Seeing Kiss And Def Leppard At The Bridgestone Arena With Patty in 2014

Some nights just stick with you forever. Patty Smith (my late wife) and I headed to Nashville to see Kiss on their 40th anniversary tour in July of 2014, with Def Leppard opening. I could tell Patty was worried about her knee — she had that big brace under her shorts — but we were ready for a night of rock and roll. Little did we know how perfect the night would turn out. An usher noticed Patty having trouble with the stairs and came over. “Go to the ticket booth and tell them I sent you,” he said. Next thing we know, we’re moved down front, probably 25 feet from the stage, low level, right off to the side. Perfect view. Perfect timing. Small acts like that make a huge difference. It made me think back to the first Kiss show I went to — the Love Gun tour back in the late 70s. Nobody I knew in North Mississippi cared much for Kiss, but I loved them, so I went by myself. People would say, “Kiss sucks,” but I was blown away. Fire, smoke, lights, hydraulics — I’d never seen anything like it. And years later, I got to meet Paul Stanley here in Bowling Green when he did his book tour. Told him about that first show, and he said he appreciated it. Gave me a fist bump, posed for a photo — and I still have that picture. Back in Nashville, Patty laughed the whole night. I think she felt like she was at a circus. Kiss was doing their thing, fire shooting, Paul flying across the stage, and Def Leppard opened with that energy — the song “Animal” just hit perfectly. Patty smiled, laughed, and carried on like she’d never seen anything like it. She loved it, and I loved seeing her that happy. That night wasn’t just about the music. It was about laughter, joy, and being together. About small kindnesses from strangers and perfect timing. About sharing a moment that we’d never forget. And even now, when I hear “Animal,” I’m right back there in those seats, watching Patty completely caught up in the magic. Some nights are just for the soul. That was one of them.

Powerful Overwhelming Emotions At The Movie Theatre

Yesterday I did something I hadn’t done in quite a while. I went to the movies. It was the first time I had stepped inside a theater since my wife Patty passed away last year. I had been wanting to see the new Elvis movie Epic, directed by Australian filmmaker Baz Luhrmann, who also directed the earlier Elvis film that received such high praise and rave reviews. So I decided it was time to get out of the house and go. The theater I went to was the Regal Bowling Green in Bowling Green, Ky., the one off Industrial Drive on Great Escape Court, not the one out at Greenwood Mall. That place carries a lot of memories for me. Patty and I went there many times over the years, even while she was battling Parkinson’s. She still enjoyed getting out when she could, and going to the movies together was something we held on to as long as possible. The last movie we tried to see together was Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. Unfortunately, Patty started having some medical issues during the film, and we had to leave before it was over. That was the last time we sat in a theater together. Walking back into that same building yesterday brought back a flood of memories. That theater has been there since the early 2000s, and my son Tony even worked there when he was younger. It was his first job. He used to walk to work from the house because it was so close. As for the Elvis movie itself, from what I saw of it, it was very well done. There was some powerful concert footage from Elvis’s Las Vegas years, and it really captured the energy of those performances. Elvis, of course, is still known as the King of Rock and Roll, and that legacy hasn’t faded a bit. But partway through the movie, something unexpected happened. Sitting there in that same theater where Patty and I had spent so many afternoon movie matinees together though the years, the emotions started to hit me. The memories came rushing back, and I began feeling overwhelmed — missing her, feeling a little anxious, and just dealing with that strange mix of grief and nostalgia that widowers know all too well. So I ended up leaving before the movie finished. Still, I’m glad I went. It felt like a step forward in some ways, even if it was a hard one. Being from Memphis originally, Elvis has always been part of the cultural backdrop of life for me. I’ve visited Graceland, and I even have a small connection to Elvis through his longtime physician, George C. Nichopoulos, who people often called “Dr. Nick.” My father saw him as a doctor, and I once visited him myself for a medical issue years ago. I’ve also seen Elvis’s massive exhibit at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. It’s one of the biggest displays there, and it reminds you just how much influence he had on music and culture. Even decades later, he still holds that throne as the King. So yes, I do recommend seeing the movie. Go with your spouse, your girlfriend, or even by yourself like I did. Just be prepared — sometimes places and experiences carry memories you don’t expect until you’re right in the middle of them. For me, it was another reminder that life goes on, even when we’re still learning how to walk through it without the people we loved most.

Remembering Mississippi: A Place That Never Leaves You

I haven’t lived in Mississippi since 1987. That’s pushing forty years now—four decades since I packed up my life, left the Magnolia State, and planted myself in south-central Kentucky, mostly Bowling Green, where I’ve been ever since 1988. But every now and then, something stirs the dust of those old memories, and suddenly Mississippi doesn’t feel far away at all. It feels like yesterday. What brought it all flooding back this time was the news about Lane Kiffin. The Ole Miss football coach decided to bail on the Rebels and head to LSU for a whole lot more money. The move left the players hanging, the administration scrambling, and the fans and alumni feeling sucker-punched. And as a proud Ole Miss alum myself, it bothered me too. You don’t abandon the people who poured their hearts into you—not without leaving a bruise. I ended up talking with a former fraternity brother of mine, Dr. Donald Simmons, who now lives in Tupelo. He’s a chaplain down there, still connected to the heartbeat of Mississippi. We reminisced about the old days, and that simple conversation unlocked a whole room full of memories—college days, journalism classes, long nights at the Daily Mississippian, and the people who shaped my young life. Mississippi may be poor in dollars, but it’s rich in soul. Oxford, Ole Miss, and the Spirit That Lingers Oxford was where I became who I was going to be. I studied journalism at Ole Miss, worked at the campus newspaper, and walked the same streets that so many storytellers had walked before me. It was also where I met my wife, Patty—a meeting that would define the rest of my life. Funny how a single place can carry so many beginnings. There’s something about being a freshman at Ole Miss—the buzz on the Square, the Grove on a Saturday, the faces you meet who somehow stay with you long after you leave. The Ole Miss spirit doesn’t fade. You carry it with you. It becomes a part of how you talk, how you laugh, how you remember. Willie Morris and the Writers’ Bench One of the brightest memories from those years was Willie Morris, the late writer-in-residence at the university. Most folks know him for My Dog Skip, but to us journalism and English students, he was something more—our literary uncle, our storyteller-in-chief. Willie was a Southern writer who had lived big in New York City—editor of Harper’s Magazine, Rhodes Scholar, a man who knew both the Delta and Manhattan. And somehow he made Oxford his home. I was one of his groupies. A lot of us were. We’d sit with him at the Hoka, sipping coffee that may or may not have been strengthened with a little bourbon. We’d follow him over to The Gin, drinking White Russians while he talked about life, writing, and Mississippi. Sometimes we’d wind up in his house on Faculty Row—No. 16, if memory hasn’t tricked me—where he’d read to us or listen to whatever half-finished stories we were working on. Those nights had a magic of their own. Dr. Simmons was the one who first introduced me to Willie. I still have several of Willie’s books, all autographed, plus some letters we exchanged through the years. He was generous that way—generous with his time, his words, and his whiskey.

Family Roots in Mississippi Mississippi is also where our son Tony was born, in Pontotoc. Hard to believe he’s 38 now and living his own life up in New Jersey. Funny how something as simple as thinking about Oxford can make the years feel like a stack of old photographs sitting in your lap. And speaking of people from those days, I’m looking forward to reading The Dean by Sparky Reardon, one of our former deans at Ole Miss. Sparky is retired now, but he was a legend when I was there. My stepdaughter, Misty Hale from Taylor, asked what I wanted for Christmas, and I told her plain and simple—an autographed copy of Sparky’s book. That’ll bring back even more memories, I’m sure. Time Moves On, But Mississippi Holds Tight I may have built my life in Kentucky, raised kids, worked different jobs, and grown older, but Mississippi still lives quietly in me. Those eleven years—from 1976 to 1987—were long enough to shape a lifetime. They were good years. Formative years. Years full of friendship, learning, heartbreak, joy, and the unmistakable Southern charm that only Mississippi can produce. Lane Kiffin leaving might sting for a while. Folks in Mississippi have a way of taking loyalty seriously. But coaches come and go. Players come and go. What stays is the spirit—the memories, the people you met, the stories you lived, and the feeling you carry long after you leave Oxford. And even after nearly forty years away, Mississippi still knows my name.

Mr. Jude Takes Manhattan

(This is a fiction story) Mr. Jude, the proud Australian Shepherd from Bowling Green, Kentucky, had always heard his dad, Galen, talk about far-off cities and big adventures. But nothing could have prepared him for the morning his dad knelt beside him, scratched behind his ears, and said, “Buddy… we’re going to New York City.” Mr. Jude tilted his head, tail thumping. New York? He didn’t know what that meant, but he liked the excitement in his dad’s voice. Flying High At the airport, Mr. Jude became a celebrity immediately. Everyone stopped to admire him as he marched along with no luggage whatsoever — a perk he took great pride in. When it came time for his ID, he simply lifted his paw and placed it neatly on the scanner pad. Approved. A paw print was all he needed to soar. On the plane, he curled into the window seat beside his dad. As the jet lifted into the clouds, Mr. Jude pressed his nose to the glass, watching the world shrink into soft cotton shapes. Every now and then, he’d glance at Galen as if to say, Are we really doing this? The Big Apple Welcomes a Southern Dog When the plane touched down, New York greeted Mr. Jude with a whirlwind of sounds — honking taxis, chattering crowds, the rumble of trains under their feet. But he walked proudly, tail high, as if he owned the place.

First stop was the 9/11 Memorial, where Mr. Jude seemed to sense the heaviness and reverence of the space. He stood quietly with his dad, feeling the cool air wash over them both. Then it was off to Times Square, where the neon lights bounced off his fur. People snapped photos, thinking he might be a movie dog. He didn’t mind. Attention was attention. At the Empire State Building, he rode up the elevator like a pro. At the top, he poked his nose through the safety rails, taking in the whole city — millions of people, and he was the only Australian Shepherd from Bowling Green among them. A Dog at Katz’s? Oh yes. Katz’s Deli was next, where the smell of pastrami nearly made him melt right there on the tile floor. He sat politely while Galen ate, knowing any second a little piece might “accidentally” fall his way. It did. Subways, Buses, and Jersey Trains — Oh My Mr. Jude learned that New Yorkers didn’t blink at much, but seeing a dog ride the subway, then hop onto a bus, then take a train to New Jersey — well, that got a few raised eyebrows. He handled it like a seasoned commuter. The train clacked across the river, and Mr. Jude’s nose glued itself to the window again. So many new smells in one day! Onward to Philadelphia The next morning, the adventures continued south to Philadelphia. When they reached the famous Rocky Steps, Mr. Jude sprinted up them like he’d been training his whole life. At the top, he posed proudly beside the Rocky statue, chest puffed, ears perked. Tourists cheered. Phones came out. For a moment, he was the champ. At Max’s Steaks, where “Creed” filmed a scene, Mr. Jude watched Galen enjoy a cheesesteak the size of a small log. And once again—through the grace of gravity—little pieces made their way to his paws. Heading Home On the flight back, Mr. Jude curled up in the seat again, this time tired from everything he’d seen: skyscrapers, trains, statues, cities he’d never imagined. He rested his head on Galen’s arm and sighed deeply — the happy sigh of a dog who had lived a whole chapter of life in just a few days. And Galen looked down at him and smiled. “Not bad for a Kentucky boy,” he whispered. Mr. Jude thumped his tail once, as if to say, "Best trip ever, Dad. Let’s do it again!"

The Immaculate Deflection — Egg Bowl 1983 (The Day the Wind Became a Rebel)

Some football moments feel scripted by ESPN. Others feel scripted by God Himself. And then there’s the 1983 Egg Bowl, which felt like it was scripted by a mischievous Ole Miss ghost with a sense of humor — a moment now immortalized as The Immaculate Deflection. Back then, I was on campus at Ole Miss, up in my Sigma Pi fraternity room, listening to the game on my radio — the kind that crackled like bacon grease anytime the announcer took a deep breath. Honestly, the place was practically empty. Maybe one or two other guys were around, but it was basically just me, the radio, and the sound of my own heartbeat. Mississippi State lined up for the game-winning field goal. Easy. Routine. Practically a formality. The announcer got quiet. I leaned closer to the radio like I was trying to hear a whisper from heaven. The ball went up… …and then the wind decided Ole Miss deserved better. That Mississippi breeze reached out like an invisible Rebel hand and pushed the ball away from the uprights like it had someplace else to be. Just like that — the kick missed, Ole Miss won, and I almost knocked my chair over in that empty frat room celebrating by myself. That miraculous gust sent the Rebels to the 1983 Independence Bowl in Shreveport, Louisiana to go against Air Force — and my dad, my brother-in-law, and I packed up and headed down there to see it in person. Now, let me tell you something: Mother Nature did not go easy on us that night. It rained so hard it felt like we were sitting inside a car wash. We had plastic sheets draped over us, trying to keep at least a few drops of rain out of our beers — but the rainwater kept winning. By halftime, our beer had turned into a sort of “Shreveport Light.” We watched as Air Force grounded us 9–3 in a cold, soggy slog where the ball probably gained more yards from slipping out of players’ hands than from actual plays. Meanwhile, my dad — bless his short, easily-frustrated stature — kept hollering “DOWN IN FRONT! DOWN IN FRONT!” every time someone taller stood up. Which, of course, was everyone. I’m pretty sure he spent more time yelling at people’s backs than watching the game. Still, soaked to the bone and losing or not, it was a trip I’ll never forget. The miracle in Jackson, the monsoon in Shreveport — it all blends together into one of my favorite Rebel memories. 1983 will always be the year: the wind blew left, a miracle was born, and Ole Miss blew our minds. The Immaculate Deflection. A Rebel legend — with a punchline only football can deliver.

Finding My Voice at 63: Karaoke, Grief, and the Healing Power of a Song

Grief shows up in strange ways. It sneaks into the quiet hours of a morning walk, it lingers in church pews, and it settles in the empty chair at the dinner table. After my wife Patty passed away from Parkinson’s this past May, the silence in my home felt heavier than ever. Even with my good dog, Mr. Jude, padding around the house, the rooms echoed with memories. Somewhere inside that silence—somewhere in the middle of trying to keep going, trying to find rhythm in a world that felt off-beat—I discovered something unexpected: I started singing. Now, let’s be honest. I’m 63 years old. I’ve lived through classic rock, disco, New Wave, and all the wild and wonderful noise of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. But despite all that music around me, I never once had the confidence to sing in public—or even in church. I was the guy who mouthed the hymns and hoped nobody noticed. But grief has a strange way of rearranging your fears. When you’ve lived through something as heavy as watching the love of your life battle Parkinson’s, the fear of singing a little off-key suddenly feels pretty small. So one day, in the quiet of my living room, I cued up a karaoke track and started to sing. It wasn’t pretty at first. Mr. Jude promptly walked out of the room—probably wondering why his dad suddenly sounded like a one-man rock opera. Dogs hear music differently, so maybe all he caught was my voice bouncing off the walls like a siren. I told him he didn’t have to be my biggest fan today. (He still isn’t.) But something happened inside me. I felt lighter. I felt a little freer. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like I could breathe again. What started as one song became two… then ten… then dozens. Classic rock ballads, soft rock, the songs that shaped my young adulthood—and the ones Patty and I used to hear on long drives together. At some point, without really planning it, I began posting the videos on my social media accounts under Galen’sWorldBG. And here’s the surprising part: People watched. People listened. People responded with encouragement. What started as a private moment of healing turned into a small community of folks cheering me on. Some were friends. Some were strangers. But the more I sang, the more I felt myself slowly stitching together pieces of a heart that grief had torn open. Singing has become my therapy. It’s become my companion. And it’s become a reminder that even after loss, life still invites us to create. I’m not trying to win a Grammy. I’m not trying to be the next YouTube sensation. I’m just a widower in Kentucky, singing rock classics in his living room, finding comfort in the stories and melodies that helped shape who I am. Patty may not be here to hear me sing, but I like to think she’d smile at the idea. Maybe she’d shake her head a little, laugh the way she used to, and say, “Galen, sing your heart out.” And that’s exactly what I plan to do. So here’s to late-in-life beginnings. Here’s to music that heals old wounds. And here’s to singing—even when the dog leaves the room. Below are a few of my recent karaoke covers. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed making them.

College Town At Christmas 2025: "Healing & Comfort In Work, Family, Friends & Travel To Places I have Never Been Before"

There’s a quietness that settles over a college town at Christmas as I look to the holiday season in Bowling Green, Ky. The students leave, the traffic thins out, and the same streets that buzz with life in September feel suddenly gentle, almost reflective. This year, that quiet will feel deeper to me than ever before. Maybe it’s because 2025 has been the hardest, longest year of my life—a year that reshaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand. When Patty’s (my wife of 39 years) Parkinson’s began taking more from her, caregiving stopped being a choice and became a calling. I didn’t know then how much strength, patience, and love a human heart could hold. I didn’t know how much it could break, either. Parkinson’s is a thief—slow, steady, unrelenting. Every day it stole little pieces from her: her strength, her independence, her voice, and finally her life on May 1st, 2025.

Those last months, I learned what real devotion looks like. I learned how quiet a house becomes when the person you love most slips away piece by piece. I learned that grief begins long before death ever arrives. And when the moment finally came, when Patty took her last breath, the world didn’t just feel emptier—it felt rearranged. After she passed, I found myself needing purpose again. Something to ground me. Something to get me out of the house. So I went back to Walmart, part-time, working the door in asset protection. Greeter, door host, security—call it what you want. I call it rebuilding. Every shift pulled my muscles of discipline and routine back into shape. Every customer reminded me that life keeps happening around us, even when our hearts feel frozen in place.

And then came the trip—up to New Jersey to see my son, Tony, and his wife, Danielle. My anchors when the seas get rough. Patty always loved that our boy built a life for himself, and being around his family lets me carry a piece of her with me. There’s comfort in watching life continue—in their home, in their conversations, in the way they include me without hesitation. Grief doesn’t disappear, but love can still surround it. The other day, for the first time in my 63 years, I stepped into New York City. December lights, skyscrapers, crowds, the 911 Memorial, the Empire State Building, the roar of Penn Station—all of it overwhelming and beautiful. I thought about Patty as I walked those streets. She would’ve smiled at me taking it all in like a wide-eyed kid from the South. She would’ve said, “Go on, Galen. You deserve to see things.”

She was right. I did. And I still do. Christmas this year will feel different. There’s an empty space at my side that no season, no trip, no celebration can fill. But there’s also a warmth that comes from knowing Patty’s love didn’t end—it just changed forms. It lives in the memories. In the stories. In my son. In the journey she set me on long before illness knocked on our door. This holiday, I’m holding sorrow and gratitude at the same time. Sorrow for the woman I lost. Gratitude for the life we shared. Gratitude for Tony and Danielle, for New Jersey hospitality and her family-my new family for the warmth and love as well as for acceptance that they have extended to me on my trip. And for all the new experiences in New York City, and for the quiet of a college town waiting for me back home at Christmas. I carry Patty with me into every place I go. And this Christmas, in a season built on hope, I’m learning how to carry myself again too.