End of the Wilderness Road

All America lies at the end of the wilderness road,
and our past is not a dead past,
but still lives in us.

Our forefathers had civilization inside themselves,
the wild outside.

We live in the civilization they created,
but within us the wilderness still lingers.

What they dreamed, we live,
and what they lived, we dream.

T.K. Whipple (1890-1939) . . .
as quoted by Mike Brown in the Rockdale Reporter . . .
and as quoted by Larry McMurtry
in his epigraph to Lonesome Dove

RIP Bob Wills 1905-1975

Deep within my heart lies a melody,
A song of old San Antone.
Where in dreams I live with a memory,
Beneath the stars all alone.

Bob Wills
06 March 6 1905 ~ 13 May 1975

He was a favorite of my Bennie's . . .

Old Pictures

Here's a little girl playin' dress up
Somewhere under all that lace
Standin' in her mama's high heeled shoes
With a lipstick covered face

And here's a little boy on a pony
He's a cowboy all the way
He used to pull my hair and make me mad
At the Saturday matinee
Who would've thought that I'd lose my heart
To the same little boy someday  

Lookin' through my old pictures, faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears, others make me laugh
Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside
Here's brother with his very first automobile
Thought he'd washed the paint away
He took a job that took him West
He's doing very well and we don't see much of brother these days  
Oh, and this is my favorite of my papa
He's dressed up in his Sunday suit
A wide brimmed hat, a watch on a chain
Well, I'm gonna tell you the truth
It's a picture of a downright handsome man
Caught in the prime of his youth  

  Lookin' through my old pictures,  faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears,  others make me laugh
Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside
They open up the past again and let me dream inside  
Written
by
K.T. Oslin & Jerry Gillespie

P.S. I love you

What is there to write, what is there to say?
Same things happen ev'ry day;
Not a thing to write, not a thing to say,
So I take my pen in hand
and start the same old way. . . .

Dear, I thought I'd drop a line.
The weather's cool. The folks are fine.
I'm in bed each night at nine.
P.S. I love you. . . .

Yesterday we had some rain,
but all in all, I can't complain,
Was it dusty on the train,
P. S. I love you.

I do my best to obey all your wishes.
I put a sign up, think,
now I got to buy us a new set of dishes,
or wash the ones that have piled in the sink.

Nothin' else for me to say,
and so I'll close. Oh, by the way,
everybody's thinkin' of you.
P.S. I love you.

Nothing else to tell you, dear.
Except, each day feels like a year.
Every night I'm dreamin' of you.
P.S. I love you.

P.S. I love you.

Johnny Mercer (1909-1976)