The Rogers Report 50th Anniversary

 

THE ROGERS REPORT AT 50 (Part 1): Giving thanks

Indulge me, if you will, and allow me to celebrate a personal milestone and give thanks where it is due.

 

On this date in 1975, the first The Rogers Report was published, appearing on the Tiger Growl page in The Malakoff News. Yes, that makes today the 50-year anniversary of a day and event I had no idea as a junior at Malakoff High School it would affect my life as it did.

 

The thought of being a sports journalist had never crossed my mind. At that time in my life, my goal was to be a high school football coach. The long-range dream being, of course, to return and lead the Tigers to a state championship.

 

Some way, somehow, the Tigers got there without me, and I navigated the waters of a different journey. I have no regrets things turned out the way they did. What a ride it has been.The places it has taken me; the things it has allowed me to see, and the people I have been fortunate to meet make me a blessed person. I may have never seen it coming, but I am certainly thankful that it is where it took me.

 

Enough of that. That’s too much about me.

 

The Rogers Report would never have come to be had it not been for MHS journalism teacher Thomas O. Wylie. Mr. Wylie, which I still call him out of respect, approached me with the idea, encouraged me, gave me guidance, and off I went.

 

Mr. Wylie saw something in me that I did not see in myself when he selected me to write a column as a contribution to our weekly page in our hometown newspaper. That is what great teachers do. I owe Mr. Wylie more than a simple “thank you” could ever repay. I know he will never take full credit for the professional career I have enjoyed since 1982. But he clearly provided the ignition point.

 

Upon my MHS graduation with my Class of ’77 classmates at Tiger Stadium, he met me once the ceremony was over, gave me a handshake, and presented me with a gift. It was a copy of “Strictly Speaking,” a book by Edwin Newman of NBC News. Inside the cover was a handwritten note that began “Benny, as the most talented student in my first journalism class …” I must be honest here. I do not remember much about the book, but those words, I remember. Though he was no longer my teacher, he continued to inspire me.

 

Sadly, the book was lost in a house fire in 1988. But those opening words of his note have forever remained etched in my memory as a source of great pride. I hope my career has been for him as well.

Thank you, Mr. Wylie, for opening the door to a career I never imagined. You did what the special teachers do: you encouraged me, challenged me, pushed me, motivated me, and never let me take shortcuts.

 

Who would have thought a student who gave you “as a strong southerly wind blew out of the south” as the lead on his first writing assignment would make it as far as however far I am perceived to have made it? But I say without any hesitation, there would have been no The Rogers Report without you.

 

I am proud of The Rogers Report and what it has hopefully meant to others through these 50 years. I hope Mr. Wylie is as well.

 

NOTE: Benny posted this little piece on Facebook on November 27, 2025. Thanks for the kind words, Benny. Yes, I am definitely proud of your most distinguished career and life path, and the very small part that I got to play in it. 

      The Image That Brought Him Back to You

The year was 1942. The world was ablaze. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor the previous December, and the United States was ramping up for war. There was no way of predicting what the future might hold.

They had met a couple of years earlier when she was just 15 or 16. He had hired her itinerant farm labor family to pick his corn crop, and it was love at first sight. But suddenly that love had been put on hold. Now he had been drafted and was headed to the Pacific. Who knew whether they would ever see each other again? She had this portrait made so he could carry her with him. It traveled to Hawaii, then Guam, and finally to the Philippines and the islands in between. He saw some very awful images during his travels, but at the end of each day, he reflected upon this image. She got him through the day, and he never forgot her.

Some three to four years later, he returned from the Pacific Theatre of war, physically unscathed, and eager to move on with his life.  He found her immediately, and they wasted no more time. They got married in October, less than a month before her twentieth birthday on November 12, 1945. Today, she would have been 100 years old. I worked on this old photo for your birthday, Mama, removing all the years of wear and tear and giving it some color. It surely had seen some rough times. Restoring it has restored our memories of you. I hope you like it! Oh, and happy 100th birthday! 

 A Nation of Immigrants???

“We are a nation of immigrants!” Have you ever heard someone shout this idiotic claim? I beg to differ, but it seems so elementary that it should be unnecessary. But some people are not able to think for themselves so I will explain it for them. I was born in this country. Therefore, I am not an immigrant. I am a native born citizen. I am a native American—don’t get me wrong, I am not claiming to be of American Indian heritage. Nonetheless, I am a native American. I did not migrate to this country from another country.

My parents were born here, as were all my grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, and 3G-grandparents. I’m pretty sure that if I were able to document any further back than this in my family tree that I would eventually find an ancestor who immigrated to this country. But that “immigrant” status is not something that is passed down from one generation to the next. If you are born in this country to parents who are legal American citizens, then you are not an immigrant. I would hazard a guess that there are several hundred million people who meet this criterion, so to say that we are a nation of immigrants is simply idiotic. If you have ever muttered these words, think about it! 

 

 

 A Facebook post from July 16, 2021: 

This was her, 50 years ago.

Long story short: I met her in November 1970. We had our first date in January 1971. I asked her to marry me in February. We got married July 16, 50 years ago today. I guess we rushed it, but as I explained to her, it took me 23 years to find her and I did not want to waste another minute. She gave meaning to my little insignificant life. It has been a wonderful journey. Thank you, dear Lord (and thank you, too, dear Judy), for enriching me beyond all monetary wealth. Happy Golden Day, Babe. My love for you has grown by a factor of at least 50.

 

 

College: Affordable for Everyone  

 

Here's an example of my college expenses back when no one could afford college. This is for everything except books and incidentals. Coming from a family of low-earning manual laborers, I don't know how we managed it without taking on 40-year loans. It's certainly good that our very intelligent and benevolent government decided to make college "affordable for everyone." Don't ya think? The "problem" that never existed was a lot better than our government's solution. That's my thinking.
                                          

                   

 A little recycling project: The Texas silhouette is carved from some oak hardwood flooring material left over from a project done about 40 years ago. The letters were cut from the top of an old maple (I think) bedroom dresser, probably much older than 40 years. It is about 30 inches tall and wide.

 

 

Snippets from a Snippet

 

The following are some snippets from my life for anyone who might have a bit of "gas," but recorded mostly for my entertainment by means of reflection.

 

Definition: snippet

noun

1. a small piece snipped off; a small bit, scrap, or fragment: an anthology of snippets.
2. Informal. a small or insignificant person.

  From <https://www.dictionary.com/browse/snippet>

 

Snippet #1 

 

I was an "only child" reared in the sticks, mostly alone during my formative years. My family was dirt poor. I don't know if my dad ever had any formal education. He could not read or write, although he could do elementary addition and subtraction well enough. My mother maybe had an eighth grade level education; she could at least read and write. I never realized just how poor we were until I managed to get into college and meet some middle class city folks and see firsthand how they lived. None of them ever had to use an outhouse; they all lived in homes with running water; and they took hot baths indoors more than once a month. I can still remember that old outhouse and how cold it was in the winter. I can remember taking a bath in a steel wash tub with water that had been heated in the cast iron wash pot (clothes) over a wood fire in the back  yard. All the water was drawn by hand in a bucket lowered into the well. Yes, I got a bath at least once a month, whether I needed it or not. Getting all the logistics in line to accomplish that small task was quite an ordeal for my mother, so full scale baths were very rare.

 

The fact that I was raised pretty much alone, without contact with anyone other than my parents, probably accounts for my great lack of verbal communication and social skills. I don't do "small-talk" well at all. I have no interest in sports, playing trivial games, or meaningless chatter. Most of my conversations with acquaintances start with, "How are you doing?" and end with, "Fine." That is about the extent of my conversation skills.

 

I read a book when I was very young. I can't remember any great details, but I think the title of the book was "The Hermitage." What little I can remember pretty much describes how I have lived my life in isolation from the rest of the world. Given the experiences that I have had with the world, I am pretty much happy to have nothing to do with it. I have tried on occasions to fit in, but it has never been very successful. Suffice it to say that I am but a snippet, and I am resigned to that status.

Snippet #2

 

I have pondered these questions for many years. I probably shouldn’t, but I thought I would let y’all ponder them now.

 

What if you were given a trial but were not invited to attend or even told that it was going to happen? What if you were charged with some infraction, but never told what it was? What if you could not answer this charge? What if you could not defend yourself? What if you could not give your side of the story? What if you were found guilty and punishment prescribed, all in your absence and without your knowledge? What if everyone knew about this long before you did? What if no one seemed to care? What if no one spoke up or came to your defense, save one?

What if it happened 40 years ago and you still remember it like it was yesterday? Ponder all you want but what if these questions have no good answers? Soon, I will ponder no more, forever. 

Snippet #3

 

There is an old saying, "With friends like this, who needs enemies?" A conversation we had many years ago:

 

ME: You know, I think I have mentioned this before, but never followed up on it. We should get together for lunch or coffee sometime when you have a chance. My schedule is pretty flexible these days. Why don't you let me know when you might fit it into your schedule? Lunch is on me.

HIM: Yes, we've talked about it. That would be something I'd enjoy. I will be on vacation from June 14 to 24. Let me figure out a day I'm not going to have something going on, and we can meet in Athens. 

ME: That sounds good to me; just let me know.

HIM: I will. I should know middle of next week what that next week looks like. First four days are for U.S. Open golf. 

 

After 10 years of waiting, I finally gave up on it ever happening. Some might argue that he simply forgot. But I would counter that you don't forget something if it is important to you. 

 

 

Snippet #4 

My educational journey began with my Grandmother Wylie. She taught me the alphabet and how to count before I entered the first grade at LaPoynor School. There was no “preschool” or kindergarten in those days. The only preschool experience I had was with that wonderful woman. She was my favorite teacher of all time. She knew everything, and she didn't mind telling you so. I spent all 12 elementary and high school years at LaPoynor, graduating in 1966 as valedictorian of my class of 27 students.

 

I then spent two years at Henderson County Junior College (later to be renamed Trinity Valley Community College) before moving on to Texas A&M University, where, in 1970, I earned a Bachelor of Science degree in education with certifications to teach math and chemistry. At Texas A&M, I also earned a commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army.  The Army treated me to educational adventures at Fort Knox (Armor Officer Training School), Fort Benning (Airborne Course), and Fort Benjamin Harrison (Defense Information School).

 

After my Army obligation, I spent another year in college at Sam Houston State University, where I received my teaching certification in journalism. I did not actually graduate from SHSU with a degree of any kind, but the campus chapter of Sigma Delta Chi named me the Outstanding Journalism Graduate for the 1974-75 academic year.

 

I then went on to earn a Master of Education degree from Stephen F. Austin State University in 1980. At this point in my life, I thought I was finished with educational pursuits. But as life would have it, when I left teaching in 1987 to pursue a photography career, I started a 25-year pursuit of training with the Texas Professional Photographers Association by attending an annual one-week school each year. In the process, I earned my Certified Professional Photographer designation. 2001. 

 

Shortly after becoming self-employed, it became apparent to me that I needed a better understanding of income taxes. I was paying a CPA several hundred dollars a year to file my income tax return. My original CPA took on a partner and handed me off to him (without informing me or seeking my approval). Soon, that partner moved out and opened his own business, and I stayed with him (much to the dismay of my original CPA, who had booted me--for some reason, he thought I should stay with him). When my new CPA moved out of the area, I was left with no one to do my taxes. So, I enrolled in an H&R Block Income Tax course. We met for 3-4 hours, two or three days a week (I can't remember, exactly), for the equivalent of a college semester. I received my H&R Block Income Tax certification and have been doing my own tax returns ever since. Just one more blip in my education journey. 

 

One final tidbit: In 2001, I also earned a Henderson County "Master Gardener" certification following a semester-long course conducted by the county agent, Rich Hirsch, a fellow Aggie and good friend.

 

Snippet #5 

 

My photography career was born in the summer of 1970, by pure chance. I was finishing up my bachelor's degree by completing some required courses that I had put off for whatever reason--I just can't remember now why. It was the second summer semester, and I only had one remaining required course. Back in those days, the tuition was the same, whether you took one course or more. 

 

I had a friend who was seeking a degree in landscape architecture, and photography was a required course for him. Like me, it was one of those things that he had been putting off for four years. So, I thought, "What the heck? It won't increase my tuition, so I'll take photography with him." The teacher was great. I learned so much during those six weeks, and I would be rewarded for this decision many times over during the rest of my life. That photography course was indeed the best elective course that I ever chose to take. It shaped my very life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Polaroid

12-20-06

My second camera is actually the tale of two cameras. I was selected yearbook editor during my senior year in high school (1965-66). That same year my former agriculture teacher bought a Polaroid camera—I can’t recall the model—and basically turned it over to me for yearbook use and to photograph FFA events for him. With him buying film and flashbulbs I was in photographic heaven that year. It just couldn’t get any better than that.

Unfortunately, that year came to a speedy conclusion, and I had to turn that camera back over to its owner. Immediately, however, I began to suffer from Polaroid addiction withdrawl. I set about to fill this void by taking on summer jobs and as many part time jobs as possible while attending college. One of my first major purchases with my own earned money was the very best (at that time) Polaroid camera available. It served me well through college when I could afford to buy the film packs and flashbulbs.

Several years after graduation someone would break into my home and steal that camera, making it impossible to display with my other treasured cameras. It wasn’t worth much then—didn’t even work, as I recall—except to me as a reminder of all the fun it provided. I still have the pictures. And I remember it was a beautiful camera—such powerful fun!

Starflash

 12-18-06

I can’t tell you exactly when I fell in love with photography. But I do remember my first camera. And my second. And my third. I’ve had many cameras since then and with each one my love for photography has deepened and widened.

My first camera was a Brownie Starflash. I was in the sixth grade (circa 1960). It cost my mother three books of S&H Green Stamps. If you are younger than 50 years, you probably don’t know what S&H Green stamps are, but that is another story. We were very poor. My parents could not afford to buy one outright.

I had been hounding them for a camera for well over a year and that is probably how long it took to accumulate that many stamps. As I recall three books equated to about $9.00, which in those days could buy a week’s supply of groceries for our family. Mom and dad were always of the opinion that eating was more important than luxury items.

The Starflash transformed me from rags to riches. Actually, I didn’t realize at the time how poor we were, but with that camera I was the richest kid in the sixth grade. As it turned out, I never got to use Brownie very much because film, flash bulbs (again, if you are under 50 you probably don’t remember flash bulbs), and processing required money we didn’t have and you could not get those items with S&H Green Stamps.

That lowly little camera now occupies a place of esteemed prominence in my office. It hasn’t worked in years, but the flame it ignited still burns. It will never be extinguished.

 Regular or Decaf?

This story is for all the coffee snobs out there--I'm talking those who drink the hard stuff, unadulterated by sugar, milk or any other flavoring.

I had a really great cup of joe at a restaurant we visited today. I rarely order restaurant coffee because it usually disappoints me.  I consider myself to be somewhat of a coffee snob in that I like the stuff brewed fresh and stout. My rule is that if you pour about a half inch into a cup and you can see the bottom of the cup, then it is just colored water. I am not a non-stop drinker. I have usually two cups per day, rarely three. I like the dark roast varieties which I am told don't have near as much caffeine as do the medium and light roast varieties, so I drink for taste and not the buzz. The Whiskey Cake Restaurant in Plano brought out my coffee in a French press so I could steep it to my satisfaction. It was so fine.

Which brings me to a story about a local shop that had the words "gourmet coffee" posted on its sign out front. I went in shortly after it opened to sample the wares. So the young lady behind the counter asked me what I would like to have.

I responded,  "What kind of coffee do you have?"

 She responds, "Frappuccinos, cappuccinos, latte this and latte that, ad infinitum..."

 I said, "No thank you, those are coffee flavored sugar concoctions. I just want coffee."

 She says, "Oh, you want regular coffee?"

 "What kind do you have?" I asked.

 She replies, "We have regular and decaf. "

"So, would you like a cup of regular coffee?" she impatiently asked me.

"No," I said silently to myself. "Your sign says gourmet coffee. It does not say regular coffee. I did not come in here for regular coffee."

At this point I am concluding that she has no clue about the different roasts and blends of gourmet coffee, of which the sign out front boasts. I resign myself to sample a cup out of the big pot that looks like it may have been brewed three hours ago. So I tell her I'll try a cup of regular coffee, thinking to myself I could have gotten regular coffee at Mickey D's, Pitt Grill, IHOP, Whataburger, or any number of places for about one third of what you are going to charge me, but maybe yours will be better. Well, I took my paper cup to the table, removed the lid, and sure enough I'm staring at the bottom of that cup through 12 ounces of "colored water." I never returned to that quaint little shop that promised "gourmet coffee" but only delivered "regular coffee" while charging inflated gourmet prices. I sometimes wonder why it did not stay in business very long.

NOTE: I wrote this July 3, 2014. I may have posted it to Facebook at that time. Ran across it today in some old files and decided I would post it here for posterity.