Arrested For Driving While Blind

Buddy

Arrested for driving while blind. Friends and neighbors, brothers and sisters, that old ZZ Top line is about the only thing I haven’t done, and I’ve done it all. If there is anything I missed, it’s only because no one told me about it. If you want to dig dirt on me, you’d better bring a dump truck. I have been in country music for forty plus years, and I mean the real music business. I wasn’t just hanging around some bar, hoping my family might drop in and hear me play a guitar, I was a writer, and I wrote my way all the way to Nashville. Unless you’ve been living under a big yellow rock you’ve probably heard something I have written.

My mother once told me that if I ever hurt a decent girl she’d beat me to death with an iron skillet, so for the first four marriages (yeah, I said four) I married sluts. Number five was a thirty year ordeal, where I kept trying to leave, and she kept following. We finally divorced, but she wouldn’t let me leave, so here I am. As time and tears went by I began to settle down. There were two major factors contributing to this: One, I got too damn old, and two, I got tired of making bail. Somehow I came through all of this with my health, which is a miracle, because I quit drinking when they invented the funnel. Today I will still take a little Jim Beam, but nowhere near my glory days. I’m partial to a martini.

So where am I going with all of this? It’s simple actually. I see people all the time living in the past. They had a bad childhood. Let me tell you about a bad childhood. I am certified white trash. The first time I saw a fruit display on a formal table I tried to eat the wax apple. I hear someone on Doctor Phil going on and on about an abusive father, but let me school you, my dad was a roofer in Texas for thirty years, and being a roofer in Texas is about as bad a job as you can get, if you don’t count being a slave. My dad wouldn’t whip us, he’d knock us through the wall. Good news was that we were quick, and he only had to knock us through one wall for us kids to catch on. We were so poor we thought the people on welfare had government jobs because they had a check!

Human beings become better through ordeal. Steel becomes stronger through tempering. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Texas has never been easy. This is hard country out here. Our wages are low, and our hours are long, but we know the deal. You really have to believe in God, because if you don’t then none of this makes any sense. I couldn’t understand a word of the Bible until I was thirty-five years old. We had that old King James Version, and with all the “Thees” and “Thous” I just couldn’t connect the dots. Life connected the dots for me. I began to realize that if you cast your bread upon the water you’d get back a sandwich.

Writers are a special lot. For me, writing is therapy. As the words form on the page I vocalize, and when I vocalize, I begin to see the logic, and understand not only other people, but my own situation. I don’t believe in all this psychiatry stuff, and theories, or drugs, or mind control. I believe that most thinking people, over fifty years, can figure out what hurts, and what doesn’t hurt. You begin to see that there is room in the world for other ideas, and just because you don’t agree with them, they are just ideas. When I hear a liberal expounding some whacky “Bernie Sanders” plan, I know it won’t work, but rather than go tit for tat I understand that it’s all fine because good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, they’ll have the same fifty years that I had to figure it all out. It’s all so simple. This will put a meal on the table, and that won’t.

I do understand the Bible now, but there’s a lot of “fluff” in it. The truths that Jesus spoke of were down to earth facts. Don’t judge. I never judge! When someone does something that I think is bad, I’ll just remember back when I did exactly the same thing, and be glad the statute of limitations has run out. We have all fallen short of the glory, and I fell short the day the doctor said, “Hey,” and I said, “Huh?”

It all boils down to this: You get what you expect. If you dwell in the past you will always be there. If you set goals, no matter how remote, you may not get there, but you’ll be on the way, and the journey is half the joy. We all make mistakes. What seemed so serious back then, will just be funny as you recount it to a friend at a local pub. The sad part of life is if you live long enough to figure it out then you’ll come to the same conclusions that I did after you are old, and young people have it all “figured out,” and will not listen as they begin their journey toward “the truth.”

If you want to dig dirt on me, you’d better bring a dump truck, because I’ve done it all, and if there’s anything I missed it’s only because no one told me about it, and I’m man enough to admit it! I’ve found one person who totally understands me. She sleeps with me, eats with me, agrees with everything I say, and cries when I’m away. In the spirit of the recent Supreme Court ruling on marriage I have decided to marry my dog.

Advertisements

Heros

Heroes come from the strangest places. Anthony Ruelas. Remember that name. I am not worthy to lose his boot straps. This boy is a shining example of what it means to be a Christian, a citizen, and American, and more than that, a Texan! One of his classmates went into an asthma attack. Let me tell you about that kind of health crisis. I hear people say that they can hold their breath for three or four minutes. Think about not getting your next breath. Been there, done that! When you have that condition you learn to keep your Albuterol in your pocket in a certain position so when you reach for it you will find it in just the right place so you can bring it out fast. If the attack is extreme, you just hope that the drug will get to the back of your throat and give you any air. Your lungs seem to be crystalized, the bells ring, and if they ring long enough you die. The little girl was hearing the bells! Anthony took it upon himself to help. He scooped her up and carried her to the nurse’s station, and life, while a teacher ordered him to stand down. Shades of Hillary! Person in distress, help right there, someone in “authority” intervening with absolutely the worse decision possible!

Oh, it got political this morning. When I found this story it was black and white, or black and brown, rather, the little girl being black, and Anthony is brown. Immediately a libtard leapt upon me, ridiculing my subscriber base, and saying that I would blame this on Obama. From people who think it’s perfectly fine to kill up to 3,000 babies a day one can expect no less. This is what the country has come to. This is what the liberals champion. This is why children aren’t allowed to pray in school anymore, unless they’re Muslim, of course.
I often do human interest stories about Killeen, and I, like Anthony, went to school at the KISD (Killeen Independent School District.) I’m going to surprise you. Every single one of my teachers were Democrats. Every one of them supported Lyndon Johnson, but there was one major difference! They all had souls, something that is sadly lacking today. Back in my day the teacher would have carried that child to the nurse. I’m waiting for that teacher’s name so I can give her (or him) that fifteen minutes of fame we all enjoy at some time in our lives, but it seems the teacher has gone to ground. Ever chase a snake with a hoe? They do that, you know.

And the media in this area? Oh, my living God. Let us pray. This story will be lucky if it gets one paragraph on the classifieds in the Killeen Daily Herald. The only reason it may show is that I have embarrassed them here today. But Anthony’s story won’t die! Ask yourself, why is Anthony not getting the same media blitz that Clockmed got with his little device a few months ago? I’ll tell you why. It doesn’t sell copy! A young man being a decent human being doesn’t have the commercial appeal of a thug charging a police officer, or some puppet scaring the pants off of an entire school with a “clock” the size of a suitcase, that’s why!

Now, I promised Crystal Lee Larimore not to use bad language anymore, but when that teacher goes home tonight, I hope her (or his) mother runs out from under the porch and bites them! Jus sayn’.

UPDATE: Twenty-four hours before I discovered this story The Washington Post was already running with it. That is good!

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

That Was The Week That Was

http://www.teapartytribune.com/2016/01/24/that-was-the-week-that-was/That Was The Week That Was

From reflections to events, but that’s the way my week usually goes. Unlike other writers, I don’t just jump on the morning news, even in a big event, I let the story “season,” because first thoughts are never the correct thoughts. What happened is never as important as why it happened, because if we don’t reflect, and learn, then we’ll just keep doing the same thing over and over again, and, as you probably know, that’s the definition of insanity.
I began the week with an idea of the eventual breakup of the American Dream, i.e. set up a government to steal everything, and try to cram it into the Beltway. In “God Bless Americans,” I said, “As we all know, the American government has been overreaching for years, and part of this is because of the artificial definitions of who’s who, and what’s what. Most of the time Federal mandates, and decisions are mandatory, and arbitrary. States make laws, but why? All Uncle Sam has to do is make His law, and the state legislature becomes a complete waste of time. K. C. Massey can carry a gun under Texas law, Sammy says, “No,” K. C. goes to jail. Someone can fire up a joint in Malibu, DEA doesn’t like it, guy gets arrested and has a criminal record. Fundamentalist Mormon wants to marry twin sisters and the Fed can’t seem to find the ink to put one more square on a tax form. See where this is going, folks?”
From there I let old Brother Greed get ahold of me and penned, If I Had Won The Powerball. I ain’t even gonna lie to you. I had that money spent, and I listed all my dreams for the public to see. “If I had won the Powerball. I sat up last night waiting for the Powerball drawing. I didn’t get a single number. You’d think there would be a prize for that! Anyway, like practically every other fool who invested in castles in the air, and purchased a Powerball ticket, I had big plans. I’d like to list them here. They ranged from the sublime to the sub-slime, but here goes.” Well, as you probably figured out, I didn’t win, and had to rush down to pay the light bill the next day.
Politics raised its ugly head next, ugly being the key word. Hey, for the record, I understand why Bill cheated on Hillary, ok. I kept having images of Arkansas politicians, ugly women, and cornbread swirling around in my head and out popped, Dead As Cornbread. “From White Water to Benghazi, Hillary has danced on a razor’s edge for years. Other people in the public eye can commit just a smidgen of what she’s pulled and they’re thrown out of the Army, charged with a crime, end up with public ridicule, and Alex Jones accuses them of leading the New World Order. Hillary could pee on the White House steps and the Liberal Left would say she had found a new way to fix global warming. Am I the only one who thinks there is something wrong with this picture?”
Where Everybody Knows Your Name was next. I have no idea where this idea sprang from, but I suspect it was a bar tab. “Places like this never last, and that’ sad. Just a place where seasoned men come to relax and compare lives. I gain more there than any other place I go. I listen more than I talk, and I learn. These guys view things like ISIS with a very jaundiced eye. And everybody knows your name. I like that.”
That night I listened to my friend, Scott Binsack, reflect on his belief in an Eternal Creator, and wrote, In God We Trust. “God got expelled from school, His commandments from the courthouse square, and from the halls of Congress, and we wonder what ever happened to the country. God is a nice guy. You don’t have to throw him out, just ask Him to leave, and he’ll oblige. And, when He does leave what do you have left? Bruce Gender, Hillary, Obama, and Imam whoever! Children don’t say prayers, or the Pledge of Allegiance in school anymore. They learn how to do drugs, and different sexual preferences, depending on the gender, or cross-gender of the teacher. Welcome to a Godless world!”
I’m very TexCentric, and it showed in Olga vs The American Dream. “This was a big heads up to the third world. While Washington wasn’t invaded, America, for once, had to stand down. We, of course, put the spin on it. We were like Putin recently said. We were like playing chess with a pigeon. We knocked over all the pieces, pooped on the board, and then stomped around like we won. Still, we had the dream. Or rather, Martin Luther King had a dream. Our dream had caught the last train for the coast.”
Seems I was drawn to the past a lot this week. During lunch with some old friends, we got to talking about our high school days, and a few things came to mind. In The Last Picture Show I wrote about things that would make kids in New York, or California would cringe at. “I didn’t have a pickup. I had a ’54 Chevy. The good thing about it was you could get four friends in the trunk when you went to the show. That meant for you, and the girl, it cost about seventy cents to get in. That’s right, one girl, five boys. Hey, we weren’t Muslims, she was safe. Also, if you were lucky she would be an Army brat and have five dollars or so in her purse, which would turn into buttered popcorn for everybody. The way you convinced her to give up the money was a gift, usually flowers, which meant a swing through the graveyard on the way to pick her up. They didn’t show that in the Last Picture Show either!”
By the week’s end I was blowing through pretty good. Still reflecting on Scott’s broadcast, I did a commentary on my first book, Sharon. “The Muslim community has got to come to the realization that the volatile section of Radical Islam is so dangerous to the rest of the world that they, the “good” Muslims need to handle it, or we, the rest of humanity will have to handle it for them.”
I was flying so high that I began to generate “doubles,” by this time. When I get an idea I just write it, no waiting for later. After listening to a Trump speech I resurrected Little Red Riding Republican with a nice 2016 update. “Well, that’s where Little Red Riding Republican comes in. She had been raised in the wisdom handed down from generation to generation. She had eyes of blue, and flaxen hair that fell down around her shoulders. She would take long walks in the country, and one day, during one of these walks she became lost and a figure appeared out of thin air. It was a black knight!”
And, last, but certainly not least, Black Lives Don’t Matter! Actually, I’ve toyed with this title for months, but I just couldn’t take the edge off enough. When someone came back with ALL Lives Matter, I thought to myself, “Heck, why don’t we just join hands and sing, “We Shall Overcome?” Finally, I came up with a perfect second line. For the record, Black Lives Matter is the epitome of Liberal Stupidity. You simply have to have the guts to put it out there. Everybody knows movements like this are stupid, and the originators laugh all the way to the bank. Unfortunately for them I write for the Tea Party, not the Pot Party! That’s why they call me Bill the Butcher! “Black lives don’t matter! My life matters! In the words of Billy Joe Shaver, “When you have no way to go you’d better know I’m gonna get my share of mine.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a racist. More than that, I’m a Texan. Texas wasn’t built on a food stamp. America has evolved into a welfare state. In Texas we have a thing called a “51% sign.” Now, it’s supposed to refer to the amount of food vs alcohol that forbids the carrying of a gun within an establishment. In America it is the percentage of citizens working every day, as opposed to those lining up at the welfare office for their daily bread.”
Sunday is a day of rest. Well, maybe for some, but for me it’s a day of reflection. They don’t rest, so I don’t rest. I have been called, A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin, and that’s good, because when the libtards pounce on me I can always say, “Hey! I told you I was stupid from the start.” Have a blessed week, and keep looking for America. It’s somewhere out there.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

The Little Park

There is a little park on Avenue D in Killeen, Texas. It doesn’t amount to much, just about three quarters of a lot, not even a commercial lot, about fifty, or sixty feet wide, planted with trees, a little entry way, and some benches here and there. It’s not a park that you’d turn your children loose in, more of a meditation kind of thing, only the people who frequent that part of town don’t meditate much, indeed, if they sat too long there it would almost certainly lead to imperial implications.

The park sits on a lot formally occupied by the Blue Bonnet Café, owned and operated by Mr. Joseph Safady. “Mr. Joe,” as he was known, had cafes and dry goods all over Killeen. The Blue Bonnet was a “greasy spoon” restaurant. I never saw any greasy spoons, but I did see the pitted concrete floor in the kitchen. Billy Joe was the cook, and Crazy Sarah, a Comanche, was the dishwasher. Sarah would carry bus tubs and a Lucky Strike at the same time.

Mr. Joe was a Syrian immigrant, not a refugee, and Mr. Joe believed in America! He believed in America so much that he joined the army and fought for America in the trenches of World War I. When he returned he eventually found his way to Killeen and started a café. I was told that he had coins Scotch Taped to a piece of cardboard with the denominations in Arabic so he could make change. By the time I met him he had cafes all over town. There was the Blue Bonnet, and of course his flagship, the Venus, down on Highway 190. The Venus had three huge dining rooms and served the GIs after the clubs closed at two A. M.

Billy Joe could never show up on time for work. He was supposed to be there at seven, but he was always twenty minutes late. That was because he had to pick up a beer on the way in, and sales of beer began at seven. Mr. Joe struck me a deal. At fifteen, I was charged with prepping the grill. While my mother counted the register, I put on the coffee, and lit the grill, lining it with sausage and bacon. For my labor I got a free breakfast before school. On weekends I got a ham and cheese sandwich.

Mr. Joe began to bring relatives over from the old country. They weren’t refugees either. He’d get them here, put them in school to get citizenship, and set them up in a café, pool hall, or rentals. Being a vet, he knew the soldiers liked clubs, and food. He provided both. I remember at three in the morning it was standing room only, as the GIs waited for tables to eat from Mr. Joe’s, “greasy spoon.”

We didn’t have homeless back in the sixties, we had old drunks, and out of work construction people. More than a few found their way to the back of the kitchens of Mr. Joe’s cafes for a free meal, or a little work cleaning up the area. I remember a commercial back then from Lay’s Potato Chips. In it there were gangsters sitting around contemplating counterfeiting the Lay’s chip bag and stuffing it with their own chips. An old Don asked, “Who buy counterfeit potato chip bag?” Then, he sampled the chips, made a face and they all got up to leave. That was Mr. Joe to a “T.”

He went back to the old country for a visit years later. As he saw the children running around dirty and sick he was so moved that he built a hospital in Syria. I don’t know if it’s still there. He came back to Texas, and was running his businesses. One day, he eased out only Highway 190, and got slammed by a guy speeding through the light. We all said goodbye to Mr. Joe three days later.

I found myself at the place where the Blue Bonnet once stood the other day. I sat on one of the benches and looked at Avenue D. I didn’t hear the rattle of pots and pans, or Billy Joe yelling, “Order up!” Pat Anderson’s head shop across the street was long gone, and the block is decorated by all those little black fences the city of Killeen put up, along with Victorian lamps, pretending it is Salado. I don’t know why the city bulldozed the Blue Bonnet, and put the little park there, but I’m glad it did, because for me, it is a monument to Mr. Joe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I

So, What Makes a Writer?

So, what makes a writer, or rather, a blogger? Well, beer helps, but experience does, too. I’ve been writing since 1962, but if I’d been making shoes since then, I’d probably be a fairly good shoe maker by now. It doesn’t matter what you do, so long as you do it long enough then, you’ll eventually become good at it. Basically, I’m a song writer. Writing a song is simple. Three verses, a lead riff, a chorus, and you’re done. Blogging is no different. Start with an idea, bang it, reinforce it, and you’re out. A lot of people don’t notice it, but I put a chorus in every article. Now, it’s not apparent, like it’s not like a song, but it’s there. A repeating logic to drive home the idea of the article.
A song writer is concerned with flow. Flow is like it has to roll off the tongue, and I do that, I mean, I really do. People see me talking to myself, and they think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I’m vocalizing my articles to make sure that they flow. The simple shift of a word, or phrase that makes an article flow easily makes it easy to remember. The article has to stick in someone’s head, just like a song. Like the word, “but” is harsh, but “and” is not, and they mean basically the same thing.
Original ideas are important, but more than that is the delivery. It isn’t what you say, but how you say it. And set the reader up to anticipate what you’re going to say. You open the gate and the reader willingly walks through it. Returning to the beginning is a biggie. I call that “circles.” You don’t want your reader to ask, “Where is this going?” because if they ask that then they’re already lost. Forget about all that crap you learned in school, except for spelling, that’s important, but spell check has your back. Talk to your reader in their language, because if you use all that elevated English some college professor taught you then you might as well be talking in Swahili. That comes back to flow, also. You don’t want the reader to be stumble bumbling over words that they have to Google.
I think that somewhere down the pike I’ve created a style, and even though it was by accident, it now has a purpose. The purpose is to get young people to read the article with the same enthusiasm they have when they listen to their favorite song, and that’s because that’s exactly what I do; write a song without the melody, but with the same spirit.
It helps if you have something to say, too. You have to have at least some conviction, and don’t lie! If you don’t believe in abortion then just say it! Don’t be jellyfish about it. Throw it out there, and there will be people who think just like you, they just can’t articulate it. Fly high above the issues. The higher you fly, the less likely someone is going to come along and stick a pin in your balloon. And don’t count money! If you are a writer, then be one. Just write. Reads are more important than money. If you court money, you’ll find very quickly that she is a whore, and she doesn’t love you. Stay true to yourself, draw the circles, and it’ll all work out. Ask yourself; how rich was Hemmingway when he died? Writers are thinkers and chosen to be so. So THINK, write, and open the gates to human communication.
Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

Relationships

Relationships are difficult to understand. What sets off attraction is a complex maze of chemistry, psychology and desire. You have no control over these factors but you do have control over how you react to them. Chemical changes in the brain have been supported by studies that can be verified. The heart can only be verified when it is broken.

You’ll never get over love. The pain you feel at separation will never go away. I fell in love with someone a long time ago and even today the mention of her name will mist my eyes. One so loved becomes larger than life and they become a very real part of your being.

No medicine, no philosophy, no religion will save you from this. They are all empty words that will not quiet your passion nor sooth your soul. If there is betrayal or if the love is unreturned you will seek oblivion. As time passes this too will pass but the feeling will always be there just below the surface.

Man has an intellectual ability to understand this and if not rise above it at least live with it. These feelings fulfill you. Great art comes from these feelings. That’s what makes us human. There should be no guilt because you loved a woman. Love is never wrong, it’s what you do with it that makes it right or wrong. Good love will build you up and a bad love will tear you down.

There are those who will try to reason you away from your feelings but their words will fall upon deaf ears. You, and only you will make the choice to walk away and it will hurt. Willie Nelson wrote, “If guilt is the question, then truth is the answer, and I’ve been lying to me all along.”

There is no rhyme or reason to love. It is something you must work out for yourself. The good news is that one day the sun will rise and though the one so lost will always cause you a moment of reflection it will sustain you not destroy you and you will in fact be stronger for it.

You may never find another or perhaps you will but the most important thing is to find yourself. Once you discover yourself you will understand that no woman, no religion or no mantra can make or break you. Be YOU! Everything else is only commentary.

Check out Wilbur Witt at http://www.amazon.com

Kid From Simmonsville

Somewhere there’s some old black men
‘Round an iron stove, drinking beer
Talking ‘bout places that they have been
A long, long way from here
And every line in their worried brow
Shows a lifetime of being used
Every inch in every mile
Between a love song and the blues.

It is very important to never forget where you come from. All the events and forces, both internal, and external that made you what you are make up the structure of your life, spirit, mind and understanding. When you deny these things you deny self, and when you deny self you have nothing left. Going home will surprise you. The very things you fought so hard to get away from welcome you with open arms, and you wonder why you ever left in the first place.
The ambition of every kid from Simmonsville was to get out of Simmonsville. The little hamlet in Central Texas was a hodge podge of blacks, Mexicans, and poor white trash, myself being the latter. We didn’t know we were poor white trash, we thought we had it going on. Never mind the fact that none of us had ever seen a color TV, and our shoes smelled bad, we had an equal chance to be president someday. We were delusional.
I kissed my first girl in Simmonsville. Pam Burns. She was a short blonde with a red coat and a booger in her nose. I crappith thee not! When I smacked her I saw it. Still, it was a learning experience. If you were from Simmonsville you had to date girls from Simmonsville. That’s ‘cause you had no money and only girls like that would forgive. They’d be happy with a forty-five cent burger from Burger Chef, and didn’t mind riding in the trunk to get into the drive in movie.
Everybody’s dad had a job in construction, and they were all drunks. That just went with the territory. Back in those days a six-pack was a very big deal. Whiskey was sold by the half pint, and the beer was terrible. Boys always drink the beer their dad drank, and our dads all drank some rank stuff. The beer they drank is long gone because there are laws now. The plan of action was to get girls like Pam Burns drunk. It never worked out. Never try to get a white trash Texas girl drunk. She’ll go from flirt to fight in sixty seconds and doesn’t mind walking home from the movie, whereupon her dad comes looking for you. Forget all that nonsense about assault on a minor, RUN!
If you got lucky you had to get married. Just the way it was. If you got married your life was sealed. Oh, it’s great for about the first week, and then the realization of your social status comes home and there you sit with a girl who has a booger in her nose, only now she’s pregnant. Time and tears go by and one day you are sitting in your truck, out in the yard (no driveways folks) drinking the same beer your dad did, and you begin to understand!
I never married a girl from Simmonsville. I had a habit of marrying Yankees. Been through six or so. In Texas you are allowed to marry up to seven times. I have one more tag left on my “Dear” license, better make the last a good one! Went back to Simmonsville some time ago. It was cold, and I ended up in one of those abode huts that still dot around here and there. There were a bunch of guys there, and they had this old potbellied stove. They had cut up come two by fours, and were feeding them into the stove, passing a bottle around, and of course, there was beer. It was like I never left. New York, L. A. and Austin never happened, and I was just “Billy.” They weren’t impressed by anything I’d written, but they did like some of the dirty songs I’d recorded thirty years ago. I left, got in my Mercedes, and drove away. As I pulled out onto the highway I looked back. I wondered, “Who am I?” Why, in spite of it all, I’m really just a kid from Simmonsville.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

He Lived!

It was a cold Saturday morning when I got the call from Pat. “Don’t go to the store today, come out to the ranch.” Pat had a party ranch just south of town, with horses, hogs, a big corral and a full bar. Although he would entertain at his place in town, indeed one of the three clubs he had, he preferred to have guests meet him at the ranch. The people he associated with liked the privacy. This particular day Pat had a family tragedy. His son in law had slipped at his job in a candle factory and fell into a vat of boiling wax.
“Netta’s all upset,” he said, “We’ve got her at the house, under sedation. The boy don’t look good.” So, me and my brother drove out to the ranch. We made sure the bar was serviced, the horses ready for the little girls, and hosed the hogs down. Soon concerned friends and family began to show. Pat had an awning set up near the horses with a table under it and one by one the guests expressed their sympathy for the unfortunate event.
Netta and her husband had a rocky marriage. Money was tight, and tempers flew, sometimes there were physical events and she’d run home for the weekend, whereupon her husband would follow, have a family meeting and all would be resolved, until next time. Lately the boy had been putting his nose to the grindstone and trying to climb out of the financial hole. He was forbidden to work for Pat, but strings were pulled and the candle factory was indeed a good lick.
All through the day, and into the night friends came out to the ranch to stand by Pat. Some were ladies, and more than a few children, but more than a few wore cheap suits and looked like someone had mismatched their nose in a botched plastic surgery attempt. As midnight drew near my brother and I drove Pat in his Cadillac back to his main house. He invited us in and made drinks in the little bar room he had set up. Then a call came, and we braced for the worse.
“Hello, yeah, you’re sure? No, I’m ok. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Pat hung up he had this look on his face, as if he was trying to absorb it all. I asked him if there was anything I could do. He took a drink, looked at us and said, “He lived! Five full minutes in boiling wax and he lived.” Daddy’s little girl is always daddy’s little girl.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

Day Ain’t Over Yet

I’ve always said that life is hard. Well, that’s because it is. We all start with so much allowed for a life. Then life begins to tear you down. Now, you learn, and improve as time goes by, but with each lesson that “life battery” goes down a little more. One day you realize, “I’ve got to make this work, because there is no more starting over.” This is not depression, or gonna die, or any of that nonsense, this is the realization that after this run you will sit on the porch, and count the days. The well will be dry, and there will be no more refills. Roll the credits, fade to black.
The Bible tells us that as you try to gain things in life even what you think you have can be taken away, and no truer words have ever been written. You can either find a shopping cart, or figure it out. My time in California helped me figure it out. I do one thing fairly well. I can sit down, and write something that most people will understand. They won’t always agree, but they know where I’m coming from. Also, I understand right and wrong. For instance, it’s WRONG to kill babies no matter what you call them. People like the members of Planned Parenthood grovel for their funding and eat shrimp cocktail while discussing the price listing of baby parts until that one night when they hear, “Thou fool! Tonight your soul is required of thee!
I had to find my soul two or three times because I’m stupid! I’ve developed a hard exterior from saying goodbye to everything I loved dozens of times. My grandchildren can’t even wear my family name because the CPS was intent on destroying that name. Don’t believe the Waltons were ever real. There was no Grandpa, or Mary Ellen, or family sitting around the dinner table. Now we have CPS, and Planned Parenthood intent upon destroying all that made America AMERICA! You fight, and push, and win or lose, but with each battle that life battery gets a little weaker, and one day you climb the mountain but realize you don’t have the strength to get back down again. You can see the Promised Land yet know it’s not for you, and God’s plan for you has been completed.
I sit here alone in a living room paneled in fine wood. There is a fireplace, and a Mexican tile floor. There are no grandchildren. No cartoons on the TV, so cereal on the floor. This is my life. This is what God chose for me. God never puts us where He doesn’t want us to be. He equips us and gives us a job to do, and you can either cry about it, or get on with the job. My job is to forever be alone, and write. Don’t get all bent out of shape about this, that’s what writers do. Most of the time they sit alone and write. Crowds interrupt the process. The ideas in your head become more important than the reality before your eyes.
You cannot play a violin unless it’s tightly strung. People are like that. Without stress there is no music. The trick is to not let the stress become DISstress! You see, that’s what the world wants. It wants to beat you down to where you can’t get back up again, and that’s where the writer has the edge. The world will eventually win the race and I will be gone. But what I have written won’t be, and I won’t be around anymore for naysayers to pick apart. All that will be left will be THIS! Just remember, with God, all things are possible. Remember this, too. As for me . . . day ain’t over yet!

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

The Great Director

This is a hard article to write. Usually, when I write, I chuckle through, typing as fast as I can, but this one is different. It’s different because it strikes where we live. It challenges the thread someone may be holding onto for dear life. I’m fully aware there may be some poor soul out there clinging to one ray of hope, however arrived at, and if something I say takes that hope then that person lives his remaining months in hopelessness, because of my words. I can’t live with that. Just remember the words of Karl Marx. Religion is the Opiate of the masses. Not God, RELIGION! God is always free, religion is always for sale.

I believe in faith healing, but I do not believe in faith healers. The power of faith cannot be analyzed by empirical method. The power of the mind, or human spirit, likewise, cannot truly be measured, but the outward signs of charlatans can! Know them by their fruits. Faith healing is big business. All you have to do is look at any large scale production and realize the Beatles had nothing on these guys. The large, enthusiastic crowds, the adrenalin rush of meeting a religious super star face to face, the inner belief that everything’s going to be fine is powerful medicine.

But that medicine comes from within, and once you give that medicine to someone else you basically doubt your own faith, relying, instead, on the faith of someone else being transmuted back to you. Faith! Belief! Think, therefore you will become. Know how you become a hit song writer? You believe you ARE a hit song writer. It works. I know. Bought five mansions using that. Still have three! And I’ll be damned if I let some snake charmer take that away from me. Y’all keep that between us.

Not all faith healers are bad. When I started this article I intended to tear Oral Roberts’ butt UP! . When I was a boy in Shreveport, Louisiana, he’d come on TV, and being seven years old I BELIEVED! My mother told me Jesus didn’t have no TV show, and he was only in it for the money. Before starting this piece I watched several of his healings. I’d watched a video sent to me by my friend Chip Darby. I saw none of the signs of fakery. He explained he could do nothing and that it all came from God. No yelling, no dramatics, just a simple laying on of hands, followed by instructions to the person to check back with their doctor to verify any changes in their condition. He pretended no clairvoyant powers, reading from cards handed to him by the people. Oral was rare. If he was a fake I didn’t see it. I do know, without a doubt, ever ONE of those super evangelists you see on TV, the Internet, or under a tent, has not more power than you have within your own self! Roberts always asked if the person had the FAITH to believe.

Healing come in all favors, great and small. From a heart condition to a simple case of the “blues” that disappears after a prayer. It does NOT come from the hand of someone dancing around a stage, like a fool with the crowd going into a frenzy as people fall on the floor. In 1954 I was in Schumpert Hospital. I had polio and encephalitis. Not much hope for me. Stick a fork in me, I was done! My mother went to pray with the nuns. While she was gone a nun came in to sit with me. She washed my face and told me I would get well. I walked out of the hospital the next day.

Does this sort of thing happen every day? Why did it happen to me? I can’t answer either question. I was only four years old. I HAD no religion. After that my grandmother took me to a Baptist Church and the preacher told me I was going to hell, so I went there. The nun told me her name was “Margot.” She became my invisible friend. She never lost faith in me, but in my arrogance I lost faith in her. It took me thirty years to circle back to that night. In Margot’s effort there was no shouting, no dramatic gestures, only a mumbled prayer, and a brief washcloth on the face, followed by simple assurance. Years later I found out who she was, but I can’t tell you here. You’ll think I’m crazy. If we ever meet face to face I will tell you her name. Like Paul, all I have to do is close my left eye, and see the spots before my right eye, left by the encephalitis and Margot is right there. . I have no doubts.

You have to ask yourself, if a faker is promoting himself do the believers in the audience pay for his sins? Will the Lord turn away from His people to punish for the blasphemer? You hear about the “True” church, but they’re ALL true churches from the Pope all the way to the snake kisser in Arkansas. Jesus said wherever two or more believers meet that He will be there. Can the faith of a thousand believers in a tent be cancelled by one heretic with a microphone?

Any basic human need can be capitalized on be it food, sex . . . RELIGION, and upon capitalization the essence of the original need becomes twisted and the issue becomes the property of the person doing the issuing. Mom’s homemade apple pie is not enough, it has to be part of a Happy Meal. Your girlfriend, or wife never quite measures up to the movie star, and your simple faith has to be refined to the point where the rules mean more than the faith. Hordes of people fall on the ground at a tent revival. I checked Matthew chapter five and no one fell on the ground during the Sermon on the Mount. They didn’t fall on the ground at the wedding at Cana either, and they were drunk!

I look for God’s perspective in all things. Now, I don’t tell everybody that so y’all keep this between us, ok? The way I see it God calls all the shots, and He doesn’t do anything without good reason so when something comes along that I don’t like I try to squeeze it into an understanding that He is in control and if I just don’t mess with it everything will work out just fine. Oh, we have free will, just when we stretch that will God has to bring us back around to the original plan and sometimes you just gotta start again and get it right. In “Sharon” I explained it like this. Imagine the universe as a book, and God is the author. He creates us with free will, and sits back, letting us do our thing, but in the end He still writes the book and knows the overall plot.

You can’t reject all healings. Remember the Master said, “Your FAITH has healed you!” Can a faith healer affect your faith? No, but he can affect your trust! The biggest mistake you can make is losing sight of that book I mentioned earlier. You’re part of that, you know. God is the great director and God answers prayer. Sometimes He says, “CUT!” Eighty year old man, eat up with cancer. Comes to a tent. Faith healer does his song and dance. God says, “CUT!” You can’t do rewrites for God. You want to be healed of a limp, but God knows you need that limp. It’s in the book. You want money, but if you were wealthy you may be weak. You want a long life, but God gave you sixty years. He didn’t owe you sixty seconds. You can’t bargain with God, and neither can some TV evangelist, or preacher, or Pope. They are like having a court appointed lawyer. Plead guilty because you ARE!

God deals all the cards, but hope is the Joker. You can’t stop hope. Sometimes the hope itself is enough. Your life is a busted flush, and there’s hope. Sometimes hope just leads to acceptance. Suffering is perceived. There is a secret to life, but I cannot tell you. If you tell me I will tell you if you are right, but if I tell you what I know then it just becomes religion, and if I try to give you the secret and you have not ears it just becomes a mantra, and will do you no good, but once you find it you will sell all you own to keep it. I will tell you this; the universe is built upon the interaction of opposites, Ying and Yang, and once you understand that, then, you too will know the secret. It also destroys faith healers because it is an eternal truth against there is no retort, and it’s not religion, it’s FAITH!
Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt