So today, January 6. is the one hundred and twentieth birthday of Robert E. Howard. The day is nearly over as write this. I’ve been occupied by work and winterizing before the temperatures drop into the single digits.

But I didn’t want the day to get away without some sort of post.

I doubt there’s much I could say that I either haven’t said before or that someone else has said better.

But when have I ever let that stop me?

Howard is one of my favorite authors. He has over three shelves in my library devoted to his work and a few works about him. The only other writers who even come close to that are Henry Kuttner, Leight Brackett, and Ray Bradbury. And none of them have over two shelves.

He let his imagination take him out of his mundane surroundings. That’s something I can appreciate and respect.

No one can write just like him. He’s had many would-be imitators, but most have never come close, even among his admirers. The closest was probably Karl Edward Wagner.

I’m thankful that I live close enough to Cross Plains that I can attend Howard Days every year. It’s been like finding the (slightly dysfunctional, at times highly dysfunctional) family I never knew I had. When people ask where I’m going or have gone every June, I tell them a tribal gathering. “I have to go and be with my people.”

I’m not joking.

So Happy one hundred twentieth birthday, Bob. I’ll raise a glass in your memory tonight before i go to bed.