The Ramblings of Weesatch Joe

It happened the other day. Someone asked me something about Texas and where I grew up. I was about to begin my explanation with two simple words, and in a flash, I realized those two words were moot: "Back home."  My mom died almost a month ago; Dad, 26 years before that. Since three of us siblings live far away from that once-upon-a-time-and-place, we got busy and started emptying Mom's house while we were all there. My sister, who lived with Mom, doesn't want to live there without her - understandably so.  Since the house I grew up in is gone, literally moved away from our old Rt. 2 Box 75 address, and now Mom's house at 123 Memory Lane is being prepped to sell, "back home," like a Bo Jackson home run, is going, going, and soon, gone.  "Back home." It was a simple, 2-word phrase to description the town, the home, and even the era where I grew up. Those words aren't unique to me, or the Walburg-Theon-Corn Hill Metroplex, or the old 3/2 ran...

I'm a man of words, both in vocation and avocation. I'm not saying that they are good words that get blended into sentences and paragraphs, but I write every week some 2000 words, plus or minus 10%. As Ray Mickan would say if someone complained about his price and wanting a discount, "Give 'em the up 20, off 10 price, Jon." So, beware complaining about the length of this piece. Since every book, article or sermon is just the dictionary reorganized, there is always something more to say. But tonight, the words are like honey left outside in February, unwanting to flow, unwanting to lend sweetness, unwanting to flavor that which is beneath the surface. The words are congealed into a mass of silence.  The silence rests in the threshold of tomorrow, as dawn hides from the eastern skyline, a future not promised yet hoped for, hoped for yet not quite like yesterday's tomorrow (which is today, for those keeping track), a future slightly less bright than just twenty t...