Good Day.

I don’t write a whole bunch of tear-worthy memory-jerking stories that mean an entire lot to me.  I try to more or less just be funny and poke fun at the things I seem to find any humor in.  Tonight however, I feel almost compelled to put SOMETHING out there just to capture this moment and recall the powerful memories that I have regarding Paul Harvey.

Paul Harvey, while not a major instrument in my development as a child or even adolescent, did bring me comfort, wisdom and some laughs when I was finally old enough to understand the kinds of things he would talk about in his short radio programs.  Paul Harvey was my first introduction to “talk radio” as I knew it back in the day.

When I was in second grade my family moved from Alabama to Washington.  My dad had moved up a few months prior and got acclimated to his job as well as secured us a home to live in.  The transition was not fun in the slightest.  Entering third grade we moved to a house my parents purchased, taking us out of the rental we had been in, and switching schools again.  A whole new batch of kids to learn the faces of, and a new year of ridicule and harassment.

Being eight years old and having a thick southern drawl kind of made you stick out in Kent, Washington back in 1980.  I found myself doing things and joining activities that I thought my parents really wanted me to do.  Cub Scouts, Boys Scouts, Baseball, shoplifting, you know the usual.

One of the things I hated most was getting my hair cut.  It wasn’t so much I hated it, as I saw it as a waste of time.  I never had a say in how my hair was to be trimmed, and I had to sit on this stupid booster seat thing with my back to the super large mirror.  I didn’t get to see the carnage until it was all done.  Once I was done having my ears lowered, it was my dad’s turn which seemed to take forever as he would chat up the barber and I would thumb through the various magazines on the other side of the shop.

This was an old-school barber shop with an actual spinning striped pole outside the door.  The name was Bill’s Barber Shop and I think its still there in downtown Auburn.  One of the first things my dad had scouted out when he was forging new frontiers for our growing family.  Bill is/was an Inuit Indian from Alaska (I think I learned) but for the longest time just assumed he was a ‘regular’ Indian what with all the Muckleshoot and Puyallup things around here.

Bill’s radio only played AM, and either Paul Harvey had a longer show than he did a few weeks ago, or we were just always there at the right time.  His friendly voice and even-tempo seemed so welcoming and cordial.  I had no idea what he was ever talking about, but while he talked I didn’t care.

For the longest time I didn’t even know if Paul Harvey was even still alive until KVI (570AM) started playing his commentaries twice a day.  His voice, still melodic brought those barber shop memories back as fresh as if they were yesterday.  I could even smell the talc-like powder from his brushes and fell the cool mist from his spray bottle that would dampen my hair before the final combing.

More than just the shop that I thought wasted so much of my valuable pre-teen hours, it reminded me almost continually of the sacrifices and love of my dad who cared enough to make sure I looked presentable with a tidy mane, rather than look like a hillbilly ragamuffin.  No voice coach or speech therapy – but my hair looked good.

Thanks Dad.  Thanks Bill.  And Thanks Paul Harvey – may you rest in peace.

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