I have had my share of close calls, through misadventures I have brought upon myself. But for the grace of God, my life could have taken some dramatic, unpleasant turns, which could have irreparably altered my life. Fortunately, my guardian angel stepped in and saved me from my own flawed judgement calls or lack of attention to detail.
Around 35 years ago at Christmas, my grandfather in Whitesboro, Texas, gave me a small pistol as a gift. (He collected guns.) I didn’t think too much about it, put it in a canvas bag filled with books and drove to my home in Indianapolis.
A few weeks later, I was getting on a flight in the Indianapolis airport, went through security and that pistol in the bag showed up like the star of Bethlehem over the Nativity. I knew the end of my misspent life was at hand and I prepared myself for instant death. Security called the police and they took me down to their offices in the airport. A calm, kind police officer asked if the gun was registered and did I have a permit to carry one? I said no, but because of my relationship with Sheriff Jim Wells, I felt confident he could expedite the process. “How do you know Sheriff Wells?” I went on at great, exaggerated length to explain he was a personal friend, he was crazy about me, he would vouch for my character, etc.
Through my friendship with fellow Democrats, Larry Conrad and Claudia Prosser, I was involved in Jim’s re-election campaign and had even held a fundraiser in my home. The policeman called the sheriff’s office, reading my driver’s license said he had a “George Sappenfield” down here, who claimed the Sheriff would vouch he was not a menace to society. The dispatcher said the Sheriff was at a political dinner and he would contact him down there. He radioed a deputy with the Sheriff, told him what the policeman said and the Sheriff replied he did not know a George Sappenfield. This was relayed to the policeman, who hung up the phone and gave me a baleful stare.
Thankfully, Claudia was sitting at the table when the Sheriff returned and told the story. Claudia exclaimed, “That’s Buck!” The Sheriff called the policeman at the airport, suggested he slap me around a bit for bringing a gun into the airport and then throw me in jail. When he stopped laughing, he got me off the hook and issued me a permit the next day. I retrieved the pistol from the compassionate policeman at the airport (who could have been a lot rougher) and promptly sent the gun BACK to my grandfather in Whitesboro, Texas, because I am clearly not bright enough to know not to carry firearms into airports.
Thanks to Claudia Prosser and my “guardian angel”, I was saved from making Indiana license plates for the rest of my days.
Years earlier, when I began working in radio, I was at KTXO, a small 250 Watt station in downtown Sherman, Texas. I made a habit of signing on the station at 6 AM on Sundays, start a taped service of “Billy Graham’s Crusade from Minneapolis, Minnesota”, which went on for about an hour, lock the front door and go to the Travis lunchroom down the street for breakfast. After eating, I would go back to the station, unlock the door, let the tape finish and go to work as a disc jockey.
Now…this was against the law. At that time, a First Class FCC licensee had to be present at all times when the station was on the air. I didn’t take it too seriously…we were a small station, it WAS Sunday morning and I was the only human I saw on the streets of Sherman.
Until one bright Sunday morning.
I walked back to the studio, adjacent to the upper level parking at the top of the Grayson Bank Building and saw an old, gray Chevrolet. An older man in a wrinkled suit was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. I asked what I could do for him, he showed me his badge from the FCC and suggested we go inside the studio.
I WAS A DEAD MAN. He looked at the station broadcast logs, the transmitter and my license. He pointed out my obvious violation of federal law, read me my rights and reminded me it was punishable with a large fine and up to a maximum of 2 years in FEDERAL prison. You cannot just put Billy Graham’s Crusade from Minneapolis, Minnesota on the air, you’ve got to sit with him and be sure there are no errors during the broadcast. I knew I was going to jail, would never see my family again and my fond hope of leading a rather normal life was gurgling down the drain.
The man smoked another cigarette in silence, while studying my face, rigid and white with terror. He finally said he was on his way to Oklahoma City. To deal with this violation, he would have to stay over until Monday, when his office in Dallas opened. He did not want to stay and wondered if I felt like I understood the seriousness of my offense.
OH, MY LORD YES! I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT! I WILL NEVER, EVER MAKE ANOTHER ERROR IN MY LIFE…I WILL AVOID THE TRAVIS LUNCHROOM… I WILL AVOID EATING. I EMBRACE BILLY GRAHAM’S CRUSADE BROADCASTS, WILL SIT WITH HIM AND DO ALL I CAN TO MAKE UP FOR THIS GRIEVOUS ERROR! I WILL DO ANYTHING I AM TOLD AND SMILE ABOUT IT!
He chuckled over my enthusiastic conversion to law and order, suggested I not let this happen again and left. I fell to my knees in gratitude and thanksgiving, thanking the angel watching over me for keeping me off a Texas chain gang. From that day forward I was a cheerful follower of federal laws. I happily embraced “Billy Graham’s Crusade from Minneapolis, Minnesota” broadcasts from start to finish and only darkened the door of The Travis Lunchroom, when I was not on the air!
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