By Jim Hannaford

For the first half of my life, I was Jim, and then, increasingly, I was Jimmy Lee. It's a nickname I gave myself in 1993, and I encouraged it to stick. It's been confusing at times, but looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.

Our editor and publisher at Scenic 98 Coastal, Zeb Hargett, asked me to write a story about my nickname. To explain how Jimmy Lee came to be, I'm going to talk about two things I've done for most of my life, which are writing stories and playing music.

I started writing for publications in the 1980s, soon after I started playing in bands, first as a bassist and then as a guitarist. I wrote a little bit for the high school newspaper, but my first big break came at Mississippi State University. By happenstance, I encountered the entertainment editor for The Reflector, and within a minute or two of our meeting, he suggested I apply for his position once he'd graduated at the end of the semester. His name was Steve Brandon, and I was already a fan. He was struck by the fact that I was writing poetry on an electric typewriter in my dorm room — not as a class assignment, but for my own enjoyment.

I loved writing and editing others' stories for The Reflector. Before long, I was co-founder and editor of a second campus publication, a weekly entertainment section called Thursday Magazine. I scored a summer internship and then a full-time job as a reporter and photographer at the Vicksburg Evening Post. I worked there for a couple of years before moving across the state to The Meridian Star. After almost a year there, I heard of openings at The Sun Herald on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where I wrote hundreds of hard news and feature stories from 1989 to 1996.

My byline (which is the name that goes on top of a published story) has always been Jim Hannaford, and that's what my family and friends always called me. My given name is James Wesley Hannaford, but I was usually Jim — until I wasn't. 

In early 1993, I started playing in a four-piece band based in Pascagoula, led by the talented blues performer Libby Rae Watson. I loved how cool her name sounded, and announced at an early band rehearsal that I wanted to call myself Jimmy Lee. My recollection is that my bandmates laughed and made comments to the effect of, "Go on with your bad self," so I did.

I never disliked the name Jim, but I had always thought that Jimmy would be better. But except for one friend (RIP Tony), no one had ever called me Jimmy. So now I was taking things into my own hands. I soon realized that Jimmy Lee Hannaford has a fun, Southern ring to it and was much more memorable than Jim Hannaford in terms of promoting my gigs or making a name for myself as a musician. Plus, it provided a slight degree of separation. If someone were reading the newspaper and saw my name at the top of an article, they wouldn't automatically think it was the same guy performing that Friday night at the pub down the street.

When I moved from Biloxi to Santa Fe, New Mexico, in 1996, and then to Austin, Texas, a year later, I not only took my nickname with me but fully embraced it, even introducing myself that way. I did the same when I reached our Eastern Shore in 2007. 

As a freelance correspondent with the Mobile Press-Register in 2011 and 2012, some of my stories related to the local music scene. Though I kept my usual byline, my editor Lawrence Specker decided to spell it out for readers in the interest of transparency. We put a disclaimer in italics: Jim Hannaford is a longtime journalist who performs music in the area as Jimmy Lee Hannaford.

At this stage in my life, it's safe to say more people know me as Jimmy Lee than Jim. I like it that way, but I always use Jim as my byline to maintain continuity in my body of work as a writer. That's always been my name on the stories I've written for the publications I've already mentioned, as well as others such as Pop Culture Press, Lagniappe, Portico Eastern Shore magazine, Mobile Bay Magazine, and Scenic98Coastal.com.

One of the best things about being a news reporter was that I never knew what the day would bring. Of course, there were murders, car wrecks, and house fires as well as more mundane matters like school board meetings, public hearings, and elections for the city council. 

But often, a real adventure would pop up out of nowhere. The first time I ever flew in an airplane, for instance, was alongside the U.S. Army's Golden Knights Parachute Team. I had a nervous bird's-eye view as they, one by one, jumped out the open cargo door of the Fokker F-27. I remained seated, scribbling a few notes, and thankfully lived to write the story — and to fly many more times in various other kinds of aircraft, including once in a Vietnam-era Huey helicopter.

One of my favorite experiences ever was interviewing Johnny Cash in person when he was playing a show at Casino Magic in Bay St. Louis in 1994. I don't remember exactly how this came about, but suddenly one afternoon I was talking on the phone to his longtime manager, Lou Robin. I was expecting him to offer passes to cover the concert, but I was not anticipating a face-to-face interview. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity, making the ride from Ocean Springs to Bay St. Louis a few days later with a friend and freelance photographer, Stephen "Andy" Anderson.

At the time, I had just turned 30, and Johnny Cash was 62. He had recently released his first solo acoustic album, produced by Rick Rubin, and was appearing at the casino with his full band. His manager had arranged for me to visit with him on his bus during the part of the show that featured his wife, June Carter, and two of her sisters. 

When he stepped from the shadows and introduced himself in that booming baritone, my first thought was that he was bigger than I'd expected. He appeared to be at least 6-foot-2 in his shiny black leather boots, and he was friendly, open, and courteous, too. We talked about his career and his friend Bob Dylan, and he also reminisced briefly about the first time he'd visited the Mississippi coast, nearly 45 years earlier, when he was training at Keesler Air Force Base. He still remembered being away from his childhood home in Arkansas for the first time and having to battle the big mosquitoes inside a tent along the swampy banks of Biloxi's Back Bay. 

As we chatted happily for about 20 minutes, I noticed that, up close, his black didn't match. His double-knit pants, silk shirt, and linen jacket were all slightly different shades. A few years later, I mentioned this to his longtime piano player, Earl Poole Ball, whom I also met that same night and then became a friend when we both lived in Austin. 

Earl got a kick out of my comment that his black didn't match, and a while later told me that he'd related my observation to his friend Marty Stuart, who had played with Earl in Johnny Cash's band for a few years in the 1980s and had also been married to his daughter, Cindy. Marty Stuart, now a legend in his own right, came right back with a quick classic quip that caps off my story.

"I told Marty what you said about John's black not matching," Earl told me, "and he said, 'Yeah, but in his defense, have you ever looked inside his closet? It's dark in there."'

That's one of my favorite stories to tell, but there are many others. Thanks to Zeb and Scenic 98 Coastal, I'll be sharing more again soon.