“Dude, slow down! We’re only little.”

I have three short stories for your entertainment and reading pleasure. Plus, they’re all true:

Every time I visit with 2nd graders, I get a laugh out of it.  They are so honest, and funny.  I was about to read “Clifford the Big Red Dog” to Sandra Feher’s class at East Ridge Elementary, and I did my usual pep talk about reading.  They all raised their hand, they love to read.  I asked if 2nd grade was fun, and again, all hands went up.  When I asked, “Are you looking forward to 3rd grade?” only a few hands went up.  “So are you worried about 3rd grade?” I asked. Immediately, they began voicing their concerns about more homework, and learning the times tables.

I started in with the sales pitch.  “You’re going to LOVE 3rd grade!” I said.  “You’re going to read more fun stuff, you’ll get even smarter than you are now!”  I was on a roll.  “Then soon you’ll be in middle school, and you’ll get REALLY smart!”  I couldn’t leave well enough alone.  “And then you’ll be in high school, and that’s going to be even MORE fun!”  A 7-year-old girl put up her hand as if to stop me, and said, “Dude, slow down!  We’re only little!”

At the other end of the spectrum, I met Claude Ogle Sr. of Cleveland, who turned 99 a few days ago.  I had been told by his son Ken, “You need to do a story on my dad, he’s amazing.”  Ken told me how Claude plays piano and sings “for the older folks” in Cleveland.  I wondered how many folks in Cleveland were indeed older than Claude.  So I walked up to the entrance of the Cleveland Towers expecting to find a feeble 99-year-old man.  When I got to the locked front door, a man raced into the lobby to let me in.  He appeared to be about 75.  I said, “I’m here to interview the older gentleman, Mr. Ogle.”  The man said, “You’re talking to him now, is this part of the interview?”

It turned into quite a story.  The barrel-chested Mr. Ogle is fit as a fiddle, with a razor-sharp memory, and an even sharper sense of humor.  He’s got every gospel song in the hymnal memorized, plus several that he wrote himself.  I asked him the question every reporter asks, when doing a story on someone who’s at or near the century mark.  “What are the secrets to a long life?”  Claude solemnly pointed skyward, as if to say, “The good Lord.”  Then without missing a beat, he added, “And Hardee’s biscuits.”

Every morning, he drives (yes, he drives) to Hardee’s, where he downs a biscuit or two, and holds court with other golden-agers.  I don’t care what they say about salt, butter and cholesterol.  I’ve seen those early-morning crowds at Hardee’s.  Those aren’t spring chickens.  Something in those biscuits is keeping folks alive.  Just ask Claude.  By the way, he’s a longtime fan of my radio pal Luther Masingill.  He said he’s listened to him since the 1940s, and talked to him on the phone “about fifty years ago.”  He asked, “How old is Luther now?”  I said, “He’ll be 92 next week.”  “Oh, he’s just a kid,” Claude said.  “Get him up here, and I’ll buy him a biscuit!”  I may have to make that happen.

Finally, another Tale of a Teenage Disc Jockey.  My first radio job was at WEPG in South Pittsburg.  At the age of 16, I rode my motorcycle to the station each Sunday to play the hits from noon until 6:00 p.m.  I would get there a few minutes early, to set up my show.  I followed a small church group that sang, played and preached in the adjoining studio.  They were nice folks, and I would hold the door for them as they carried their instruments out at the end of their service.  But mostly, I would sit in my studio, reading the Sunday sports section, waiting for them to finish so I could play the Rolling Stones and the Doobie Brothers.

I think it was my fourth week on the job.  I’m just sitting there, reading about the Braves, with the church service going on in the background.  I’m halfway listening, so I’ll know when they’re finished.  Suddenly, the preacher said, quite eloquently, “Brothers and sisters, before we leave you on this beautiful Sunday, I’d like to say a word about this young brother in the next studio.  Brother David is just sixteen years old, but he helps us load up our equipment, makes sure the microphones are turned off, and he’s just a real blessing to us.  So Brother David, we’d like to ask you to say our closing prayer.”

“You want me to do WHAT?” I didn’t say that out loud, but I’m sure my fear-stricken face reflected that emotion.  After a pause of maybe five seconds,  (it seemed like a minute), he repeated his kind request.  “Go ahead young man, give thanks to the Lord.”  Let me be clear: I had never prayed publicly.  Still, I was on live radio.  There is nothing worse than dead air.  So, summoning all my courage, and my best recollection of what people said while praying, I mumbled something about “Father, we thank you for this food…um, that sure was a good service, and we thank you for that, and uh, well, be safe and have a good day and Amen.”  To be honest, I don’t know if that’s exactly what I said, but I guarantee it wasn’t any better than that.

Not my best moment as a broadcaster, to be sure.  But it taught me a lesson: be ready for anything.  Ever since that day, I’ve tried to make sure that I’m never caught by surprise, when I’m on live TV or radio.  It didn’t seem like it that day, but my little prayer “blooper” was a blessing in disguise. So I’m giving thanks for that, here and now.