George Taylor Morris died over the weekend. You may know George as the longtime host of Deep Tracks on XM. . .or the morning guy in Boston and New York. . .or the host of the syndicated Reelin’ in the Years.
I met George when he came to work at WBLI on Long Island, an experiment in youthful self-indulgence that, thanks in large part to George’s prodigious talent, ruled the ratings from a tiny town near the East End of the island. He and I became fast friends, but we both moved on and lost touch, although I, for one, followed his career with interest and just a little brotherly pride.
I found out about his diagnosis about six months ago from a mutual friend. I hadn’t talked to him in many years, but I called him, we reconnected, and the years fell away. Subsequently he visited many friends around the country—a farewell tour, as it turns out—and we spent a wonderful day together.
Even though George had not been central in my life for some time, his passing leaves a big hole. I thought of the line in James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain”: “. . .but I always thought I’d see you again.”
Typical GTM: When he showed up on our doorstep, I told him (truthfully) that he looked great. He gave me a big smile, that trademark cock of the head, and said, “Of course.”
Only George could pull that off.
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