My new life at Loyola came with plenty of lessons. Some were as simple as correctly pronouncing the letter 'W.' Most others were the fundamentals I'd later use for a life in broadcast news. Still, not a single one of those Loyola lessons compared to my 'on the job' experience. Those epiphanies are paragraphs still in my knuckles, far from my fingertips.
Once I passed English, on the first try I might add, the good Loyola Jesuits gave me the green light to proceed with the journalism courses required for major. But before the good stuff like getting on camera, we had what I considered the dull stuff. Unbeknownst to me at that time, it was the dull stuff I'd use everyday on the job and still know by rote many years after walking away from the newsroom.
The sole instructor charged with teaching us the fundamentals was Mr. Cremedas, arguably the most patient person on earth. Imagine if you had a classroom of students who knew absolutely nothing about their career and you had to teach them everything. That was Mr. Cremedas. I guess he was Greek. I remember he had a raspy voice, a pretty large nose and always wore a cardigan sweater. He was a good guy. We had a phone conversation many years later while he was working at a TV station in Syracuse, NY and I was at a TV station in West Virginia. He didn't remember me at all.
The first task Mr. Cremedas had for us was teaching us how to write. Writing for the news, especially radio and TV news, is not at all like writing this blog, a letter or a business note. J-School students and anchors/producers/reporters, at least while I was in the business, are told: "ACTIVE VOICE! ACTIVE VOICE! WRITE IN THE ACTIVE VOICE! Plus, we were taught to omit 'unnecessary words.'
So, three times a week we'd sit in our pretend newsroom on the third floor of the Loyola Communications building. Mr. Cremedas would have each of us 'rip' copy from the A-P and UPI wires and re-write the stories in radio/TV speak.
Here's how we were taught to write. If I chose an A-P story that originally read: "An Abilene man was killed yesterday after an attack by Africanized bees," I was taught to write: "Africanized kill an Abilene man. I'm more than 30-years removed from that pretend newsroom and that sentence still doesn't make sense to me, but that's the way were taught.
Another technique was using gerunds to present a more present voice. For example, "Bees killing a local man..." I know that sounds so wrong, but it was so right in the old school days for radio/TV reporting.
Later with more experience under my belt, I'd write and encourage producers to write in the past/active voice. So, the above story would read on air as: "Africanized bees killed a local man..."
The point is, Mr. Cremedas started us all at the extreme bottom. I guess he knew, at least when it came to the active voice, that we'd stick with it long enough to find our voice. That was one of the epiphanies I learned over 16(ish) years anchoring and producing... The news should be delivered in the anchor's own voice. But if you watch the evening news, even the network anchors, they'll use present tense for an event that very likely happened days... even weeks earlier. Their point being: NOW! NOW! NOW!
Fast forward a semester or two, we're all now taking the TV reporting classes. Mr. Cremedas, still the patient fundamental guy and still donning his cardigan, had us 'team-up' with a partner. I teamed up with Anne Fishman.
Anne was in transition. I think she was divorced. I know she had children my age. But since I was the oldest in class second only to her, it seemed natural for Anne and me to partner-up.
Thinking back on those days, Anne reminds me of the actor Dianne Weist in the original "Footloose." She was very buttoned up, although in her case I think her buttons came from Ann Taylor.
Our assignment was to find a story, record a story, write a story and present a story in less than two minutes. I was Anne's photographer. She was mine. We'd check out equipment that included a big, heavy camera, a "three-quarter inch" recorder and a super awkward tri-pod. I can't remember a single story for either of us, although I do remember a 'stand-up' that took me at least 23 takes.
The only story I remember from those days and I'm embarrassed about it, came from another duo. One of those students was Annette. I don't remember the other. Their story was on the proper application of a condom and like all of our stories, it too was presented to the whole class.
I remember Mr. Cremedas saying, with all of us crammed into an edit bay, "Play the tape." For the next two minutes we heard the narrated story that included a condom, a banana and step by step instructions, with close-up video. Mr. Cremedas never lost his cool, at least not in front of us.
Bill Robertson, WDSU-TV, the Pope under a tree and roast beef po-boys from The Napoleon House
My News Days #2
The first thing I found out in my quest to become the next Peter Jennings was.... Television news wasn't as easy as it looked and going to college in New Orleans was quite the eye opener.
Earlier, I wrote that Table #43 at Tavern on the Park nudged me into going back to college with a purpose and it was my old friend Richard Olivier who nudged me into enrolling in Loyola, New Orleans. Here's a quick sidebar about Loyola University. There are four campuses; Chicago, Baltimore, California and New Orleans. Loyola is a Jesuit college. So, if you drew a line from the Maryland campus to the California campus and then drew a line from the Chicago campus to the NOLA campus, you've drawn a cross.
But don't let these Catholics on steroids fool you. They may take anyone into their fold, but once you're there, you better toe the line, academically speaking, or they're happy to show you the door.
I think I enrolled in Loyola in 1984, about the time most of my high school classmates were graduating with under-graduate degrees. I say it was 1984 because I distinctly remember The World's Fair in NOLA.
I was still waiting tables for Mr. and Mrs. Sands at Tavern on the Park. I think Mr. Sands had had enough of Del Frisco and bought his interest in the restaurant. I remember all of us were very happy about that because while good steaks.... not such a good guy. His real name is Dale Wanstadt if you ever see him. But back to The World's Fair... Oh, what a time!
One of my good friends at the time was Reis (pronounced Reese) Hanson from Milwaukee. He had a deviated septum that caused a consistent nasal growl, a wolf as a dog, an old M.G. that he'd hotwire to start and at one point he had a beautiful 1969 Jaguar XKE. The MG was for errands. The Jag was for going out.
Reis was an engineering student at Tulane. I don't know if he ever did it, but he was working on a patent for a tri-folding crutch. He came up with the idea after a foot or leg injury. He got tired of trying to store his crutches. So, he developed crutches that folded into about 16-inches versus four or five feet.
Somehow, Reis got the job as the pyro-technics man for a week at The World's Fair. His job was to set up the nightly fireworks show that fired off a barge on the Mississippi River each night of the fair. He'd set up the show during the day, then at night we'd climb aboard the barge and boat downriver to fire off the show. We'd sit on the front edge of the barge in those old school cloth, folding chairs. We'd strap on our walk-mans and listen to "Tangerine Dream". The mighty Mississippi was literally only feet beneath us and the NOLA skyline with the giant Mississippi bridge were the only things in our path. It was pure psychedelic sans the psychedelics.
I don't know what happened to Reis. We talked many years later, but that was the last I've heard from him.
The World's Fair was the summer of 1984. So, I must've started classes at Loyola, NOLA in the fall. My declared major was Broadcast Journalism as per the nudge from Table #43.
I wrote earlier that the Jesuits are happy to have you, but you better perform or they're happy to show you the door. That's absolutely true. I remember my first visit with my counselor. He or she was very enthusiastic about my plans.
"Here are the courses that transferred from Stephen F. Austin (not many)," he or she explained. "Here's what you need to start with here."
"Okay. Got it. What's this notation by English?"
"Well, you can take as many hours as you want, but we require all incoming students to take English."
"Sure."
"It's pass or fail," he or she kind of whispered with their head down looking at my transcript.
"What do you mean?" All of a sudden I'm paying attention.
"If you pass, you can take more courses. If you fail, you either take it until you pass or you leave."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
So, I took English and a few other pretty simple communications courses. I'd had a good high school education and been raised in a home that used proper subject-verb agreement. But now, all bets were off. I had to do it the Loyola way.
The long story short is: I did fine. Somewhere between my first college days and my second college days, I figured out that if I actually went to class, completed the assignments and participated in class... College wasn't that hard. Who knew?!
Folks, I feel like I've dug a hole for myself. This post is getting too long and I still have many stories to tell. But first, here's one to end on.... at least for now.
Radio/TV college work comes with lots of "lab" time. We started with radio. We learned how to write, report, edit and finally we had our own news segment on the college radio station with the call letters WWL-Radio.
We didn't actually go into the 'field.' Our instructor, in my case Mike Cremedas, allowed us to use the A-P and UPI wires. We'd take those stories, re-write them and then present them in an approximately three minute news segment on WWL.
In each student's case, the news segments were during another student's music D.J. time. They'd play their music and D.J. on the campus radio.... And thank goodness that it was aired only on campus.
My D.J. was a young man from Somalia or somewhere else in eastern Africa. I've forgotten his name but his music was all African. It was pretty good too. Then at a precise point in the hour, he'd introduce me. But because his dialect was so thick, I missed my cue many times. I couldn't even recognize my own name.
Once I conquered his accent hurdle, I learned that I had my own to conquer.
My sign off was: "For dubya-dubya el, this is Bill Robertson."
I didn't know until Mr. Cremedas critiqued my tape that the correct pronunciation of a W is really 'double-U,' not dub-ya.
This is about the same time I realized our nation's capitol is Washington, D.C. not Warshington D.C. To say I had an accent issue was an understatement.
Bill Robertson, Soon: Roast Beef po-boys from the Napoleon House & the Pope under the tree and then out from under the tree.
Earlier, I wrote that Table #43 at Tavern on the Park nudged me into going back to college with a purpose and it was my old friend Richard Olivier who nudged me into enrolling in Loyola, New Orleans. Here's a quick sidebar about Loyola University. There are four campuses; Chicago, Baltimore, California and New Orleans. Loyola is a Jesuit college. So, if you drew a line from the Maryland campus to the California campus and then drew a line from the Chicago campus to the NOLA campus, you've drawn a cross.
But don't let these Catholics on steroids fool you. They may take anyone into their fold, but once you're there, you better toe the line, academically speaking, or they're happy to show you the door.
I think I enrolled in Loyola in 1984, about the time most of my high school classmates were graduating with under-graduate degrees. I say it was 1984 because I distinctly remember The World's Fair in NOLA.
I was still waiting tables for Mr. and Mrs. Sands at Tavern on the Park. I think Mr. Sands had had enough of Del Frisco and bought his interest in the restaurant. I remember all of us were very happy about that because while good steaks.... not such a good guy. His real name is Dale Wanstadt if you ever see him. But back to The World's Fair... Oh, what a time!
One of my good friends at the time was Reis (pronounced Reese) Hanson from Milwaukee. He had a deviated septum that caused a consistent nasal growl, a wolf as a dog, an old M.G. that he'd hotwire to start and at one point he had a beautiful 1969 Jaguar XKE. The MG was for errands. The Jag was for going out.
Reis was an engineering student at Tulane. I don't know if he ever did it, but he was working on a patent for a tri-folding crutch. He came up with the idea after a foot or leg injury. He got tired of trying to store his crutches. So, he developed crutches that folded into about 16-inches versus four or five feet.
Somehow, Reis got the job as the pyro-technics man for a week at The World's Fair. His job was to set up the nightly fireworks show that fired off a barge on the Mississippi River each night of the fair. He'd set up the show during the day, then at night we'd climb aboard the barge and boat downriver to fire off the show. We'd sit on the front edge of the barge in those old school cloth, folding chairs. We'd strap on our walk-mans and listen to "Tangerine Dream". The mighty Mississippi was literally only feet beneath us and the NOLA skyline with the giant Mississippi bridge were the only things in our path. It was pure psychedelic sans the psychedelics.
I don't know what happened to Reis. We talked many years later, but that was the last I've heard from him.
The World's Fair was the summer of 1984. So, I must've started classes at Loyola, NOLA in the fall. My declared major was Broadcast Journalism as per the nudge from Table #43.
I wrote earlier that the Jesuits are happy to have you, but you better perform or they're happy to show you the door. That's absolutely true. I remember my first visit with my counselor. He or she was very enthusiastic about my plans.
"Here are the courses that transferred from Stephen F. Austin (not many)," he or she explained. "Here's what you need to start with here."
"Okay. Got it. What's this notation by English?"
"Well, you can take as many hours as you want, but we require all incoming students to take English."
"Sure."
"It's pass or fail," he or she kind of whispered with their head down looking at my transcript.
"What do you mean?" All of a sudden I'm paying attention.
"If you pass, you can take more courses. If you fail, you either take it until you pass or you leave."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
So, I took English and a few other pretty simple communications courses. I'd had a good high school education and been raised in a home that used proper subject-verb agreement. But now, all bets were off. I had to do it the Loyola way.
The long story short is: I did fine. Somewhere between my first college days and my second college days, I figured out that if I actually went to class, completed the assignments and participated in class... College wasn't that hard. Who knew?!
Folks, I feel like I've dug a hole for myself. This post is getting too long and I still have many stories to tell. But first, here's one to end on.... at least for now.
Radio/TV college work comes with lots of "lab" time. We started with radio. We learned how to write, report, edit and finally we had our own news segment on the college radio station with the call letters WWL-Radio.
We didn't actually go into the 'field.' Our instructor, in my case Mike Cremedas, allowed us to use the A-P and UPI wires. We'd take those stories, re-write them and then present them in an approximately three minute news segment on WWL.
In each student's case, the news segments were during another student's music D.J. time. They'd play their music and D.J. on the campus radio.... And thank goodness that it was aired only on campus.
My D.J. was a young man from Somalia or somewhere else in eastern Africa. I've forgotten his name but his music was all African. It was pretty good too. Then at a precise point in the hour, he'd introduce me. But because his dialect was so thick, I missed my cue many times. I couldn't even recognize my own name.
Once I conquered his accent hurdle, I learned that I had my own to conquer.
My sign off was: "For dubya-dubya el, this is Bill Robertson."
I didn't know until Mr. Cremedas critiqued my tape that the correct pronunciation of a W is really 'double-U,' not dub-ya.
This is about the same time I realized our nation's capitol is Washington, D.C. not Warshington D.C. To say I had an accent issue was an understatement.
Bill Robertson, Soon: Roast Beef po-boys from the Napoleon House & the Pope under the tree and then out from under the tree.
My News Days #1
You don't go through seven years of college for nothing. You don't leave a career and never think of it again.
I was a television news guy for 16 years. It was a blessing and a curse. I've thought about it many times. So many times that I've decided to write down my memories in chronological order as I'm definitely a linear thinker.... and in this case a linear writer.
Why Did You Decide on a Career in Television News?
I was at my second college. I'd already had four majors in three years at Stephen F. Austin State University (SFA) in Nacogdoches, Texas. I failed or practically failed in all those (Forestry, Accounting, Finance & Psychology.) So, I dropped out for a girl and moved back to Baton Rouge with the intention of going to LSU in Baton Rouge.
Well, the girl dumped me and LSU said my grades weren't good enough. So, I became a waiter. First, I bar-backed at a disco called Rascals in Baton Rouge. I knew I was in trouble when Sonny, the manager who looked a lot like Joe Pesci, insisted everyone wear designer jeans. I was a Levi 501 guy. But, I got some Calvins and went to work.
My gig at Rascals was short lived. Soon, my best friend from high school who also went to SFA, Richard Olivier, gave me a call.
"Hey, what are you doin?"
"Oh, I'm bar-backing at a disco here in Baton Rouge," I said.
"C'mon, really?"
"Yeah."
"Get down here to New Orleans and look at Loyola. They'll take anyone as long as you can pay the bill and read and write."
So, I went. I didn't immediately enroll in Loyola. Instead, I worked on renovating an old, run-down two story house my mother had bought. The big, abandoned house was a disaster at the corner of Second and Baronne in what's called the New Orleans "Uptown Area." Richard helped me work on it.
I don't know if we started upstairs and worked our way down or visa versa. We went through about ten of those big dumpsters you see at construction sites. Homeless had apparently been living upstairs. We found and removed just about every disgusting thing you can imagine. We found burn holes in the floors, guessing that's where small fires were set for warmth or cooking. We removed dresser drawers apparently used as commodes. We pulled off all the sheet rock to the lathe work. Downstairs was an abandoned laundromat. I don't know how many old washers and dryers we tossed into the big dumpster but it was a lot. Whatever was inside the building was gone by the time a contractor agreed to take on the project.
I'd met with maybe a half dozen or more contractors hoping one of them would take on the big house.
"What do you think," I asked one while we stood on the corner.
I remember, he looked up and down to the left and to the right and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"How do you feel about dynamite," he said matter of factly.
The only contractor who didn't balk was an Englishman named Malcolm Sargent. I don't know how or why he was in New Orleans, but the prospect of taking on the old building became his challenge and his summer passion.
The end product was better than I could have ever imagined and the stories and events leading to that end were just as surprising.
Like I said, Malcolm was English. I'll never forget him telling me about his close encounter with Omar Sharif over dinner in London.
He said he was on a dinner date. The actor was in the restaurant, "in fact only a few tables away," he told me.
"He was a real jerk with a filthy mouth." I think he was telling me this story while we were driving somewhere in New Orleans or somewhere without the clanging of hammers or buzzing of saws because I remember we weren't interrupted.
"What happened?"
"I was on a date with my wife at the time. Omar Sharif was sitting behind her, but I could hear everything he was saying."
"What was he saying?"
"His mouth was just filthy. Curse word after curse word."
"What happened?"
"I guess you'd consider this my close call with a star. I got up, walked over to him, bent down and I said, 'Sir, you're language is very offensive. I'd appreciate it if you'd tone it down as to not offend my wife further.'"
"What happened," that seems like all I could ask.
"He actually apologized and we all went on with our evening."
Then, there was the blind date I had with one of Malcolm's foremans. It wasn't a blind date with the foreman. It was a blind date with one of the foreman's cousins.
The foreman was a big guy named Mike. I can see the contemporary actor who he looks like, I just can't think of that actor's name. Anyway, Mike had a cousin getting married. He had another cousin who didn't have a date to the wedding. So, he asked me. "Sure, why not," I said.
Here's the scene, it's a Catholic-Italian wedding in Kenner, Louisiana. The Catholic-Italian part pretty much ramps up the symbolic, cultural and fun level but when you add Kenner, La to anything what you get is whatever you had on steroids. It's hard to explain. But if it's Italian in Kenner it;s really Italian. If it's Irish, it's really Irish. Get the picture?
I wish I could remember my blind date's name, but I just can't. I do remember she was quiet and kind, but she was definitely part of the family and this wedding event was all about the family and the family's culture. What a night.
The wedding was held at a church exactly across the street from the New Orleans International Airport around 5:00pm. I promise when it came to the 'I-Dos,' all anybody in attendance heard was the roar of jet engines from Pan-Am Flight 3369 to New York La Guardia. The great news is, nobody seemed to notice or care.
From the wedding, the reception was held above a famous restaurant/bar in Kenner. The name of the place 33-years later is a blur. But imagine, white tile floors, low-white acoustic tile ceilings, tables loaded with homemade food, a well stocked bar and lots and lots of dancing! I think every aunt, cousin and mother made her specialty for this event and this is when and where my quiet, kind blind date, thanks to her family connections, got me to the front of every food line.
But the fun didn't end at the reception, at least for my group that now included my blind date, Mike the foreman, and his wife and probably a half dozen more cousins. The night was young. Time to go out!
What I didn't mention at the top of this tale is that for some reason I was in my older sister, Laura's, Chevrolet Cavalier hatchback. I think I drove it because at the time I remember driving a Volkswagon pickup with an air conditioning issue. The system leaked inside the cab. If I took a turn to the right, water dumped out on my feet. If I took a turn to the left, water dumped out on my passenger's feet. So, Laura loaned me her car.
Sounds simple enough, yes? The rub is, the rear window of Laura's car was practically plastered in bumper stickers. In this case, the bumper stickers proclaimed her love and commitment to GOD. So here I am with my blind date essentially bar hopping around Kenner, LA in a car proudly proclaiming JESUS LOVES YOU and HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS and more like it. Now that I think about it, I bet that armor got me safely home that night. I've never told her this story. So, if you read this Laura... I'm sorry.
Enough of the tangents, here are the seven words that got me interested in trying a career in television news. They are, "You ought to be on the radio."
While living in that big, newly renovated house and before enrolling at Loyola, I started waiting tables at a new restaurant in New Orleans called Tavern on the Park. This was a Del Frisco project but with very kind local owners Jack and Martha Sands.
They'd taken an old favorite local watering hole, closed it down and completely revamped it's look and menu. The floors were black and white marble tile. Each table was draped in pressed white linens. The front of the building included giant windows with lace drapes covering the lower quarter.
We waiters wore starched white serving coats, white shirt and tie with black pants and black shoes. Our most useful tool was our table crumb-scrapper. It's a concave device about six inches long and fits into the coat's breast pocket. It's for scrapping the crumbs off the table after bread, appetizers, the meal or anything else.
The bus-boys, one for each waiter, wore pressed white shirts, black bow-ties and black pants. The bar was big with many chairs and an ornate mirrored back panel. But, Mr. Jack refused to let walk-in customers just drink. They had to be waiting on a dinner table. "We're not a bar. We're a restaurant," he'd say.
The tables were numbered so each waiter got a window table. Tables 10, 20, 30 & 40 were a pretty good section but table 10 was by the kitchen door, which no one really wanted.
The bus-boy, a man considering he was much older than myself, who helped me the most, was Clarence. He was indeed a professional. I remember, he was black as coal. I'd pick him up and take him home from work, but otherwise we didn't talk as much as we used eye contact and numbers to serve our guests.
I'd say "33," and in a flash Clarence was clearing, setting-up or changing an ashtray on table 33. He might walk by me or catch my eye across the dining room and say "43." That was my cue that table "43" needed attention. We were a good team and he was a great co-worker.
It's table "43" that said those seven words "You ought to be on the radio." We were blessed to have many regulars. And like so many waiters, I was blessed to have regulars who asked for me to serve them.
On this evening, I was working the section that included table "43." The husband and wife came in early like they always did. Clarence and I knew their routine. They'd sit at table "43," each would order an Old Fashioned and they'd each order our Steak Salad that included a bed of lettuce, a sliced rib-eye with seriously chunky bleu cheese dressing.
The beauty about waiting on regulars is, you get to know them as much as they'll let you and they get to know you, probably more than they need to. It was during a casual conversation while they sipped their Old Fashioned and waited on their dinner that evening when the husband said, "You ought to be on the radio."
At this point in my life, I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I think the only thing I can say that's completely true is: I was 10-feet tall, bullet-proof and absolutely full of myself.
I remember going home after "You ought to be on the radio" and thinking to myself and I remember it quite clearly.... "Radio, hell! I want to be on TV!"
Finally, the end to this story is: I enrolled in Loyola's broadcast journalism program with every intention of becoming the next Peter Jennings, all thanks to table "43."
Bill Robertson, Next: Loyola & fetching lunch at WDSU-TV in the French Quarter.
I was a television news guy for 16 years. It was a blessing and a curse. I've thought about it many times. So many times that I've decided to write down my memories in chronological order as I'm definitely a linear thinker.... and in this case a linear writer.
Why Did You Decide on a Career in Television News?
I was at my second college. I'd already had four majors in three years at Stephen F. Austin State University (SFA) in Nacogdoches, Texas. I failed or practically failed in all those (Forestry, Accounting, Finance & Psychology.) So, I dropped out for a girl and moved back to Baton Rouge with the intention of going to LSU in Baton Rouge.
Well, the girl dumped me and LSU said my grades weren't good enough. So, I became a waiter. First, I bar-backed at a disco called Rascals in Baton Rouge. I knew I was in trouble when Sonny, the manager who looked a lot like Joe Pesci, insisted everyone wear designer jeans. I was a Levi 501 guy. But, I got some Calvins and went to work.
My gig at Rascals was short lived. Soon, my best friend from high school who also went to SFA, Richard Olivier, gave me a call.
"Hey, what are you doin?"
"Oh, I'm bar-backing at a disco here in Baton Rouge," I said.
"C'mon, really?"
"Yeah."
"Get down here to New Orleans and look at Loyola. They'll take anyone as long as you can pay the bill and read and write."
So, I went. I didn't immediately enroll in Loyola. Instead, I worked on renovating an old, run-down two story house my mother had bought. The big, abandoned house was a disaster at the corner of Second and Baronne in what's called the New Orleans "Uptown Area." Richard helped me work on it.
I don't know if we started upstairs and worked our way down or visa versa. We went through about ten of those big dumpsters you see at construction sites. Homeless had apparently been living upstairs. We found and removed just about every disgusting thing you can imagine. We found burn holes in the floors, guessing that's where small fires were set for warmth or cooking. We removed dresser drawers apparently used as commodes. We pulled off all the sheet rock to the lathe work. Downstairs was an abandoned laundromat. I don't know how many old washers and dryers we tossed into the big dumpster but it was a lot. Whatever was inside the building was gone by the time a contractor agreed to take on the project.
I'd met with maybe a half dozen or more contractors hoping one of them would take on the big house.
"What do you think," I asked one while we stood on the corner.
I remember, he looked up and down to the left and to the right and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"How do you feel about dynamite," he said matter of factly.
The only contractor who didn't balk was an Englishman named Malcolm Sargent. I don't know how or why he was in New Orleans, but the prospect of taking on the old building became his challenge and his summer passion.
The end product was better than I could have ever imagined and the stories and events leading to that end were just as surprising.
Like I said, Malcolm was English. I'll never forget him telling me about his close encounter with Omar Sharif over dinner in London.
He said he was on a dinner date. The actor was in the restaurant, "in fact only a few tables away," he told me.
"He was a real jerk with a filthy mouth." I think he was telling me this story while we were driving somewhere in New Orleans or somewhere without the clanging of hammers or buzzing of saws because I remember we weren't interrupted.
"What happened?"
"I was on a date with my wife at the time. Omar Sharif was sitting behind her, but I could hear everything he was saying."
"What was he saying?"
"His mouth was just filthy. Curse word after curse word."
"What happened?"
"I guess you'd consider this my close call with a star. I got up, walked over to him, bent down and I said, 'Sir, you're language is very offensive. I'd appreciate it if you'd tone it down as to not offend my wife further.'"
"What happened," that seems like all I could ask.
"He actually apologized and we all went on with our evening."
Then, there was the blind date I had with one of Malcolm's foremans. It wasn't a blind date with the foreman. It was a blind date with one of the foreman's cousins.
The foreman was a big guy named Mike. I can see the contemporary actor who he looks like, I just can't think of that actor's name. Anyway, Mike had a cousin getting married. He had another cousin who didn't have a date to the wedding. So, he asked me. "Sure, why not," I said.
Here's the scene, it's a Catholic-Italian wedding in Kenner, Louisiana. The Catholic-Italian part pretty much ramps up the symbolic, cultural and fun level but when you add Kenner, La to anything what you get is whatever you had on steroids. It's hard to explain. But if it's Italian in Kenner it;s really Italian. If it's Irish, it's really Irish. Get the picture?
I wish I could remember my blind date's name, but I just can't. I do remember she was quiet and kind, but she was definitely part of the family and this wedding event was all about the family and the family's culture. What a night.
The wedding was held at a church exactly across the street from the New Orleans International Airport around 5:00pm. I promise when it came to the 'I-Dos,' all anybody in attendance heard was the roar of jet engines from Pan-Am Flight 3369 to New York La Guardia. The great news is, nobody seemed to notice or care.
From the wedding, the reception was held above a famous restaurant/bar in Kenner. The name of the place 33-years later is a blur. But imagine, white tile floors, low-white acoustic tile ceilings, tables loaded with homemade food, a well stocked bar and lots and lots of dancing! I think every aunt, cousin and mother made her specialty for this event and this is when and where my quiet, kind blind date, thanks to her family connections, got me to the front of every food line.
But the fun didn't end at the reception, at least for my group that now included my blind date, Mike the foreman, and his wife and probably a half dozen more cousins. The night was young. Time to go out!
What I didn't mention at the top of this tale is that for some reason I was in my older sister, Laura's, Chevrolet Cavalier hatchback. I think I drove it because at the time I remember driving a Volkswagon pickup with an air conditioning issue. The system leaked inside the cab. If I took a turn to the right, water dumped out on my feet. If I took a turn to the left, water dumped out on my passenger's feet. So, Laura loaned me her car.
Sounds simple enough, yes? The rub is, the rear window of Laura's car was practically plastered in bumper stickers. In this case, the bumper stickers proclaimed her love and commitment to GOD. So here I am with my blind date essentially bar hopping around Kenner, LA in a car proudly proclaiming JESUS LOVES YOU and HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS and more like it. Now that I think about it, I bet that armor got me safely home that night. I've never told her this story. So, if you read this Laura... I'm sorry.
Enough of the tangents, here are the seven words that got me interested in trying a career in television news. They are, "You ought to be on the radio."
While living in that big, newly renovated house and before enrolling at Loyola, I started waiting tables at a new restaurant in New Orleans called Tavern on the Park. This was a Del Frisco project but with very kind local owners Jack and Martha Sands.
They'd taken an old favorite local watering hole, closed it down and completely revamped it's look and menu. The floors were black and white marble tile. Each table was draped in pressed white linens. The front of the building included giant windows with lace drapes covering the lower quarter.
We waiters wore starched white serving coats, white shirt and tie with black pants and black shoes. Our most useful tool was our table crumb-scrapper. It's a concave device about six inches long and fits into the coat's breast pocket. It's for scrapping the crumbs off the table after bread, appetizers, the meal or anything else.
The bus-boys, one for each waiter, wore pressed white shirts, black bow-ties and black pants. The bar was big with many chairs and an ornate mirrored back panel. But, Mr. Jack refused to let walk-in customers just drink. They had to be waiting on a dinner table. "We're not a bar. We're a restaurant," he'd say.
The tables were numbered so each waiter got a window table. Tables 10, 20, 30 & 40 were a pretty good section but table 10 was by the kitchen door, which no one really wanted.
The bus-boy, a man considering he was much older than myself, who helped me the most, was Clarence. He was indeed a professional. I remember, he was black as coal. I'd pick him up and take him home from work, but otherwise we didn't talk as much as we used eye contact and numbers to serve our guests.
I'd say "33," and in a flash Clarence was clearing, setting-up or changing an ashtray on table 33. He might walk by me or catch my eye across the dining room and say "43." That was my cue that table "43" needed attention. We were a good team and he was a great co-worker.
It's table "43" that said those seven words "You ought to be on the radio." We were blessed to have many regulars. And like so many waiters, I was blessed to have regulars who asked for me to serve them.
On this evening, I was working the section that included table "43." The husband and wife came in early like they always did. Clarence and I knew their routine. They'd sit at table "43," each would order an Old Fashioned and they'd each order our Steak Salad that included a bed of lettuce, a sliced rib-eye with seriously chunky bleu cheese dressing.
The beauty about waiting on regulars is, you get to know them as much as they'll let you and they get to know you, probably more than they need to. It was during a casual conversation while they sipped their Old Fashioned and waited on their dinner that evening when the husband said, "You ought to be on the radio."
At this point in my life, I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I think the only thing I can say that's completely true is: I was 10-feet tall, bullet-proof and absolutely full of myself.
I remember going home after "You ought to be on the radio" and thinking to myself and I remember it quite clearly.... "Radio, hell! I want to be on TV!"
Finally, the end to this story is: I enrolled in Loyola's broadcast journalism program with every intention of becoming the next Peter Jennings, all thanks to table "43."
Bill Robertson, Next: Loyola & fetching lunch at WDSU-TV in the French Quarter.
Want to Know News vs. Need to Know News
I don't know how many of y'all know this, but years ago I was a television news guy. The high point of my TV news days was probably in Charleston, West Virginia. I was everything from main anchor to executive producer. All that means is, it didn't go on the air if I didn't want it to go on the air. And when it went on the air, it went on the air in the manner I wanted it presented on the air. Now looking back on the days....I was an IDIOT!
I bet more times than not, I emphasized news I thought viewers WANTED to SEE and hardly ever encouraged news viewers NEEDED to KNOW. Gosh, there are too many examples.
With that said, the whacky news, the 'water-cooler' news is mainstream. It's so hard to avoid and even harder to resist. So, I'm not sure if I'm writing to bash the stupid, silly and unnecessary or just to point out the inescapable presence of the unnecessary news. I'm still guilty of reading the 'dumb' stuff before the 'need to know' stuff. Are you?
I've snapped a few shots from my newsfeed. I'd like to know what you think. Are these articles 'need to know' or 'want to know?' And if they're 'want to know,' did you waste your time reading them, like I did---at least some of them?
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| Big News! |
Here's the article that spawned this blog and I actually read it. I didn't need to know this information, but I guess I wanted to know it.
Turns out, "Fido" scratches the ground after 'passing water' due to his wolf/coyote ancestry. The good news, at least according to the article, is only 15% of male dogs do this after 'T-Ting" as my mother would say.
The only way I know that I didn't waste time reading this article is I want to know if you'd waste your time reading this article. If I'm not wasting your time, then I'm glad you're using your time to read my article. Your thoughts?
Here's one I didn't read: "Pink's husband reveals son is suffering from hand, food and …."
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| Uh Oh! |
First of all, I like Pink but not that much to read anything about her. Next, I'm a closet hypochondriac. So I didn't want to read an article about Pink's son with "hand, food and …." which I'm sure the article includes the symptoms.
I know myself. I'd soon wake-up in the middle of the night thinking... "Oh my gosh, I think I have 'hand, food and …."
I would consider this article useful in only limited circles. First, we'd be with Pink fans, whom I'm pretty sure are far younger than Teresa and me. But if were hanging with any Pink fans and a Pink song came on, which I think I'd like, I'd probably ask: "Who's the artist?" They'd say, "Pink, dummy. Don'tcha know her son has 'hand, food and …" Your thoughts?
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| I liked this article |
Now, here's one I liked and did read. I thought, I was well educated. I went to a private high school, graduated 57 out of 58. I was accepted into two universities. The first, I majored in party and graduated cum laude. The second, I majored in broadcast journalism and graduated.
I did pretty well on the quiz. But seriously... Who doesn't know that the Alamo is in Texas versus Mexico.
So I guess you might say that I found this article more reassuring than necessary.
What are your thoughts?
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| Huh? |
I didn't even read the next article, but admit the headlines caught my eye. What in the world does Colonel Sanders have to do with baby names?
Here's what I know about KFC. #1) A great memory is... the big KFC bucket with all sides included stacked under the bird. #2) My dad told me once that he rode on a plane with the Col. Sanders. I think he even said the Colonel was wearing his white suit. And #3) His gravy is AMAZAZING! Try it over white bread. It's absolutely heaven on a fork. Your Thoughts?
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| Oh, What A Tangled Web We weave |
Here's the last on. The Queen's staying mum on the dysfunctional, American side of her family tree.
I didn't read this one, but I do follow my royal friends. I like the boys. They're good. I'm pretty sure they'll do even more good. So, I admit there are some 'Royal' stories I will follow.
In fact, I noticed today, while checking out at the grocery store,t a popular tabloid is reporting Meghan and Harry are "over the world" excited that they're expecting twin girls. Apparently, they plan to name them Diana and Elizabeth. Good job kids. Your thoughts?
The debate is 'Need to Know News' like war, politics, taxes, school lunch prices, weather, significant charities, etc versus 'want to know' news like babies with who knows what, dogs kicking dirt after 'passing water,' chicken and babies.
What do you think?
Bill Robertson, "A monkey, a rabbi and a pirate walked into a restaurant... film at 11:00." Does that get your attention or "School lunch prices increasing by 50%... details at 11:00?"
I'm no Grizzly Adams, but I have an idea or two...
There are two things I'm not. One I was. The other I never will be. I was 25 years old once. I'm definitely not anymore. I will never be an outdoorsy kind of guy. My idea of camping is a Ramada Inn and it better be within walking distance of a watering hole.
And speaking of watering holes, I'm no Grizzly Adams but I usually have an idea or two this time of year when it's almost Dove Season in Texas and most other places. The plan is always the same: Set a buffet, and just like people, the speedy migratory birds will get in line. At least that's the logic behind everything although there are no guarantees.
We've already planted two, five acre food plots. That's the food part of the buffet. Now, we're making artificial watering holes.
Step #1-Dig the dreaded hole and that's where the "I'm not 25-yrs-old" part comes into play. The hole doesn't care that "I'm not 25" anymore. The hole, that will hold a plastic tank, must be deep enough that the water remains at ground level. Dove like to survey their surroundings for predators. Then, they'll dive in, drink and dive out. They don't linger on the ground for too long.
So, digging the hole is tough enough. It's even more straining considering our severe drought conditions. But never one to easily give-up, I have a plan.
How do you make hard dirt softer dirt? Add water, let it get absorbed into the soil and VIOLA! Resume digging.
So looking at the photo on the right... My goal was/is to dig a hole deep enough for that one foot deep trough. I want a slight angle on it so water almost sloshes out the left side.
Back when I was 25, the above digging duty would've taken an hour. Today, I almost missed lunch even though I started at 9:00am. Patience Grasshopper.....
Once I finished the hole and dropped in the trough I had the hard work out of the way. Next, I cobbled together a gravity fed watering system using a 65-gallon tank, a giant spindle to increase the gravitational pull, a few valves, a tattered hose and a plastic float.
If all goes as planned, I'll fill the white, 65-gallon tank with nearby well water, open the valve to the tank, gravity will pull the water through the hose to the nearby trough where the float will maintain the level that I'm hoping to accomplish. Here's a look.
This video shows only the skeleton of our new beverage station. Any dove hunter reading/watching this blog will quickly note that no 'country dove' would ever use the watering hole as-is. I still have plenty of manicuring to do around the water because the less vegetation the better for the birds. As for all the other wildlife that we hope come over for a drink, most don't care if their glass is dirty or neat.... Get it?
Bill Robertson
And speaking of watering holes, I'm no Grizzly Adams but I usually have an idea or two this time of year when it's almost Dove Season in Texas and most other places. The plan is always the same: Set a buffet, and just like people, the speedy migratory birds will get in line. At least that's the logic behind everything although there are no guarantees.
 |
| Step #1-The Dreaded Hole |
Step #1-Dig the dreaded hole and that's where the "I'm not 25-yrs-old" part comes into play. The hole doesn't care that "I'm not 25" anymore. The hole, that will hold a plastic tank, must be deep enough that the water remains at ground level. Dove like to survey their surroundings for predators. Then, they'll dive in, drink and dive out. They don't linger on the ground for too long.
So, digging the hole is tough enough. It's even more straining considering our severe drought conditions. But never one to easily give-up, I have a plan.
 |
| Add Water & Resume Digging |
How do you make hard dirt softer dirt? Add water, let it get absorbed into the soil and VIOLA! Resume digging.
So looking at the photo on the right... My goal was/is to dig a hole deep enough for that one foot deep trough. I want a slight angle on it so water almost sloshes out the left side.
Back when I was 25, the above digging duty would've taken an hour. Today, I almost missed lunch even though I started at 9:00am. Patience Grasshopper.....
Once I finished the hole and dropped in the trough I had the hard work out of the way. Next, I cobbled together a gravity fed watering system using a 65-gallon tank, a giant spindle to increase the gravitational pull, a few valves, a tattered hose and a plastic float.
 |
| Everything Flows Downhill |
Bill Robertson
It's a Small World & I Don't Speak Chinese
So, I went to a baseball game in Denver the other day where I met a man from Los Angeles traveling back from New York who grew up in College Station, Texas and knew/knows someone from Snyder, America. That's a small world.
The genesis of this blog all began with a trip to Denver to pick-up Teresa who was visiting her daughter, Ashton's family in The Mile High City. I arrived on Thursday and within hours was sitting behind third base at The Rockies game versus the Los Angeles Dodgers.
To say I don't like to visit is both true and false. I do NOT like to visit when I'm in town, but when I go out of town I'm a "Chatty Kathy" and that's how I met my latest Los Angeles to Snyder connection.
I love baseball. I love to play it, that is. I don't follow the game. I never have. So, I had no idea if either The Rockies or The Dodgers were any good this year.
That's when I turned to the guy at my right, Matt (in gray) and asked.... "Hey, are The Rockies any good this year?"
"I dunno. I'm just traveling through."
At this point, my "Chatty Kathy" radar ramped up.
"Oh yeah? Where ya from?"
"Los Angeles, but I'm traveling from New York."
"Oh. I didn't expect to hear that sentence," I told him in complete honesty.
At this point, Matt kind of watched the game. I kind of watched the game. But, I think he knew that I was loaded for bear with more questions.
"Okay, New York to LA, how, what route, where'd you come from, where ya going, when do you expect to get out there?" Bam! Bam! Bam! The poor guy didn't stand a chance.
"I took my brother back to New York, pick-up my friend (Brad) and now we're headed back. I have family here and they had these tickets," Matt answered all the questions I think he could remember.
"Cool," is all I could muster. So, I took a "Chatty Kathy breather.
The game pressed on. Our granddaughter Avery clamored across the aisle to our seats. We took a picture, pointed at the players while she played "Don't Blink" with the little boy behind us and watched the young girl in front of us read her book during the game.
But it didn't take long before Matt and I began more unnecessary small talk and that's when the "small world" lightbulb exploded.
"Where are y'all from," Matt asked which kind of surprised me because he said "y'all," not you guys or anything less southern than "y'all."
"We're from west Texas," I told him.
"Really?! Where?" He asked with a lot more enthusiasm than I expected.
"Out by Lubbock & Midland." I said. "It's a little town called Snyder. It's just usually easier to tell people Lubbock though," Teresa added.
"I know Snyder. I grew up in College Station. I have a friend from Snyder," Matt told us.
"No way!"
"Yeah."
"Who's your friend? Teresa knows everybody!"
"Her married name is Candace Suderfield."
Believe it or not, Teresa does NOT know Candace Suderfield. But we still had a great time playing "Chatty Kathy." And as usual, we were both surprised by the results.
Sometimes, it's as much fun to just listen in my "Chatty Kathy" game and that proved true over breakfast one morning at a fun, funky place in Denver's Tech Center called The Urban Egg.
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| Coors Field/Denver |
To say I don't like to visit is both true and false. I do NOT like to visit when I'm in town, but when I go out of town I'm a "Chatty Kathy" and that's how I met my latest Los Angeles to Snyder connection.
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| Matt & Brad/NYC to LA via Denver |
That's when I turned to the guy at my right, Matt (in gray) and asked.... "Hey, are The Rockies any good this year?"
"I dunno. I'm just traveling through."
At this point, my "Chatty Kathy" radar ramped up.
"Oh yeah? Where ya from?"
"Los Angeles, but I'm traveling from New York."
"Oh. I didn't expect to hear that sentence," I told him in complete honesty.
At this point, Matt kind of watched the game. I kind of watched the game. But, I think he knew that I was loaded for bear with more questions.
"Okay, New York to LA, how, what route, where'd you come from, where ya going, when do you expect to get out there?" Bam! Bam! Bam! The poor guy didn't stand a chance.
"I took my brother back to New York, pick-up my friend (Brad) and now we're headed back. I have family here and they had these tickets," Matt answered all the questions I think he could remember.
"Cool," is all I could muster. So, I took a "Chatty Kathy breather.
 |
| Fun with Avery/Coors Field |
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| Reading Girls @ The Ballpark |
But it didn't take long before Matt and I began more unnecessary small talk and that's when the "small world" lightbulb exploded.
"Where are y'all from," Matt asked which kind of surprised me because he said "y'all," not you guys or anything less southern than "y'all."
"We're from west Texas," I told him.
"Really?! Where?" He asked with a lot more enthusiasm than I expected.
"Out by Lubbock & Midland." I said. "It's a little town called Snyder. It's just usually easier to tell people Lubbock though," Teresa added.
"I know Snyder. I grew up in College Station. I have a friend from Snyder," Matt told us.
"No way!"
"Yeah."
"Who's your friend? Teresa knows everybody!"
"Her married name is Candace Suderfield."
Believe it or not, Teresa does NOT know Candace Suderfield. But we still had a great time playing "Chatty Kathy." And as usual, we were both surprised by the results.
Sometimes, it's as much fun to just listen in my "Chatty Kathy" game and that proved true over breakfast one morning at a fun, funky place in Denver's Tech Center called The Urban Egg.
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| The Urban Egg/Denver Tech Center |
Breakfast was great. I had the Southwest Benedict. That is poached eggs over a tamale and chorizo topped with hollandaise. But the real story comes from our waiter who immediately noticed my son-in-law's tattoos. Besides the multitude of colorful designs, his "ink" includes many sayings in foreign languages and the unfamiliar verbiage is what caught our waiter's eye.
"Is that Chinese," she asked Bobby.
"What?"
"Your tattoo. Is that Chinese?"
"Oh. No. It's Mandarin," he explained.
"Okay. I'm going to China next week. I'm kinda freakin' out."
At this point, I listened all I could. "Why are you going to China?"
"To teach English," she said.
"So, I'm guessing if you're going to China to teach English then you must speak Chinese because...."
"No, I don't speak Chinese."
"Oh, that should be quite an experience. Good luck." Sometimes my "Chatty Kathy" game can leave me a little flummoxed. We all decided that our waiter will have an interpreter. But now that I think about it, if she has an interpreter, doesn't that mean that person speaks both Chinese and English?
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| Ashton & Avery/Denver |
Baseball was fun. Breakfast was a hoot. But the real fun is always spending time with Carson and Avery. He's 10 years old. She's four. They just moved to Denver and until school starts they're all about the neighborhood pool.
I'm 56-years-old and still I'll never forget my days as a lil' boy swimming with my best friend Teddy Liljenwall in their family pool. I think we spent more hours in the water than we did doing anything else unless it was playing "imaginary man" baseball with Lee Keough or ARMY with our other neighbor Clay Ritchie. Now, it's Avery and Carson's time to get those wrinkled finger tips and toes and smell of chlorine.
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| Carson/Denver |
I don't know what it is about swimming, especially when you're a little kid, but it's somehow a complete "fun" that as I remember it doesn't come with all the other great things when you're young.
Think about it... All you gotta do is run (if the lifeguard doesn't stop you,) jump, dive and repeat. It was a lot of fun.
Good times, great memories and a whole lotta fun in Denver.
Bill Robertson.
Local Artisans, Craftsmen & Other Stars in Scurry County
We may not have Chinese food delivery in Snyder, but we are chocked full of amazing artisans, craftsmen and creators.
I was shocked by the volume of views my last blog "Pat the Pie Lady" received. Not only did the story of Pat's perfect pecan pie and Ms. Chloanne's good old fashioned, Sunday After Church lunch garner more 'views' by the hundreds than any other blog, it also received more responses and reactions than any other of my other writings.
So strike while the skillets hot I say. Here are some more locals, working way behind the scenes who without word of mouth, might never have their talents put before the public.
In no particular order, here are some folks who've dazzled me with their creations.
-Terry Huestis: Terry can build anything and it looks great! He mostly works with steel/metal/iron. He works alongside his wife Linda, a.k.a. Jose. The two are a real team.
-Max Snyder: Max is a woodman. Need a table, call Max. Need a door, call Max. He takes wood and bends it like leather to create his pieces.
-Nathalie Kelley: Give Nathalie a paint brush and just stand back. She'll never tell you, but she's won all kinds of awards.
-Tom Roberts: Tom's an old sailor who paints like a man on a mission. Many of you might know Tom from his days with his studio inside The Manhattan Coffeehouse.
-Brian Asher: Brian's western pencil art is mesmerizing. The detail he puts into the horse, the cow, the pasture can keep you looking at his work for hours.
-Ken Spoor: His a local pastor by day and a woodsman the rest of the time. Ken saves old wood from abandoned homes, churches and schools to turn into doors, tables, chairs and more.
-Stormy Shields: Stormy creates jewelry. She has her own on-line business with original, even customized creations.
-Theresa & Rodney Dupree: There's no way in the word to call their flower arrangements from their Blossom Bucket anything but works of art.
-Maxine Ragland: Everybody knows Mrs. Ragland's pies.
I'm sure there are many more hidden creators in our midst, but my mind is drawing a blank at this point. But, I do have a point.
And that is, we have artists among us. The rub is, like all good west Texans they call very little, if any attention to their talents. I can think of only the Duprees from the above list who've been able to turn their extraordinary talents into their primary revenue streams.
I know we're not going to make any magazine's Arts District article, but we are blessed with some complete originals not necessarily hanging on our walls, but definitely walking our streets.
Bill Robertson, I can't even draw a stick figure.
I was shocked by the volume of views my last blog "Pat the Pie Lady" received. Not only did the story of Pat's perfect pecan pie and Ms. Chloanne's good old fashioned, Sunday After Church lunch garner more 'views' by the hundreds than any other blog, it also received more responses and reactions than any other of my other writings.
So strike while the skillets hot I say. Here are some more locals, working way behind the scenes who without word of mouth, might never have their talents put before the public.
In no particular order, here are some folks who've dazzled me with their creations.
-Terry Huestis: Terry can build anything and it looks great! He mostly works with steel/metal/iron. He works alongside his wife Linda, a.k.a. Jose. The two are a real team.
-Max Snyder: Max is a woodman. Need a table, call Max. Need a door, call Max. He takes wood and bends it like leather to create his pieces.
-Nathalie Kelley: Give Nathalie a paint brush and just stand back. She'll never tell you, but she's won all kinds of awards.
-Tom Roberts: Tom's an old sailor who paints like a man on a mission. Many of you might know Tom from his days with his studio inside The Manhattan Coffeehouse.
-Brian Asher: Brian's western pencil art is mesmerizing. The detail he puts into the horse, the cow, the pasture can keep you looking at his work for hours.
-Ken Spoor: His a local pastor by day and a woodsman the rest of the time. Ken saves old wood from abandoned homes, churches and schools to turn into doors, tables, chairs and more.
-Stormy Shields: Stormy creates jewelry. She has her own on-line business with original, even customized creations.
-Theresa & Rodney Dupree: There's no way in the word to call their flower arrangements from their Blossom Bucket anything but works of art.
-Maxine Ragland: Everybody knows Mrs. Ragland's pies.
I'm sure there are many more hidden creators in our midst, but my mind is drawing a blank at this point. But, I do have a point.
And that is, we have artists among us. The rub is, like all good west Texans they call very little, if any attention to their talents. I can think of only the Duprees from the above list who've been able to turn their extraordinary talents into their primary revenue streams.
I know we're not going to make any magazine's Arts District article, but we are blessed with some complete originals not necessarily hanging on our walls, but definitely walking our streets.
Bill Robertson, I can't even draw a stick figure.
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