What I Learned About Writing from Cousin Andy

Oct 17, 2025

He wrote like a carpenter—measure twice, cut once, sweep the shavings.

Every line was a joint that fit.

No flourishes, no polish for its own sake—

Just the clean sound of wood meeting purpose.

He could find comedy in the stubborn hinge of life—

The jammed drawer, the slow clerk, the lost receipt.

His humor never mocked from above;

It stooped, smiled, and helped you fix the thing.

He believed morality wasn’t sermon or style—

It was how you treated your neighbor when the cameras stopped.

He distrusted what was shiny, cheap, and hurried,

Because truth never comes in bulk packaging.

When he came to Bakersfield, we put on our best faces.

He thanked us kindly, ordered meatloaf, and meant it.

Later, my brothers saw him in that TV office—

The same one we’d all memorized—and nothing was pretend.

He marched every story to its ending like a small parade:

Steady, rhythmic, no cymbals, just the moral drum.

And if he looked at today’s world, I know that brow would lower:

Too much noise, not enough nails.

Still, he’d love us anyway—

The confused, the cluttered, the occasionally decent.

Because for all his grumbling, he trusted the good in people.

And that’s the final cut: he left the rough edges, because they were us.

And me? I learned that writing should fit like his stories did—

Never longer than the truth requires, never shorter than the heart allows.

He made every word earn its keep,

And I’ve been trying to do the same ever since.