Looking Back

Now and then I go back to Biloxi

Whenever I feel brave…

May 17th was my father’s birthday. I went to visit his grave in nearby La Feria, Texas.

Twenty-eight years ago my parents were “Winter Texans” down here in the Rio Grande Valley of south Texas. My father was cutting the grass on a lawn tractor at Frontier Baptist Mission, where they were helping out. We have to assume that he got too close to the edge of the wide irrigation ditch on the property. He and the lawn ...

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My Brother, Ian

Going Back In Time

This week started out getting reacquainted with a grade schoolmate from the old neighborhood in Ottawa, who is a much better historian than I have been. She was able to provide the school picture of my brother Ian’s Grade Five Class of 1964/65, at Fisher heights Public School in Ottawa. I was surprised to learn that class pictures were taken back then. My brother, Ian, is in the bottom right. His fellow classmate was Kim Joyce, bottom ...

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Plus ça change…

..plus c’est la même chose.


Twenty-seven years ago today, March 2nd, 1992, was the reason for my very first visit to the Rio Grande Valley region of Texas. I had never heard of the Valley, and had  certainly never heard of Harlingen, Texas, somewhat surprised that the Delta Air Lines ticket agent had when I called to book my flight.

My parents were Winter Texans, traveling in their motor home and Workamping at Frontier Baptist Mission in La Feria, Texas, outside of ...

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My Brother

Ian McBrearty

Most people know me as an only child, or, assume that I am. It was easier to identify that way when people I newly met asked if I had any brothers or sisters, I would reply, ‘no’. It saved them the embarrassment of walking unwittingly into a sensitive situation and it saved me from answering questions that I didn’t have an answer to.

I did have a brother, Ian. The picture above (thank you Janice), from 1974, is me on ...

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The Day the Music Died

Music Lost Me in 1999

Bye, Bye Miss American Pie,

Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry.

Them good old boys drinking whisky and rye,

Saying this’ll be the day that I die.


For me, the death knell for modern music sounded just before the turn of the century.

When I moved to Alabama in the mid-nineties, I was listening to ‘dance’ music on the radio. I liked the thump-thump-thump of the bass. Top forty radio had turned to what sounded like ...

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