An instance of someone being impressed with me as a young announcer - which my ego just recalled and my heart can't forget - involved a too young but sweet, filthy rich American girl living on the island. She had the prettiest name imaginable..like Irish poetry..'Courtney O'Brien.'

Courtney and I would occasionally bump into one another while ambling around Hamilton. She had such a radiant young face that I always jumped at the chance to spend a few minutes with her. One day she told me the old house she lived in had a dungeon in the basement. A dungeon! I accepted an open invitation to see it sometime.

From the tall iron fence, my gaze crossed the tailored landscape to an elegant stone mansion, strong with history and character. As if on cue, a beautiful collie bounded over the expansive lawn, it's wealthy mane flowing in the breeze. If Courtney had been about three years older I may have been able to urge myself into that palatial picture, but sizing it up as it appeared...me and my little Zundap buzzed off. I never did see the dungeon.

One day Courtney asked what I did in the Navy. When I told her my work was classified secret she was like, heavily amazed, pantingly impressed; she had to fan herself while I dug in her bag for smelling salts. Well, maybe not quite. But Courtney's reaction was flattering to the eighteen year old me, and memorable forever. For one thing, Courtney belonged to the permanently secure class, and she was impressed with me!

In Courtney's pretty name, a unique thing happened to me a couple of lifetimes later. That stone mansion with the dungeon belonged to an uncle of Courtney's about whom she knew little, except that he owned "a furniture store or something," in the Windy City. She said she thought it was called...John Smyth's? Zoom ahead two lifetimes.

Having eyeballed the John M. Smyth showrooms on Michigan Avenue in Chicago with a certain familiarity over the dozen or so years, I bravely strolled in one day, explained myself to someone in a suit, and within minutes was graciously ushered into the office of one of the Smyth family members. Astonished that he would actually see me, I told him my Courtney story, expecting him to listen politely, then graciously throw me the hell out. Instead, he listened politely, scribbled something on a notepad, and handed me the address of Courtney's mother, explaining that it was the best he could do on a moment's notice. I was flabbergasted at his trust.

He did mention that Courtney was married, a fact that ultimately discouraged me from writing. Understand, I'll always have an angelic crush on that girl, but she's married, and besides, I doubt she'd remember me. So, hello and goodbye, Courtney! I hope you're still as genuine, as enchanting as ever, and as happy as it gets.

Occasionally I had to pull military duty on Sunday night. When that happened, I taped the show in advance and--while protecting our shores from the dreaded enemy--listened to myself on the radio. That was fun. The speaker system filled both rooms of the compound with ample sound, and I certainly said my name often enough to be heard, but I don't recall my co-swabbees ever betraying the slightest interest. Maybe they didn't notice, or maybe I was terrible and they were embarrassed for me. Most likely they just didn't like the music - the peasants!

One night, I wasn't sure I *wanted* them listening. I'd tuned the radio to Quinton's show for a special event in musical history - never to be remembered - a performance of Embraceable You, sung by...Me! For accompaniment I'd used one of Ken's Music-Minus-One records, then talked Quinton into playing the tape on his evening show. What a blast, singing on the radio in Bermuda with a full string orchestra. (To be honest, it was only a two-star performance, maybe two-and-a-half. Ok, three.)

Five-section duty. Those are magic words in the military. For me it meant eight hours on, twenty-four off, another eight on and another twenty-four off, then a ten-hour shift followed by three days off. It gave me all the time I needed for the radio station, for the Little Venice, and to go putt-putting around Bermuda.

As a matter of possible curiosity, I received no extra money for doing the show; the monthly pay envelope contained a piddling $120.00. It was difficult to get through the pay period on that, especially with my life "on the beach." There were the demands of tea and spaghetti at the Little Venice, after all.

I'd also rented a room in Hamilton. The room gave me a feeling of independence, it was convenient to the radio station, and...well, you know...if I ever got lucky. Imagine, $28.00 a month in Hamilton, Bermuda, overlooking Queen Street. That the halls were littered with broken plaster may have had something to do with the rent. They were remodeling the place.

Two-hundred-fifty watts of power is as small as a commercial radio station gets, but if your audience is on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, that's all you need. At the request of a radio club in New York City, Quinton once stayed on the air all night, hoping ZBM's signal would skip all the way in to the Big Apple. The Club later informed Quinton that he had boomed in loud and clear, across six hundred miles of open Atlantic.

The two stations, ZBM-1 and ZBM-2, were simply two small studios, six feet apart. As to why there were two stations, I can only give you my thoughts: First, the company was probably built on the British model, with comprehensive service in mind; in Great Britain the BBC facilities offer multiple alternatives in both radio and television. And second, it gave ZBM's sales department more to work with.

ZBM-1 and -2 were the only radio stations on the island in those days. Now there are eight - four of those owned by Bermuda Broadcasting. And there are three television stations now, two of them owned by BB. For an area of twenty-one square miles, that's a hell of a lot of broadcast media.

ZBM did few remotes in those days, for some reason. You'd think that if there were more remotes, every business on the island would have been a likely customer. And come to think of it, Ludwig's prowlings would have been all the more fruitful if he'd been able to broadcast from the lobby of a hotel filled with lusty tourist girls. And, of course, I'd have finagled a way to be there flipping switches for him.

I'd begun dating a local English girl whose parents were of undeniably stolid British stock. Her father was an actual sea captain. I was once witness to the return of El Capitan from a long voyage. It was Boxing Day 1958, and I'd been invited to dinner.

I hadn't yet met the parents, and had only just arrived when her father returned home from the bonny sea. The Union Jack had been unfurled and flapped proudly beneath leaden skies as Janet and her mother stood at attention, side by side--the official British welcoming party. I half expected them to snap a salute.

Dinner was quite the learning experience. I'd never before witnessed such a formal relationship between members of the same family. Mother wore starched knickers, I'm sure, and the Captain sat as supreme monarch at the head of the table; his mind, no doubt, on me.

I've always done my best to be a good guest: respectful, polite, and quiet. Sometimes, though, circumstances arise which even our finest efforts can't relieve. (It was relief of another sort that I actually sought, I must admit. My youthful mind was lodged in the fantasy of Janet's 38DD British boobs, relieved of their Erin-Go-Bra and heading for a closer look at me! Unfortunately, it was me about to be undone.)

How Mother, as cook, managed to keep three people alive remains a mystery to me. The bird itself was as dry and tasteless as an old bone. But the real problem was the dressing. I'd never before - nor since - seen green dressing. I didn't even know it *was* dressing. Unfortunately, I was obligated to eat it, though it was dry, chunky, and it smelled strange.

The more serious aspect of that stuff was that it presented the fatal problem of getting it to stay on the fork. My every attempt failed. The use of a spoon, while practical, would have labled me either a hillbilly or a yankee, I can't be sure which. The green smellie couldn't be stabbed with a fork because it was too hard and rolled off the fork before you could get it halfway to your mouth, and mixing it with the mashed potatoes would have been a social no-no of serious proportions, I felt. The damn stuff had a mind of its own and it was jerking my chain.

The dinner bell had only just rung, yet I was already uncomfortably conscious of my every move, as my sole object of concentration necessarily became that dressing. After a few minutes of vain effort, I sensed that my silent hosts were conscious of my problem, more particularly of my clumsiness; their minds were on me, on my plate, and on my struggles with the dressing; and sadly--I couldn't help but notice--they didn't seem too thrilled about it.

Hoping that someone would offer a good-natured comment to alleviate my embarrasment, I was trying yet again to fork a hunk of green when the fork slipped and every bit of it shot off the plate onto the clean white tablecloth. I clearly remember my first grateful thought, that there was no way that bone-dry stuff could possibly soil the linen.

Mortification---theirs---is the only word to describe the pall that fell over the room. Their stiffness knew no bounds, apparently. They simply froze in place. I was forced to recognize that it was my unhappy task to metamorphose the moment, to redeem my fallen American self. But what to say? Searching my limited library of experiences for an appropriate out, only this came to mind: Into the pregnant silence my words spilled forth: "Well, I always wondered what I'd say if something like this ever happened!"

Now I admit that that might seem a less than impressive rejoinder after the big build-up, but for a shy kid who had never been in anything remotely resembling such a situation, I was quite pleased with myself. I thought it was a pretty cool response, all things considered. With my words and best smile I had hoped to both redeem myself, and to lighten the atmosphere.

But quite the opposite happened. My words crashed into a taut, silent void. Not a syllable was uttered in response. A mortified Briton, apparently, is a speechless Briton.

I'm proud to report that--in total silence--I confidently raked those green marbles back onto my plate and somehow finished eating them, one by one. Under the circumstances there would have been no alternative--except maybe to hurl myself from the balcony. That would have been an amusing getaway, come to think of it, and I'm not sure they wouldn't have been pleased to see me go.

I stuck it out, though. Nor did I allow the slightest indignity to penetrate my...dignity. I politely finished my Boxing Day dinner--dressing and all--no doubt passing on seconds.

And then, there was that tenacious preoccupation, remember? A divertive, prurient fantasy that was, in due time, **amply** filled by Janet (38DD), I'm happy to report.