When four women bought a radio station in Gainesville, Georgia, in the late 1970’s, the local newspaper ran a story about how unusual this was. There was a lot of gossip about whether women would do such a thing on their own--especially these women, only one of whom had much radio experience. Sure, other women owned radio stations inherited from a husband or father. But women going into the radio business for themselves? From scratch? In Gainesville? In the 1970’s? This was unheard of! Surely, according to the coffee-shop chatter, there was a man behind them.
Yes, there was. Me!
The four women and I were equal partners, with each of us owning 20% of the station. They all paid cash for their 20%. I earned mine in other ways.
I did the morning show, managed the station, did all the hiring and firing, helped with sales, handled the promotions and, of course, selected the music.
Aaah, the music.
I—we—named the station “Country Love” and we played country hits and oldies, but not all of them. Every song played on our station had to have “Love” in the title or in the lyrics of the song. No train songs, beer songs, prison songs, fighting songs, hound dog songs, death songs or other typical country fare. It was nothing but love songs. Country love songs.
My co-owners and I thought the result was breathtaking: hour after hour of love. Country Love. All day long, each time we said the name of the station, we had to say the word love. All day long, every song we played was a song to fall in love by
. Or make love to.
. Or make love to. It worked! We became popular. A ratings service showed we were number one with women in the morning. My head swelled.
Actually, my head swelled in more ways than one. I went to the beauty shop and got myself an Afro that made my head look as big as a watermelon. When I ran for county commission and the local paper took my picture and their flashbulb threw the shadow of my Afro onto the sheetrock wall behind me, my head looked TWICE as big as a watermelon! (But my run for office is another story.)
............. ....................................................... ...........................................................................................................................................................It was a great time in my life—I thought the world was mine, that anything was possible. I had two little daughters and a brand-new baby boy and a pretty wife and a house in the country, with my all-time favorite horse, Abadon (named after an Iranian oil field) in the back yard. My fellow-Georgian and inspiration Jimmy Carter was President. I could do anything I wanted at the station. I had no boss, no one to answer to except the four women who bought me my own radio station because they liked my morning show so much. (Or whatever their reasons may have been.)
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The four of them gave me everything I wanted, except a big paycheck...which was okay—we all agreed that I’d work cheap at first and make up for it when the profits came rolling in.
...
Our little enterprise fell apart before the big money kicked in. (The story of my life!)
Our little enterprise fell apart before the big money kicked in. (The story of my life!)
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But it was fun while it lasted—being owned by four women; five, counting my green-eyed wife, who thought I was enjoying Country Love so much she eventually decided to get into radio herself.
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