The Bobby Braddock-written, John Anderson-recorded song, "Would You Catch A Falling Star" was recorded on April 17, 1982 on the Warner Brothers Nashville record label.

"Would You Catch A Falling Star reached the Number 6 position on the Billboard Hot Country Singles And Tracks chart.

The song's lyric "Would you catch a falling star before he crashes to the ground" pretty well summed up how I felt after my fight with Phillip Gobertson in the cafeteria.

Little did I know I was about to plummet even further.


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SUPERINTENDENT GAIL MCCLELLAN HAD SPENT THE DAY TOURING HERMITAGE HALL. I supposed the head honcho, and resident peckerhead extraordinnaire, could do that in his waddling steps if he so desired. King Tubbo suffered from a permanent weakness in his hip girdle and upper thigh muscles brought on by excess tonnage. His obviously not the best locomotion manifested in resembling a duck when he paraded. I knew McClellan's whereabouts when he unceremoniously barged abruptly into the sanctuary of my room on the east end of the third floor and slammed the door closed behind him. It about flew off its rusted hinges.

Shirtless and barefooted, I had changed into cutoff jeans. You know the kind I'm talking about. The ones with all the loose strings that dangled from the legs once your handiwork with scissors finished. You probably had a pair or two youself.

This was a direct violation of Hermitage Hall's exhalted dress code that stated "Boys are to remain fully clothed at all times." Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! And, I do mean that sarcastically.

I was so attired because, as usual, the air conditioning unit in my room was on the fritz and it was June 22nd. Another blistering hot day in Nashville. The first day of Summer always was. So, I ask you, what else is a boy supposed to do in a situation like that?

Rumors had it McClellan held a particular taste for little tykes. One he should not have possessed. Not alone, he topped the list of the most unpopular staff in the facility. In my book, all employees of Hermitage Hall filled that praiseworthy register.

Allow me to paint his portrait for you. Short and stout, to put McClellan's physical description in mild terms, King Tubbo was follicly challenged and bespectacled. The fearless leader of the dread always wore white suits that looked lIke they had just been laundered in a bottle of Clorox. He must have carried 325, or more, rotund pounds on his five foot eight inch frame. Right away, I noticed McClellan in rare form. A smile creased his face. Normally, King Tubbo's expression was a stern scowl. I feigned concern the grin would fracture his portly face.

He began his spiel, "Well, well. If it isn't our resident hellcat wolverine once again breaking the established rules of our fine institution."

My reputation of "hellcat wolverine" suited me. Later in life, I used it in one of my social media addresses. It seemed I always locked horns with someone at Hermitage Hall. Somebody needed to carry the mantra. I decided it may as well be me. I stared back at the nuisance who'd disturbed my peace and attempted to wish him away. Much to my chagrin, the pest didn't leave.

"I'm in the privacy of my room," I commented.

King Tubbo's stern response arose immediately. He bellowed, "Whether they are in the infirmary, the classroom, on the exercise yard we graciously provide them, or in the confines of their rooms, boys here at Hermitage Hall have no privacy! Do I make myself clear? The rules are the rules, and you seem to constantly shatter them in a concerted effort to see what you can escape with."

I could not deny that fact, nor could I insinuate not being aware they had cameras scattered all over the property spying on us. That included in the shower rooms.

McClellan paused a moment to huff, puff, and catch his breath. I smelled more than a little nip of vodka. King Tubbo was easily winded. He continued his lecture by telling me, "I could enforce the required consequences of another round with Big Bertha for your unwarranted actions. However, this one time I offer an olive branch and will get right to the point of why I am darkening your door."

I couldn't wait to hear his proposal and wondered what McClelland demanded from me. The sooner he finished barking and disappeared the better.

"Tonight, at 8 o'clock sharp, and not one second later, you are to be freshly showered. Your blond hair is to be properly shampooed and neatly combed into place. And, I do mean every last hair on the top of your head, especially that unmitigated, god-awful, cowlick of yours. At that time you will report to the Executive Suite on the fifth floor. Moreover, you will ensure you are dressed in clean, snow-white Fruit of the Looms. You will don clean black socks and closed-toed shoes on your feet. Not your worn out boots. In addition, you will wear a spotless, button-down, long-sleeved shirt and your best pair of pressed slacks. Make sure you iron them properly. Upon your arrival, a suitable tie will be provided to you. Do you have any questions pertaining to these matters you wish to discuss with me at this moment?"

My initial reaction was desperately wanting to ask King Tubbo, "Is it true pigs can fly?"

That was a direct reference to his physical resemblence to a ham sandwich product. However, the little smart ass I could be set aside, I responded with a simple "Nope." What I truly desired was for McClellan to vanish into thin air, or otherwise. I did not want to accept his generous, for lack of a better word, invitation, either. Discretion being the better part of valor, I had no choice.

The occasion King Tubbo addressed was his annual Summer Solstice Ball in support of raising capital to assist in carrying on the "prison" known as Hermitage Hall. The event would draw from the beau-monde of many walks of life in Nashville society. They always had before. These were Big Money contributors to the cause. In return, they expected to be, shall we say "entertained"?

Many of the boys I was on speaking terms with, and there wasn't but a trickle of them at the time, had talked about this event for the last month. Not all of them would be in attendance at the gala, only a hand-chosen few. Apparently, whether I liked the predicament I found myself engulfed in or not, I was one of the slaughtered sheep.

The chatter was these High Dollar attendees demanded a particular species of boys for their cream of the crop affair. The happier they were with the variety of boys presented as their escorts for the evening the more currency they tended to endow. Favors brought favors in return.

So much for my planned activities of the night that included turning out the overhead light in my room, illuminating a flickering candle, and enjoying my Edgar Allen Poe horror stories. Quote the raven, "Nevermore."

Instead, I was required to be at these unwanted festivities I cared nothing about. Like Wile E. Coyote, of the Looney Tunes cartoons on television, I would rather be run over by a steamroller. It would be a lot less painful. All of us boys knew what happened at one of King Tubbo's famous celebrations. We were the star attractions.

Don't allow anyone to fool you. Sometimes in the grand scheme of life, blond hair and blue eyes aren't all they are cracked up to be. Little did I know how close I was to wrapping up my stay at Hermitage Hall. A place I passionately despised.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter Five, I had no plans, no future, and wasn't sure I even wanted to experience one if it existed. With nothing else to do, and no place to go, I ran away from Hermitage Hall.