Homer Wayson

Homer Albert Eugene Wayson passed away on February 6th, 2020, in his home.
Gene was a sailor, air-traffic controller, long-haul trucker driver, real estate broker, piano salesman, blender tender on an oil rig, factory worker (almost foreman!), golf pro, school bus driver, international criminal.
He once spent a summer drunk on a boat, and another time, hunting alone in the woods of Michigan when he was seventeen, he fell through the ice and hung out naked for several hours while his clothes dried on rocks. He started a fight in a pool hall by pulling out a guy's overlong nose hair, and he once got arrested because he jumped over the bar to punch the bartender in the stomach because he'd called my dad's date something dirty. The guy's belt broke, and his pants fell down.
He loved to read, which he passed on to his two daughters. He liked sci-fi and was annoyed that it was often categorized with fantasy. He refused to read anything with a sword. Born in 1940, he grew up during Twilight Zone and flying saucer movies, which he would go see on his 25-cent allowance. He had enough to get a ticket, popcorn, and a Coke, and still have a nickel left over. The family, sharecroppers in Tennessee, didn't get plumbing or a TV until he was in high school, and he once fell into the hole in the outhouse pretending to be an Olympic gymnast on the parallel bars.
Despite the Wayson wildness, he was generally good-natured, the type of guy who wants everyone around him to laugh. He told the same jokes time and again, his favorite being what the fish said when it hit the wall. He always laughed at his own punchline. Once, trying to get a shower at a truck stop, the lady behind the counter told him to undress and head to the building out back. He said, "well, I'm shy," knowing full well she meant undress in the cab of his semi. He got a smile from the lady and a chuckle from everyone in line. He was proud of that one.
He once spent three months in Rio de Janeiro drinking beers on the beach while watching girls in bikinis go by, and then he spent six weeks in a Bolivian prison. The prison was in the mountains, and his cell was underground, so it was cold, and when they did dishes, he warmed his hands on the pipes that ran along his ceiling. He took a red blanket from the jail, which they made him pay for. It's on his bed still.
He stayed cheerful and alert to the end. He is succeeded by two daughters, three brothers, a sister, two grandsons, and a slew of nieces and nephews.
He will be missed. To plant a beautiful memorial tree in memory of Homer, please visit our Tree Store.