To go directly to the story "The Little Boy"-- CLICK HERE then return to leave your comments below.

Now, back to Bobby's Blog:

...sweet, sad, nauseous, nostalgic and innocent feelings.

And I had ALL of those feelings every "first Tuesday after Labor Day." That was the traditional first day of school when I was a kid. A day my folks were happy to get me out of the house and I was filled with anxiety over the bullies who often picked on me. (NOTE: why can't school start at the same time for everyone? And in the name of God WHY do kids have to be in classrooms in the middle of August in Tucson, Arizona when it's 107 freakin' degrees?)

Perhaps you were listening when I read the wonderful story "THE LITTLE BOY" by Helen Buckley on the Morning MIX? (HERE it is) I wish I could say my parents and teachers encouraged me to express myself and "color outside the lines." Because that must have been pre-loaded in my brain. But as far as I recall nobody ever told me to let it out. Just like the Little Boy they always seemed to be telling me HOW to do it because my way was wrong. Nonetheless it built and built and crept out in all kinds of ways in my earliest youth.

I was always starting some kind of project or business. A detective agency, a sign shop, a newspaper, a bicycle repair shop. I worked at my dad's bowling center and had paying jobs shining shoes at the barbershop and delivering the local paper. I was even a Fuller Brush Boy! The local distributor paid me for every catalog I delivered and appointment I set up for him to come back.

My folks liked that I had those 'real' jobs. Especially since I was 9, 10, and 11 years old. To be fair, they put up with all my other silly stuff too. But when it came to school it was all serious work and I better do well because my dad was a former educator and my sisters were top of their class students.

I wasn't.

My first radio station was built in my bedroom when I was 12. I used the money I made to buy some stuff and "found" the rest. It took months to acquire the equipment: my sisters old turntable, a transmitter kit mail ordered from Allied Radio, speakers that were designed for a model train set up, Radio Shack microphone, commercial copy and news stories I retrieved from the trash at the local radio station. I did secret dry runs when nobody was around. Once I was confident I ran wires and speakers to the family dining room and asked if I could eat in my room and provide dinner music from now on. OK, so they did let me do that but I think it was mostly because I drove my sisters nuts at the dinner table.

Meanwhile, school was more painful--sometimes literally--than it was an educational experience. Being targeted by bullies is no fun. For one thing it keeps you paranoid all day wondering when some goon is going to come up behind you and push you to the ground. They'd laugh. I'd try not to cry. And I'd find a safe place to wait out the storm.

So ‘back to school’ brings all kinds of memories rushing back. Still, in all, those experiences helped me find my passion. It of course is radio. And it is why—after all these decades—I can sincerely say, “I love what I do and DO what I love”!

 (*) For those who read "The Little Boy" please note:
I decided to read the "alternate" (not original) version even though the original is sweeter and, most would say, more positive. My personal experience with a parent who was concerned more with obedience and conformity than with encouraging his child's creativity led me to this decision. Your comments are welcome below.