M--c--G--u--i--r--e----o-n----M--c--G--u--i--r--e

Now I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I can still remember the smell of the room I was standing in where I first heard Hank Snow singing "Spanish Fireball." I was a twelve-year old boy scout delivering beer to my camp counselors when I first fell under the spell of his hypnotic guitar rhythms, and that velvety voice coming out of that ratty loudspeaker that night in the counselor's lounge. And just as he wrote, "I played the part and gave my heart to that Spanish Fireball." My love of country music started that day and has never left. Music has always been a huge part of my life and a faithful muse for my photography, although I was hardly thinking about any careers at that age. I was too busy daydreaming about fast cars and counting the days until I could get a license to finally drive the hot rod I had been building after school for two years.

During my misspent teenage years, my fascination with cars kept me busy in our barn where I spent countless hours fooling with engines, transmissions and anything that could be taken apart and put back together. My dad was somewhat dismayed at the amount of time I spent covered in grease but was also pleased that I could fix stuff and keep the family '49 Ford 'woody 'in tune. He warm-heartedly interpreted my mechanical skills to be a "sure indicator for success" and enrolled me in a mechanical engineering program at Trenton Junior College. It was a merciless two years and in 1961 when I finally finished, I was desperate for adventure and enlisted in the Air Force.

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