You can blame Bob Barker and “Luther”

I wasn’t born talking into a microphone, but I didn’t miss by much. When I was growing up, friends and relatives would inform me that I was quite entertaining as a toddler. My older sisters Brenda and Elaine shared stories of how their baby brother would randomly greet a woman by blurting out the game show question of that era, “Would YOU like to be QUEEN for a DAY?” Even around the house, I would find anything that remotely resembled a microphone (a corn cob, a used-up paper towel tube), and go around interviewing people.

I was fascinated by our Zenith TV. There are several old pictures of me standing way too close to the screen. I was all too willing to be a human remote control, changing the channels constantly. After all, there were three to choose from!

My parents, Hoyt and Ruth Carroll opened a general store in Bryant, Alabama when I was six, and I finally found the audience I had craved. My favorite programs were the game shows, and I had begun impersonating hosts like Bob Barker as soon as I could speak.

At the same time, I carefully studied the hard working people who entered our store. Many of them worked on construction projects, or operating chainsaws in lumber yards. More than a few of them were missing a finger or two.

Then I would see Bob Barker on that game show stage. Think about it: his job consisted of giving away prizes, and getting hugged by women. He wore clean white shirts, expensive suits, and he never had a hair out of place. Plus, he had all of his fingers. I counted them, just to be sure.

As soon as I was able to add up a grocery order, in full gameshow mode, I would call out to everyone within earshot, “This roll of toilet paper is only FORTY-NINE cents!” At checkout time, I would announce to an unsuspecting customer, “Your grand total is, FOUR dollars, and TWENTY-SEVEN cents. Congratulations!” My parents were not amused. “Son, this is not a game show!” Well, it was close enough for me. Besides, the price was always right.

With a childhood like that, it’s no wonder I adopted broadcasting as a profession. As a pre-teen, I would call radio disc jockeys, and ask them about their glamorous profession. Even as they complained about their long hours and low salaries, I only heard this: they were getting paid to play records and talk to girls on the phone. After watching my dad do oil changes and lift heavy bags of feed, a career in radio was calling my name.

I had heard about a guy named Luther. Before I knew he was a Chattanooga broadcasting legend, I knew this Luther fellow had the power to close schools when it snowed. Of course, he really didn’t, but it seemed that way. People would come into our store and stock up on bread and milk, saying “Luther said snow is coming!” The only Luther I knew was our Colonial Bread delivery man, and I couldn’t figure out why he was such an expert on weather.

Eventually I learned that Luther Masingill was on WDEF radio each morning, and he was the Luther everybody was listening to. So I called him at home one Sunday night when we visited Chattanooga. Here I was, a 12-yearold Alabama kid, asking advice from a total stranger. Even though I was barging into his family time, he was very kind, advising me to read the newspaper, study English and history, and keep up with politics. At the end of our chat, he asked, “By the way son, where did you say you were from?” “Bryant, Alabama,” I drawled. “I see,” he replied. “Well, you may want to lose that Alabama accent too.”

As soon as I was old enough to get some wheels (a Suzuki 100 motorcycle), I began bugging the managers of the nearest radio station, WEPG in South Pittsburg, Tenn. I would hang out in the control room, hoping one day the disc jockey on duty would get a stomach ache, and say, “Here, kid. You’ll have to take over.”

That never happened, but eventually the Sunday afternoon guy quit rather suddenly, and they were desperately seeking a replacement. I think they figured, “Hey, if we pay the Carroll kid to come in on Sundays, maybe he’ll stop pestering us the rest of the week.”

I’ll never forget that fateful phone call. “Would you be interested in working Sunday afternoons for a dollar-sixty an hour?” In my mind I was thinking, “Shoot, I’ll pay you more than that!” Just like that, I was a broadcaster. Even better, a rock ‘n roll disc jockey.

David Carroll is from Chattanooga, Tenn. You may contact him at 900 Whitehall Road, Chattanooga, Tenn. 37405 or 3dc@ epbfi.com.