Joseph Verne West Oglesby

(April 10, 1964 – July 1, 2026)

Joseph Verne West Oglesby, born in Waco, Texas April 10, 1964, passed away July 1, 2026, in Waco, Texas. Joseph was also known as “Crazy Uncle Joe” loved helping everyone, even if that meant he went without. Joe also loved being the center of attention and making everlasting memories. Joe was a rough, tough, outlaw and will be missed by all. He loved doing everything the Joe Oglesby way, the cowboy way.

Joe is preceded by his mother Susie Perryman, granddaughter Harper Faye Capella and siblings Gae Tucker and Jimmy Oglesby.

Surviving Joe are wife Syta Oglesby, children Stepen Oglesby and wife Lexi, Joesi Capella and husband Ethan, Jesse Oglesby and wife Savanna and Joedi Oglesby. Also surviving Joe are nephews Jace Oglesby and wife Carissa, Chance Oglesby, Lariat Gartman, Houston Tucker and wife Keelah, nieces Julie Black and husband EJ, Jenna Oglesby, Janna Whitehead and husband Dylan, Kameron Mantell and husband Travis, Katherine Staton and husband Cade, Lane Gartman and Brooke Tucker and numerous grandchildren.

Graveside Services, 10 am, Monday July 6, 2026, at the Black Family Cemetery.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF JOE

Joe was a rare breed. In a world full of people worried about fitting in, he never seemed too concerned with what anybody thought of him. He wore that old black felt hat, lived life his own way, and stayed true to who he was. He was one of a kind—a cowboy at heart, a hardworking man, and someone who never apologized for being himself. He believed in hard work, honesty, and standing by his word. He had grit—the kind you don’t see much anymore. He was stubborn, tough, and determined to keep moving forward no matter what life threw at him. He didn’t wait for opportunities; he made them. At just fifteen years old, Joe headed to New Mexico and landed a job on an oil rig. Before long, they discovered “little ole Joe” wasn’t eighteen after all. So he packed up and went back to what had been instilled in him by the greatest horseman he ever knew—his grandpa, Punch Oglesby. From that point on, horses weren’t just part of Joe’s life; they were who he was. He rode bucking horses for anyone and everyone who needed one ridden. He competed on bulls and broncs in the rodeo world, and there wasn’t much that could intimidate him. Joe was the man who’d pull up in a beat-up four-door car with a saddle in the trunk and tennis shoes on his feet, climb on the horse no one else wanted, and somehow be the only one capable of taming the beast. Joe. Uncle Joe. Crazy Joe. Papa Joe, dad and Joe. Whatever name you knew him by, you knew exactly who he was. He was a living, breathing Marty Robbins song. His grit, courage, and determination showed every single time he climbed into the saddle. But riding wasn’t the only thing Joe knew. He was a horse trainer, welder, fabricator, carpenter, truck driver, heavy equipment operator, and worked in car crushing and metal recycling. There wasn’t much he couldn’t build, fix, haul, or figure out. If nobody else could do it, Joe could. And if he didn’t already know how, he’d learn. He believed in hard work, calloused hands. He didn’t chase titles or recognition. He simply lived the way he believed a man should—working hard, standing his ground, and leaving behind a legacy that can’t be measured by a single job, but by the lives he touched and the example he set. He always told us kids, “Do what I say, not what I do.” Joe often joked that he “didn’t know jack squat,” but everyone around him knew better. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do. His knowledge didn’t come from books—it came from experience, hard work, trial and error, and never being afraid of what could go wrong. Simply put… he got things done. Joe wasn’t perfect, and he wouldn’t have wanted anyone pretending he was. He made mistakes. He had flaws. He was real. But he never judged people by what they wore, how they talked, or how much money they had. He’d give you the shirt off his back without asking questions or expecting anything in return. If you needed Joe, he’d be there. Maybe not exactly when he said he’d be—because “Joe time” could mean anywhere from an hour to three days—but he would show up. Come hell or high water, he’d be there. He left his children, family, and friends with countless stories and a lifetime of memories. And if you knew Joe, you know most of those stories probably aren’t appropriate to tell right now—but we can all agree they made him who he was. I’ve seen a lot, learned a lot, and lived through a lot because of him. Not all of it was easy, but all of it became part of our story. Whether you knew Joe from the rodeo arena, the side of the road, work, or simply passed him in his beat-up pickup wearing his stained cowboy hat and worn-out shirt, you always knew where he stood—whether you agreed with him or not. His life mattered. His life had meaning. His life had purpose. Most importantly, he knew God. That mattered the most to a man like him. That hat has been hung, and it’s time for him to finally slow down and rest. His journey is finished, but his legacy will live on through each of us. May we all laugh, find comfort in the memories left behind, and carry his stories forward when we need them most. I can hear him now—“na na na boo boo, I got here first”—doing his little Joe dance. Today doesn’t feel real. The man I grew up thinking was invincible is no longer here. But we find peace knowing he lived with no regrets. He was loved. He knew he was loved. And he loved us in his own way. Rest easy, Dad. Your boots may be empty, but your trail will never fade.