Once upon a time, during my incarceration as a teenage migrant golf worker, I ran off.  Yes, I went over the wall, leaving Dad without a cup-changing, greensmowing night waterman.

Since childhood--possibly toddler-hood--I had been mowing and swing-blading dark-to-dark every summer.  I had excavated so many irrigation holes that I felt like Charles Bronson digging tunnels in a WWII Stalag escape movie.  I feared career burnout at age 17, so . . .

I ran off to join the circus, or what passed for the circus in '72, the traveling rock concert show.  While struggling to land a job in that arena of the insane, I happened to overhear career advice from the road manager of a little band out of Texas.

He said, "Do it for free and the doors will open."

It was the first career advice that ever actually worked for me.  I soon found myself attached to a lighting crew, assembling grids, hanging "ellipsoidals" with colored "gels" in the lens frames, and blasting rock stars in hypnotic waves of intense colored light.  It was great.

I became interested in photography and bought a Yashica 35mm SLR with a 135mm lens.  I shot photos during the concerts and offered the best shots--for free--to promoters, TV stations and ad agencies.  This led to paid photo shoots and later to TV.  The art of the camera was more interesting than theatrical lighting and offered a different career direction.

As time went by, I found myself torn between concert photography, TV and life on the golf course.  I alternated between all three, seriously confused as to which path to follow, when another solid piece of career advice hit me between the eyes.

It happened one night in Athens, Georgia as I sat backstage waiting to run lights on 'Montrose' and grab a few promo photos of Ronny Montrose and vocalist Sammy Hagar.  Ronny was walking around backstage, warming up his fingers, doing runs up and down the maple neck at high speed, when suddenly he sat down next to me.

"You don't look too thrilled to be here," Ronny said, still running scales.

I was caught off guard, unsure if he was even talking to me.  "Well, you're a big rock star and you don't look too happy, either."

"Yeah, but this is what I do," Ronny waved his right hand around.  "This is my home, where I live.  Where do you live?"

"Uh," I stammered, "Atlanta?"

"No, dumb-ass," Ronny grinned and pointed to his chest. "Where is your . . . home?  Where do you live? Where are you comfortable?"

"I don't know."

"Find your home," Ronny stood up and started playing louder. "That's where you'll be happy."

It took some time and a few more career experiments, but eventually I realized where home was:  Either behind a camera or working a golf course.  I combined the two and found my home.

*NOTE:  The photos above are from the collection of Randy Wilson.  The first shot is pre-long beard ZZ, one is a guy named Eric and the B&W is Ronny Montrose, taken the same night he straightened me out.