Robert Cheeks

  Jackson died this day, one hundred and forty-six years ago. He was thirty-nine years old, a kid for crying out loud, and to have accomplished all that he did! We can only wonder at what he would have done at Gettysburg. Surely he would have insisted that Stuart stay close to the army, that . . . . Continue Reading »

  Nothing fascinates me more than an occasional perusing of the local newspaper, the ever reliable and accurate (The) Review , which used to be the East Liverpool Evening Review, the latter appellation a victim of progress. The Review and I have a history that began in the 1950’s . . . . Continue Reading »

My mind wandered, the eyes teared up, and one escaped, fortunately unnoticed, as I sat in the pew.  I was thinking of my friend, the Rev. Dr. Bill McSwegin, who died and was buried last week, as the congregation sang a hymn that contained the lyrics, “he spoke the ancient . . . . Continue Reading »

The way you hold your head, cursin’ God with every move Ooh, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it What are you tryin’ to prove Bob Dylan, Dead Man, Dead Man , 1981. Over at Front Porch Republic , Augustinian scholar James Matthew Wilson provides an important exegesis on . . . . Continue Reading »

“Well, it may be the devil, or it may be the Lord But you’re gonna have to serve somebody .”                        Bob Dylan, Gotta Serve Somebody , 1979 Four months into . . . . Continue Reading »

Well, Christmas and New Years have come and gone and I didn’t have my usual two-fingers of Buffalo Trace. I did spend time with the beloved first-wife engaged in theological problems and recounting Christmases past with the house strewn  with desecrated wrapping paper and joyous . . . . Continue Reading »