wegads -- Ed Weiland's Blog

MY OBITUARY When I die I won't ask why. At the age I'll be, obviously, mortality will have its fill of me. But I wonder when  I...

     Death is a repository of interrupted dreams, of unwanted questions, of unfulfilled hopes and desires, of unresolved problems and perpl...

Once upon a time in the little town of Bethlehem there lived a little boy and his name was Jesus. Now, as a toddler, Jesus ...

Dear, sweet house, are you ready for the nursing home or am I? Have you lived out your usefulness or have I? We're at crossroads you and...

Written by Betty Weiland, Ed's wife. We lived on the sixth floor of a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. There were th...

A handshake for old times sake. A firm embrace. A smiling face. The bliss that comes from just a kiss. Joyful tears, sharing, caring, decla...

I went to my funeral for I was dead. My family was there and everyone said There lies the man who used to be Ed. But the strangest thing ...

The older we get, the more we fret about this and that.  I remember the time I told my wife I couldn't find my favorite hat, "It...