It was my last show in Tupelo, spinning King Of the Road on turntable two, I had no plan, nowhere to go, I hadn’t even sent out any audition tapes.

I picked up one of the phone lines, expecting a preteen girl wanting to hear Herman’s Hermits, but it was a male caller. The man identified himself as a Program Director (PD) in Wilmington, North Carolina.  North what? They had an immediate opening; did I know anyone at WTUP who might be interested?

Okay, very funny, this had to be a practical joker or a man hitting on me. But I really didn’t think any Jocks at WTUP would have someone prank me and my audience didn’t know it was my last night on the air.

The PD calling was covering the shift that needed filling. He asked me to hold. I heard him announce the end of California Girls and, while giving the weather said something like, in case you’re going to the beach. Beach? Yes. Wilmington was a short ride from two popular beaches, Carolina and Wrightsville (Think: Wright Bros). Never seen the ocean before.

I surprised myself by negotiating with him on salary and an airline ticket to get there, and I didn’t tell him I was on my last shift. I would have taken my first two jobs for anything they offered, and although I’d  just turned eighteen, I had gained some confidence in being able to deal with the realities or trying to make a living. No more free rent and car.

I was headed to a city about four times the size of Tupelo at more than double my salary. I would be making my first airplane flight — for free.

The last couple of songs I played for the good people of Tupelo, That’s Alright and another Elvis song from Haram Scarum few had probably heard, Go East, Young Man.

Momma, of course, didn’t want me to go. And although I hadn’t lived at home full-time for a couple of years, Momma certainly was not happy for me moving so far away. I had no reservations whatsoever.

Dale was excited for me, knowing I was on the way to fulfilling my dream. He picked me up in his new 1965 Chrysler Newport coupe (that he still has) for the first leg of the trip. On the radio, I’m Henry (the) VIII, I Am, by Herman Hermits, played. I was so sick of that song; I must have taken a hundred requests from preteen girls.  By the time an avid radio listener has heard a song ten times, the DJ has played it twenty.

We silenced the radio and talked as we rolled past harvested cotton and corn fields, vast dusty farmland, baled hay, cattle, and silos.  Shacks, trailers, and brick houses dotted the landscape through towns like Verona, Cotton Gin Hill, Nettleton, Union, and Shiloh. In forty-five minutes, we were at the small Tupelo Regional.

It was early Fall 1965, clear and cool, and after checking one suitcase, I skipped up the temporary ramp where I was greeted by an attractive flight attendant who directed me to a seat. I don’t remember any safety briefing. The fuselage creaked on the Piedmont prop-driven thirty-passenger relic, and her engines coughed and sputtered as we rolled toward takeoff for the 614 nautical mile flight east.

On my first flight, looking out the windows, I was struck by the farms below and how precisely they were outlined, pretty even; I was not so impressed that I longed for agriculture, though. Naturally, I thought of my days working in fields like those — the hot sun bearing down on me all day. I wondered why we had lived so poorly. Had it really been necessary? With modern conveniences, Momma’s life would have been so much easier.

During the long flight, I sat next to an attractive woman about ten years my senior for most of the trip. Naturally, I told her about my new and exciting job as a Top-40 Dee Jay. I was so excited and impressed with myself that I foolishly tried to kiss her just before we touched down. No airport police were called.

How, why? WPLO, Atlanta, was one of the 20 or so leading stations in the Country.  We had its former extremely popular DJ, Steve Reno, doing morning drive 6 am-10 am, a station’s prime time. The theory is that the station you’re listening to early in the a.m. is the one you will continue with the rest of the day/night.

What was Steve doing here, well out of the Top-50 market segment?  As Program Director and morning drive DJ, he was paid handsomely, an educated guess-$400 a week (about $3,900 in 2023 money), and had almost singlehandedly turned the station into Number One. Achievements of that magnitude will not go unnoticed in the tight-knit sphere of radio.

In any 15 minute period, WHSL had about as many listeners as the other four stations combined! An estimated 40,000 potential shoppers were listening to us and hearing our commercials.  We could charge advertisers twice as much as the other stations for our commercials — forty dollars for a one-minute ad in prime time. Back in Amory, it was three or four dollars.

I was renting a nice room, eating all my meals out, having a steak every other day, and getting around in my 1959 baby blue Cadillac. With those incredible tail fins, it was arguably one of the most recognizable and pretty cars of the 50s and 60s.

There were scores of pretty girls to date, too. Cigarettes were 22 cents a pack, and Wilmington had lots of liquor stores (not that I was using them, but it was something new to me).

Life was so fantastic it could have ended right there.

Something is amiss if a decent-looking, popular Top-40 DJ with a Cadillac can’t score. I’m guessing my readers aren’t interested in the specifics of any sexual escapades I might have had. Most of the time, I was dating just one girl. I know, a real gentleman, me. During this period, I would also meet my future wife.

A refresher from Chapter Seven: One of the two things that came easy for me was falling in love. She was at another girl’s house when I first saw her. She had short blond hair, was tall and slender, had a mysterious persona, and was shy. No, it would not be one of those “love at first sight” things, but I was intrigued.

We soon began dating, but understandably (well, to guys, anyway), I kept my semi-steady girl, Mary. I led both Marty (pseudonym) and Mary to believe that we were in a serious relationship, bordering on love.

10

*From my first paycheck, I sent Momma 100 dollars.