My Time With The Royal Jacks

During the fall of 1968, a band was playing the newly opened teen center downstairs at the Hickory Foundation Center. I was there with a group of friends enjoying the music, when they began playing songs that touched my soul. One of them was “Up on the Roof” by The Drifters, and I hopped onstage to join the vocalist. I can’t recall much about other songs I might have sung or other people in the crowd, but I remember that after the show the bandmembers invited me to join the group. The players – I remember as keyboardist Tom Earnest, guitarist Neil Fortune horn player Phil Tate and bassist Charles Case – were a year younger than I, and I didn’t know them very well. Nonetheless, I became part of their band, as did a good friend of mine, Lee Jessup, singing and playing saxophone. I can’t remember if LeRoy was there my first night or joined later. Nor can I remember if drummer Keith Stokes was an original member. The expanded horn section, consisting of Stutz Wimmer, Peter Meuser and Reid McKay, came later.  My life-long friend Willie Bolick tells me he was the lead singer that I chased off of the stage on that epic night at the teen center, but my memory escapes me on that.

 Kenneth Campbell, who we called Jack, was our manager, and I’m not sure when or how that came to be. I don’t know if there was a connection, but in later years Jack became a funeral director. He helped us with equipment and arranged engagements. He also helped us hook up with a booking agent out of Greensboro, who told us we needed a flashy name. Members of the band had thought Soul Gentlemen was a great moniker for what we did, but the agent said that sounded like a gospel group. We batted around The Jacks, taking the name from our manager, but that sounded more like a kids’ group. Royal Jacks sounded more regal. That became the name. 

The Royal Jacks might’ve been re-billed as The Clay Feet, but Lorin Weaver, who performed with another local band, agreed to coach us on dance steps as our opportunities expanded.  We learned to step together on the off beat, swaying back and forth. It added a new freshness to the group.  We practiced at the Fortune home, the Earnest home, maybe the Stokes’, as I recall. We rented a downtown venue in Newton for a night’s special show. Our agent booked us at a frat party at Hampton-Sydney College in Virginia. We played outdoors on Second Street at the grand opening of Hickory’s downtown Sherwin-Williams Paint Store. As summer approached, we entered the Newton-Conover Battle of the Bands. That was the same weekend as a high-school trip to New York City that I had planned all winter. The Royal Jacks would have to find a substitute lead singer. 

They found Rick Moretz, one of their classmates that was quite a bit more flashy and confident than I. He won the Outstanding Entertainer award at the Newton-Conover contest. That qualified us for the state Battle of the Bands in Durham a few weeks later. I was back with the group for that event, and we were mediocre at best. Amid the Summer of ’69, I wrecked my gold Ford Mustang and was in bed for a few days. I was heading to college in Chapel Hill that fall. The band was moving on without me. It has taken 50 years for me to build up enough confidence again to perform in front of other human beings, even if it is only on You Tube and Facebook.

To my dear friend Howard Miller

(A eulogy delivered on October 16, 2015, in Huntsville, Alabama)

    Howard, you’ve been a great friend and inspiration not only to me, but to most of us gathered here today. I can’t remember the very day I met you, but it would have been in the last week of 1972 in Anniston, Alabama. I was the eager college kid starting his first real job, and you were a seasoned veteran of 5 years as a reporter. You were my mentor at the Anniston Star as you led me around town introducing me to the police commissioner, the chief, the guys around the firehouse. We were almost inseparable during the next 9 months, eating breakfast at the Mr. Good Guy restaurant or the Waffle House across Quintard Boulevard. After hours, we would be hanging out at friends’ apartments eating pizza so spicy you could “put it under the bed on a cold night” or playing a game called “Zilch.” We would hang a knotted plastic bag in a doorway with a pan of water below. Set on fire, the bag would send smoldering drops into the water with a loud zipping sound – a 1970s light show. Forty years later, I’d not mentioned this to anyone before remembering it at your bedside, Howard. And who do you think remembered the same game? Your wife Carol. She obviously was your soul mate.

    During your time in Anniston, Howard, you trained me to notice every miscreant that traveled the streets – people like String Man, who picked up every bit of string he found on the sidewalk and rolled it on a ball in his pocket. He came into the Waffle House with a freshly laundered shirt one day and hung it on the back of a seat. You were quick to point out the sign – “Shirts must be worn to be served.” That was your humor. It was always a bit offbeat, often self-deprecating. You never took yourself too seriously, nor did you let anyone else feel egotistical without some discomfort. I loved you for your honesty untamed.

    I could say that we'll all miss you, Howard, but you will truly always be with us. Your quick wit and unbelievable stories will live in my memory as I am sure it will in those gathered here. When we believed things could get no worse, you would remind us that they could. I asked our friends to send me some of their recollections of your wit and your friendship. Melinda Gorham sends this story: “We all relished Howard's humor, but he was a man who was inordinately kind. He patiently saw me through marriage, divorce, and the death of my father. Yet when I look back I'll remember the Howard who could poke his head in my office on frenetic days and whisper with an impish grin, ’Give up now. Cut your losses.’”

Ronda Miskelley recalls the story behind the picture of you and Ringo Starr. Internationally renowned artist Nall had invited you and Carol to a party in France, attended by the former Beatle and other dignitaries. Prince Albert was there, and Nall took him on a tour of the estate – through your room and the elegant adjoining bathroom. Your observation on that situation: “We had Prince Albert in the can.”

    I followed you, Howard, to the Tuscaloosa News in late 1973, after you wrote me that they were “giving away money.” You were making nearly $200 a week there – what’s that, five dollars an hour? Again, we spent many nights hanging out in your apartment on 8th Avenue. You would be boiling eggs, and as we picked guitar in the next room, you would wonder whether we might go back into the kitchen and find baby chicks hatched in the boiling water.

Your attention span was short in those days, and you bored of Tuscaloosa. You moved to Jacksonville, Florida, where coincidentally I came to visit you on your last day at the newspaper. Your co-workers said you must have been at lunch or you had gone home early. When I found you that night, you said you had cleaned out your desk that morning. You were tired of the job. You had mailed your letter of resignation, and they would receive it in a few days.

    I heard you left there and took a job in New Mexico, where you drove into town and met the publisher, who introduced you to the town barber that would rent you an apartment. You did some exploring, took the key back to the barber, thanked him and headed back east. I can’t remember whether you told me this tale or if came second-hand. Your life was a legend for many of us, and we never know whether it’s fact or folklore.

    Twenty years later, we were working together again at the Huntsville Times. As a seasoned newsman, no one had to give you  assignments nor ask you to follow up on stories. You always anticipated what editors needed, and you got it done. You never boasted, bragged nor took credit for things you had done. You just complained about them, and we knew you were not sincere. You never promoted yourself; you lived at your own pace. What you lacked in motivation, you more than made up with dedication. I tried last night to remember something bad someone had said about you. I couldn’t remember a single thing. That’s quite an accomplishment.

    You took under your wing a young cartoonist who came to The Times in the 1980s. David Swann, now of the Honolulu Advertiser, remembers you with these words:

“Howard was the first person I met at the Huntsville Times in 1984, when I returned home after 4 years in the Air Force. He was a kind and decent man with a big heart underneath that gentle yet acerbic wit. He made me feel welcome in the newsroom from our very first meeting, and that meant a lot to me at that very uncertain time in my life. I will always miss him dearly.”

    Remember those uncertain times we’ve had, Howard? You’ve been my friend for more than 40 years. We somehow always ended up in the same place--and not always a happy situation. We had an ongoing contest to see which of us could be more miserable. At your bedside last week I told you that you had won. But maybe I was wrong. You’ve made me do some serious soul-searching during the last few weeks. We’ve never talked seriously about life and the afterlife, but you’ve had to listen to my concerns about my soul and yours while you lay in your sickbed unable to respond. I believe you knew the 23rd Psalm that I recited to you. I saw you mouth the first few words of the Lord’s Prayer along with me. Today, Howard, I know you are not in misery.

    Your friends and loved ones are here to rejoice in your life and to remember your humility. Thank you, Howard, for your love, for your many talents, for your wit and for your wisdom. We have all gained so much  from knowing you.

Unemployed or Underemployed?

I took a voluntary buyout 15 months ago from a job that had been my life for 32 years. I believed that God would provide whether I stayed there or whether I left. The most exciting and challenging option was the uncertain one, so I took two years' salary and hit the door. I was physically, spiritually, and mentally in better health than I'd ever been. I'm still physically and spiritually fit, but my mind has been through a blender. The trail has been lined with new experiences, but the future is still a fog.

I am a writer by trade. That's what my eighth-grade English teacher, Joyce Berry, suggested in 1965, and that's been my journey ever since. I spent three decades as a journalist at The Anniston Star, The Hickory Daily Record, The Tuscaloosa News, and The Huntsville Times. At 58 years old, though, I was ready for a new challenge.

A temporary technical writing job with SAIC gave me a taste of a new career. It was more strict and limiting than journalism, but a challenge. It was only temporary, so I never felt that I was part of the company. Job hunting was a slow process for the next few months, and I went to work for $9.20 an hour at Home Depot as a seasonal worker. They have since made me officially a part-time employee. The paychecks can hardly cover a house payment, yet I can't be considered unemployed. I guess I'm just underemployed.

You know what is most troubling about having no full-time job? I miss the feeling that I belong to a group or a company. I miss being part of an operation that claims me as an employee. The paychecks injure my pride, but the lack of camaraderie job security is devastating to my psyche.

Center Theater's "Colored" Balcony

Movie-goers entered downtown Hickory's Center Theater through two entrances. One was for whites and the other for blacks. The box office had windows on two sides, and posted prices were 35 cents for regular seats and 25 cents for the "colored" balcony.

The discrepancy always confused me, and I thought it was unfair. I would much rather have sat in the balcony, and the 10-cent discount was an added bonus. I never remember seeing anyone entering the theater on the opposite side of the box office, which led to a stairway. In fact, I never remember seeing or hearing anyone overhead during a movie. Obviously, the customers who sat there were well-behaved. I can truly appreciate that today.

1950s Segregation in Downtown Hickory, NC

I never knew the words segregation nor discrimination until well into high school, although my family had been immersed in the practice of both for generations. My parents were particular who they allowed to care for their young children, and one of the trusted souls was my aunt Pauline Mitchell. She had a son my age: in fact, Pete and I were born in the same hospital two days apart, shared the same nursery there and many hours and days as we grew up. Neither of us could even pronounce the word segregation. But I have a vivid memory of my first scrape with it during a trip to Sears Department Store in downtown Hickory with my aunt's family during the late 1950s.

Pete and I were thirsty. We rushed to the two water fountains at the back of the store. He began drinking from one and I from the other. Suddenly, everyone began to laugh at me. I looked up at a sign that read "Colored." I was shocked at myself, embarrassed, and afraid for my health. Did the water taste any different from Sears' "White" fountain? I didn't think so. Was I going to be taken to jail or to the hospital? It didn't seem so. Everyone chuckled, and we went on our way -- to the Center Theater, Woolworth's, Murphy's or the corner drug store.

I've thought about that day for many years. I've wondered whether anyone else ever noticed my mistake. The water was clear; it was cold; it was refreshing. The memory is refreshing still. And now I can share it with all.

Mike Kaylor's life story goes To Napkins and Back

I began this story nearly 40 years ago as a cub reporter in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I always had a pen handy but never seemed to remember my notepad. One thing that was always nearby was a cocktail napkin. So the tales began to collect in a box labeled "Napkins."

That carton today is hard to lift up and down to its shelf in my garage. It has moved from home to home, always hidden in a dark closet or storage room. Many of the napkins have been transcribed onto loose leaf paper. Words on the papers have been expanded into notebooks.

I once verbally willed the Napkins box to my best friend, Bill Easterling. He's probably one of the only people in the world to ever sift through it. He died in 2000, leaving me with the box and no beneficiary.

So, I've named this blog To Napkins and Back. As I sift through the faded sheets over the coming months, I will publish them here. Some are quite embarrassing; others pour with emotion. They represent a life that many others have likely experienced but been unwilling to share.

As the words are revealed, I know I will be free.