Bob Weirauch

Gone but not forgotten, at least in the eyes (and mind) of Bob Weirauch. If you ever come across an old, abandoned house, give it some thought. There might not be anyone living there, but it's probably alive with stories, some good, perhaps some not so good. Let your imagination run because that's something that should never be abandoned. 

And what an interesting conversation it must have been. If we could have just been an antique lamp shade near the wall, we'd know a lot more about the ins and outs of that conversation. But hey, that's not our place in a convo between father and daughter. Or is it? Read on. 

Poet-in-Residence, Bob Weirauch, wrote about his daughter's running efforts. Those efforts might have been a long time ago, but obviously he never forgot Dani's commitment and dedication to the path she ran on and the path she followed throughout her life. 

Our Contributing Editor and Poet-in-Residence, Bob Weirauch, is reflecting about winter. A Wisconsin guy through and through, the stiff winds of North Central Wisconsin are piercing Bob's sweater and other layers, through and through. Winter is coming and that's a fact. 

Bob Weirauch, our Contributing Editor and Poet-in-Residence, is at it again. This time it's in a diner near his home. For the record, Bob isn't exactly an old man, but he sure the hell isn't a young man either. And that, despite his age, is a real problem. 

Our Contributing Editor, Poet-in-Residence, and apparently Grump-in-Chief, Bob Weirauch, is at least his honest self when writing about Christmas. He's socializing this holiday season, perhaps only with himself, but socializing nevertheless. 

Truth is, he's really not that grumpy, or frumpy, or stumpy. In fact, he's pretty spunky, funky, but, quite possibly, after all of his holiday feasts, he could get a little chunky. 

Our Contributing Editor, Bob Weirauch, doesn't wear a lot of jewelry. Never did, never will (sort of). But he has worn some wedding rings, and then he loses them, and miraculously (and we do mean miraculously) he finds them. But he doesn't always find them, sometimes they find him. Actually, in his retirement, he's learning a valuable lesson: Perhaps it's best if he retires them, too. It's time to read a short story from Bob.

Our Contributing Editor, Bob Weirauch, traveled to Ireland to learn some truths about his family. Truths that were a wee bit difficult to come by. That's because Bob's mother, Mary Alice, had a knack for telling stories with a few malapropisms. Nothing quite so travel-related like Mike Tyson's famous malaprop (now that he just lost a fight to a non-fighter): "I might just fade into Bolivian", but one person who will not fade is Bob; his stories about stories are just too good. 

Our Contributing Editor, and resident Poet-in-Residence, Bob Weirauch, ditches his Iambic Pentameter, Haiku, Sonnets, Odes, and Free Verse for some straight-up narrative about his (and possibly ours) addiction to cell phones. Drumroll please...no, make that ringtone please...

Our Contributing Editor and Poet-in-Residence, Bob Weirauch, teaches us that if we listen closely to the songs of the old Sycamore tree, perhaps we'll learn a lesson or two. If we become better listeners, to the sounds of the world around us, we can become better humans. It's worth a try. Maybe we need more than the cliche that instructs us to stop and smell the roses. We might be better served if we stopped and listened to the voices of nature, it might bring us closer together. 

Bob writes to us about the talks he has with his father, even though Charlie has been gone for 54 years. Gone, but not forgotten, even for a day, even for a father/son talk, even for forever. 

Our always moving Contributing Editor, Bob Weirauch, has been in a melancholy mood lately. Of course, we wish Bob the very best as he reflects on his life, but we must admit, his writing, regardless of his mood, is our reward. Today, Bob travels back in time, and we're more than willing to ride along. But this time it's in the family car, and not just any car, it's the DeSoto! Cheers to the Green DeSoto.