Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Bayou Tuesday: The Silence in the Swamp

 

The Bayou Goes Quiet the Loudest Silence: Mourning a Bayou Legend Farewell to Uncle Jerry



Well howdy, folks. It’s Tuesday, October 21, 2025, and this isn't the kind of post I ever wanted to write.

I know I’ve been quiet lately—first, wrestling with the courts, and now, wrestling with a much deeper silence. The truth is, the reason I haven't been posting is because Uncle Jerry passed away this past Sunday.

He was still at the rehab facility, recovering from the broken vertebrae he suffered in jail. The official cause was complications stemming from his injury and his previous health struggles. But to me, the cause was simply that the bayou lost one of its truest, wildest spirits, and the world is dimmer for it.

Since Sunday, my life has been a blur of logistics, not bayou adventures. I've been consumed with making all the arrangements—the phone calls, the paperwork, the meetings at the funeral home. It’s a blur of details that nobody prepares you for, all while carrying a grief that feels as heavy as a hundred pounds of wet moss.

Uncle Bill is here at the cabin. He’s about as cranky as usual, complaining about the quality of the suits I picked out and demanding to know why the funeral home insists on using flowers that “smell like a French Quarter parlor.” But underneath the usual stubbornness, he is profoundly sad about his brother. They fought constantly, they argued over every domino tile and every fishing lure, but they were brothers. That empty chair on the porch where Jerry used to sit is louder than any territorial roar from the swamp. Bill misses him fiercely.

It’s hard to imagine the porch without Jerry’s loud laugh, his exaggerated stories, or his endless, hopeful search for lost Werther's Originals. He was chaos, he was laughter, and he was family.

I'll be stepping away from the blog for a while to focus on the services and on making sure Bill and the rest of the family are okay. The bayou will wait for us, and I promise to bring you back into the light when I can.

Please keep Uncle Jerry in your thoughts. I know he’d want you all to tell a good, long, slightly unbelievable story today.


Rest in Peace, Uncle Jerry.



Bayou Tuesday The Empty Chair

 

His Voice on the Wind, The Empty Chair on the Porch



5 AM, Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Good morning. It’s been a long while since I’ve written one of these.

I’m up early, long before the sun, making coffee in the pre-dawn quiet. But the quiet is different this morning. It’s heavier. I’m trying to sort out my feelings, but my heart just feels hollowed out. I got the call this past Sunday, October 19th—the one you never want to get, the one that makes the world tilt on its axis.

My Uncle Jerry, a true bayou legend, passed away.

He was a legend not because of any grand gesture or worldly success, but because he was our storyteller. He was the keeper of our history, the voice of the bayou itself. His stories were magic. They weren’t just "stories"; they were adventures. Sitting on the front porch, he could weave a tale from the way the humidity felt on your skin or the sound of a bullfrog. He told us about the hidden places, the secret fishing holes, the way the cypress trees whispered to each other, the nature of a hurricane, and the ghosts of old trappers. He’d make you laugh with a story about a stubborn mule and make you shiver with one about the Feu Follet. Each story was a gift, a piece of himself and this land that he loved.

And that’s what makes his passing so senseless, so hard to swallow. His life was this rich, vibrant thing, full of wisdom and humor. But it ended in a cold, sterile series of events. It started with a back injury he suffered at the jail, all because the DA wanted him there. That led to the hospital, and then to a rehab facility. It was a sterile, bureaucratic end for a man who was anything but. Our local church is thankfully handling all the arrangements, and other folks are helping me sort out the details.

The grief in this cabin is thick, almost suffocating. Uncle Bill is taking it hard, sad and cranky about the loss of his brother. I understand it. His crankiness is just a shield for a broken heart. They were brothers; they shared this lifetime of stories. Bill was the audience, the heckler, and the co-conspirator in so many of them. Now, his best audience is gone.

The hardest part, for me, is the silence. The front porch feels wrong. The chair that Uncle Jerry used to sit in, his unofficial throne, is empty. It’s just a piece of wood now, but it was once the center of our world, the stage from which he launched all our adventures. Its emptiness is a void that changes the whole landscape.

I find myself listening. Sometimes, when the wind moves through the pines or rustles the water, I think I can still hear his voice on the wind, finishing a story he started or maybe just starting a new one. I’m going to miss those bayou stories. I’m going to miss the way he’d pause for dramatic effect, the twinkle in his eye.

It’s a sad, quiet morning here. We’ve lost our storyteller. But we’ll keep his stories alive. We’ll retell them, even if we get them half-wrong. We’ll listen for his voice on the wind.

Goodbye, Uncle Jerry. We won’t let your adventures end.

3 AM Whispers: The Tragic Loss of a Bayou Legend

 

3 AM Whispers: The Tragic Loss of a Bayou Legend



Tuesday, October 21st, 2025

Good morning, everyone. It’s 3 AM here at the cypress swamp cabin overlooking the Red River in Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s been a while since I've written one of these posts, but I’m up early this morning, making coffee and trying to sort through feelings that feel too large for this quiet hour.

I received the call on Sunday. Uncle Jerry passed away. He was at the rehab facility where he had been staying, recovering from a back injury sustained while he was in jail—a situation that never should have happened, brought on by the insistence of the DA. The details of his last weeks are a complex and heartbreaking sorrow that we are still trying to process.

I am going to miss my Uncle Jerry so much. I will miss his laugh, his wisdom, his presence, and, most of all, his incredible Bayou stories and the adventures we shared. I look at the front porch, and his chair is empty, a silent, painful monument to the massive hole he has left in our lives.

Uncle Bill is understandably heartbroken. He’s been very cranky lately, and I know it's the raw grief of losing his brother and best friend—a sorrow I share deeply. Our local church is helping tremendously with arrangements, and others are stepping in to help me sort out what happened next.

In this deep sorrow, when the silence of his empty chair feels deafening, I turn to the only source of enduring comfort. For moments of profound grief, we are reminded that God draws near to the brokenhearted, and He knows the depth of our pain.

It brings to mind the unwavering promise of Psalm 34:18:


"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."


At 3 AM, with tears and coffee, this verse is a life-sustaining truth. It reminds us that even when our spirit is crushed by this tragic loss, and even when we feel overwhelmed by the injustice and the sorrow, the Lord is close. He is here, with me, with Uncle Bill, and with all who loved our Bayou Legend, Uncle Jerry.

We will mourn this loss, but we will seek our strength in Him. Rest in peace, Uncle Jerry.


I wanted to make sure I got this out to you all now. Please keep Me, Uncle Bill and our family in your prayers. Have a blessed Tuesday.