The Orkin Man In The Attic

Sometimes the past has a funny way of finding you. Mine came looking for me recently in a plastic storage bin in my attic. The bin had been sitting up there for about 18 years, holding pieces of a career I had almost forgotten: awards, letters, coffee mugs, flashlights, shirts, trinkets and other memorabilia from my years in the pest-control business. There was Orkin stuff. There was Ecolab stuff. There were reminders of a career that lasted 27 years and, in many ways, changed my life. The plastic bin itself didn't survive. After nearly two decades of Kentucky heat that sometimes pushed past 100 degrees and winters that brought bitter cold, the plastic had deteriorated. When I finally pulled it down, it practically fell apart in my hands. But inside, remarkably, much of my history was still intact. As I sorted through those things, I started thinking about how I got there in the first place. It certainly wasn't the career I had envisioned when I graduated from Ole Miss. I had spent five years studying print journalism, with an emphasis in public relations and a minor in sociology. Journalism was what I knew. It was what I wanted to do. It was also where I met Patty. We met at St. John's Catholic Church, eventually married, and started our family. Our son, Galen Jr.—Tony, as we always called him—came along, and life moved us to Kentucky. We moved to Russellville, Patty's hometown, in 1987. I worked briefly for the newspaper there, covering sports, before we moved to Bowling Green in February 1988. Eventually I landed at the Bowling Green Daily News, where I worked in the newsroom as a reporter, book reviewer and editorial assistant. I loved the newspaper business.

But there was one problem. I wasn't making enough money. We had bought a home. We had a new car. We had a family to support. Patty was working, too, and eventually she made a career change of her own, leaving a manufacturing human-resources job to work for a well-known eye doctor in Bowling Green. We both knew we needed to make more money. That's when a man named Bill Guffey entered the picture. Bill was a manager with Orkin in Owensboro, Kentucky. I knew him because he was the grandson of my next-door neighbor, and Bill and I had something else in common: We liked to run. Back in those days, when a lot of us baby boomers were caught up in the running craze, we'd run 5Ks, 10Ks and whatever else we could find. Bill suggested that I consider pest control. Good pay. Good benefits. A chance to support my family. I listened. After five years in the newspaper business, I traded my reporter's notebook for a pest-control truck. And I'll be honest: My ego didn't like it. I'd gone from working in a newspaper newsroom to becoming, as I jokingly thought of it, a "bug man." For the first couple of years, I hated pest control. Not because of the work itself, but because I was still trying to figure out who I was. I had an identity tied to being a journalist. I had gone to college for five years. I had worked in a newsroom. I was supposed to be a writer. Now I was knocking on people's doors, carrying pesticides and crawling under houses. It took me a while to understand something that would become one of the most important lessons of my life: I was not my job. My job was simply how I made a living. I remember going to the library and listening to Dr. Wayne Dyer tapes. He talked about the person on the inside rather than the image we create on the outside. His ideas about ego and identity helped me put things into perspective. I finally realized there was nothing wrong with being a pest-control technician. I was still Galen. I was still a husband. I was still a father. I was still a writer. I was still the same person who had gone to Ole Miss and studied journalism. I just happened to make my living getting rid of bugs. And once I got over myself, something interesting happened. I got good at it. I stayed with Orkin for 11 years. Eventually, I moved on to Ecolab, where I spent another 15 years. Twenty-seven years in pest control. Twenty-seven years of crawling into attics and crawl spaces, walking through restaurants and businesses, treating homes, solving problems and meeting people from all walks of life. And, like any job, there were some stories. I've nearly gotten myself stuck in crawl spaces more than once. There were moments when I was wedged into places where I wondered whether I was going to get back out. A couple of times I came close to having a panic attack. There were mistakes, too. Some could have been serious. Fortunately, I had good management teams who understood that people make mistakes. They helped correct the situations and, when necessary, helped get me out of trouble. That's one of the things you learn when you spend decades working for a company: You represent the company when you're out in the field. If something goes wrong, the company has to deal with it. But you also learn to be accountable. You learn to pay attention. You learn that safety matters. And you learn that one of the most important parts of pest control isn't the chemicals. It's the person behind the wheel. Driving was a major responsibility. You had to obey the speed limit, follow the rules of the road and take care of yourself and everyone else around you. Over 27 years, I developed a pretty good safety record. Looking back now, I'm proud of that. I've also thought about the pesticides themselves. Someone recently posted on Facebook about concerns over herbicides used on crops, fruits and vegetables. She mentioned that it was one reason she didn't eat cereal. I jokingly responded that, I guess, I was doomed. After all, I had worked around pesticides for 27 years. I'm 64 now, and so far, knock on wood, I've been fortunate. But I'm also realistic enough to know that nobody gets a guarantee about the future. When I was considering going to work for Orkin all those years ago, I talked to my priest about it. His advice was simple. "Galen, you've got to support your family." That stayed with me. Every occupation carries some kind of risk. Construction workers build the buildings we live and work in. People dig ditches and tunnels. Ironworkers climb skyscrapers. Workers maintain towers and electrical systems. People do jobs that require them to put themselves in dangerous situations every single day. Somebody has to do those jobs. I did mine. And I tried to do it safely and responsibly. That's really what a career is, isn't it? You find a way to make a living. You take care of your family. You show up. You do the best you can. And if you're lucky, you learn something about yourself along the way. That's what pest control taught me. It taught me humility. It taught me that a job title doesn't make you who you are. It taught me how to deal with people. It taught me responsibility. And, yes, it taught me quite a bit about bugs. Funny thing is, years later, people still remember me as the Orkin man. I'm reminded of that every now and then. Recently, while working part-time as a cashier at Walmart, a woman recognized me. She had been one of my customers decades ago. She remembered me. I vaguely remembered her, too, although I couldn't quite place everything. And I'll admit, I was a little embarrassed that she remembered me better than I remembered her. But then I thought about it. Why should I be embarrassed? Those years were a part of my life. They were years when I was working hard, supporting my family and building a career. Another reminder came recently at the gym. I met a young man who had started his own pest-control company. We'd had lunch together at Smokey Pig barbecue, and he had asked me about the business. When I saw him at the gym, we started talking again. I found myself telling him stories. The crawl spaces. The close calls. The mistakes. The funny things that happen when you're walking into people's homes and businesses every day. He was picking my brain. And I realized something. I had become the old guy with the stories. The young man was the one learning from me. For 27 years, I had been the one learning from somebody else. Now I was the guy who had been there. That's a pretty good feeling. And maybe that's why I finally decided to bring that old storage bin down from the attic. I wanted to see what was left. As I went through the awards, letters, coffee mugs, shirts and little pieces of memorabilia, I realized I wasn't really sorting through junk. I was sorting through a chapter of my life. Some things I'll keep. Some things I'll probably get rid of. And some of the more unusual pieces may even end up on eBay, because somebody out there might consider them collectible. But I'm keeping the things that remind me of the man I was back then. The young father trying to make a living. The former newspaper guy trying to swallow his pride. The Orkin man learning his trade. The Ecolab employee building a career. The husband and father doing what he had to do to take care of his family. Today, I'm working part-time at Walmart. I've been there for several years, although I had to step away for a while to help take care of Patty when she became ill. I've returned to a place where I know a lot of people, and it sometimes feels like a big family. I'm at a different stage of life now. I'm drawing Social Security. I'm working part-time. I enjoy seeing people, talking to customers and fellow associates, and making a little extra money. Would I rather not have to work? Sure. But I've discovered that I like being around people. And I like having somewhere to go. Maybe that's another lesson I've learned. We spend so much of our lives working that it's easy to think our jobs are who we are. They're not. They're chapters. Some chapters are short. Some last 27 years. Some begin with a newspaper reporter carrying a notebook. Some begin with a pest-control technician carrying a sprayer. And some begin with an older man standing in an attic, pulling an old plastic storage bin apart and wondering where all those years went. The bin may have fallen apart. But the memories didn't. And neither did the pride. Because when I look back at those 27 years, I don't see a "bug man." I see a husband. A father. A worker. A man who learned to put his ego aside and do what he needed to do. And, after all these years, I'm pretty proud of that Orkin man.

The Quiet Side Of The Nuclear Reactor

“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.” The Browns Ferry Nuclear Plant satalong the Tennessee River just outside Athens, Alabama, looking about as serious as a place could look. There were no second chances at Browns Ferry. Everything had a procedure. Everything had a checklist. Everything had somebody responsible for it. At sixty-four years old, Daniel Mercer understood that better than most. Daniel was the kind of man who had spent his life believing that if you worked hard, kept your word and treated people right, things generally had a way of working out. He had earned his bachelor's degree in finance from the University of Mississippi and later completed an MBA. His career had taken him through the business and administrative side of the energy industry before eventually bringing him to Browns Ferry, where he served as a senior site administrator. It wasn't a glamorous job. There were budgets, personnel matters, schedules, meetings, reports and enough paperwork to keep a man busy until retirement. But Daniel liked it. He liked being useful. And after losing his wife of nearly forty years, being useful had become more important to him than he cared to admit. His wife had been gone a little over a year, and Daniel was still learning what life looked like without her. Loneliness didn't always hurt. Sometimes it just sat there beside you. Quietly. Then there was Cindy Smith. Cindy was fifty-one years old and had never married. She had no children, and her career had become the center of her life. She was highly educated, highly disciplined and one of the most respected people at Browns Ferry. Cindy had earned a bachelor's degree in nuclear engineering before going on to earn a master's degree in nuclear engineering. She had spent decades working her way through the nuclear industry, gaining experience in operations, engineering, safety and plant management. She had also earned her Senior Reactor Operator credentials, something Daniel understood required an extraordinary amount of training and responsibility. By the time she became plant manager, Cindy had spent much of her adult life around nuclear reactors. She understood them. She respected them. And perhaps more importantly, she understood the responsibility that came with being responsible for thousands of people working around something that demanded absolute attention to detail. Cindy was serious about her job. Very serious. But Daniel soon discovered there was another side to her.

Cats. Cindy loved cats. Not just the ones somebody could take home from a shelter. She cared about the forgotten ones. The feral ones. The cats that lived behind restaurants, underneath abandoned buildings and around warehouses, surviving on whatever food they could find. After work, Cindy sometimes drove around Athens feeding them. She also volunteered with people at the local animal shelter and helped organize efforts to get feral cats fed, vaccinated and, when possible, adopted. Daniel thought that was an interesting contradiction. Here was a woman responsible for one of the most complicated industrial facilities in the South, somebody who could sit in a meeting discussing reactor safety and plant operations with engineers and executives, and then spend her evening looking under a bush for a frightened stray cat. That was the side of Cindy he liked most. And, truth be told, Daniel thought she was pretty. Not pretty in some Hollywood sort of way. Pretty in a quieter way. She had a reserved smile, a soft voice and a habit of listening carefully before she answered somebody. She wasn't the kind of woman who needed everybody in the room to notice her. Daniel noticed her anyway. Because of their positions at Browns Ferry, both of them understood that any personal relationship had to be handled carefully. There were workplace policies. There were professional responsibilities. And there was the simple fact that neither one of them could afford to have their judgment questioned. So they were careful. They started with coffee. Then lunch. Then dinner at a little restaurant outside Athens. Nothing improper. Nothing secretive. They talked about work, movies, books and their lives before Browns Ferry had become such a large part of them. Cindy talked about cats. Daniel talked about his dog. “You know,” Cindy said one evening, “I think I'm probably becoming a cat lady.” Daniel smiled. “I believe you've already crossed that bridge.” She laughed. “Well, what does that make you?” “A dog person.” “You're the one with that Australian Shepherd, aren't you?” “Mr. G.” “That's his name?” “That's what I call him.” “How old is he?” “Ten.” Cindy smiled. “That's getting up there.” “Don't you tell him that,” Daniel said. “He still thinks he's a puppy.” Cindy laughed. For a moment, Daniel thought maybe there was something there. Maybe. They went to a movie. They had coffee a couple more times. They went to another restaurant. Four or five outings in all. Daniel began thinking about Cindy more than he probably should have. The problem was that feelings have a funny way of showing up where they're not invited. Daniel knew the rules. He knew the risks. And he knew that Cindy was his superior. Still, he couldn't help the fact that he was becoming romantically attracted to her. He admired her intelligence. He admired her independence. He admired the fact that she could spend all day making decisions about a nuclear power plant and then spend half the night worrying about whether some half-wild cat had enough food. And somewhere along the way, admiration became desire to date her in manner of more than just friends. One afternoon, after they'd been talking outside the administrative offices, Daniel finally worked up enough courage to ask something he'd been thinking about for weeks. “Cindy?” “Yes?” “I was wondering something.” She looked at him. Daniel hesitated. “Would it be all right if I held your hand the next time we go out to have coffee or to a movie?” Cindy's expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough. “No, Daniel.” He nodded. “All right.” And that was all he said. But he understood. A few days later, Cindy asked him to meet her after work. They sat across from each other at a quiet restaurant. Daniel knew before she said anything. “Daniel,” she said, “I think we need to stop this.” He looked down at the table for a moment. “I figured you might say that.” “I don't want there to be any misunderstanding.” “There isn't.” “I don't want a romantic relationship with you.” Daniel swallowed. “I understand.” “I've thought about it, and I just don't believe I want a romantic relationship with anybody.” Daniel looked at her for a moment. He could tell the conversation wasn't easy for her either. “All right,” he said. Cindy looked down at her coffee. “I don't want to hurt you.” “Well, my feelings are gonna be hurt,” Daniel said honestly. “I'm not gonna lie about that.” “I know.” “But I'll be okay.” She nodded. After a moment, Daniel asked, “Can we still be friends?” Cindy shook her head. “No. I think we need to keep it professional.” Daniel was quiet. She continued. “You do your job, and I'll do mine. We're both in positions where we have to be careful. I don't want anything to interfere with that.” Daniel nodded. “You're right.” “If we see each other at work, we'll be cordial.” “Hello and goodbye?” “Exactly.” Daniel smiled. “I can do that.” Cindy looked down at her coffee. “My first love is cats anyway.” Daniel chuckled. “I figured that.” She smiled faintly. “And I guess my first love is dogs.” “I suppose that's true.” They finished their coffee. There wasn't any anger. There wasn't any shouting. There wasn't even much sadness spoken aloud. Just two people accepting something that neither one of them could change. When Daniel walked outside that evening, the Alabama air was warm and heavy. He stood beside his car for a minute and looked toward the Tennessee River. He thought about Cindy. He thought about his wife. He thought about loneliness and love and how sometimes a person could come into your life without ever really becoming part of it. And he realized something. Not every person you care about is supposed to stay close to you. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for somebody is let them go. The next morning, Daniel saw Cindy in the hallway at Browns Ferry. She was carrying a folder under her arm. “Good morning, Cindy.” “Good morning, Daniel.” And they kept walking. A few days later: “Good afternoon.” “Good afternoon.” That was all. And somehow, that was enough. Cindy went back to managing a nuclear power plant, and Daniel went back to his office, his paperwork and his responsibilities. And somewhere after work, Cindy would still be looking for the feral cats she had promised herself she'd never forget. And Daniel would go home to Mr. G., who would probably greet him like he had been gone for six months instead of eight hours. Their lives went on. Not together. But without bitterness. Because sometimes love isn't about getting the person you want. Sometimes it's about having enough respect for them to accept the answer they gave you. And sometimes, in the quiet spaces between one person's life and another's, that's as close to love as two people ever need to get.

A Life In Motion: Looking Back From 64

When I look back now, at 64 years old, widowed and living in Bowling Green, Kentucky with my Australian Shepherd dog Mr. Jude, it doesn’t feel like a straight line. It feels more like a long road with a lot of turns I didn’t see coming — but each one mattered. It really starts back in Hernando High School in Mississippi, where I graduated in May of 1982 as senior class president. I didn’t know it then, but that early responsibility — being involved, being present, being trusted — was going to follow me for the rest of my life. But even before that foundation fully formed, there was another quieter thread already being woven into my life. In 1980, I lived for about six months in Savannah, Tennessee with my sister and brother-in-law. That’s where my sister first introduced me to the Catholic faith in a meaningful way. It planted an early seed — something I didn’t fully understand at the time, but something that would stay with me. From there, I went straight into the University of Mississippi in Oxford, where I attended from 1982 to 1987. Ole Miss wasn’t just college — it was a defining chapter. I joined Sigma Pi fraternity, Beta Mu chapter, where I served as pledge class president my freshman year and later as treasurer my sophomore year. I also worked with the Daily Mississippian as a reporter and entertainment editor which shaped the journalist in me more than I realized at the time. And I was involved with Campus Crusade for Christ, where faith, service, and purpose started to take deeper root. One of the most powerful experiences of that time was KC83 in Kansas City, Missouri, where 27,000 college students gathered under one roof. The event featured speakers such as Billy Graham, Christian author Josh McDowell, and Bill Bright, who was the founder of Campus Crusade for Christ (Cru). From there, students went into surrounding neighborhoods working alongside outreach efforts and the Salvation Army. That experience left a lasting impression — faith wasn’t just something you talked about, it was something you lived and carried into action. Somewhere in those Ole Miss years, I met Patty when I married her in April of 1986. Faith continued to grow in the background of life, but it became more personal and intentional when Patty came into my life in 1986. She became the one who helped deepen that early foundation my sister had planted years before. Together, we began attending St. John's Catholic Church (Oxford, Mississippi), where my faith began to take clearer shape in daily life. After college, life shifted quickly. Patty and I moved to her hometown of Russellville, Kentucky in 1987. For about six months, I worked as a sports writer for the Logan Leader-News Democrat. That was a return to journalism in a small-town setting — covering local sports, people, and community life. During that time, our Catholic faith continued through Sacred Heart Catholic Church (Russellville, Kentucky), and it became a steady part of our life together. When we later settled in Bowling Green, we became members of Holy Spirit Catholic Church (Bowling Green, Kentucky), and have remained connected there since around 1988. I was confirmed in the Catholic faith in 1990, and I have remained faithful and active in the Church ever since. From Russellville, we moved to Bowling Green, where a long stretch of working life began. I went into life insurance sales with Commonwealth Life Insurance, based out of Louisville, working through the Bowling Green branch. After that, I worked for Kentucky Central, headquartered in Lexington. That job came with a lot of training — a week in Louisville staying at the Brown Hotel, and another week in Lexington at the Hyatt, with classes at Kincade Towers. It was structured, intense, and built around learning how to serve people through something as serious as financial protection. After that chapter, I stepped into what I’ve always considered my dream job — working for The Daily News in Bowling Green, Kentucky. There I served as a reporter, book reviewer and news clerk. It brought me back to journalism in a deeper way — not just covering stories, but shaping them, editing them, and living inside the rhythm of a newsroom again. It felt like coming home to the work I was meant to do. After that period in journalism, I transitioned into pest control — first with Orkin, where I spent 11 years. That career took me all over the Southcentral Kentucky, including training schools in places like Atlanta, Georgia. It was hands-on work, long hours, travel, and steady responsibility. You learned discipline quickly in that field. After Orkin, I moved into Ecolab, which brought another chapter of training and travel — including flying up to St. Paul, Minnesota for training at the Ecolab tower. There was lots of training also with Ecolab that seemed to come with classrooms, airports, hotels, and new faces — learning, always learning, adapting, always adapting as well as the strict demands of taking care of the customer. Altogether, those years across Orkin and Ecolab became about 27 years in pest control and service work — a long stretch of providing for my family, building stability, and staying in motion. Somewhere in that life, my son Tony was born in Mississippi before we moved to Kentucky — another anchor point in the timeline that changed everything about what mattered. After retiring from that long 27 year pest control career in 2021, I didn’t really stop working. I began working part-time at Walmart as a door host in asset protection. I’ve been there going on almost five years now, minus the time I stepped away to care for Patty. That period of caregiving — about 20 months as her full-time caregiver — is one of the most defining parts of my life. Nothing in all those jobs, schools, or travels compares to that time. It changed how I understand love, responsibility, and presence. Patty passed on May 1, 2025, and that absence never really leaves the room. It just becomes part of the quiet you learn to live with. Now, I live in Bowling Green with Mr. Jude, my dog and man's best friend and companion as they say, and I fill my days with work, walking, writing, and karaoke. Singing covers on social media isn’t about performance — it’s about expression. It’s about keeping something alive inside me after loss, after change, after all the miles. And looking back across all of it, I’ve come to believe something simple but steady: that everything in life happens for a reason and a purpose. Even the hard things. Especially the hard things. The good and the bad both teach us something if we’re willing to see it. Sometimes life feels like a road where you hit a dead end, have to turn around, and find a different path — learning along the way what fits and what doesn’t, and learning patience in the process. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also learned that wisdom might be one of the greatest gifts that comes with time. Not because life gets easier, but because you begin to understand how to carry it. You learn how to deal with crisis, stress, disappointment — and still keep moving forward. That’s one of the quiet gifts of retirement, too. After decades of working, traveling, training, and responsibility, there’s something meaningful about finally being able to slow down, breathe, and reflect. To rest the body and quiet the mind after years of motion. Of course, I miss Patty deeply. That kind of loss doesn’t leave you — it just becomes part of who you are. And as for the dating world, it feels like uncharted waters at this point in my life. Even after a year as a widower, I don’t think I’m fully prepared for that chapter yet. There are people I care about, people I find myself drawn to, but I also understand that timing matters. I try to trust that God knows what’s ahead, and I’m simply trying to walk in His will for whatever comes next. When I put it all together — Hernando High, Ole Miss, Savannah, Russellville, Bowling Green, journalism, insurance sales, pest control, caregiving, Walmart, and everything in between — I don’t see separate lives. I see one continuous journey of learning, working, loving, losing, and growing. It wasn’t a straight road. But it was a meaningful one. And I’m still walking it.

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!"