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

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.

Making A Beeline For Buc-ee's BBQ Beef Brisket Sandwiches In Smiths Grove, Ky.

I have to admit that I did not pay a visit to the new Buc-ee's, one of our most talked about businesses in our county or even the region until this month. Our Buc-ee's is located about 19 miles up the road from us here in Bowling Green, Ky , on I-65. I went once in the afternoon and once in the morning, both on weekdays. The Texas based chain, Buc-ee's is the Wal-Mart of all super gas stations anywhere in the country and they offers tons of fuel pumps, their famous BBQ Beef Brisket sandwiches, beef jerky, Beaver Nuggets, fudge and glazed nuts among thousands of other items. And no semi-tractor trucks are allowed either. Only passenger vehicles and RV's are allowed. And they have many, many clean restroom stalls and urinals to offer too. Our Buc-ee's, which is nestled in Northeast Warren County, has been in the small town of Smiths Grove, Ky., for over a year now.  I first heard a lot about Buc-ee's, especially the buzz when it was announced that they were coming to town. Then it was the grand opening buzz.  Since my two visits there, I have determined that it's really not a place for locals to go.  It's for the interstate traveler.  That's who they have in mind and designed it for as well who they cater to.  It's for people who are traveling and who need to stop to fuel up and who want a nice place stop rather than having to deal with a truck stop and all of the diesel fuel as well as the black smoke in the air.  It's for people who are looking for clean restrooms and who don't want to wait in line to use one either.  It's for people who want to take their time looking around and shop. Mainly, it is for people who are hungry and thirsty.  Even though, I am a local, I wanted to stop out of curiosity just to see what all the buzz was about.  And I saw it with my own eyes.  Yes, it's everything they say it is and more.  To me, it's like going to Disney World. Everyone appears to be on vacation or at least traveling to a certain destination. It's extremely crowded. It's impossible to walk a straight line inside the mega giant gas station/retail store because everyone walks in front of you or they think you are walking in front of them.  I didn't try the fuel pumps so they I don't know what that experience is like. I used their restrooms during each visit. Yes, it is true. They are very clean and there are a lot stalls and urinals. And after I poured me Arizona Tea Watermelon flavor fountain drink, I also made a beeline for the Buc-ee's BBQ Beef Brisket sandwiches, paid for them and got out of there as quick as possible.  I repeated the same thing during each visit. And by the way, there's no place to sit down to eat or drink. So you have to go to your car, to do that. There BBQ Beef Brisket cost around $9.00 and they are worth it because they are delicious. 

So if you have never stopped at a Buc-ee's, you need to do it at least once, just to see what it is like.  Then you will see what I mean. 

Newsroom Chronicles No. 2

30 years ago yesterday I rebooted my pest management career on Feb 1, 1995. I had worked for Orkin, a nationwide pest management company prior for six months in 1989 before going to work in the newsroom at the Bowling Green Daily News in Bowling Green, Ky., in May of 1990. I worked there as an editorial assistant, staff writer and book reviewer for almost five years. Print journalism was my major course of study when I attended the University of (Ole Miss) in Oxford, Miss., from 1982-1987. However, after several turn of events and circumstances in my life where I pretty much hit a dead end in my newspaper career, it was time for me to move on. I decided to go back to Orkin. After I made a phone call to someone who I knew at the local branch and who apparently still believe in me, he was able to help me get back on. Also, a couple of other people I knew who also worked there, were a big support to me too. But during the first two years, I have to admit, I hated it. I had an ego problem. So I had to learn to shed my ego and so I checked out some self help tapes from our local library and I began to listen to them in my work truck as I drove down the roads and highways of Bowling Green and Southcentral Kentucky to my accounts. Mainly, I came to understand that we “we are not our jobs.” It’s just a label and it’s how we get our money. The real person is on the inside. It’s how we treat other people that really matters in life. So that’s how I learn to be successful in the pest management business which was to be nice to my customers. That’s what customers want the most is for their service person to be somebody they can trust, be nice and be respectful. And of course, take care of their pest issues too. So after 11 years with Orkin, I left there and went to work for Ecolab, a global corporation (commercial accounts only) working in the Bowling Green and Southcentral Kentucky market still. Again, those same principles applied with my customers for those last 15 years with Ecolab. When I retired from my pest management career after 27 years altogether, I worked in the retail world at Walmart for two years and then I tried my hand as a school bus driver for eight months for Warren County Public Schools. Unfortunately, I had to quit abruptly in order to stay home with my wife as her full-time caregiver not long after she was diagnosed with Parkinson's in April of 2024. I have been at home with her 10 months now and I can honestly say it's the toughest job that I have ever had. However, as I look back at all the years in my working career now that I am retired, it was my communication skills that I learned in journalism school at Ole Miss and my five years of work in the newsroom at the Bowling Green Daily News that gave me the confidence to excel in my pest management career with Orkin and Ecolab. Not to mention it was my education and newspaper experience that helped me greatly in that vast unknown and unchartered territory in life that we all experience in our working careers. And somehow by the grace of God, I have been able to find my way to get to this point where time has become my best friend.

"It Is Better To Light A Candle Than Curse The Darkness"-Eleanor Roosevelt

Newsroom Chronicles No. 1

I figured I wrote at least 5,000 obits for the Bowling Green Daily News from 1990-1995. For the first couple of years, I had to

Galen working in the newsroom in the early 90's.

transcribe them over phone from the funeral home while typing them into the computer. Then we advanced to having them faxed to us by the funeral homes with the latest technology at the time. However, at one point, I got to where I was making a lot of mistakes in the obits because of my dyslexia or learning disability. I was on the verge of being fired by the managing editor who had a notorious reputation of giving you hell if you got on his bad side. Needless to say, I got on his bad side. He gave me two weeks to straighten up or be shipped out. I even tried to make a deal with him like they do in politics in Washington, D.C. these days. He told me that he doesn't make deals. He was a former military man and he was strict. Anyway, I buckled down learned to focus on my work and concentration skills while I was at home at night and on the weekends. Mainly, I learned to slow down and read over the copy three times before I sent it on. After two weeks, he called me back into his office stating that I had improved and I was able to keep my job. I also apologized to him about trying to make a deal with him (I don't remember what the deal was about but he accepted my apology. He could be really firm when he had to be. In my case, he was really firm with me. He has passed away now) Instead, I took responsibility for my mistakes. If you are having problems at your job. No. 1.) Be respectful of your boss and take responsibility for your mistakes. Apologize and tell him or her that you will work on improving. Your attitude towards your boss and job is very important. 2.) Slow down and learned to do the job right. 3.) Practice and study your job skill set in order to improve. Practice your job requirements when you are off duty. In other words, practice your job on your own time at home. If you do these steps, you will be able to keep your job.