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.