Charles Lee Kuenzi — John Michaels

Memoir

I t was a dark and stormy night.

I always wanted to start a story with a little drama to get things rolling. That line has already been used. Probably way too many times but everything else in my head was somewhat  snarky so I decided to go with something familiar. Trust me, there will be much more drama as this short-story unfolds.

Obituary sounds like a vegetable you pick up in the produce department. "Hey honey be sure and get a couple of obituaries. They're right next to the avocados."

There is nothing final about me. Think MEMOIR. I'm hoping some parts will be somewhat entertaining. Included will be an explanation of how I intend to become immortal and why I thought it not only necessary but critically. Interested now? This document is a biographical report of one person's life written in real time. It not only looks at the past, it speaks to our future and whether or not we're going to have one. I've never been able to understand why everyone doesn't write their own story. Your second wife? Your third cousin? Who knows you better than you? No one.

It wasn't dark or stormy. Actually, it was a very pleasant Friday afternoon on August 18, 1939 in Tampa General Hospital. That's the exact moment I was introduced to life on earth   with a side order of domestic violence. I mean, there I was all comfy and cozy with a warm blanket around me called 'mom.' And then she must have thought, ENOUGH! and asked me to leave. But not in her pleasant, motherly voice I had gotten so used to in the womb. GET OUT!"

What else can you call it? There I was, sleeping peacefully and the next thing I know, I'm being held upside down and slapped. I have it on good authority the obstetrician was detained and questioned for 30 seconds. Patient breathing? Check. Umbilical cord cut? Check. Mission accomplished? Check. Next! And then I was whisked away to a private secluded room. Well, not entirely secluded. Or private. I think I had about 10 companions in the same location. All victims of violence. All with the same story: upside down followed by a POW!

Violence should've been my middle name but didn't have a choice at that time. The middle one became Lee, preceded by Charles. No choice there either—bummer. Charles Lee Kuenzi. I was never ever addressed by my first name by relatives, wives or friends. The exception of course were all the usual suspects: landlords, banks, credit card companies, department of Motor vehicles, etc. So I changed it to John. That decision was out of my hands also; no violence involved whatsoever. Confusion will be addressed in a later paragraph.

I wanted to start this future best-selling opus with a little humor because that's been a lifesaver for most of my life. As Pamela, my partner will attest, I found humor in just about everything. Fortunately, I located it long before I got into broadcasting. I admit it might've been caused by that first encounter with domestic violence. Over time I found I had the ability to make others laugh as well. To laugh at someone with malice, hate and resentment as motivation is going to force your friends, men and women, to abandon ship. Sooner rather than later.

Humor was a gift that kept me from going insane. For those moments, nothing else is in your mind. Just the reason for your laughter.  I'm quite sure though I felt my sanity fading when I opted to head for a long vacation in the forest and leave Pam here to deal with the electric bill and laundry. She would never have forgiven me if I had failed to grab a ticket at the immortality window. That's when I ventured out, discovered it fairly quickly and all fears subsided.

Born in the aftermath of the great depression, my parents, Guy (birthname Gottfried) and Margaret, weren't so lucky. They had to live through that nightmare along with my sister Mary who was 4 years older. Then, a couple of years later, Pearl Harbor and World War II. I remember bits and pieces of the blackouts in Tampa during air-raid testing, food rationing. Dad was a carpenter, my mother a first-grade school teacher. Somehow, they made it through. It was not smooth sailing. Often, I told mom she should've received a Congressional medal of honor for forty years of trench warfare with six-year-olds.

After that, my memory board must have unplugged for a while. Because the next one up was my fourth birthday; the big cake, the candles forcing me to test out my pink lovely lungs and about 10 family members sitting around the big dining room table. I have to say it does feel good to be singled out occasionally. Unless of course you're standing in a police lineup and somebody you don't see is pointing a finger at you.

I had another encounter with domestic violence when I was about six or seven. The crime? Mouthing off to my mother. Punishment—woodshed, where my father kept his carpentry tools. He walked past the power saws, belts, wooden paddles, and a vice that offered no escape from anything human. No cruelty but acute memories of slaps on the ass. I deserved every slap. Because of this abuse, I developed a permanent psychological condition called 'respect for others.'

Graduation from Plant high school in Tampa in 1957. I knew what I wanted to do with my life at 15 and started doing it at 18. I spent a semester or two at the University of Tampa with a goal of majoring in Mass Communications/Radio and Television. During this period of time, I also learned how to be a square dance caller, which I loved and my first introduction to a microphone and live people.

WTUN at the University was then a 1000-Watt FM radio station playing classical music. 88.9. If you don't have 100,000-watts, your coverage is about four-square blocks, maybe six.  For sure, more than 50 listeners. Boy, were there classical listeners though who loved everything I played.  But it put me in the direction I wanted to go. Oh the air, my job was to introduce a classical music selection and then study for two hours. When it was over, tell listeners who it was and what it was. At that age, I never pronounced the artist's name correctly: WHO? Explaining the particular musical selection? WHAT!

There was a brief passage of time (six months) ahead of the epiphany. If you want to learn commercial radio, get in it. Then luck rang the phone and the reason for Networking. The son of my square dance teacher got a job in radio. His first job was to get me hired. That event suffocated any thought of getting out of the profession I had fallen in love with. In all of my job relocations over four decades I think I might've sent out one perhaps two audition tapes. Networking is everything if you want to move up and forward. Often, it's not how good you are, it's who has heard you on the air and calls another radio station in another city. Program directors call other program directors in other cities. Personalities call other personalities and say something to the effect of "you need to check out this guy. He's good. He can help you." Couple of days later, a phone call. "Hey John, we have an opening, are you interested?"

There were mixed feelings (understatement) among all parties when I left home the first time. We came close to strangling each other with hugs. I was excited and terrified with the contradiction. Then came the sadness when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my parents waving. Two very important people in my life; a sad dad and a crying mom. I never told them I pulled around the corner and stopped suddenly when my mind adjourned to the battlefield. Is this a good time? Am I doing the right thing? Is this going to work? Damn, I miss them and I just left. Maybe I should go back, tell them I changed my mind and what's for lunch? After a five-minute war between the prosecution and defense, the jury returned and I browsed my AAA Trip Tip booklet and took off.

That first job was Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Thirty-five dollars a week—rooming house with two meals a day, 9 bucks a week. 1958. No-brainer: $140 a month income, $36 room & board. No debt. Five-year-old Plymouth a going away gift from mom and dad. Gas: 30 cents a gallon. Living close to the radio station. The 18-year-old figured this was rich beyond imagination.

The job did not start well. The first time I went on the air and the record ended, my mind went dark. I didn't know what to say. I freaked, then ran to the bathroom and threw up. I managed to make it through my program with lots of music and about 2% of me. When I got off the air, the same general manager who hired me called me into his office and gave me the feedback I desperately needed. I took that particular piece of memory and super-glued it to my mind's blackboard. I never forgot it and referred to it frequently for the rest of my career. He told me what the problem was and how to fix it. He assured me I would not jump off a balcony. I can almost quote him verbatim:

"You couldn't talk because you had nothing to say other than your name and hello and goodbye and the name of the record. You can't be on the air and not know things. Right now, your mind is a blank canvas. Write some words on it. Visualize pictures of those people who make the world go around and their reasons. Visualize our listeners. Then bring those pictures to life on the air. To communicate with your listeners, you have to know Hattiesburg or anywhere else news is being made. Our sports teams are news, our governor is news. When we finish talking, go to the library or a news stand and get today's newspaper, get the New York Times. Read it all. Get Time magazine, get Look magazine. Read read read. You have a ton of teens your age listening. You're one of them, you speak their language. Talk to them. They'll talk back, usually to say hi and request a song. Some will ask for a precise body description. Can you have fun with that or what?" The same dynamic applies to writing.

That day, I took a quantum leap forward. That lasted all of two weeks before he said there was one more wall I had to get past. "You need to change your name."

"What?"

"Your listeners can't pronounce it, can't spell it, can't remember it. You've got to come up with something easier." The U is silent. Try it now. Perfect!

My father emigrated from Bern, Switzerland with his parents and five siblings in 1903. The story of their journey would've made for another great novel. As a teenager, I spent a year and a half going to high school and milking cows on my uncle's farm in Wisconsin. At night, I would listen to a DJ on WOKY in Milwaukee. His name was John Michaels. He called his show 'Mad Man Michaels at Sundown.' He was warm and funny and played all my favorite songs. The name always stuck with me and when my manager said I had to change mine, the only one I could think of was John Michaels. I still write under that pseudonym. I doubt my first mentor who didn't know I existed is still alive but he obviously made an impression. Thanks John. After that experience at 15, I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life—so I went and did it and never looked back.

It took three years and four stops all in Mississippi and Alexandria, Louisiana, before I got my first major market break: Atlanta. Over that time period, I had gone from $140 a month to $500. Couldn't get there fast enough. After that came Miami, along with my first wife Jan. There were stops in Houston, Cleveland, San Diego and Seattle. I spent the rest of my career in Dallas where I retired after 20 years.

I've always felt sad so many people spend their entire lives in one town or city. They are born there, live their lives there, go to school there, get married there and die there. In fairness, a lot of them don't have a choice. For me, moving to different cities on a shoestring budget was a great adventure—new surroundings, new job, new listeners, new friends, new home, new everything .

After 40 years of following my passion, I witnessed my chosen profession evolve into something I didn't recognize any longer—Network radio. Satellite Music Network, a part of the ABC Radio Network. From 1990 until 1995, I experienced what I can only refer to as Frankenstein radio. You're sitting in a control center in Dallas and programming music to the whole country. There is no personal rapport with an individual listener, wherever they happen to be. For me it was a nightmare; generic radio taken to the extreme. I suspect it was the beginning of the end.

SMN began in 1981 in Mokena, Illinois in a strip mall. In less than three years, the network had signed more than 300 affiliates. The only good thing was that small city listeners could dial into major market talent. Result? Having to dumb down my content. No thank you. A career change was in order and that's when radio came to a halt.

The direction I went kind of made sense since I spent those years writing, producing and voicing more commercials than I can possibly remember. I must give credit to my former girlfriend in Dallas, Cathy, for putting the writing bug in my head. We were having lunch and she was reading the first part of a short story I had written. She reached over and stopped my fork midway between food and mouth and said, "This is terrific." Five minutes later, she kept another fork from reaching its destination with, "You have to write a book. Make it a mystery crime thriller book. It'll be good. I can feel it. Throw in a little sex."

My first novel, 'Moves' and possibly my last (seriously working on another) was a mystery crime thriller. It took 12 years to finish, but I had really good excuses. When I began to write, there were huge amounts of time when I had no time. Throat cancer surgery and subsequent radiation in 2011 capped off with a subdural hematoma featuring a brain blood clot the neurosurgeon compared to a slice of pizza, wiped out the entire year and almost this author. Months were spent learning how to put a book together. Premise, plot, continuity, structure and character development are critical. Your goal is to force a reader to keep turning the pages. 'Moves' received several five-star reviews including one from Kirkus. But it's not enough when you're working without an agent and a marketing promotional plan. At the time I couldn't afford to go that route. I wrote all of the book. I did the researching, proofing, editing and probably a million grammar checks.

I've tried a few times to contact Cathy to thank her for pointing me in the right direction but I've been unsuccessful in locating her. I suspect she is still angry when I told her I was moving to Austin. I am so grateful to her though for introducing me to the world of vegan and vegetarian. I eventually followed her lead. Pam and I will never go back from our decision: no meat for breakfast, lunch, dinner table or refrigerator. We consider animals our friends along with lots of other creatures. Many are sentient with the ability to perceive and feel. They are a vital part of our planet's ecosystem. They don't deserve to be raised, fed, and slaughtered. I've seen many videos of cows, sheep,  donkeys, horses and goats with their heads in the owner's lap getting their necks and ears rubbed. Some love having their hair brushed and don't move. The looks on their faces have brought me to tears every time I watched. These animals were mesmerized by the affection being given to them  And you want to have them for dinner?

My first pet was a Black Widow Spider. I named her Alice. We didn't play together for obvious reasons. Her home was a gorgeous web between a water pipe and the house. Not only was she beautiful but some kind of architect. I would catch flies and toss them in her web. Guess I must've scored  because the next day her dinner plate was all spiffy clean. You're right, my parents did not allow a personal relationship if you know what I mean.

A thought here: If you should ever encounter anyone who brags about not reading anything , please take he or she out to the garbage dumpster. That person is demonstrably ignorant. They have no knowledge about Earth's history and the lessons learned over the centuries. Therefore they and enablers are doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again. Their narcissism has kept them from having passion and empathy for others. They aren't even aware that our planet is beautiful just to look at. Forests, mountains, oceans, lakes and flowers have been erased from their personal viewfinders. To them, the sole thing worth protecting is their personal fortune and power. Worse, they don't care.

Yes, I'm referring to our former president what's his face . I have a great wish that he beats me to the finish line. I don't want to be denied. Anyway, this concludes my diatribes.

At the moment I'm still writing while reading about two novels a week. What's the alternative? Sky diving? Bungee jumping? I'm way too young for that kind of stuff.

Most people have the same hang-up I have. Small pieces of memory clip themselves to your brain's blackboard and never fall off. Some of them you would love to get rid of but they're too entangled in neurons. I've read that long-term memory changes from one person to another over time. What someone remembers may not be the same story as someone else who witnessed the same scene. You tell someone after you saw the bad guy, they got into a car; the other person says no, he jumped on a bus. The plot doesn't change, just parts of the details.

I remember graduating from high school. I didn't go to the prom because I didn't have a date. I may go down in history as the most introverted human to ever become a major market radio personality who talked for a living. In my defense, I recall an interview with Johnny Carson. He said "when the red light goes on, I entertain. When the red light goes off, I shut up." That summed me up then; no longer. I have Pam to thank for yanking me out of my quiet room and pointing to the sunshine. In her case, sunshine was conversation resulting in getting to know one another. And being able to hear one another. Kind of important, she said. So the quiet room disappeared, aided and abetted by six-thousand-dollar hearing aids. "Hello Houston? Coming in loud and clear. Over."

A few Sticky Notes. I recall my college history professor probably because he had the personality of a placemat. I fell in love with my third-grade teacher, Miss Bryant. My little mind was ready to propose, get married and zoom off to Tahiti. Soon after in the same class, I fell in love with Patsy and ditched Miss Bryant. I figured I could hold onto my Tahiti tickets. She was beautiful as viewed through the eyes of an eight-year-old.

The teacher that made the biggest impact on me was my fifth-grade math teacher, Mr. Reeves. Brilliant, professional, classy. He possessed the amazing ability to connect with his students. One on one, together as a group, it didn't matter. He was somewhat gruff at times but only when deserved. If he got mad when someone had obviously not done their homework, he got over it. So did the student who was given double homework for the next day. Yeah, Reeves checked off all the boxes under Teacher Credentials.   I think about him quite often. Mr. Reeves was not interested in being your warm, fuzzy friend. He was going to teach math and boy, did he. And students loved him for doing just that. Except one.

Russell, the school bully who needed a crash course in anger/attitude management. On one particular day he proceeded to talk back to Mr. Reeves right in front of everyone. Nasty stuff, dirty stuff. The equivalent of FU before FU became a household and very public word. In response Mr. Reeves pulled Russell from his chair and slammed him against the blackboard. Now he would have been fired, teaching license revoked and probably sued by ignorant parents. I myself would have given Mr. Reeves a gold medal. Russell disappeared for about a week and never mouthed off again. That particular lesson was learned the hard way. Too bad his parents didn't start the lessons much earlier, say around two?

Friday was always our big day in class. Math Competition Day. Mr. Reeves allowed one of the students to pick one of the Math tables and it could not be repeated until they were all used up. Addition, subtraction, division and multiplication. That was right before the drama started. Reeves would walk to the blackboard and just write a bunch of numbers. And it wasn't 2+2 or 6+5. Sometimes it was 776493+11,204. He wanted us to learn stuff. Next came the sound of grumbling and the beginning of controlled chaos.

All students had to work the same problems that were on the blackboard. Whoever was the winner for most correct questions got to be the star of the show near the end of class. I can easily compare the scene to Jeopardy contestants in the final round. Side-by-side with another contestant who had won the previous 2,044 games. Rules were pretty much the same: speed and correct answer. On that day I was handed a lifesaver: Multiplication!  For some reason this has been my strongest math skill since childhood. No idea.

Then came the twist. Mr. Reeves erased and wiped the blackboard and both of us wrote multiplication numbers as fast as possible (and legible) as we could. With one or two students allowed to shout numbers to avoid confusion. No problems could be worked on till they were all on the board. 30 seconds on the clock. Go!

I went to warp speed before the next beat of my heart. We had eight problems each to solve and we moved along the blackboard side by side almost in unison.

When the class and applause ended and the students left the room, Mr. Reeves took me aside. I knew the results but I still wanted to hear him say it—I was the only student who had ever come within two seconds of beating him in a math test. He congratulated me, said I was a good student and forecast a wonderful future. Probably no crystal ball showing the forthcoming tractor accident that came close to cancelling that future. Mr. Reeves has always had a special place on my inner memory board. He was the best teacher I ever encountered. Wish I could've said that about all my teachers. Mr. Reeves, hope you lived to 100. You earned it along with great respect.

Some more drama? Oh yeah, tractors. Coming right up. I should've never made it past 15. There was the horrible accident that happened on Uncle Fred's dairy farm when I was 15, going through a year of high school there and helping out. It was the hay season and neighbors were helping out, running three tractors at the time. The good news/bad news part: Bad was not being picked to drive one of the new tractors. Good was assignment to the old Allis Chalmers tractor, autographed by Henry Ford, perhaps an ancestor. Mine was the only  tractor of the three with a wooden hitch mating the old machine to the huge wagon of hay bales.  Two people's lives were saved that day by one simple decision.

Picture me driving up the barn hill to the loft for unloading. On the flip side, a two-story drop and a huge manure pile. Kind of looked like a very large danish with frosting but you would not want to be in the same county never mind your ham and eggs. The Allis Chalmers I was driving featured long steel brake handles on either side of the seat, no foot pedals. You had to pull back as hard as you could to stop it. For adults, no problem. I didn't pass the test. Imagine an aircraft carrier being told to stop in a half mile. Yep, I couldn't do it either. Got the visual? Five tons of hay bales behind me and my uncle Fred sitting on the top one right behind. His screaming words were short and curt, which translated to STOP, STOP."

Shortly after half an eye blink and the last yell of "CEASE AND DESIST" scream, the tractor crashed through the closed barn doors and headed for space and its final destinations—manure pile and junk yard. At that moment, the wooden hitch snapped and when the tractor pitched down, it also pitched me back onto the barn floor. Barely. When I turned my head, the wheels of the wagon were about 6 inches from my head. Had I been driving any of the other tractors, everything would've gone down—tractor, wagon, hay bales, Uncle Fred and yours truly, squished in the middle of the wreckage. My parents cancelled my burial plot which would've been under the manure pile. I also deleted future farmer on my job list.

On a lighter note, I smashed up three cars before I was 17—Dad's car, mom's car, my own car. "Yes sir, I'm pretty sure they got on the bus, there were no cars left." I must have a magnet attached to me that sucks in trauma like a sponge. One more dose and then I will quit. This is the final scene movie directors always save for last before the credits roll.

September 1, 1976. I was working the evening shift on KVIL in Dallas. At that time, I was into serious photography—dark room, color enlarger, developing trays, etc. The dark room was also the laundry room.

After my show was over that night, I went up on the roof of the three-story building with my camera and tripod. The intention was to capture nighttime pictures of the city. I opted instead to walk backward into a 33-foot shaft. To this day, I never developed whatever pictures I had taken of Dallas if any. It was not a new roll of film but whatever was on it I never developed. I couldn't. They found my camera in the water tray on top of the huge tower the next day. I'm quite sure had someone been capturing the action on a yet to be invented cell phone, they would've seen a redacted version with 95% of the footage gone on the local news next day. "The video you are about to see contains graphic images that are disturbing."

I finished up my performance with a face plant on cement. After 42 years, the damage is still with me. I remember surgeons telling me I was fortunate to have landed on my face rather than my head. Had I been turned over, a body bag would have appeared.

I won't ruin your dinner plans with the long story but will throw in some clues. Face crushed, jaws broken in seven places, crippled up left arm, plastic, oral and orthopedic surgeons rushing to the ER. I was in a coma for 10 days and tested positive for brain damage. After I woke up, the first words I remember were those from a nurse saying "Welcome back, you've been gone for a while." They tested again and for whatever reason, my mind had been ordered to forget what happened and get on with the program. Never mind the 22 root canals I had to go through in the first six months. So I did and here I am, heading for the final chapter and a great ending.

Now comes the best part:

Pamela Craig (Kellerman) She deserves her own line of text.

I was in Austin, Pamela in Houston but out of my search area. I had been single for several years and had given up on finding a partner. Sure, I tried online dating. After most of those encounters, I wanted to commit suicide. In the end, one last time. I extended my search horizon to include Houston. Then I bought a home 20 miles out of Austin on 3 acres, anticipating a future of Charles Kuenzi aka John Michaels, gentleman farmer. Houston came up blank again. No women in Houston? Lots, but not any wishing to move to the stick s, sir . Rats! Wait! My doorbell is ringing. Probably the septic tank guy. Can't be—a woman from Houston has sent me a profile? I'm pretty sure I was one finger away from the return key to close my Match dating account and Pamela had done the same after some not so pleasant episodes with men. Ask sometime about the gun-nut who loved living in an arsenal. That was one of the good guys.

So I contacted her through the website and a couple of days later a response. And that was the beginning. We emailed back-and-forth several times over about six months. Initially, I vetted her as most guys do with a stranger on Match or any other dating site. ( Trust me on this, I've heard horror stories ) Most men check the picture, read the profile and decide what their chances are, at some point, of running through some tulips sans clothes. Color of said tulips not a concern.

Pamela, on the other hand, missed her calling. She should've been a criminal investigator with the CIA. After she finishes vetting, she'll know everything . Let me repeat that: everything . Names, numbers, addresses past and present, phone numbers, birthdates, wives present or past, marriage dates, divorce dates, what brand of car you were driving 10 years ago. That's just for starters. If Pam should ever have dinner with a guy and he asks her to tell him about herself, she would probably say "how about I tell you about yourself first." If he doesn't like what he hears, don't expect a second date. Anyway, she must have concluded, after checking my prison attendance, I was not the tulip kind of guy. Told you she was good.

All women should do what Pam did for any stranger they don't know. DIG! It's called VETTING! Know what you're getting before you sign up. Take the time to s creen, assess, evaluate, appraise, examine, review, consider, scrutinize, study, inspect, investigate, check out, check up on, probe, research, look into, delve into, any criminal history. This goes a long way to ensure safety, a peasant experience and peace in the valley. Your valley.

On the marriage score, we tied—two each—two failures. Don't want to do that again.

When you 're 21 and your bride is 19, you make decisions born of naivety, passion and lust. Stupidity is usually close behind on the menu. In hindsight, we should've put all decisions to a 12-person jury. I'm sure they would have agreed on one recommendation. You guys should remember to put the cork back in the bottle occasionally. Five kids for us, one for Pam. I'm guessing she picked her wine a little higher on the shelf then Mr. Boone. I continue to read those red wines always need time to breathe, right? Pam left her cork on the table. Boone's Farm was removed from the ventilator about 60 years ago. In the end, we both decided to gamble. Had this been a poker game, she would have run the table, pulled in all the chips and me along with them. A sixteen-year gamble and we walked out of the casino, laughing, grateful, wearing huge smiles, holding hands, loving each other and in love with the person beside them.

Here are my children in order of appearance:

Michelle Hughes, Michael Godfrey (I lost my oldest son in 2014), Suzanne Griffin, Mark Kuenzi, Samantha Bishop, Justin Kuenzi.

(Note) Pam's only son, Craig, who I consider another son is quite well. He's also a youngster so I have to factor that in. He has a beautiful wife whose cooking skills would rival any restaurant within 100 miles. Together, they have given Pam her one and only grandchild, a girl. To say she's beautiful would be to understate her. Already multilingual before the age of three gives you some idea of her future. Best part of all is knowing they all love each other like crazy. And never forget Pam is her grandmother and I'm sure still moonlights part time for the CIA.

Regarding success stories, I had a hard time tooting my own horn over the years. One of the radio success stories I am proud of took place in 1971. That year, Billboard Magazine's annual list of the top 100 stations named KILT in Houston the best in the country. On my office wall is a list and pictures of all of the personalities that were there at that time. I was in pretty good company.

The other good feeling came in Dallas when I was ranked the highest rated afternoon personality in the country. The two that I've mentioned here only served to make me realize that I had become successful in my chosen profession. And I look back, knowing that choice was made at 15. The trip from Hattiesburg to Dallas was a 40-year drive without any wonderful parents waving goodbye in the rearview mirror but no regrets except for the biggest mistake of all. Smoking .

Thirty years of sucking garbage into my lungs and seeing everyone around me doing the exact same thing. The definition of tobacco: a product we can legally buy at our local gas station kills more than 480,000 per year in the United States. More than 41,000 deaths from secondhand smoke exposure; 1,300 deaths every day. On average, smokers die 10 years earlier than nonsmokers. I'm still waiting to hear the reason why our government condones the killing of hundreds of thousands of men women and children each and every year. These are the same people who are responsible for protecting us from harm.

Pam and I started discussing end-of-life plans long ago. I was diagnosed in 1998 with an insidious terminal lung disease (COPD). Only good thing about it are the years you have to keep enjoying life. At the moment I've held out 25. But there is no escape hatch. When I started getting sicker a couple of years ago, I started doing serious research on the most environmentally friendly way to check out. Took about three months to find exactly what I was looking for. Let's begin with the reasoning for making plans in advance. My father was a good place to start.

Dad went off to work one day at the age of 62 and never came home. No advance planning for this eventuality had ever been made. When I drove home from Miami I walked right into chaos. Wall to wall relatives, children and friends. Quickly, the question from almost everyone present: "What do we do?" The only answer available. Look through the Yellow Pages for a funeral home; emergency shopping for a casket we couldn't afford and winding up with a chopped down tree never to be seen again; where do we bury him? Those kinds of questions. There must be a little booklet called "How not to do it." Certainly not the way I wanted to do it.

It is an understandable tendency to limit the amount of time you spend thinking about your death which is a part of living. But contrary to what mainstream culture tells us, devoting time to your death care choices can be an incredible gift to yourself and the people in your life. Thinking about your own death doesn't make you morbid. In fact, it can be a source of joy, gratitude, and peace of mind. I found them all when I went looking for answers. Here were the only options available to me at this time a year and a half ago.

Alkaline Hydrolysis

It's billed as a green alternative to cremation and works by dissolving the body in heated alkaline water. Then they basically flush you out like a toilet .

Burial /Cremation

The environmental impacts of conventional burial and cremation are profound. In the United States, cemeteries take up 1 million acres of land, caskets use 4 million acres of forest every year. The fossil fuel necessary for one year of cremations in North America could drive a car halfway to the sun. The tons of CO2 being pumped into our atmosphere are mind-boggling. Earth has no chance at all if we continue on this path.

Recompose

I found Recompose by doing what Pam does: DIG! After that, keep digging until that inner voice yells Eureka.! Then you have to dig some more. "Pam, find anything yet? No, but check out this report from Denver." Pam compares my skills to hers which I would debate. She considers me 24/7 tech support. I guess in that regard we're somewhat on the same page. When something goes wrong with her computer or the Wi-Fi or the software applications or if it just messes up and when she runs out of clues, guess whose door she knocks on? HELP!

Me: Did you reboot the computer?

Her: Yep.

Me: Did you reboot the Wi-Fi?

Her: Yep

Me: Do you need some help from Tech Support?

Her: John, my computer doesn't love me anymore!

Me: What's it doing..or not?

Her: (whispering so as not to upset what's sitting right in front of her)

How do I do this? How do I do that? How do I get this gizmo to connect with that gizmo over there? Every time I want to do something, it just gives me the middle finger. This is not fair. What have I done wrong to deserve this treatment?

Me: Like me to drive for a while? (Next thing I see is an empty chair and hear a wine bottle being opened in the kitchen. Merlot.) "I'll take that for a yes."

In fairness to Pam, she enrolled in my personal Computer 101 courses since the day we met. She made progress to the point where she usually knew what the problem was before she ever knocked on my door asking for an answer. She started with a Windows PC, the one with that huge tower sitting down on the floor under the desk. Now we have graduated to wall-to-wall Macs: iPhones, tablets, laptops and a 23-inch Mac in the office. Apologies to Mr. Gates. So, like her, I keep digging until something pops up and says "Boo. Over here." It may take a minute, an hour, a day, or a week, on one occasion, a month. But I find it and am occasionally rewarded with hugs and a promise of dinner. Right after she finishes her own digging. At the moment, she's looking for a pedophile.

Recompose offers you a tangible and personal action in the fight against climate change. Human composting saves a metric ton of carbon dioxide per body when compared to conventional burial or cremation. That's equivalent to the CO2 emissions of 1,102 pounds of coal, driving 2,481 miles, or over 40 cylinders of propane. Each body that completes the Recompose process creates one cubic yard of nutrient rich soil. You'll have the freedom to choose where your soil goes. You can ship it home (might need a U-Haul) or you can donate it to Bells Mountain, a legally protected natural wilderness and will remain so in perpetuity.

You can get several ounces of your loved one(s) in a biodegradable container. Put the soil of the person you loved into a beautiful container and watch them give life back to flowers or a plant right in front of you. The land's caretakers use the soil donated by Recompose to support the continued revitalization of wetlands, riparian habitats, local plants, and vulnerable wildlife species. Pam has no interest in visiting a grave with my name etched on it, lay a flower, say hi, and walk away. And she sure doesn't want a bowl of destroyed atoms sitting on a mantel, its purpose extinguished.

Pam's memories lie in her head: of all we did, all we achieved, all the fun we had along the way. She doesn't have to go anywhere, just head inside her mind and pull up her personal memory bank. And there I am. At the very same moment, she can look to the window where a gorgeous vase and plants and flowers are flourishing. And know I am their source of food and water.

In the end it was an easy decision: return to the soil as soil. I can help grow my own trees, flowers and green grass and all the beautiful things you see every day. Sure I'm excited. Living for a sliver of time on this round rock somewhere in our giant universe has given me great pleasure. I want to leave something as a thank you note to our environmentally stressed planet, desperate for help. I'm going to give her something else she needs — Me.

In return, she is giving me something I've been trying to capture for a long time.

When your soil returns to the soil as soil you, have achieved … Immortality