Legacy is a word of great value. Yet, you cannot put a price on it. My mother in law always asks me how much money I’ve made doing this? Well, what I do in journalism is priceless. If by using that word you understand there is not a denomination of currency small enough to represent it.
The internet has opened vast new worlds of communication. Well, all except Facebook and YouTube who are trying to conduct their own McCarthy hearings on Sunday evenings in Silicon Valley. But mostly it was expected that with everyone talking at least some information would leak out and perhaps the world would be better for it.
While that enabled such as me to produce literature it didn’t help a whole lot down at the H-E-B when the kids wanted chicken nuggets. All I could tell my mother in law was that while SOMEbody was making money, it wasn’t me!
It was expected that with everyone talking at least some information would leak out and perhaps the world would be better for it.
Yet I keep writing. Why? I write because it exhilarates me. I keep a strange schedule. While I try to maintain consistency it never works out. Oh, I’ll go five or six days, going to bed on time, getting up, writing and coffee. After a bit I’ll break rank and stay up until midnight, get up at four and jump into whatever subject I’ve chosen for that day. Where’s the core?
Writing! My one constant quality is no matter how long (or short) the night, no matter how many cocktails, or lack therof, no matter if I forget to brush my teeth, I will always write. It’s the one connection between myself and the outside world. Because as long as I write then I’m not as crazy as the liberals and my ex-wives say that I am. I got ‘em fooled!
Legacy is a word wasted on fools and millennials. Legacy is what you leave behind that you never got paid for. That’s the benchmark you see because legacy can’t be affected by money. Oh, money can give the illusion of legacy, but soon after they scatter your ashes you’d better have had something to say. Stormy Daniels can do tours talking about all the money she’s made outing her Johns, but when she’s gone what difference has she made? What did she contribute to high school kids? What would you WANT such a woman to contribute to your kids? A new, improved condom?
Because as long as I write then I’m not as crazy as the liberals and my ex-wives say that I am. I got ‘em fooled!
Fifty years from now there is a girl. She’s in high school in Killeen, Texas. She’s walking home from Killeen High to the apartment where she lives with her parents. To get there she cuts through the city cemetery. Killeen sports its own “Boot Hill.” As she walks through the grave yard she pauses, and looks at my tombstone. Over her left shoulder is Killeen High School, where Miss Hornbuckle once told me that I’d never be able to communicate in the English language. Beyond that is Simmonsville, where I grew up. Growing up in Killeen is hard. When I was young I, like all my friends, had this creepy feeling that this must be our destination. The girl feels that too. All except one thing. The reason she’s looking at my tombstone is that tonight, her homework is to read one of my articles and write a report on it. THAT’S legacy!
The Butcher Shop