Brother Wease and the Soundtrack of My Years

Yesterday morning, I turned on the radio and listened to my funeral.

Not really a funeral, of course. It was a retirement announcement. But as the words came out of my car stereo, a part of me felt like it had died.

If you’ve spent more than a few minutes driving the highways of Upstate New York over the last four decades, you know the name Brother Wease. A radio legend, a member of the National Radio Hall of Fame, he’s been the voice in my ears and my head for most of my adult life.

And in just a few sudden words, he was gone. A retirement announcement driven less by his choice than by corporate number crunchers who trust their data more than their listeners’ hearts. Apparently, we prefer music in our mornings more than intelligent conversation, laughter, and real-life stories.

News flash, radio executives: if I want music, I have this thing called Spotify. What I don’t have anymore is Brother Wease easing me into the day, sharing his life, his family, and his band of unforgettable characters with all of us in real time.

And here’s the irony. Wease gave me more music than any playlist ever could. He was the one who introduced me to bands and songs I never would have found on my own. His soundtrack became part of my soundtrack. It wasn’t just talk radio. It was a guided tour through life, laced with stories, laughter, arguments, and a steady backbeat of music that stuck with me.

As someone who spends a lot of time writing about retirement, both in this blog and in the book I swear I’ll finish someday, I know that retirement comes for most of us eventually. Just not for the Rolling Stones, and certainly not for Brother Wease.

Still, the news made me feel my years. Not old exactly, but older. It stirred up that familiar sense of loss for things I’ll never get to enjoy again. At the top of that list? His conversations with Bob Lonsberry.

Wease and Lonsberry were radio gold together. Politically, they were oil and water. Wease on the left, Lonsberry firmly on the right. But when they sparred on air, something magical happened. They argued fiercely, then ended with mutual respect and, sometimes, affection. Oil and water in politics, peanut butter and jelly in humanity.

In today’s climate, that feels like a lost art. We have become so divided that listening across the aisle seems impossible. Yet here were two men, shaped by different generations and experiences. Wease, a Vietnam vet steeped in the 1960s. Lonsberry, a hard-charging conservative voice. They reminded us that you could disagree without being enemies.

If you don’t believe me, just read Lonsberry’s tribute to Wease. In another life, I’d gladly come back with his writing skills and Wease’s storytelling.

That’s what I’ll miss most. Not just the voice on the radio, but the example of how to live out loud, how to connect, how to respect.

When I write about retirement, I often say you need three things: identity, purpose, and community. Brother Wease has them all. His identity is cemented in concrete. His purpose is rooted in his large and loving family. And his community is the countless listeners and friends he’s gathered along the way.

Years ago, workers retired with a gold watch and a farewell party. The watch may be gone, but Brother Wease walked out on his own terms. And if I’ve learned anything from him over the years, there’s a party or two already waiting down the road.

Yesterday felt like a funeral, but today I choose to see it as a celebration. A celebration of a voice that kept me company for decades, of the music and stories he brought into my life, and a reminder that even when retirement comes, the connections remain. Rest easy in retirement, Brother Wease. You have more than earned the party.

For the better part of our lives, you were the soundtrack of our years.

Dan Troup is The Sunny Side of 57. He loves to reflect and write about life, family, career, and retirement. Check out more of his reflections on his blog site. Also, consider subscribing to The Sunny Side of 57. When not playing pickleball or hiking with Sue and Rigby, he (tries) to write a new post one to two times a month.