What it’s like to be a radio personality — for a short time

There was a time when you could hear me on the radio, if you wanted to. And if you were in the same town and had an AM radio. I backed into the experience and rode it as long as it lasted.

My “career” in radio comprised two programs in two different states in which I mixed music and discussion. The first was just for a summer, the second for about two-and-a-half years.

The first was on a small radio station in Orange MA. I say “small” to refer to the size of the staff and building, as well as the reach of its broadcast signal. It was AM, as most stations were back then.

I was in town for that summer, as I had been for the previous one, to run a youth ministry supported by five local churches. For the radio station I checked two boxes: trying to appeal to younger listeners and providing some community-service programming.

As part of the attempt to reach community youth, the Saturday afternoon format was called, at least by the program director, “Rap and Records.” In those days “rap” was slang for “to converse” as a verb or “conversation” as a noun. My shift was referred to as “The United Youth Ministry Portion of Rap and Records.” A friend had a slot in which he played and talked about jazz.

My program aired live for an hour. I had one or two guests. The engineer played a recording of a meaningful rock song I had chosen, and my guests and I discussed it. Listeners could call in and join the conversation, though few did.

I enjoyed hanging around the radio station, getting to know some members of the staff and maybe learning a few things.

The one person on duty during my gig was a high school student who had landed a part-time job there. He used an on-air name that was more Anglo-Saxon than his real name. In time, I learned that another high school student I knew had wanted that job. I had the second guy as a panelist on my show one week. At one point, the student employee called in from another line in the adjacent studio, as if he were a listener at home. During the call, I was aware of some subtle digs between the two, though it’s likely listeners didn’t notice.

At some point, I saw a memo from the program director to the limited number of DJs, who apparently programmed their own music. Selections during the day were to be from the vanilla section of popular tunes — my wording, not his. After sundown, however, “rock out, as long as the towers don’t fall down.” These were his words. The music after dark though, was still pretty vanilla.

One evening I did hear something with a little more zip to it. I don’t remember what it was, but it wasn’t the Carpenters. On the other hand, it wasn’t Black Sabbath either. The D.J. quipped, “I hope the towers don’t fall down,” a reference one could get only if they’d seen the memo.

This same DJ also took credit for the urban legend that Jerry Mathers, TV’s Beaver Cleaver, had been killed in Viet Nam. He told me he and some fellow students had floated the notion on their Westcoast college radio station and it had caught on.

One of the few times my show did get a caller, he had a lot to say about that day’s topic. It was a good interchange, but as the top of the hour approached, I kept trying to end it tactfully. Not only was my segment supposed to end on the hour, but there was also the station identification requirement, about which I somehow was aware. The FCC has loosened up some since then, but in those days, you had to give the station call letters on the hour. There were only two minutes’ grace before you were in trouble.

The clock moved to 2:00 as the guy continued to talk. It moved past as I tried to interrupt without seeming to interrupt. Finally, somewhere between 2:01 and 2:02, he took a breath, I said, “Thanks for calling” and said — through the live phone — “You are listening the WCAT, Orange Massachusetts” with about five seconds to spare. I hung up the phone, quickly wrapped up and tossed it back to the high school student DJ/engineer. I’m sure he had queued up a recorded station break, then probably held it for 3:00.

A couple of years later, after I had returned to Chapel Hill NC, I got to know the program director of the local radio station, then also AM. They had recently expanded their broadcast day to 24 hours. The program director said they needed to expand their public-service broadcasting accordingly.

They were interested in something that could fall into the category “religious programming” but wouldn’t be overtly religious. Canned programs were available, but none really fell into this category. Besides, they preferred something with local appeal. I told him about my previous experience. He agreed I could provide what they needed.

Once again, I featured guests and music. This program, though, was a half hour long. It was prerecorded and aired on Sunday morning. I called it “Sacred Space.” In my introduction each week, I identified it as, “a program dealing with our relationship to God and our relationships with each other, with the belief that these two kinds of relationships are inseparable.” I closed each program with these words: “God touches and is part of all aspects of our lives. Sacred Space is where we stop to realize that.”

Usually, I focused on discussion with the guest(s) and used some music to enhance the discussion. At first, a competent engineer recorded and produced. After he moved on the bigger and better opportunities, the quality of the production help I got began a downward slide. Eventually, I did all the production work myself. My work was at least passable much of the time, though occasionally I ventured into the realm of the Peter Principle.

Every now and then, I deviated from the from the format and offered music and my own commentary. A specific topic may have suggested itself to me. I know I did at least one for Christmas and one inspired by the birth of my first child. A time or two, I threw something together because I had trouble lining up a guest.

I got some feedback from time to time that let me know that at least a few people listened. For a short while, an FM station on a nearby college campus used some of my work in their programming. Running the show itself didn’t work out, but some of my interviews fit into an on-air magazine. (Several years later, I was a guest at that station for an interview — by the same guy who had used parts of my program — to talk about a health promotion program I was running at UNC Health.)

Another commercial station in another city asked about letting them get tapes of “Sacred Space” to broadcast each week, but our PD said no. It was a competitor. Also, the person asking was a former employee of his. While I got along well with both of them, I got the idea they were less than friends.

In time, there was a new program director, with whom I also had a good relationship. At one point, he said he wanted to move my program back from 8 a.m. to 7 a.m. I already wondered how many people were up at 8 on Sunday morning to listen in. I told him I wasn’t sure it was worth my effort to produce a program that even fewer people were likely to hear. He didn’t change the time.

All my work for both stations was volunteer. When I sent tapes to the college FM station, I paid for the postage. Eventually, this PD had the station start cutting me a $5 check (about $30 today) each week for “expenses.” It was basically a “tip” for 3-4 hours of work each week.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that may have been the beginning of the end. Several weeks later, he called me at home one morning and said the station was making some cost-cutting moves. One move was to replace my show with one they could get for free from some organization that was not local. It would begin airing that coming Sunday in my slot.

I had mixed feelings. I was getting tired of doing the program. So, there was some sense of relief, along with the feeling of rejection and some anger at the abrupt way it came down. I choose to remember that the program director at least implied some message of thanks, but I still feel it would have been appropriate for the station’s owner to have sent me a short letter thanking me for all I had done for them. But that wasn’t his style.

My radio days ended without a sign-off.

That’s nothing

A recent Facebook “memory” was a meme I posted a few years ago that said, “Call me crazy, but I love to see people happy and succeeding. Life is a journey, not a competition.” In the comments, I conjectured, “It could be that personal competitiveness — often manifest as ‘one-upmanship’ — is so embedded in some people’s nature, they are unable to be aware of it.”

I suspect that the roots can be deep.

When I was a child, a common response to another’s boastful statement was, “That’s nothing,” followed by an even bolder claim. We all heard it; we all said it.

—–

“I went fishing yesterday with my dad and caught five fish!”
“That’s nothing. The last time I went, I caught eight. And threw back three little ones.”

—–

“I saw a guy skip a stone on the pond in the park and it bounced seven times!”
“That’s nothing. My brother can make a rock skip 10 times, every time.”

—–

“We drove through six states on vacation.”
“That’s nothing. I’ve been in 15 different states.”

—–

I doubt any of us would learn the term “one-upping” for years, but we seemed to have been born with the ability to practice it. As children, we announced our intention to go-you-one-better with “That’s nothing.” As adults, we’ve matured beyond using that phrase and replaced it with “Yes, but.” You hear it in conversation. You see it on Facebook. Sometimes the “yes, but” is implied, though you can still hear it. If you listen more closely, you hear an echo of “That’s nothing.”

Talk about your current weather experience, and it’s more extreme where they are or recently have been. Travel? They go you one better. Mention something someone did that was stupid and get an example of something even more stupid. Similar if you mention how much — or how little — you just paid for gas. Sometimes an implied “that’s nothing” is pointing out that what you’ve described is good, but less than perfect.

Say something about a personal medical concern and you may well get responses that says, “I have the same problem, only worse and have had it for a longer time.” Anniversary of a parent’s death and you’ll hear from those who encountered this loss even more years ago. Now, in these instances, they may be trying just to be empathetic. Yet the line can be fine between empathy and one-upping. Sometimes the person speaking may not realize which side of that line they are on.

More and more, I’ve amended my comments with the notation that I realize there are more extreme circumstances in other parts of the universe. I’m just commenting on how unusual the temperature, price of gas, or whatever, is for me in my personal realm. “Not trying to start a competition,” I’ve been known to say. Having said all this now, I can’t help wondering if I may be inviting the response, “That’s nothing. I have to endure one-upping comments a lot more than you do.”

The good new days

Just how good were “the good old days” really? Not infrequently, I hear people romanticizing long-ago decades. They seem to want to return to, say, the 1950s and lament that life is no longer like it was then.

Certainly, there are cherished, specific memories. Childhood innocence can seem better than adult responsibilities. It’s not all bad that we call on selective memory to emphasize pleasant experiences, while pushing bad memories to the back. Yet was everything better back then?

Right off the bat, it needs to be noted that if the old days were so good, you have to be white. Also, even though I notice females being just as wistful as males, you really have to be male. The proverbial glass ceiling was rather low and often seemed shatter-proof. If they’d grown up in my day, my daughters wouldn’t have been the athletes they were and would’ve had formidable challenges to becoming the professionals they are today.

We enjoy better health care these days. I easily remember when a cancer diagnosis was essentially a death sentence. Infant mortality rates have dropped significantly since the year of my birth.

Compare safety features of cars in the 1950-60s to now. Both my daughters walked away from accidents (not their faults) that totaled their cars. I don’t want to think about how they would’ve fared if we were back in the old days.

I realize that technological advances introduce new potential problems, but that’s been true at least since the introduction of the wheel and the discovery of fire. I don’t long to go back to a time I couldn’t Facetime with my grandchildren. Making long-distance calls is a breeze now, especially compared with stuffing coins into a pay phone. I don’t regret living in a time in which email and phone texts make communication easier.

There are many things that are so much easier to do online now — renewing prescriptions, registrations, purchases, etc. Digital photography enables me to fire at will with my camera, without having to go into debt buying film. Then I have control over editing the photos.

Maybe this dreaded modern technology will eventually give us a time machine. Then those who want to return to what they claim to be “the good old days” can do so. (Anyone else see any irony here?) One wonders, however, how many will want to take their Spotify accounts and TV streaming services with them.

For a list of and access to all blog posts, click HERE.

There are those that are at least somewhat didactic in an attempt to share something readers might find interesting. Many recount personal experiences with which others may identify. Some bridge both these intents. A couple are just for fun.

Top five viewings to date: Memories of a friend, What I might say about my mental health, As one who cares about language usage, Easing back in and A Final Four memory.

Over the past year, the blog’s had visits from 42 countries. Top 10: US, Canada, Singapore, Belgium, Hong Kong SAR China, Sweden, Israel, Australia, Ireland and Germany. All time, people from 61 countries have opened the blog. Top 10: US, China, Canada, Germany, France, Ireland, UK, Seden, Belgium and India.

That 4-letter word

You see and hear the word frequently in the media and in casual conversation. This is especially true regarding sports and popular culture, though it crops up in other contexts as well. It’s my most unfavorite four-letter word: H. A. T. E.

Apparently, you’re either a “fan” or a “hater.” No other options. Why do we feel a need to be so extreme?

In the world of sports, more specifically college sports and, within that category, my alma mater vs. its archrival, I hear or read about “hate” almost daily. The word recently was in a newspaper headline. Yeah, of course I favor my alma mater. And, yes, I have some specific gripes with the archrival. But I don’t hate anyone or any group of people. I do very much dislike the way some people act. Many people enjoy good-natured trash talking (I am not one of them), but that’s rather different from just being crass and proud to be so. I very much dislike biased sports reporting. So a victory by my alma mater, at which the local paper take digs whenever possible, over the team our local paper clearly favors is that much more desirable. And, I very much dislike the way a former employer treated me. After I sweat blood and tears for the institution, I was chewed up and spit out. Yes, I am angry. That increases my lack-of-loyalty to athletic teams that represent the same institution. But I don’t hate anyone. (In fact, there are several people I appreciate a lot who came into my life while I worked there. And every athlete from there I’ve encountered on a personal basis has been a stand-up person.)

I don’t “hate to tell you” this. On the contrary, I am glad to tell you. I think it’s likely that’s what most people mean when they use that phrase. I doubt there’s any hate involved, just maybe some deception. It’s an example of the flippant use of this serious word.

Another flippant use that is puzzling it is “love to hate.” Well, it’s puzzling if you think about it, but who thinks about it? (Is that even possible?) More on this in a minute.

Maybe our overuse of the word “hate” reduces its power. That’s something to wish for. But another possibility is that our overuse is a sign that hatred is becoming more pervasive. I recently saw a comment on Facebook lamenting that there is so much “I hate this” in the posts and responses. I feel the same way. Perhaps overuse contributes to the pervasiveness.

Laziness could also be involved. People may find it easier just to use the H word than to be more precise: “I’m angry,” “I’m disappointed,” “I’m envious,” etc. More precise and maybe a little less antagonistic.

What about love vs. hate? Opposites? Certainly contrasting ways to react to another person. Yet, numerous sources say they are not opposite emotions. In fact, some experts say there is a thin line between these two powerful emotions. They propose that the opposite of love is indifference. Does that make hate seem a little less bad? Or does it note just how bad indifference is?

But I digress.

I am not suggesting that we never, ever utter the word “hate.” I also find it useful shorthand at times in innocuous situations. For example, “I hate when I drop something on the floor.” (“Stooping down to pick it up causes me orthopedic and balance problems.”) Or “I hate waiting in line.” (“A long wait is frustrating and standing a long time makes my back hurt.”) And the ever-popular “I hate when that happens.” (Meant as idiomatic humor.)

I just wish that we’d all be a little more conscious of and discerning about our use of this word. Especially when talking about other human beings. And maybe guard against letting it define us.

A short herstory lesson

Several decades ago, I saw on some TV show, one of those battle-of-the-sexes “comedy” bits that have long since grown tiresome. In it, the female of the duo was talking up women by asserting that tissue paper was invented by one Kimberly Clark and plate glass by her compatriot Libby Owens Ford. People chuckled, hearts were blessed and women’s genuine accomplishments stayed hidden.

We’ve made some progress in more recent times. One popular example is the movie “Hidden Figures,” which finally brought credit to Katherine Johnson, Mary Jackson and Dorothy Vaughan for their vital roles in the U.S. space program.

Less well-known is their predecessor, Ada Lovelace (1815-1852), an English mathematician credited with being the world’s first computer programmer. Her notes on Babbage’s Analytical Engine are known as the first description for computer software. She gets some recognition via Ada Lovelace Day that celebrates women in STEM on the second Tuesday in October.

An internet search for “women making significant contributions” will yield a number of familiar names but even more that you haven’t heard of.

Here’s a partial list of the latter.

I’ll start with one that’s really important to me and maybe you, too. American chef Ruth Wakefield invented chocolate chip cookies. I realize that since that involves baking, it may be too close to old stereotypes, but it does say “chef.” And I can’t imagine a world without chocolate cookies. Still, women have given us a lot more than baked goods.

The first car heater was invented by Margaret A. Wilcox, an American engineer. And those windshield wipers? Invented by American Mary Anderson.

Marie Van Brittain Brown, an African-American inventor, created the first home security system. Dr. Shirley Ann Jackson is another African-American inventor to whom we are indebted — for portable fax, touchtone phone, call waiting and caller id.

Here’s another for those of you who know computers better than I. Grace Hopper, American computer scientist, invented the first compiler.

And for those of us who made mistakes back in the days of typewriters, thank goodness for Bette Nesmith Graham, who invented liquid paper. The American artist and inventor also was the mother of musician Michael Nesmith.

Here are two more: Caroline Herschel, a German astronomer, discovered several comets, including the periodic comet 35P/Herschel–Rigollet. Stephanie Kwolek, American chemist, invented Kevlar, a material used in bulletproof vests.

These are just some random examples. Maybe the limited information makes you want to know more about each of these people. It does that for me. You also can do your own search and find a lot more names.

Celebrate gates

“Good fences make good neighbors,” according to Robert Frost. I’m not here to dispute that. I have observed, however, that the addition of a gate may make even better neighbors.

When I was growing up, our backyard connected to the backyard of another house. That backyard was completely enclosed by a fence, protecting the flower gardens and other landscaping.

The people who lived there put a lot of work into it, and it was a pleasure to see. They were nice people who exchanged pleasantries across the fence and were fine with visitors. You just had to walk all the way around to the front door (through the yard of either of their next-door neighbors, neither of whom seemed to mind). We rarely if ever did, but we knew we could.

After I had left home, they moved away. My father, often out in his vegetable gardens, got to be good friends with the new owner, who maintained the flower gardens on his side of the fence.

They would talk about mutual interests and point out individual horticultural sources of pride. Sometimes, a closer look was warranted. This involved one or the other walking around the fence on a route that went through our neighbor’s house and his neighbors’ yard.

Eventually, my father told his friend, “If you’ll put a gate in, I’ll pay for it.” I have no trouble imagining a big smile on the neighbor’s face. Soon the gate was there. (I think the neighbor gladly paid for it himself.)

Good fences may indeed make good neighbors, but a gate makes even better neighbors. Or rather, better neighbors add a gate.

A new adventure: Entering the workforce

What do you remember about your first job? How did you get it? In my case, it was because the boss went to my church.

Dotson Wright ran his own bakery. He had been one of my youth leaders and was a friend of our family. I went to work in Rollin’ Pin Bakery early in 1964, when I was a junior in high school. I worked after school and a long day each Saturday, then full-time that summer. “Full-time” meant six long days per week that began at 6:30 a.m.

I was called a “baker’s helper,” which meant doing anything that someone not trained as a baker could do. I started with cleaning: washing pots, pans and other tools of the trade in a large sink, and cleaning tables, counters, etc. Other tasks were added as needed, including helping prepare some of the products. Each new assignment was a new adventure and added variety. With donuts, I started out glazing them as Dotson deep fried them. Eventually, I did the frying and glazing. I also added “delivery-truck driver” to my resume.

__________

Driving the truck presented its own challenges. It was a panel truck on a chassis the size of that of a three-quarter-ton pickup. I had been driving for about a year at that point, my only experience being with cars. I was used to relying on a rearview mirror hanging above the windshield. The truck had only external mirrors.

Just getting the vehicle and its payload from point A to point B was taxing — physically, somewhat; mentally, very.

But sometimes there was an additional assignment. The boss’s elementary-school aged daughter often was at the bakery that summer. Many times, when I would head out for a delivery run, he’d quietly say to take her along.

First of all, this meant he was getting two jobs — worker and babysitter — for the price of one (at minimum wage). More significantly, it put a lot of responsibility on a 17-year-old. It was stressful to navigate this vehicle, much more so when there also was a child to transport safely. I took the responsibility seriously, trying to interact while also concentrating on driving the big machine. All for 85 cents an hour.

One day I was sent out with no word about taking the girl with me. Outside, I found her playing in the truck. I told her she needed to get out, because I needed to make some deliveries. She got out quietly and I left. Apparently, she had been told she could go, but no one told me this. Then as now, I would never drive off anywhere with someone’s child without their knowledge and permission. Nonetheless, I was the bad guy. Her parents laughed off the whole situation, including her anger, all directed at me. I have no idea how long she held a grudge.
__________

During the school year, I worked 2-3 hours on weekdays, depending on what needed to be done. I guess Dotson wrote down my hours sometime after I left. The hours shown on each week’s (hand-written) pay stub seemed reasonable. Dotson was always still working, alone, when I left. Sometimes we’d chat a couple of minutes while he decorated cakes. At some point, I wondered if this social time counted as work time.

So, I did an experiment. One week, I left promptly each day, saying no more than “Bye” or “See you tomorrow.” The next week, I lingered each day, following his lead in friendly conversation. My pay stub showed more time worked the second week. After completing the experiment, I never exploited what I’d learned from it.

During the summer, I had not only the very-full-time job at the bakery but also an active musical career (and what I could muster for a social life). I performed a good bit as a soloist and with a group that was cutting a record. I got a half-hour lunch break, which I spent in my car, parked behind the bakery. I ate my lunch in ten minutes and took a 20-minute nap.

It was hard work for very little money but not without a sense of fulfillment. Before the summer was over, though, I felt a need to stop. I was burned out. I quit two weeks before school started, to have a small summer break. We were usually short-staffed, which is a reason I got duties added. That nurtured my sense of loyalty, seeing how hard Dotson worked and appreciating his trust in me. So, when I gave notice, I hedged a bit and said he could call me in the future if he got in a jam and needed my help.

The first time he called was two weeks after I stopped working. Honestly, I was glad a family commitment kept me from being able to go in. Yet I was glad when he called again in December for help during the Christmas rush. One summer in college, having extra time beyond a full-time summer job and wanting extra money, I stopped by to see Dotson and said I could work a few hours if he needed me any time that summer. He replied, “See you tomorrow.”

During my original stint there, I was micromanaged. At first that was necessary, because I had no way of knowing what needed to be done or how it needed be done. I think as time went on, I wished for a little less supervision. But on all returns, when I came in to help out as needed, Dotson never once said anything at all about what he wanted me to do. I just went to work and did what needed to be done.

What was your best boss like?

Most of us spend our work lives somewhere below the very top of the flow chart. Thus, there’s always someone to whom we report — i.e., a boss. For many of us, there have been a number of different people in that role over the years.

The best boss I ever had was Joe Sigler, then director of medical center public relations at Duke. I was on his staff in the late ‘70s. I enjoyed being around him, while admiring and learning from his skill as a public relations professional. He was friendly, had a good sense of humor and cared about other people.

I felt validated as a person and as an early-career professional. He had a knack for coming up with the best approach to just about any situation, sometimes on the spur of the moment. When he offered guidance, it was never in a patronizing way, but rather as a mentor.

Many mornings he would ask me, “Are you ready for a cup?” and we would go over to the hospital cafeteria for coffee. There were at least two others — administrators in a clinical department — who met us there pretty much every time. There was a lot of friendly banter, though some picking of one another’s brains on the business we were in.

Sometimes we were joined by the man who was directing the planning of a new hospital building. The conversation then was no less friendly, but more work-oriented. The promotion of the new facility had its roots in these coffee sessions.

Joe was a runner and a significant influence on my decision to take up running seriously. He was a fellow dog lover. For one of our vacations, we were able to leave our dog at his house.

Joe led us to the national championship in 1978. Both the American Hospital Association and the Association of American Medical Colleges gave us their awards as the top public relations program in the country that year.

Among those taking notice was the University of Texas, which was establishing a public relations office at its medical center in Houston. With plenty of oil money, UT was able to lure Joe away. One staff member was willing to go with him. (The other professional on the staff and I didn’t want to leave the area but were both hired away by UNC.)

We’ve stayed in touch through the years. I visited Joe once on my way to a conference in Texas. I sent him a copy of my book of short stories, signing it and adding a note thanking him for helping me become a decent writer. He read it cover-to-cover and sent back his complimentary reactions to many of the stories.

Something I’d never worn to my home church before

A few years ago, I wrote about the changes in what people wear when they go to church. As I noted in that post (and as you likely know), when I was growing up, males always wore a coat and tie.

Our church building wasn’t fully air-conditioned in those days. As I recall, a system circulated air freely but didn’t cool it. Since we were in the mountains in a time when the Earth was less heated, this was not a problem except for a few Sundays in the summer.

I remember a congregational business meeting in which the possibility of upgrading the system to cool to full AC was debated. One woman said, “If the men would just leave off their coats in the summer, we wouldn’t need it.” I doubted I was the only one who agreed with her.

In fact, a number of my peers did agree. Eventually, we did something about it. The sermon took up most of the second half of the service. It was preceded by the offertory (passing the collection plates) and a congregational hymn. When I was in high school, some other guys and I decided that at the conclusion of that hymn, we would take off our coats and be more comfortable, sitting for the duration of the sermon.

We got some questioning and maybe less-than-approving looks from adult males. But, in time, many of them were doing the same.

I visited the church of my youth recently. I saw few coats and no ties. I wore my usual “Sunday-go-to-meeting” black jeans and open-neck shirt. That was quite different from how I’d dressed growing up, but I’d dressed similarly for visits in recent years.

I did, however, wear one thing I’d never worn there before. See, it’s been 60 years since I was an adolescent, daring to take off my coat. Thus, for this visit, I wore to that Sunday morning service something my adolescent self never even imagined wearing to church — hearing aids.

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