From Waiter to U.S. Open Artist:
A Pinehurst Story Full-Circle 

When Phil Werz invited me onto his Podcast  "Paradise in the Pines", I expected to talk about painting golf courses and U.S. Opens. Instead, his questions took me somewhere far more meaningful, back to Pinehurst, where my life quietly changed direction.

I was born in Pinehurst but did not grow up there  It was years later, after struggling in high school and doubting myself, that I returned and finally found my footing. My GPA was nothing to brag about, and no university was lining up to accept me. Then during my senior year at Pine Forest High School, we hired our first art teacher, Ms. McDuffie. She saw something in me and told me to chase it.

Sandhills Community College became my second chance. I took my first real art classes there and went from near the bottom academically to making straight A’s. For the first time, I wasn’t just getting by. I found my calling in a classroom just minutes from where I was born.

To pay my way, I bagged groceries at the local A&P, worked customer service at a candle company, and eventually landed a job waiting tables at the Carolina Hotel. That dining room opened my eyes. I saw elegance, culture, and confidence up close. Guests treated me with kindness and respect, and I began to believe I could stand in rooms like that one day, not serving dinner, but sharing my work.

Years later, I returned to Sandhills as Alumnus of the Year. The boy who once struggled to get accepted anywhere was now building a career that would take him to becoming the Official Artist of the Men’s and Women’s U.S. Open and beyond.

Three Lessons Pinehurst Taught Me

A Mentor Can Change Your Trajectory
Ms. McDuffie saw what I hadn’t yet seen in myself, one teacher, one voice of belief. Never underestimate what encouragement can unlock.

Humble Work Builds Unseen Confidence
Bagging groceries and waiting tables didn’t distract me from my calling, they prepared me for it. Those experiences taught me discipline, humility, conversation, and how to connect with people from every walk of life. That human connection later became essential in both my art and my speaking.

Your Environment Can Elevate Your Vision
Pinehurst isn’t just the Home of American Golf. It’s a place that models excellence. Walking through the Carolina Hotel, watching the world gather for championships, seeing how a community honors tradition, those images shaped my standards long before I ever painted them.

 Reflection

Looking back, Pinehurst gave me what I now call A.R.T.  Awareness, seeing possibility when others might miss it.  Resourcefulness, using whatever was in my hands and Timing, stepping forward when the opportunity appeared.

And here’s the part that still makes me smile. After my days as a waiter at the Carolina Hotel, one of my proudest moments was returning there as a guest. Pinehurst did more than host my beginnings it shaped them. 

Sometimes the place where you struggled the most becomes the place that lifts you higher than you ever imagined.

Lessons from a Bus Driver’s Seat

The engine would rumble before the sun ever thought about rising. At sixteen years old, I would step up into the driver’s seat of Bus 217, a yellow giant that looked far bigger than any teenager should be trusted with. The keys felt heavy in my hand, responsibility always does.

Yesterday morning, as I drove Gabby and Samuel to Caldwell Academy, I told them that “back in the day” their grandfather drove a school bus for Pine Forest High School. They looked at me like I had just said I once flew a rocket ship. And honestly, in 1969, it felt a little like that.

I parked that behemoth in our front yard, Bus 217 sitting proudly beside our driveway like it belonged to the family. At first, my motivation was simple: If I have to get up early for school, I might as well get paid for it. But somewhere between the early mornings, the fogged-up windshields, and navigating that long yellow monster through traffic, something deeper was forming.

I wasn’t just driving a bus. I was learning how to carry people.

Recently, I watched a story about Mike Mason and his experience choosing to drive a school bus after retirement as fourth in command of the FBI, not because he had to, but because he wanted to give back. His perspective stopped me. What I once saw as a teenage job, he sees as a calling. And that made me reflect.

Maybe the parallel isn’t about buses at all. Maybe it’s about stewardship

Three Lessons from Behind the Wheel

Responsibility Changes You Before You Realize It
At sixteen, I thought I was just steering metal and rubber. But what I was really steering was trust. Parents entrusted me with their children. Administrators trusted me with their equipment. And those students trusted me to get them there safely.

When someone hands you the keys—literally or figuratively, you grow up quickly. Leadership often begins long before we call it leadership.

Gratitude Grows in the Ordinary
There is nothing glamorous about a school bus at 6:30 a.m.  But there is something grounding about it. Watching the sun rise over quiet roads. Hearing the chatter of students finding their seats. Learning how to manage personalities before first period even began.

The ordinary has a way of shaping extraordinary character.  Mike Mason seems to understand that. What others might see as routine, he sees as contribution. That shift in perspective turns a job into a gift.

The Vehicle Isn’t the Point, The People Are
I remember worrying about turns, making sure the rear wheels cleared curbs, learning the length and weight of that machine. But over time, I realized the real cargo wasn’t steel and seats, it was potential.  

Every morning, I carried future teachers, business owners, parents, leaders. At sixteen, I couldn’t have articulated that. But now, looking back, I see it clearly. When we serve others even in small, unnoticed roles we are moving lives forward.

An Unexpected Gift
Driving Gabby and Samuel yesterday wasn’t just a quick trip to school. It was a reminder.  Life has a way of circling back.  The same roads feel shorter now. The responsibilities are different. But the lesson remains: when you accept the role of steward—even temporarily—you make a difference far beyond the task itself.

Bus 217 taught me gratitude. It taught me appreciation.  It taught me that responsibility is not a burden, it is a privilege. And sometimes, the most unlikely jobs become the training ground for your life’s work.

Closing Reflection

We don’t always recognize the significance of the roles we play while we’re playing them. A school bus driver. A volunteer. A mentor. A friend.  But every time we take the wheel of a bus, a business, a family, a calling we're entrusted with lives, influence, and legacy.

What if the smallest assignment you’ve been given is actually preparing you for your greatest impact?

Painting a Future for Someone Else

A simple moment can change everything. That’s what happened in 2018 when Bill Wallace a member of the Governor’s Club paused long enough to truly listen.

He wasn’t in a board meeting. He wasn’t on a golf cart. He was simply talking with an employee who shared not a scorecard, but a dream — and the financial barriers that threatened it. What I admire the most about Bill is his Awareness of a need, Resourcefulness to share it with a few other members and see if they could help, then recognized the Timing was right to present the idea to the  Board of Directors.  That is the ART.

That moment didn’t just inform. It ignited a new legacy at the Governor’s Club in Chapel Hill. This past Thursday afternoon, I spoke before 100 members at the Step Forward Scholarship Luncheon, I realized something remarkable: they aren’t just generous — they live the ART of Making a Difference.

Awareness — Seeing Beyond the Surface

Great art begins with seeing what others overlook.  Likewise, making a difference begins with noticing what most people pass by.

The Governor’s Club isn’t just known for its renowned golf course and elegant dining; it’s marked by a membership that sees people, not positions. They saw a need. They saw potential. And they chose to pay attention to inspire not only their employees but their dependents to chase their hearts desire.

Resourcefulness — Compassion with Structure

Awareness alone is nice. But what comes next is what matters.  That simple conversation blossomed into the Step Forward Scholarship Fund — a vehicle that turns good intentions into concrete opportunities:

• Scholarships for employees and dependents

• Support for vocational and academic goals

• Mentorship and career encouragement

Since its start in 2018, over $800,000 in scholarships have been awarded. That’s not random generosity. That’s organized compassion.

Timing — Acting Before the Moment Slips Away

Many people notice. Many feel compassion. Few act.  Timing is the decision to move now, not later.

The Governor’s Club didn’t delay. They did not wait for the perfect moment.
They acted when the opportunity stood in front of them. And because they did, lives have stepped forward and generations will be changed forever.

The Greatest Ripple

I’ve spoken at many fine clubs, and I’ve seen generosity before. But what stood out that afternoon wasn’t the setting. It was the spirit.

A club known for excellence decided excellence isn’t just about traditions or trophies — it’s about empowering others. That’s when legacy becomes impact.  And it reminded me of something central to The ART of Making a Difference:

The greatest gift in making a difference is the difference it makes in you.

At the Governor’s Club, that transformation is already happening and a legacy to truly admire.

The Problem Wasn't the Batteries

It was one of those bitter cold evenings—feet up, sitting beside a fire deep into the middle of an entertaining Netflix series. The kind of night where you tell yourself, I might just have to watch another episode.

Then it happened.

A single, sharp CHIRP, sliced through the room. Familiar, but distant. I paused the show, listened, shrugged it off. Maybe a phone notification. Maybe something outside.

An hour later—CHIRP.

Oh no. I knew that sound. Our upstairs smoke detector was asking for its annual battery replacement. No problem, I thought. Step stool in hand, two fresh batteries in, lid snapped shut, peace once again.

Or so I believed.

At 2 a.m. that morning, the CHIRP returned. Same detector. Same attitude. And that’s when it became personal.

Three Takeaways from a Very Persistent Alarm

Sometimes the Fix Isn’t the Fix
I did everything right. Fresh batteries. Careful install, TWICE! Even a confident, that should do it. 

But no,  the smoke detector wasn’t asking for new batteries—it was signaling the end of its useful life. How often do we do the same thing? Keep replacing the “batteries” in situations, habits, or roles that have already served their purpose—wondering why the noise won’t stop.

Every System Has a Shelf Life
Here’s the part I didn’t know (thank you, ChatGPT at 2 a.m.): smoke detectors have a lifespan—typically 8–10 years. After that, no amount of fresh batteries will revive them.

People aren’t smoke detectors, but seasons are real. Projects, routines, even familiar versions of ourselves can reach the point that changes need to be made.  Ignoring signals does not restore peace; it just postpones the decision to respond.

Wisdom Sometimes Shows Up in Unexpected Places
At an hour when hardware stores are closed and patience is thin, I turned to an unlikely hero—ChatGPT. Within moments, the mystery was solved. The verdict was clear: replace the unit… or unplug it until morning.

Step stool in hand, 2am I performed surgical unplugging, silenced the culprit, and finally slept. The lesson? Help is often closer than we think—but only if we’re willing to ask.

The Walk-Away Thought

Not every problem needs more effort. Sometimes it needs discernment.

When something in life keeps chirping—interrupting your peace, your sleep, or your joy—it might not be asking for more energy. It might be telling you it’s time for a replacement, a reset, or a new season altogether.

What a Jazz Virtuoso Taught Me About Mastery, Joy, and Making a Difference

The night before we left Orlando, the bags were nearly packed and the whirlwind of the PGA Show was finally slowing down. Joy Ross and I decided to step away from convention halls and conversations about business and technology and do something different—something live.

That decision led us to Judson’s Live, and to a performance I’m still thinking about days later.

From the first note, Gunhild Carling didn’t just walk onto the stage—she owned it. Within minutes, I realized we weren’t simply watching a jazz show. We were witnessing a masterclass in courage, discipline, and creative joy.

And then she did something I’ll never forget. She played three trumpets at the same time.

Moments later, she balanced herself, played trumpet, and laid down bass—simultaneously. It was bold, playful, technically brilliant, and utterly fearless. The audience wasn’t just applauding skill; they were responding to spirit.

That night stayed with me because it reminded me of something I’ve seen time and again in art, leadership, and life: true excellence rarely fits neatly into one box.

Click pic to see a clip of this amazing talent!

Three takeaways worth stealing

Mastery comes from saying “yes” to discomfort
Gunhild Carling’s résumé is impressive—classically trained, steeped in swing-era jazz, and fluent across instruments—but what makes her unforgettable is her willingness to stretch beyond what’s expected. Watching her perform wasn’t about gimmicks; it was about confidence earned through repetition, risk, and relentless practice. Growth doesn’t happen in comfort zones—it happens when you dare yourself to try what others won’t.

Joy is not optional—it’s contagious
What struck me most wasn’t just what she played, but how she played. There was joy in every movement, every grin, every playful exchange with the audience. That joy became the bridge between performer and listener. Whether you’re an artist, a leader, or a professional in any field, enthusiasm isn’t fluff—it’s fuel. People follow energy long before they follow credentials.

Don’t dilute your gifts—layer them
In a world that often encourages specialization to the point of narrowing ourselves, Carling does the opposite. She layers talents. Trumpet, trombone, vocals, dance, humor, showmanship—all working together in harmony. It was a reminder that our gifts don’t compete with one another; they complement each other when we allow them to coexist.

Why this matters beyond the stage

As someone who has spent a lifetime creating art and encouraging others to use their talents to make a difference, that evening felt personal. I’ve learned that the people who truly stand out are rarely the ones who follow a straight line. They’re the ones who embrace curiosity, take risks, and refuse to downplay what makes them unique.

Gunhild Carling didn’t just perform jazz that night—she modeled what it looks like to fully commit to your craft and invite others along for the ride.

Closing thought

The world doesn’t need more people playing it safe. It needs more people willing to practice, prepare, and then step boldly into the spotlight—trumpets, balance, courage, and all.

“Don’t ask if your gift is too much. Ask if you’re brave enough to use all of it.”