My brother graciously stepped in, due to my mental state this week, and penned a delightful piece. Stay tuned because I'm all wound up about something and shall share it, of course, in an upcoming issue. Meanwhile, here is my big brother, Blaine Houserman:

The more

things change...

- By Blaine Houserman

This week saw the passing of Fred DeWalt.

Fred’s funeral service will have only been but a few days prior to the arrival of this paper to your front porch, the counter at the local eatery or, to ‘ex-patriots’ like myself, through the trusty US mail.

Every time I get the Community News, I fall prey to the old adage oft’ said about those of us ‘getting on in years.’ This is especially true as I peruse the obits, (obituaries).

The thing that was different about Fred’s passing was the affect it has had on my little sister, Lisa, who loaned me her column space this week.

Obviously, Lisa learning the news of Fred's passing long before it became public knowledge, was due to the close relationship she had with the DeWalt family, especially Fred.

When she phoned me, directly after receiving the dreaded call, I was suddenly carried back to memories of our own father’s passing, now twenty years ago. I remembered now, that Fred, over the years that followed, had become, for want of a better term, a ‘surrogate’ father to Lisa.

It is interesting to note that Fred was actually the one that prepared the place of our fathers’ final resting place, fitting also, that it’s in the same proximity that Fred now shares.

When I heard that he was taken to that place in an old-fashioned wooden casket, (hand-made by Fred, himself), towed by a two mule team, I couldn’t help but smile as it was truly the perfect final journey for this man.

Even though my parents had known Fred and Ann Dewalt for years before I showed up, I hadn’t really spent a lot of time at their homestead, (knowing Fred’s chosen rustic way of life, you would hardly ever refer to it as just their ‘house’), but the first time being old enough to remember, was when I first encountered their living room.

This room was not in the main part of the house but, was a room built completely from hand-hewn logs and was a few steps down from the main floor level, at the end of the house.

This is where I first spied the huge fireplace, which seemed, at the time, to be wall-to-wall. Hanging from a big, black, iron arm-hook was a GIANT antiquated cauldron—a bottomless pot of what I would later learn was Fred’s famous bean soup.

So many people have seen him over the years but I wonder if they ever knew how much he really lived as close to the land as he could, always opting for his trusty mule, and later, his mild-mannered pony, Sue, over a John Deere.

It should be no surprise then, that sons Jeff, Mark and Danny Dewalt, (appearing on the planet in that order), would all turn out to be stalwart, self-sufficient men, all subscribing to live simple, natural lives, all with noteworthy accomplishments, but always on their terms. That’s how Fred lived, and that’s how they learned to live.

Now please understand that since I’ve become an ‘ex-patriot’ (or ‘ex-pat’ as it is known) and have lived everywhere from a small town in New England, a swinging, single apartment dwelling in the oil-booming sprawl that was ‘1980’s Houston, (later joined by my little sister), to Brentwood California, former home of the then famous, and now infamous, OJ Simpson - I’ve known my share of 'Earth-Mothers,' city-slickers, jet-setters, bikers, Hollywood wannabes and tie-dye-peace-loving- brown-rice-eating-acid-dropping, retro-hippies.

Alas, the most recent incarnation of the New-Aged American living, (Southern California style), and indeed the new paradigm spreading throughout the land is the Go 'Greensters.' You know, how to grow hemp for clothing and recreation, the joys of composting and building one's own fireplace for warmth and family cooking.

As I sit here on October 12, in Los Angeles, the night before returning to Conneaut Lake,(proudly the second time in as many months), I contemplate the myriad of ‘Go-Green’ decals plastered on the back bumpers of many a Toyota Prius, and I have to stop and chuckle.

Fred lived such an unwavering, principled life, revering a finely handmade piece of wood to anything store-bought, a plow, (mule driven of course), and, most certainly, a joyous heap of compost—way before it was the popular thing to do.

As the French say, (not in English of course), “The more things change, the more they stay the same...” Fred and my own father both led interesting lives, to say the least, and they did so without regard to what was “in” or “out” concerning the fads of the day. That is why it is a touch ironic and I find it strangely amusing that, after all this time, as Fred Dewalt took his final wagon ride, he did so being 'hip,' at age 85.