If you rest, you rust

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  It is better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all.

­‑ James Thurber

For going on three years now this ol’ boy has been written off the printed page. Out of socket and pocket in this business of the newspapering business.

A calling that I was once obliged to dedicate some 40 years to. As a reporter, photographer, columnist and publisher. Even owned and co-published a couple of weeklies with my wife, one in Texas and another in New Mexico (newspapers, not wives). It was in the Land of Enchantment in the early 19 and 80s when the wife came to her senses and presented me with the ultimatum that she was packing up and going home to Texas. She said, “You coming with me? ‘Cause I’m gonna become a vet(erinarian)!!!”

When the wife speaks with three exclamation points at the end of a sentence, it’s been my practice to listen. So we returned to Texas where we both were birthed and reared. And she became Dr. Deb, the Dog Doctor. While I continued to toil at a typewriter and later, a computer.

Now back when I was young I was considered a nomad. Itinerant. Vagabond. I concede I was merely a mover, never a shaker by any means. By attending 11 universities and receiving and posting post at dozens of zip codes while waltzing through this wondrous world. A journeyman as a journalist.

Through the years in the business of the newspapering business it was my blessing to have experienced a passel of good folks, and bad. Earning pay stubs at places I couldn’t wait to get to each day, and taking home pay from jobs that weren’t worth the work. As an employee I shared time with some great guys and gals and a few pulpy-and-tacky idjits. Had some bosses who knew how to boss and a couple who were so dense they couldn’t track an elephant in four feet of snow ‑ providing credence to the saying that not all asses go on four feet.

Sorry, I digressed.

So during my time taking up time in my lifetime I’ve done some trekking. Traveling here and there. Experiencing phases and stages. Laughter and tears. Embracing a life that has known pain. A little setback with lung cancer in 19 and 99 gave me a wakeup call. Resulting in surgery. Where doctors put their hands inside my chest. I do not cotton to someone putting their hands inside my chest.

Anyway, I came to nest in Gonzales County March 1, 1996. It is the longest I’ve ever resided anywhere in my adult life. So I suspect I’d be suspect if I said I didn’t enjoy the landscape and acquaintances I’ve acquainted myself with in the past 14 years.

Even bought a home in January of 19 and 97 and became a bona fide taxpayer.  Later we bought some acreage we call Grin Acres out on County Road 400.

So I became domesticated and restrained from hauling – I best not spell out the three-letter word out ­– on a moment’s notice.

No longer a good-time Jimbo with the soul of a penitent. Having decided to become a mossback and homebody.

In retirement, for the past three years I’ve been idling and front porch sitting out on the property. Or riding motorcycles for the joy of it. In my self-imposed exile from the keyboard I admit to having the belly extend a bit more over the belt loops. Bikers and cowboys can get by with that.

And someone once said: if you rest, you rust.

Now the wife, Dr. Deb, diagnosed me recently as being “as lazy as a pet coon.” Start stirring. She assessed. So I figured, “Why not?” After all. I’m only going to be 67 years old in about 13 months from now. Gee, a third of my life is almost over. I calculated.

So here I am. Appearing here with a byline in The Cannon. Passionately proud to add another chapter in this ol’ business of the newspapering business. Educating myself a tad more with new nouns of people, places and things I’ll encounter while heading on …  hope to catch you … down the road.