the Dylan line "They asked me for collateral, I smiled and pulled down my pants," that I'd taped on the wall outside my dorm room 50 years ago.  Then I said I wouldn't change the scope of my column, and since I did it on my own time, I'd focus on my other duties instead. In other words "Fuck you." And I don't know what the Dylan line has to do with it.

 I went from the gas station to see that the man I'd found out later to be Jake Sr., wasn't splitting wood. He was just piling dirt. Digging it from a small hillside and piling it up. He didn't know why he was doing it, he told me.

That was before I went to the screen door, where Jake Jr., invited me to come in and sit down with his kids.

I never did meet either Vera.  And the age of Jake's kids and the fact he had custody at such a young age was of interest.

I reached into my pocket for a Reporter's Notebook, which I opened up. It was filled with notes from other interviews, but I found room on several pages to use for our interview. I crossed out the old stuff on each page so I wouldn't get confused.

And then I woke up. Yep, this was all a dream.  Around 6 a.m. June 2, 2022, in my sleep, I was doing what I loved to do, something that had been taken away from me and I was happy.

I really didn't want to wake up when I did.

I really had wanted to find out more about Jake Jr., and Jake Sr.'s dirt pile.   

Memory of Emery ... yesterday is dead and gone, and tomorrow's out of sight, but Ralph's radio show helped me make it through the night (apologies to Kris for borrowing and butchering a line for my own entertainment)

 I started thinking about the AM radio in my 1965 Falcon Futura Sports Coupe with faded vinyl top immediately after I heard of the death of Ralph Emery the other day. And I thought about the book that never was.

More details on those thoughts and others that come to my head as I freestyle my way through this little tale. Typos, etc., be damned when I start recollecting.
Ralph was a legend, of course, in Nashville. He made his bones as an all-night radio guy and became what some call "Nashville's Johnny Carson" on TNN. And everybody either knew him or thought they did. In my case, it's a little of both.

I was fortunate to be invited to join him and Tom T. Hall and others at their "Old Farts Movie Outings" (not an official name, perhaps even something I made up.)

Tom T., who died last August, told me they always picked action movies, cowboy movies if possible, and went to matinees.

It was the kind of stuff their wives wouldn't like. No good Clint Eastwood movies? Well, maybe there's a new Terminator or Bond film. I don't know if they ever made it down to "The Fast and The Furious" franchise, but I'm sure they liked "Rocky" and "Rambo."

I think my friend, Bobby Bare, may have been a part of that gathering as well. I don't want to call him right now because he's taking his nap. Besides that, I've spent enough time in recent months talking about mutual dead friends and acquaintances lately. It can get kind of depressing. I like to call Bare because it cheers me up. Him, too, I hope. Actually, while he prefers to be called "Bare," I usually call him "Bobby," because that's what Shel Silverstein called him when we first crossed paths in 1972. I won't go into that tale here, because this is about Ralph Emery.

I've known Ralph for decades.

We weren't close friends, but his mastery of broadcast skills (I preferred his radio work, which I used to listen to on late-night drives) made him a legend and, at least, an acquaintance of mine and, I'm sure, yours.

I particularly welcomed Ralph when I was a sports writer at The Leaf-Chronicle in Clarksville, Tennessee. That job had me traveling to cover football and basketball games in Paris, Fort Campbell, Erin, Dover, Springfield, Dickson, Lebanon and Cunningham, to name a few of my exotic late-night wanderings in my 1965 Falcon. In its latter years, I had to take a passenger, because someone needed to put their hand over the carburetor and cause suction so it would start. "Hey, xxxx, you want to come with me to a game and work hand magic on my carburetor?" I'd ask friends and acquaintances. Oddly, I seldom got rebuffed. Nothing like a good carburetor job to break the ice, I suppose.

Anyway, driving around the then-frontier-like area, back when this was a great place to live, about the only thing I could depend on was WSM-AM 650 radio, with Ralph and whoever he had for a drop-in, whether it was Willie, Cash, Waylon, Tammy, whoever. And, between his own recollections and discussions with Haggard and the like, he spun the 45 rpm records, back when they still had them. Classic country, the type of stuff that appealed to all-night truckers. Lefty, ET, Tex, Loretta....

I learned a lot about the art form of country music just by listening to Ralph. By the way, I had neither a tape deck nor FM radio in the Falcon, so it really was like Ralph, on the clear channel, who was the only constant in my journeys back to Clarksville after ballgames ended and I was on my way back to the newsroom to get the coffee pot going, get my fresh Merit 100s pack ready and write about the game or games. Oh, like I said, I often had company in the passenger seat, someone who could give a hand-job to a carburetor while I worked the ignition.

That's about a half-century ago, now. But when I did meet Ralph in person, he was like an old friend, at least to this old guy who learned so much by listening to his show.

Since I came to Nashville in 1988 and eventually was in charge of music coverage, my path and Ralph's crossed a few times. I interviewed him once for a now-defunct Country Music Association Closeup magazine piece. Liked the guy. Laughed at his tales of Stonewall and Little Jimmy.

About five or six or even eight years ago, Ralph contacted me about writing another book about his life, to cover things left out of his own previous writings.

I was flattered and even excited by the prospect.

He asked me to meet him at Hillwood Country Club for lunch and we'd talk it out. With as much admiration as I had for him and the love I have for writing about classic country musicians and personalities, I really didn't worry much during my first fruitless hourlong wait. At least the white-jacketed servers were kind as they refilled my coffee cup.

But then I finally called him, and he apologized that he'd forgotten our appointment that he'd established. He really was upset with himself for taking my time, and we rescheduled for the next Wednesday.

This happened two more times. He always was generous with his apologies and his kindness.

Finally, he said he had so much going on that he didn't want to reschedule for a little while, but we'd get to it.

The last time we really had a conversation was late December 2018, when we bumped into each other at the funeral for Shirley Hardison, a former security guard at the morning newspaper and a long-time presence in that same role at Ryman Auditorium. She was beloved in the country music community.

I also loved her, as Shirley and her newspaper security guard cohort, Steel Guitar Hall of Famer Johnny Sibert -- who died in 2013 -- were two of the biggest boosters I had at 1100 Broadway during my 20 years in that building, where I worked for Nashville Banner and The Morning Newspaper.

They did not appreciate the way I was being treated by corporate hacks and their sycophants. I believe Shirley and John, like me, were quietly walked out the door when corporate types -- in their case a contracted security firm -- took over. I left, really on my own terms, the one stipulation being that I left. Long story there. There's a book about it somewhere.

By the way, Johnny Sibert had "settled down" in security guard work after years of top-tier steel work with the likes of Carl Smith, Kitty Wells and Little Jimmy Dickens.

Carl and Little Jim may have been a part of the Old Farts Movie Club. Nice guys, they certainly qualified.

Shirley certainly could have fit in well in that world of old country musicians, even though they were males. Well, to tell you the truth, she preferred friends with, well, talent ... and balls.

As my friend the musician and historian Peter Cooper, now Country Music Hall of Fame honcho and kind man, wrote when Shirley died: "Shirley had been in Nashville forever, and she used to run with the fun crowd back when Lower Broadway bars and cafes teemed with folks like Roger Miller, Willie Nelson, and Tom T. Hall. You name ‘em, Shirley knew them and had stories.

"Phil Everly of The Everly Brothers? She dated him, back in 1957, when the Everlys scored smash hit 'Bye Bye Love.'”

But let's get back to Ralph, who was a Country Music Hall of Famer, like so many folks I've been able to spend time with and hear their tall tales. If somebody wanted to talk, I always enjoyed listening, learning and sharing.

Ralph and I were together in the hallway of the funeral home before Shirley's service. I was waiting to sign the guest registry. As was Ralph.

He did not recognize me at first, then I reminded him that I was the guy who was going to write his most recent book. I joked him that he had stood me up three times, when I waited for him at Hillwood Country Club.

"Tim, I'm really sorry about that," he said, or words to that effect. "I decided that no one wants to read anything else about an old has-been."

I assured him he remained beloved and told him that if he changed his mind, I was available.

I was sorry I never got to write that book with him. I am so sure I would have learned a lot of great stories, as he knew everybody, was loved by most of them, and he loved them back.

I never got angry for Ralph standing me up. He simply forgot, which happens to "old farts," as he explained in his apologies.

I never joined the Old Farts for their movie outings. Most of them are gone now, but I'm glad that for the most part they were my friends.

I really didn't want to run this little semi-tribute on Saturday, January 15, when he died. There are so many more-important people whose lives he touched, and they were the ones who should be heard from.

All I really had to add to the picture of Ralph is that he stood me up a few times and I never got to write the book that he'd decided no one wanted to read.

And it's certainly no big deal if an older guy forgets an appointment. Just ask me as I plow into my eighth decade.

I have many, many friends in country music. Most of them are dead or otherwise incapacitated.

I'm just glad for the long, late nights in the old Ford Falcon Futura Sports Coupe when -- as long as I could get the carburetor working -- I listened to Ralph and heard his memories and the tall tales of folks who would drop in at the studio on the way home from Lower Broadway.

I finally had to sell the Falcon for $100 after the manifold blew up and the transmission went out and the carburetor stopped responding to the loving touch. Jimmy Gaiser, whose Gaiser's garage in a shack near Austin Peay had performed miracles in the past, told me it was time to let it go. (By the way, if I dazzled you with the name of an auto shop I used a half-century ago, I had to ask my dear friend Larry Schmidt, a native Clarksvillian and my first sports hire, for the name. Gaiser's kept my next two cars rolling, also. Mr. Gaiser and his guys huddled around a pot-bellied stove and ate food from Red's Bakery while WSM radio played in the shop, unless Sherwin Clift, Voice of the Govs, was calling an APSU game on WJZM.)

I had good tires on the dying Falcon, so I swapped them with my brother's for another $50.

I'm sure the radio dial was set to 650 on that day. It was about the only AM station I could get on that Falcon.

Photos from Country Radio Seminar and New York Times.