“Do not forsake me, oh my Darlin,” on this our wedding day,” who didn’t know the first verse of that song from the radio? A massive hit from the 1952 movie “High Noon,” performed by everybody’s favorite singing cowboy, Tex Ritter.
In 1957, I was eight years old, and on some Saturday nights, I got to tag along with my father to the “Cowtown Hoedown,” a popular live country music show performed at the Majestic Theater in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. My father was the fiddle player in the house stage band, so I was somewhat musical royalty, at least for a kid.
Most of the major and minor country stars played Fort Worth and Dallas as much as they did Nashville, and I was fortunate to have seen many of them at this show. One, in particular, made a lasting impression on my young self.
I was sitting on a stool backstage before the show, talking to a few kids; who, like me, got to attend the show with their fathers.
My father came over and asked me to follow him. We walked behind the back curtain and stopped at a stage-level dressing room. There in the doorway stood a big fellow in a sequined cowboy suit and a 30 gallon Stetson. I knew who he was; that is Tex Ritter, the movie star and cowboy singer. My father introduced me, and I shook hands with Tex. I was floored, shocked, and couldn’t speak for a few minutes. What kid gets to meet a singing cowboy movie star in Fort Worth, Texas? I guess that would be me.
Tex asked my name and then told me he had a son the same age as me. We talked baseball and cowboy movies for a bit, then he handed me a one-dollar bill and asked if I would go to the concession stand and buy him a package of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. So I took the buck and took off down the service hallway to the front of the theater. I knew all the shortcuts and hidey holes from my vast exploration of the old theater during the shows.
I knew nothing of the brands and flavors, not being a gum chewer, but the words Juicy Fruit made my mouth water. Not having much money, what change I did get from selling pop bottles went to Bubble Gum Baseball Cards, not fancy chewing gums.
I purchased the pack of gum for five cents. Then, gripping the change tightly in my sweating little hand, I skedaddled back to Tex’s dressing room. He was signing autographs but stopped and thanked me for the favor. He then gave me two quarters for my services and disappeared into his dressing room for a moment. He handed me an autographed 8×10 photograph of him playing the guitar and singing to the doggies when he returned. I was in country and western music heaven. He also gave me a piece of Juicy Fruit, which I popped into my mouth and began chewing, just like Tex.
Juicy Fruit became my favorite gum, and now, whenever I see a pack or smell that distinct aroma as someone is unwrapping a piece, I remember the night I shared a chew with Tex Ritter.
A recount of my childhood Christmas memories in Fort Worth, Texas.
Photo by: Leonard’s Museum and Ansel Adams
Photo by: Elf -O-Mat Studios
Riding a ceiling-mounted “Rocket Train” to nowhere around the basement of a department store doesn’t seem like a Christmas activity, but that’s what thousands of other Texas kids and I did every year in the 1950s.
Leonard Brothers Department Store occupied two square blocks of downtown Fort Worth real estate and was known as the Southwest’s Macy’s. They offered everything the big shot stores in the East carried and hundreds of items no retailer in their right mind would consider.
If you had a mind to, one could purchase a full-length mink coat with optional mink mittens, the latest women’s high-fashion clothing line from Paris, France, an Italian cut-crystal vile of Elizabeth Taylors spit, James Dean’s signature hair cream, Rock Hudson’s autographed wedding photos, a housebroken Llama, an aluminum fishing boat and motor, a new car, a pole barn, a lovely two-story craftsman home “build it yourself kit” delivered to your lot, chickens, barb wire, hay, horses and cows, a 30-30 Winchester rifle, a 40 caliber autographed General George Custer Colt pistol, a bottle of good hootch and a Ford tractor. That’s about as Texas as it gets.
The Christmas season in downtown Fort Worth was internationally recognized for its innovative and incredible decorations. The righteous and self absorbed city fathers figured the best way to outdo Dallas, a full-time effort, was to line every building with white lights from top to bottom and install large glowing decorations on every lamp pole, street light, and building façade available. If that didn’t make you “ooooh and ahhhh,” then you needed to take a BC Powder and head for the house.
A few days after Thanksgiving, my parents would take my sister and me downtown to see the decorations and visit the Leonard Brothers Department Store. Santa just happened to be in their basement, taking advanced verbal orders from every crumb cruncher who could climb the stairs and climb into his lap.
My sister always asked for the latest doll between screams and crying fits. She was scared senseless of “HO-HO,” but somehow managed to spit out her order. Like clockwork, every year, I asked for a Daisy BB Gun with a year’s supply of stainless silver ammo ( for killing werewolves), a full-size Elliot Ness operable Thompson Sub Machine Gun, or an Army surplus Bazooka with real rockets and a long, razor-sharp Bowie knife encased in a fringed leather holster. It was a 1950s boy thing; weapons were what we longed for. How else could we defeat Santa Anna at the Alamo or win World War II, again? Our neighborhood may have sported the best-supplied “kid army” on the planet, and jolly old Santa was our secret arms dealer; parents non-the wiser. I finally got the BB Gun, but Santa was wise enough to not bring the other request.
Walking down the stairs to the store’s basement was the thrill I had waited for all year. There, hanging above my head, was the beautiful red and silver tinseled sign, “Toy Land,” kid nirvana, and the Holy Grail all in one room. The smell of burned popcorn and stale chocolate candy wafted up the stairs, and I could hear the cheesy Christmas choir music and the sound the Rocket Train made as it glided along the ceiling-mounted rails. I almost wet my jeans.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of parents jostled down isles of toys, pushing, grabbing, and snarling like a pack of wild dogs fighting for that last toy; the holiday spirit and common courtesy were alive and well. The queue of kids for the Rocket Train snaked through the basement like a soup line.
Sitting on his mini-mountain top perch, sat old red-suited Santa Claus and his elfin apprentices, herding kids to his lap at break-neck speed. Each child got about fifteen seconds, a black and white photograph, and then it was off the lap and down the steps. Kids were fast in those days; we memorized and practiced our list weeks before our visit for maximum impact. “Ho-Ho” had better be writing this stuff down. Kids, don’t forget squat.
After two Santa visits, four Rocket Train rides, and three popcorn bags later, our family unit departed Leonard’s for the new and improved “Leonard’s Christmas Tree Land,” located across the street from the main building. Thanks to the demolition of several wino-infested abandoned buildings, the new lot was now the size of Rhode Island and held enough trees for every person and their dog in the state of Texas.
Thousands of fresh-cut trees awaited our choosing. Father, always the cheapskate, chose a sensible tree; not too big, not too small, yet full and fluffy with a lovely piney aroma. My sister and I pointed and danced like fools for the “pink flocked” tree in the tent, which cost the equivalent of a week’s salary. My parents enjoyed our cute antics. The sensible tree was secured to the top of our Nash Rambler station wagon, and we were homeward bound.
Pulling into our driveway, it was impossible to miss our neighbor’s extravagant holiday display. We had been away from home for 6 hours and returned to a full-blown holiday extravaganza that made our modest home look like a tobacco road sharecropper shack.
Our next-door neighbors, Mr. Mister and his lovely wife, Mrs. Mister, were the neighborhood gossip fodder. The couple moved from Southern California for his job. He, an aircraft design engineer, and she, a former gopher girl at Paramount Studios. The Misters reeked new-found money and didn’t mind flaunting it. They drove tiny Italian sports cars and hired a guy to mow their lawn. His wife, Mrs. Mister, always had a Pall Mall ciggie and a frosty cocktail in one hand. Father said she looked like a pretty Hollywood lady named Jane Mansfield, but Mother said she resembled a “gimlet-assed dime-store chippy.” I got the impression that the Misters were quite popular in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Mister on her fancy sofaMr. Mister contemplating his next invention
Their Christmas display was pure Cecil B. DeMille. A life-size plywood sleigh, with Santa and his reindeer, covered the Mister’s roof, and 20 or more automated Elves and various holiday characters greeted passersby. Twinkling lights covered every bush and plant in the yard, and a large machine spat out thousands of bubbles that floated through the neighborhood. This was far more than Fort Worth was ready for.
The kill shot was their enormous picture window that showcased a ceiling-high blue flocked tree bathed in color-changing lights. There, framed in the glow of their yuletide decor, sat Mr. and Mrs. Mister with their two poodles, Fred and Ginger, perched on their expensive modern sofa, sipping vermouth martinis like Hollywood royalty. This display of pompacious decadence didn’t go unnoticed by my parents.
Father hauled our puny tree into the living room and began unpacking lights for tomorrow evening’s decorating. Mother hurried my sister and me off to bed. Visions of spying Elves, sugar plum pudding, and dangerous weapons danced in my head; Christmas was upon us like an itchy fungus.
Sometime after 10 PM, Father got hungry. Searching for sandwich fixings in the kitchen, he found a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Then he found a fresh half gallon of Eggnog, which he enjoyed with the bourbon. While searching for bread to make a ham sandwich, he found two boxes of “Lux Laundry Soap Flake” with a dish towel in each. Then, by chance, he discovered the food coloring. This gave him an idea for our sad little tree.
I awoke with a start. The sun was shining on my face, which meant I was late for school. I ran into the living room and was stopped in my tracks.
Our formally green tree was now flocked in thick pink snow, as were the curtains, the fireplace mantel, two chairs, the coffee table, and my father, who lay on the couch, passed out, with a half-eaten ham sandwich on his chest. My Mother sat a few feet away, sipping her coffee and smoking a Winston; my Louisville slugger lay on her lap. I was reluctant to approach her, but I had to know.
I timidly put my hand on her shoulder and asked, “Mom, is Dad going to be alright?” She took a sip of coffee and a drag from her ciggie and said, “Well, for right now, he will be, but after he wakes up, who knows.”
The Brazos River winds its way through the stoic rock cliffs a mile east of the small village of Glenrose, Texas, its waters glinting like scattered stars as the sun throws its golden light upon the white limestone bedrock beneath the water. In the tranquil shallows and deeper pools, hues of emerald and azure spiral together, mirroring the darting fish that traverse the hidden world below. Eagles and Hawks prowl the sky above, capturing the fish that swim too close to the surface. Towering Oak, Pecan, and Elm trees stand as steadfast guardians along the banks, their roots deep in the fertile soil, while just beyond, the land erupts in a profusion of wildflowers, a testament to the beauty and resilience of this little patch of earth. This is the land that Henry’s family chose as their homestead.
In the shadows of the towering hills, wide stretches of grasslands unfold, a realm where cattle and deer roam free, finding solace in the abundance that the land offers. Here, the grass is plentiful, and competition is not considered. The earth yields enough to sustain all who seek its bounty. Mesquite trees stand in tight groves, their gnarled limbs ready to provide the firewood for warmth and light for the ranch house. Henry thanks God every day that his family chose this little slice of Heaven so many decades ago, when Texas was newly freed from Mexico and formed into a Republic. His family and the Comanches made friends early on, sharing the bounty of the land and feeding the tribe with a beef or two when needed. It was a choice of peace over bloodshed and battle.
Henry’s two boys left the ranch years ago. His youngest works as a deputy in Fort Worth, an honorable but dangerous profession. His oldest boy is a gambler and a scoundrel, and haunts the saloons and gambling halls of New Orleans and Houston, making a shady wage and living an abhorrent lifestyle. Abigail, his wife, pines for a reunion with her boys, but they have been without her loving touch for many years. She is old, sick, and frail, and Henry fears each day might be her last, so he doesn’t travel far from the house and checks on her often during the workday. Henry is older than her, and he’s no spring chicken. His days of ranching and sitting in a saddle will be ending soon.
Cattle are made for roaming; it’s their inherent nature. Cowboys are made for finding and securing the unruly bovines; it’s a circle game played out daily. Henry is missing twelve, maybe thirteen, and two calves, all Longhorns. He knows they are drawn to the river; they smell the wetness and know that the grass is sweetest near the banks, and the spreading Oaks offer a safe respite when night comes. He sent his ranch hand West to search, but he knew they likely headed East to the river.
Henry picks up the cattle tracks in the soft sandy soil, heading to the river. He follows for a few miles to the West bank of the Brazos. There, they crossed in water no more than a foot deep, but swift enough to take a man off his feet. Across the river, maybe thirty yards, he sees their exit up a steep incline next to a sharp cliff that drops off to the right, large rocks scattered along the bank below, and trapped broken tree trunks and limbs reside there among the stones. The trees are thick on the left, so there is no option but the one the cattle took. Henry gives them credit for being smart enough to figure it out. They cross with no effort. Witherspoon, his old horse, knows about as much as a ranch horse could learn. Henry considers him smarter than many of the men he knows. They start up the incline, which is steeper than it appeared from the other bank. Witherspoon struggles, slipping on the soft earth and gravel, and rolls to the right. Henry knows they are falling, and it won’t be a soft one. He grabs the saddle horn and braces for the impact as they fall backwards off the cliff.
When Henry opens his eyes, the sky looks a color of blue he is not familiar with. Deep Azure, not the familiar soft blue. He is flat on his back, lying atop stones. He doesn’t feel pain and figures he escaped injury. Witherspoon, his horse, grazes near the face of the cliff they fell from; he appears uninjured as well. He raises himself up on his elbows. From the left side, a dog approaches, tail wagging. Henry is shocked; it’s his cow dog, Buster, gone for three months now. Henry was sure a pack of coyotes got him, but here he is, now licking his face in between joyful whines. Abigail will be pleased as punch to see Buster back home. She mourned for weeks, assuming he had passed.
Witherspoon is in good shape, not a scratch on him, so he mounts, and Buster leads the way up the incline. This time, it’s an easy climb, and they continue down the path, Buster following the tracks and stopping ever so often to look back and bark to let Henry know the way.
The three come upon a man leaning on a broken gate. The wood of the gate is in poor shape. The man is dressed in city clothes, sharp and clean, boots shined and a snazzy derby perched on his head. Henry has been in these parts many times and doesn’t remember this place.
The man motions his hand and says, ” Howdy neighbor, what brings you to these parts?
” Looking for some strays that crossed the river maybe yesterday or the day before, you seen them” Henry says. Buster sits on his bollocks, ears low, hair on his back up: it’s clear this is not a nice fellow. Henry trusts his dog’s instincts, which are always right.
” Had some strays here a few days ago, just walked right in the gate and up to the main house, you’re welcome to come and see if they are yours. I’ve got some good corn liquor if you’d like a jolt, but the dog has to stay at the gate, no dogs allowed on this spread, they cause too much trouble,” says the man with a broad, fake smile. Buster lowers his body and snarls, emitting a low growl.
Henry looks at the entrance, the tracks must be at least a few weeks old, and the rain has almost vanished them. He says,” No thanks, my dog has picked up their scent and tracks, and they lead on up the road, so we’ll be moseying along.”
” Suit yourself, neighbor, if you don’t find them, you can come to the main house, but the dog isn’t welcome.” The man turns and leaves as Henry moves Witherspoon along the tracks that Buster has picked up.
A few miles down the road, Henry comes upon another gate. A young woman is replacing the hinges. She has a toolbox and has clearly been working hard. Her clothes are a bit dirty, her boots are worn, and her straw hat has seen better days. Without hesitation, Buster goes to her and she bends down and gives him a hug, he whines and licks her face.
She puts down her tool and says, ” Bet you’re looking for those Longhorns that came by this morning, twelve of them, with two calves. They walked right in the gate and up to the barn. I put them in a holding pen. I figured someone would come looking. Why don’t you and your cow dog follow me up to the barn, and I’ll give ya’ll a cool drink of water, and Cookie might have a biscuit or two left from breakfast if you’re hungry. Why don’t you dismount and walk with me up to the main house?”
Henry and Buster walk beside her, Witherspoon in tow. The road is well kept, the trees lining the road are healthy and green, and some are bursting with fruit, Apples, Pears, Peaches, Mulberries, and the wild flowers are as abundant and colorful as he has ever seen. In the distance he sees the main house. It’s a sprawling place, maybe three or four stories, painted white and trimmed in gold. There are dozens of folks sitting in chairs under the covered porch. Dogs and children play on the lawn. Buster takes off down the road to join in with them.
The young woman takes off her leather gloves, offers a hand to Henry, and says, ” Howdy, my name is Angela. This ain’t my place, it belongs to my Father. You must be Henry and your cow dog must be Buster, right?”
Henry shakes her hand. Her face is beaming, glowing in the afternoon light. Bright blue eyes, silky brown hair, and the whitest teeth he’s ever seen on a person. He says, ” Angela, how do you know my name? I don’t recall telling you yet. I can’t stay long. I’ll collect my strays and need to head back. My wife is sickly, and I’ve been gone too long as it is. I worry about her, and she doesn’t need the misery of thinking something happened to me.”
Angela moves closer to Henry and takes his hand in hers as they stroll down the road. She says, ” Henry, we’ve been expecting you, Witherspoon, and Buster for a while now, and don’t worry too much about Abigail, she’ll be along shortly. Ain’t this place just a slice of Heaven.”
Good Downhome And Often Practical Advice For Those Folks That Think They Know Everything..
The Texan
This Texan received a letter written on the back of a Braum’s paper grocery bag. Braums has the second-best ice cream ( Bluebell is the top dog) and A2 milk in Texas, and a lot of folks shop there just to collect the sturdy, no-nonsense retro brown paper bags with sturdy handles, me included. It seems that a Mr. Oliver Douglas of Waco, Texas, has a problem with his new neighbors, who moved from California after purchasing the ranchette next to his farm, Green Acres.
Mr. Douglas: I saw your advice column advertised at the local H.E.B. in the grilling section next to the charcoal bags. The full-size cardboard cutout of you looked really nice, and I thought if you use and endorse that brand of local charcoal nuggets, then I’ll try them too. Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing to you. My new neighbors, Chip and Brie Romero, moved in next door about two months ago. Chip, the husband, is the great-grandson of Ceaser Romero, the famous dead actor. They, like thousands of others, fled that third-world commie country of California and came to our blessed state of Texas to start a new life, and who could blame them? I mean, that governor with the Clint Eastwood hair and the Robert Redford smile has ruined what was once a pretty good place to take a vacation and stare at the movie stars. My wife, Lisa, and her friend Lisa Ziffel spent a week of vacation out there in L.A. a few years back, trying to see Paul Newman and get his autograph. She was plum bummed out when she found out he had been dead for quite a while. But she did get to see two of those big butted Kardashian women on Rodeo Drive. She asked the most famous Kardashian woman how much she paid for those big butt cheek implants, and the bodyguard sprayed her with paparazzi pepper spray. Anyway, enough of that small talk.
Our neighbors want to be Texans in the worst way, but they are annoying Californians and will never be able to assimilate into our Texas culture. They drive a Tesla Cyber truck instead of a King Ranch pickup and have a fancy electric tractor for mowing their lawn.
They asked us over for supper: they called it a dinner party, but I call it supper. They served us white wine, some sushi(which is really catfish bait to me), some ugly, undercooked organic vegetables, tofu meatless patties, and almond milk ice cream on top of a gluten-free rice and kale shortcake. I tried to feed most of it to Verdell, their little weird-looking designer dog that hung out under their custom-made Himalayan wormwood outdoor kitchen table, but he took a few bites and puked it up on my new Justin boots. I gave the little pecker-wood a little kick with my boot for doing that, and Chip lost his crap and threw his glass of expensive white wine on my new Lucase pearl snap button shirt and was shrieking like a little girl, accusing me of trying to kill Verdell. His wife, Cheese Girl, is filming it all on her iPhone and calling their attorney back in La La land. My wife, Alma, doesn’t take crap from anybody, so she grabs Cheese Girl and throws her into their fancy Tibetan Monk-inspired meditation pond full of these big-assed Japanese meat-eating goldfish, and the fish start chewing on Cheese Girl. Eb, our farm hand, hears her screaming and comes to the rescue, throwing her a rope and pulling her out of the pond with his John Deere tractor. He had to drive it through their fancy bamboo fence to save her, and that sent Chip over the top. The meat-eating gold fish were still hanging onto her legs and torso and chomping on her, so Eb shoots them to pieces with his Colt pistol, and she’s screaming that those darn fish cost ten grand each and now he’s gonna have to pay for them, even though they were eating her like a rack of pork ribs. Things got worse. With the big hole in the bamboo fence, their herd of midget horses got out and took off into the woods, and haven’t been found yet. Arnold Ziffel, our intelligent farm pig, picked up their scent and tried to find them, but no luck yet. They have some of these exotic little Watusi Cows from Africa, and when they get scared or excited, they stand on their hind legs and dance the Watusi, which they did and danced right into the fancy meditation pond. The meat-eating goldfish got hold of them and left nothing but some bones and horns. Now we’re being sued by their fancy lawyer for replacing the cows, the horses, and the goldfish. Mr. Haney, our friend, is acting as our lawyer. Got any suggestions on how to handle these two morons?
The Texan: Well, Mr. Douglas, it appears that Green Acres is the place to be, and those Californians with all their valley speak and weird ways couldn’t resist moving to Texas and bringing their genetic baggage with them. A good friend of mine lived in a little town called Petticoat Junction, not too far from where you live. A family of Californians moved in by him, and the lecherous husband kept trying to get my cousins’ three gorgeous daughters out of that water tank and into his hot tub for some bubbly California fun fun fun. His cousin, Jethro Bodine, finally had to shoot the sucker, and the rest of the family got the hint and moved back to Beverley Hills. Californians are akin to folks from the Middle East: they just can’t assimilate and don’t get how we Texans live and the code of the West. I’ll send you Jethro’s cell phone number, and he might be able to help you out. I’m also sending you a CD of one of my favorite movies, ” High Noon,” and two large boxes of cherry bombs so you can use them to make those Californians scat back to La La Land. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.
At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last, Texas legend. The best storytellers and liars I ever knew were my two uncles on my mother’s side of the family, Uncles Bill and Jay Manley. They are the ones who told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.” My mother believed the two ruined me and turned me into a liar and teller of tall tales, which is not such a bad thing.
The Mountain Boomers were giant lizards that ran on two legs and came down from their lair on Santa Anna Mountain in search of food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, wild pigs, small cows, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. We, kids, were scared shitless of even going out of the farmhouse after dark. Now we had giant lizards and the dreaded Woolly Boogers to deal with.
With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”
Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparents’ covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the faraway howls of an occasional Coyote pack running the creek that passed through the pastures.
The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.
Already that June, my cousin Jerry and I had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens and had learned of the dreaded Woolly Boogers. Hence, we needed a new adventure: our summer was losing air like a punctured tire: we were tiring of shooting chickens with our Daisy BB Guns, then getting our butts switched by Granny.
“Did you kids see that over there in the trees across the road? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says Uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then, a few moments later, “There it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a wild pig in its teeth.”
He had us firmly hooked and reeled in. Then he starts in on the story. Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and said,
” Right down this road here, about twenty years ago, a family’s car broke down, ran out of gas, I think. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned with some gas. The little boy got out of the car to pee alongside the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry: a 7-foot-tall Mountain Boomer was standing there with the little kid in its mouth. The poor boy was already almost chewed in half. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them, Boomers, was hiding in the scrub brush and got her, too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had gotten them because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” My other cousins and I were almost pissing our pants.
When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe any of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my uncles swore the legend and the story were true. I still dream of them.
I’m a 50s kid. That means I was born in 1949 at Saint Josephs Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas, and grew up in the lean and mean Eisenhower years. My hometown was different back then, as most of our hometowns are today. But, change is inevitable, and it happens at the oddest times; while we sleep or mow our lawn. Progress is sneaky.
First, it’s a few new buildings downtown, then a slick freeway cutting through quiet neighborhoods, and maybe a landmark building demolished to make way for a new hospital. Then, out of nowhere, a train full of people from the West or the East is arriving, and the pilgrims try to make it “not so Texas.” It’s a gradual thing, and most of us are too occupied or young to notice until it bites us in the rear.
My grandfather was old-school Fort Worth from the late 1800s, a cow-puncher who rode the cattle drives and sang cowboy songs to the little doggies. He loved his city to a fault. The word “Dallas” was not to be spoken in his home or his presence. Violaters usually got punched or asked to leave. The old man was a tough Texan and a supporter of Amon Carter, the larger-than-life businessman that put Fort Worth on the map and started the rivalry between the two cities.
In the 1950s, if you asked Fort Worth residents what they thought of Dallas, they would most likely tell you it’s a high-on-the-hog East Coast wanna-be big-shot rich-bitch city. We didn’t sugarcoat it. That rivalry was always in your face and at times vicious. My father was a country musician, and when his band, The Light Crust Doughboys, had to play in Dallas, his extended family heaped misery upon him for weeks.
In October, Dallas has the “State Fair of Texas,” and Fort Worth has the “Fat Stock Show” in February. I didn’t attend the State Fair until I was ten years old, and even then, it was in disguise, after dark, to the fair and back home, hoping no one in our neighborhood noticed we had crossed enemy lines. Unfortunately, I let my secret visit slip around my buddies, and they banned me from playing Cowboys and Indians for a week. Even us kids were tough on each other.
Three things got us kids excited: Christmastime in downtown Fort Worth, Toyland at Leonard Brothers Department Store, and The Fat Stock Show. But, unfortunately for us, the rest of the year was uneventful and boring. Summer was pickup baseball games, old cartoons on television, and blowing up the neighborhood with cherry bombs, our pyrotechnics of choice.
60 years ago, the winters in Texas were colder and more miserable. February was the month we froze our little gimlet butts off, and of course, that is the Stock Show month. Wrapped up in our Roy Rogers flannel pajamas under our jeans, boots, and cowboy hats, we kids made the best of it as we visited the midway, the cattle barns, and animal competitions. The rodeo was for the real cowboys, and it was too expensive; the free ticket from our grade school only went so far. We were kids and had not a penny to our name. It wasn’t the flashy affair that Dallas put on, but it was ours, and we loved it. I still have a round metal pin I got at the Stock Show, a lovely picture of Aunt Jemimah promoting her flour, something that would get me canceled, or worse, in today’s clown world. I’ve often thought of wearing it to my local H.E.B. grocery store to see the reaction. Maybe not.
For those of us who were born and grew up there, Fort Worth, Texas, is where the west begins, and Dallas is where the East peters out. Nothing has changed.
This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Atticus Finch from Greenbow, Alabama. Seems his wife, Maudie, has discovered Dubai Chocolates and has gone off the deep end.
Mr. Finch: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the back pages of Flower of the Month Magazine at the hardware store that Miss Mayella runs. My wife of forty years, Maudie, went to The Walmart, bought some of these new Dubai Chocolates, fell in love with them, and now that’s all she eats. She’s bought about fifty boxes of them, and won’t eat anything that Calpurnia, our cook, made, so she quit. Now I’m down to eating supper from Chicken Express. Not only is she gaining a bunch of weight, but the doctor also said she now has type 3 Diabetes, a fatty liver, and a big brain worm. But that’s not the worst of it. Since these candies come from Dubai, one of them Arab countries, she now thinks she’s a Muslim. She loves her Walmart, so she buys a Pioneer Woman bathrobe, dyes it black, then some Martha Stewart scarves, wraps them around her head, pokes holes in them for eyes, and goes around town dressed like a Muslim woman. We were driving to church down Maycomb Blvd the other day, which is the busiest street in town, and she jumped out of the truck at the stoplight, threw her new Pioneer Woman bath mat onto the street, knelt down, and started chanting all this gibberish while eating a box of those Dubai candies. I’m afraid she might do something rash and become a terrorist woman. Our two grown children, Jean Louise and Jem, won’t bring the grandkids over anymore, and our two neighbors, Dill and Boo, won’t come out of their house because they’re scared of her. Needing some help here in Alabama.
The Texan: Well, Mr. Finch, you’re in a “dill pickle” of a mess there in Maycomb. I’ve heard those chocolates are causing some scary behavior among folks. I called a psychoanalyst friend of mine, Dr. Harper Gump, and she says that these new candies contain a concentration of a special nut oil that’s engineered to make folks want to be Muslims. I think it might be a plot by Al Qaeda to take over the country, one candy-loving woman at a time. My late father’s late, late uncle Orem, back in the prohibition days, drank a whole case of moonshine, and it affected him so bad that it turned him into a Baptist. So I guess sustenance and libations can affect folks adversely, turning them into something else. I would find a Priest to perform an exorcism and get that pesky brain worm demon out of her, and get rid of those candies. Buy her some of those Lady Godiva Chocolates. I’m sending ya’ll a CD of my favorite movie, “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and a box of cherry bombs so you can blow those Dubai candies up. Keep in touch.
The hype season is upon us. Thanksgiving is in the rear view mirror, and everything is Christmas, and it started in October. Walmart skipped Thanksgiving and Halloween and went from summer to Christmas. Which is fine by me. I only visit that store when forced, and I was forced against my will a few days before Thanksgiving to accompany my wife for prescriptions and a few last-minute grocery items for the Turkey dinner with the family on Tuesday instead of Thursday, which we spent eating lunch with her brother, who is living in a rehab center in Dallas.
Every person in Granbury seemed to be there, thinking they were saving money, which is the big trick that the Waltons pull on the public. They mark some things way-way-bottom down low, and then raise the price on others, tricking the poor shopper into believing they are getting a great deal and saving their hard-earned money, or EBT money, which is really mine and your taxes financing all those overflowing baskets of junk food, hair extensions, and fancy dragon-lady fingernails.
I did notice more young women in full bedtime attire this year: jammy-bottoms and tops, along with fuzzy house slippers; some of them should have at least combed their hair and brushed their teeth. One girl had a long string of toilet paper dragging behind her PJs. What is wrong with women these days? They think it’s fashionable to come to a public place in their sleepwear? They look like morons. One older lady was wearing a Pioneer Woman house robe, a shower cap, and hospital socks, the kind with the little rubber bottoms so you don’t slip and fall. She was pushing a basket full of Pork Rinds and Dr Pepper, which, here in rural Texas, are considered one of the survival food groups, along with coldbeer and baloney.
Thinking back, decades ago, in the mid-1950s, I would accompany my mother to the grocery store, Piggly Wiggly, which was her favorite haunt. I would see women with their hair in rollers, peddle pushers, KEDs, and nice blouses. There was always a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, which made them look a bit sleazy, but back then, everyone smoked and used hair rollers. My mother loved to smoke; she was a world champion and would have a burning one in her mouth and one in each hand, ready to replace the other. She had a lot of big hair, so there would be at least two dozen rollers of all sizes shaping her follicles into a work of art. It seemed that these women all knew each other. They would stop and say, “Look at yeeew, how’s your mama and them? Did you get a new dress, or is that hair color just darlin, makes you look ten years younger and as cute as a Christmas puppy?” This went on for hours, as the ice cream melted and the meat grew dangerous E. coli bacteria, and I lost a large part of my childhood that could never be reclaimed. At least they didn’t wear pajamas.
In the fall of 1958, the first Beatnik-style coffee house opened its doors in Fort Worth, Texas. Calling itself “The Cellar.”
Fort Worth did not welcome its presence or the inhabitants it attracted. Conservative city fathers asked, “Where did these people come from? Have they always been here?” It was a cowtown of shit-kicking cowboys, Cadillac-driving oil men, and country club debutants wearing Justin boots. My cousin Carmalita, who preferred the name Cookie, was a perfect fit for the coffee house and secured a job as a waitress at the new establishment.
Being seven- years younger than Cookie, the other cousins and I had limited interaction during her teenage years. Still, I know from the family stories and the “almost out of earshot whispers” that she was a real hellion of a girl. Her mother, a rosary-clutching Catholic, believed her daughter to be mentally disturbed and demon-possessed. She was neither, just a rebellious girl born twenty years too early who refused to fit into the conservative society of the 1950s.
Immersing herself in books by Kerouac and Ginsberg that glorified the new lifestyle of the “beat generation.” Cookie began dressing in the style of “the Beats.” She envisioned herself traveling west with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise as they motored their way to New Mexico in search of God and the meaning of life fueled by Marijuana sticks and two-dollar-a-bottle liquor. Jack Kerouac was her hero.
Waist-length black hair and a resemblance to a young Ava Gardner didn’t endear her to the Sandra Dee-loving girls’ club at school. She was labeled an outcast. She dropped out of Paschal High School at sixteen to live in sin with her next-to-worthless greaser-hoodlum boyfriend, a motorcycle-riding teenage hubcap-stealing thief from the north side of town. This decision resulted in her instant banishment from the family.
Polled by a phone-in family vote, she was christened the “little trollop.” Her name was not to be spoken at gatherings, and her mother requested all photographs containing images of Cookie be returned to her for proper disposal by fire in the backyard BBQ pit. Her father was brokenhearted by her rejection. Unable to watch her sweet sixteen birthday present, a Ford Fairlane convertible, sit abandoned in his driveway, he sold it. The rebellious type was not tolerated well in the 1950s, especially in Texas and our extended family.
“The Cellar” grew in popularity, and crowds of unwashed self-appointed poets and deep thinkers found their way to the dark, smokey den.
Cookie grew tired of the bland poetry readings from ancient books and tried her hand at writing. Her heart was full of self-induced resentment, and it didn’t take long for her to dish on everyone and everything she felt had “done her wrong.” Her parents were number one on her list. She asked the club owner to let her perform a personal poem about her life, and he agreed.
Saturday evening is reserved for the serious night-dwelling “hip beats.” They convene and hold literary court to anyone who will listen. Mixed groups gather around small tables, arguing about poetry, politics, religion and the meaning of life. Old Crow adds the extra kick to the strong coffee. An occasional strange cigarette might be passed around.
Sensing the time is right, Cookie takes the stage, cradling a cardboard box under her left arm and a large pair of sewing shears in her right hand. She sets the box on the floor next to a tall stool. Tears stream from her eyes, forming dark streams of watery mascara onto her peach-pale cheeks. A thin tinsel string of snot drips from her left nostril, resting on her upper lip, and glitters in the spotlight, bathing her face in an ethereal glow. She sniffs and gags a few times, composes herself, and begins her poem.
She retrieves her favorite childhood doll baby from the box and lays it on the stool top. She grabs a large meat cleaver from the box and beheads the poor toy. A gasp erupts from the crowd. Earlier, for maximum effect, she filled the doll’s plastic head with Heinz Ketchup and potted ham to simulate blood and brains. The ketchup-splattered patrons recoil in horror when the doll’s head is guillotined and bounces onto their table by the stage.
Next, she pulls a beautiful 8×10 glossy photo of her parents from the box and cuts it to shreds with the sewing shears. She pulls a Girl Scout uniform from the box and rips it to pieces, throwing the all-American remnants of the uniform into the audience.
Cookie leans into the microphone, takes a long drag from a Pall Mall, and in a low growl, says, ” I never liked dolls or toys, but you made me treat the little fakes like real people. I fed them imaginary food, bathed them in imaginary water, changed their tiny poopless diapers, and dressed them in stupid clothes, and for that, I hate you and cut my hair.” With that statement, she grabs a chunk of her beautiful lady Godiva’s length hair and removes a six-inch portion with the sewing shears.
She continues, ” I didn’t want to be a Bluebird, but no, I had to be like the other girls on our street, you know, I don’t like the color blue, and for that, I hate you, and I cut my hair.” Then, whack, another large section falls to the stage. ” you hate my boyfriend because he is a bad boy, and he is all that, but I love him and want to spend my life on the back of his ratty-ass motorcycle holding a nursing baby in each arm as we travel west to find the meaning of life.” She then whacks the left side of her hair to within inches of her scalp.
The audience is on the verge of bolting for the door, fearing her next move may sever an artery and expire in front of them. A voice from the back of the room yells, “This chick is crazy, man.”
Cookie ends her act and exits the stage, leaving a pile of black hair mixed with ketchup and photo paper. The crowd of poets and hip cats give her a lukewarm reception. This performance was too unhinged for the normally unshakable.
That performance at the Cellar that night was the debut of what would become known as “Performance Art.”
Cookie got her wish. Less than a year later, with a baby in her arms, she and her boyfriend made their way to California, and that’s another story.
Back in 2019, this Texan caught myself a case of cancer. It wasn’t contagious like the flu or a Norovirus, but it was a bad case. My first doctor wanted to do the standard treatment, but my wife, a dedicated nurse, did some digging and found a new treatment available only at UT Southwestern in Dallas. We live in Granbury, and I grew up in Fort Worth, so going to Dallas was painful; it’s something we Fort Worth’ians didn’t do back in the 1950s. Fort Worth is where the West begins, and Dallas is where the East peters out; it’s an actual historical fact. So, I had to swallow my family legacy of pride and prejudice and go to Dallas to save my life.
Round two of my cancer diagnosis commenced on May 13th, 2019 at 3:45 pm. Going to UT Southwestern Oncology for treatment was a no-brainer: it’s the best. Their staff radiates positive vibes, so naturally, I feel better. It is battling this evil little demon that has invaded my beloved earthly form with its sights set on the destruction of my body that keeps me focused. This course of action is my main goal and will receive my full attention for the near future.
Today is the ” oh so” specialized 3RDT MRI. I’m amused at the Star Wars comparison to R2D2. At least R2 would show me a hologram of Princess Lea for my entertainment. As with any procedure, it is inserting the word “specialized” into the mix that assures the method will be expensive and painful. I was right.
My bright eyed and bushy tailed MRI nurse accompanies me to my changing room, where I change into a scratchy blue hospital gown accented by yellow non-skid socks. After my wardrobe makeover, he inserts an IV pic into my arm and leaves.
A young woman, maybe twenty-one or so, also wearing the blue gown sits down next to me. She has two IV pics in one arm and appears scared. At this age, my shyness with strangers is minimal, so I ask her, ” first MRI?”.
Without looking over, she says, ” no sir, this is my sixth one, and there’s more to come. It’s Cancer.”
She looks at me and asks, ” how about you.” At this point, I feel like this young girl needs a laugh, even at my expense.
In a deadpan voice, I say, ” complications from the Racoon Flu. My entire body is pulsing with it. Never saw a garbage can I didn’t love. She knows this is total BS and laughs. I crack myself up.
Ten minutes later I lay on the MRI table, IV in place, earplugs inserted, headphones on, and the nurse/tech leans over and tells me “this might be a little uncomfortable.” He smiles and snickers as he says it. I ask, ” how big is this thing you are inserting into my earthly temple.” He laughs and says, ” not too big, just enough to get close to the subject and light you up with some good old Radiation.” I plead, ” let me see it, and I’ll be the judge of that. What kind of Radiation are we talking here?” Rather proudly he exclaims, ” this is the good old American stuff, came straight from Los Alamos Labs. The same material used to build “the nuke back in 1945. It’s so pure that Dr. Oppenhimer personally endorses it. Its the bomb.”
From behind his back, he produces a probe that looks like a 1/24th scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. Attached to the business end is an evil pigtail coil that is glowing green. This contraption is right out of the Spanish Inquisition playbook of torture, and it’s going inside of me? Fortunately, for my mental stability, the relaxation drugs I took an hour ago have kicked in, so I am defenseless to attempt escape. I accept fate and brace for the assault.
When the nurse, Mr. Smiley inserts the “little Hindenburg” into my backside, I was convinced I was either in the throes of childbirth or expelling an alien creature from my abdomen. I will never again doubt the painful stories of Alien abductees or women birthing children as “no big deal. ” I am squirming like a brain-hungry zombie, begging for mercy, offering money to end the agony, anything to stop the immobilizing pain. Then, in an instant, the suffering was gone, and I was human again. Listening to some awful hillbilly music, I drifted into La-La land.
I drift back into consciousness hearing George Jones sing ” He Stopped Loving Her Today,” possibly the saddest damn country song ever written. I choke back a tear, then realize where I am and why I’m here. Nurse Smiley congratulates me on a job well done, helps me to my feet and back to the dressing room.
Heading for the waiting room, I realize that scenarios like this will be my life for months to come. I think of a song from The Grateful Dead: I will get by, I will survive. Catchy little tune. Everyone needs a theme song.
Downhome And Humble Advice For Folks That Live So Far Out Yonder They Don’t Know Nothing About The World Except What They Hear At The Feed Store and The Septic Tank man
The Texan
This Texan received a letter pleading for help from Mr. Pico de’ Gallo of Bandera, Texas. Seems he is considering entering the world-famous Terlingua Chili Cookoff for the first time and is being forced to use his wife’s old family recipe, and has concerns.
Mr. Pico de’ Gallo: Mr. Texan, I’m entering the famous Terlingua Chili cook-off, and my wife, Conchita Bonita Maria, wants me to use her old Mexican family recipe. Her family is from San Antonio, and her great-great-great-grandmother was the cook for the defenders of the Alamo. Her name was Chile Conchita Madera, and history credits her for making the first batch of Chili, so the dish was named after her. She was also Davy Crockett’s girlfriend, and he and Jim Bowie got into a ruckus over her, and Davy shot off Jim Bowie’s pinkie toe with his famous rifle, Old Betsy. She and Davy were tight, but then he didn’t make it, and she left with the other women after Santa Anna won the battle. Santa Anna wanted to hire her as his personal cook, but she wouldn’t have any of it. My problem is my wife wants me to go out and get the fresh meat, the same stuff her great-great-great-grandmother used. Now I’ve got to go kill a bunch of Opossums, a few Skunks, some Rats, three or four Rattlesnakes, and a cow that got blown up by a cannonball during the fight. I’m not a hunter and don’t even own a rifle, only a .44 Magnum pistol, and I’m pretty sure if I shoot those critters with that Dirty Harry gun, it’s gonna blow them up to a pulp and won’t be of any use. And, to top it off, she also wants me to go to Marfa, Texas, and search the Chihuahuan Desert for the rare Chihuahuan Death Pepper, which grows near the mountains at the base of Cacti, and is really hard to find. I’m in a pickle here. Why can’t I just get some Wolf Brand canned chili and add some stuff to it? Help a brother out here.
The Texan: Well, Mr. de’ Gallo, I happen to be somewhat of an expert on Chili. My two son-in-laws have won the Terlingua Chili Cookoff twice in the last five years, so by osmosis and relations, they turned me into a Chili expert. I can tell right now, you don’t need to shoot all those road kill critters and blow them up, just go to HEB and get some pork, steak, ground beef, and other meats, and tell her you shot the critters. She won’t know the difference. I’ll email you my special recipe for my award-winning Chili. I use my special hot sauce, called Davy Crockett’s Colon Cannon, because it’s made with the Vietnamese Death pepper brought back to Texas from Vietnam in 1969 by my buddy, Tex Stiles, the famous BBQ Chef. He was fighting the Cong over there, and an old Mama San turned him onto the pepper. It’s the hottest one in the world, and one pepper could kill two or three folks, so you’ve got to use only one or two drops in your batch. I’ll send you some Cherry Bombs and a CD of John Wayne’s famous movie, ” The Alamo.” Your wife’s granny might be in there somewhere.
Contemplative And Often Serious Advice For Non-Texans
The Texan
This Texan recieved a letter from a Mr. George Baily of Bedford Falls New York. It seems his oldest son, Tommy has become a Performitive Male.
Mr. Baily: Mr. Texan, I read your advice column in my uncle Billy’s copy of the Police Gazette, so you, being a wise old fellow, might be able to help me out.
My oldest son, Tommy, has been away at college in New York City. Mary and I haven’t seen him in about 6 months, or so. He came home a few days ago, and we almost lost our breakfast right there in the foyer when he walked in the door. He was dressed in checkered pajama pants, a see-through black tee-shirt, and a pink fuzzy sweater. He was carrying a tote bag from Macy’s, had a Nikon camera hanging from his neck, and was wearing some pink Phyllis Diller-looking glasses. And to make it even worse, he also had one of those man buns on his head. His younger sister Zuzu took one look at him and called him a little sissy-man.
Mary spent three hours in the kitchen making him his favorite supper of Pork Tenderloin, mashed potatoes, and steamed Broccoli-Tomato medley. When he came downstairs to eat, he threw a fit and said he no longer eats meat or nightshade vegetables because his sensitive digestive system makes him moody and melancholy if he eats the wrong food. He only eats Kale salad, Tibetan rice cakes, and drinks a Mocha Latte from Starbucks. Just looking at the supper made him whimper and cry. He told us he has embraced his sensitive feminine side, doing away with his male toxicity. He is now what is known as a Performative Male.
Zuzu, our stout, no-nonsense daughter, lost it and punched him out with a haymaker to the face, right there in the dining room. She then threw a handful of rose petals on him as he lay there on the rug with a dislocated jaw and bleeding from his nose. Mary is so upset, she pleaded with me to call my Angel buddy Clarence to see if he could talk some sense into our little Performative sissy man. Got any suggestions on how we can handle this predicament?
The Texan: Boy howdy, George, I can see that your life ain’t so wonderful right now. We don’t have many of those feminine men here in Fort Worth, Texas, they all stay in Dallas and Austin. Down here, men are real men. We wear manly footwear, Stetson hats, and Wrangler jeans from Cavender’s. If your son took a stroll in the Stock Yard district, he wouldn’t last five minutes before some cowboy put a large can of whoop-ass on him. Your daughter Zuzu sounds like a keeper. Let her handle her brother; a few more butt-whippings might do him good. There’s something about getting your butt kicked by a girl that gets the old male hormones going. I’m sending him a CD of George Strait’s greatest hits, a pair of Justin cowboy boots, some Wrangler jeans, and a box of Cherry Bombs so Zuzu can blow up all his girly stuff. Tell Clarence howdy for me, and stay away from bridges.
Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”
the Manley Family: Front from left, Jasper, Marcy, Lavelle. Standing, from left, Mozelle, Jay, and Catharine
Leaving home to forge a new life can be an exhilarating journey or a regretful mistake, depending on the circumstances of the departure. My mother, Mozelle, saw it as a journey that must be made; there would be no regret or sadness. The days of laboring in the fields and chopping cotton were behind her now. She would never again grip the wooden handle of a hoe.
Her mother’s parting tears left a permanent stain on the shoulder of her best dress. Her father’s apathy and refusal to hold her pierced her heart.
The bus ride to Fort Worth stretched into the night, giving her time to reflect and to shed her tears in the dark.
Sharing an apartment with her sister, Lavelle, she found work at Consolidated Aircraft Corporation, where she built B-24 bombers as part of the war effort. She was now the girl on the famous poster, with her sleeve rolled up and a polka dot headscarf. Her life was all work with little time for a social life.
In a letter from home, her father demanded that she and her sister send him a percentage of their paychecks, as their departure from the farm had forced him to hire labor and change crops that yielded less money. They complied, albeit unwillingly, for the sake of their mother. They learned that the Preacher and his family had come one last time, and with no cotton to pick, returned to San Angelo, where he passed a few months later. His sons carried on the church. She never forgot Preacher and his mainline to Jesus.
Her brother, Jay, wrote frequently to his sisters from his ship in the Pacific theater. He was a gunner on a destroyer and participated in the invasion of Iwo Jima. He was one of my two uncles who were the best liars and spinners of yarns and tall tales, and he passed that treasure on to me.
The front porch of the family farm house was his stage, and I would sit for hours absorbing his tales, some true, some as tall as the oak tree growing in the front yard. Give the man a few Pearl Beers and he could orate as well as Will Rogers. I felt he missed his calling to be a writer or a stage personality. In later years, the stories had darker undertones, and he became a world-class alcoholic who, after two stays in a state hospital, beat the demon and lived a sober life until his passing in a car accident in 1968, a head-on collision caused by, of all things, a drunk driver. She believed the war affected him deeply and led to his drinking problem. Today, we call it PTSD. My mother loved him dearly, and she was the force that convinced and aided him to seek help. His death affected her deeply, and I believe she grieved him for the rest of her life.
As a young girl, my mother wrote poetry and was quite good; she won an award in grade school. Her handwriting was exquisite. She and a fountain pen became one, and a sheet of lined school paper became her canvas.
Reading the great poets of her time and writing her own poems was her idea of a proper education, and she dreamed of one day publishing her own book. There were hundreds of pages of poems, squirreled away in a drawer, for someday. The poems were lost, and so was the day with them.
After the war ended, she and her sister worked on drawing maps. There was more time for a social life, and the two enjoyed dancing, so that led them to nightclubs at Crystal Springs on Lake Worth, Belknap Street, and Jacksboro Highway. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a husband, but was swept off her feet by a good-looking, dynamic young fiddle player in one of the bands. The attraction was immediate and intense, and both of their backs were chock-full of Cupid’s arrows. That nice young man, a native of Fort Worth, a veteran, and recently relocated from Hawaii, would become my father.
On a rainy morning not long ago, while searching for Christmas decorations, I stumbled across a box of family photographs. When I opened the lid, the room filled with that distinct smell of “old memories.” Black and white images of family members long deceased, smiling into the Brownie camera, knowing that they would never be a minute older than that particular moment.
One particular, faded picture, made me smile. My late Uncle Ray leaned against the trunk of his 1957 Cadillac, dressed in his best Sunday suit, holding a shotgun, and a can of Pearl beer. I’m not sure how those odd ingredients came together for that picture, but it was nice to see his face again. He smiled a lot-and drank more Pearl than anyone I have known.
As I studied the photo, remembering Uncle Ray and the joy his car gave to him, a small object sitting on the rear deck caught my eye. It was barely visible and obscured by the sun’s reflection on the glass, so I placed my magnifying glass over the picture, and it popped into clarity. There it was, Uncle Ray’s long lost Bobble Head Dog – Mr. Pooch.
Ray loved that plastic mongrel as much as that Detroit battleship of a car, a fact that his eight ex-wives grudgingly affirmed.
As family stories are told, I recall the night a wandering opportunist, broke into his Cadillac and stole his precious Mr. Pooch; leaving a loaded shotgun and a cooler of Pearl beer in favor of the faded plastic ornament. Uncle Ray, beyond consolation, moped for days, sitting at his dining room window, stalwart, praying that the thief would find remorse and return Mr. Pooch. His hope diminished by the hour, and that happy reunion never materialized, Uncle Ray, saddened to his last bone, mourned his Mr. Pooch until his end day.
That evening, I made a trip to the pharmacy to collect a prescription. My errand accomplished, I turned for home, and while stopped at a traffic signal, found myself staring at the rear end of a well preserved 1957 Cadillac. I marveled at the rocket tail-fins aerodynamic design, the beefy rear bumper, dual tailpipes, and the glaring chrome appointments. An excellent machine representing the best efforts of an era past. Seeing that old car reminded me of Uncle Rays cherished Caddie and the lost bobble head dog, Mr. Pooch.
As I followed the Caddie in the slow traffic, I glimpsed something odd, sitting in the car’s rear window. Pulling closer, I identified the object like a small brown dog, happily shaking its head, perched on the back deck. The driver, worried that I was following too close, tapped the breaks to warn me off, and, with that warning, the dog’s eyes “flashed” like red lasers. Startled, I slowed and gave the Caddie a wider berth.
After a few blocks, my curiosity won over safety, and again, I closed the gap between our vehicles. Mesmerized by the dogs blinking eyes, I failed to notice the old Caddie had stopped, and I rear-ended the beautiful machine.
At 20 mph, you can’t do much damage to an old tank like that, but my “thin-skinned” foreign auto was in poor shape.
Gazing through the cloud of steam that spewed forth from my radiator, I saw the door to the Cadillac swing open and a “white-haired gal” way shy of five feet, exited the car.
“Dressed to the nines” in designer duds, all the way down to the required white Rockport’s, she was the perfect poster girl for “Sun City.” My golfing buddies had warned me about these old gals. “Little Pit Bulls with lipstick,” as they were known, and they all had at least one offspring that was an attorney. I concluded I might be in big trouble.
Exiting my ailing vehicle, hat, and insurance firmly in hand, I attempted a half-baked explanation for the accident. The dog with the piercing red eyes, the memory of my Uncle Ray, and his long lost Bobble Head Dog- Mr. Pooch, my poor driving skills. The more I rattled on, the more it sounded like “mental ward gibberish,” so I ceased the blabber and politely inquired if she and her little dog were alright? She said she was excellent, and the dog, absolutely “felt no pain.” All was well and good. Minor damage, no harm done. I noticed the collision had un-seated her little dog, and he was feet up on the rear deck. “I really think your little dog may be hurt, he’s not moving,” I said.
She chuckled, and explained that: her old dog, “Giblet,” had been dead for 20 years or more, and that her late husband Murray, who had been an electrical engineer with an “off-kilter” sense of humor, missed the little guy so much, he had the mutt stuffed. Then as a nod to his own electrical wizardry, he installed red lights in the dogs’ eyes that light up when you mash on the car breaks. I suppose my Murray turned my little Giblet into a real-life bobblehead dog.”
Her story was so outrageous, I couldn’t control my laughter, and neither could she. Crazy people laugh the loudest.
Relieved that she was uninjured, I accompanied her back to her car to exchange insurance information. Finishing the exchange, she opened the car door, and there, in the passenger seat, illuminated by the dome light, sat and an older gentleman. Startled, I asked, if her passenger was okay, did “he” need to see a doctor? She shushed me off with a wave of her hand, and she exclaimed that he, “didn’t feel a thing.” Now, having just heard that morbid explanation regarding old Giblet, I asked,” why didn’t he feel a thing?”
With a twinkle in her eyes and a saucy wink, she replied, “oh, that’s just Murray, he and Giblet go everywhere with me.”
On that parting note, the little gal gunned the Caddie, pulled into traffic, and faded away, while I stood staring at the departing Bobblehead dogs red eyes blinking back at me.
Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired
This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.
Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.
The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.
The heart monitor returned to the Cardiologist, leaving me with a week to ponder the worst. Momo, my wife, the former Cath-lab heart nurse, was as worried as I was. She said that if the doctor had found anything unusual on the monitor, he would have called with the bad news. That somewhat calmed me down. Janice Joplin was waiting in the wings.
Dr. Squatch, my Cardiologist, is somewhat of a comedian and should be on stage in his spare time. He enters the room like Kramer on the Seinfeld show, bursting through the door in a whirl of energy. Momo and I had been sitting and waiting for an hour and were half asleep.
“Here’s the good news,” he says. ” You have about forty percent blockage, and for a guy your age, that’s not too bad, but plaque will be plaque, and a piece could break away and travel a bit and give you a massive heart attack or a dandy of a stroke. The bad news is that with your family history of heart problems, you are a good candidate for La La Land. Enjoy your bourbon while you can.” I certainly will. It looks like old, ghostly Janice Joplin will have to wait a bit longer.
A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I know that Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote would likely not agree with her observation.
Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.
I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?
My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.
My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.
My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.
At 76 years old, I consider myself a writer; with over 200 short stories and interviews to my name, they attest to my efforts.
I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.
Fred Rogers had it right. He wanted to be friends with everyone, if even for an hour a day. He kept his personal opinions to himself and focused on the positive. Fred would have made a terrible politician. He was the kind father that every kid wanted and every adult wished for. Mr. Rogers would have walked on broken glass before intentionally hurting anyone’s feelings. Not so much with the rest of us knuckle-dragging neanderthals.
If you read my blog, you know that I like to poke fun at both political parties. I am an equal opportunity abuser; no one is over-looked. My dislike for each camp is about even, so it’s easy to throw each under my bus and back over them a few times. Nothing is more satisfying than imagining the screams of a crooked-scum sucking-lying-thieving politician as they are squished into asphalt pancakes.
Maybe two days ago, I discovered that I may have lost a few friendships over my past satirical post. Was it something I said? Probably not, but more like something I wrote. These posts were not offensive, at least not to me, but meant to be informative and jovial; light-hearted little digs covered in glitter and dancing unicorns. I didn’t know these friends were liberal in their thinking. Politics are rarely mentioned when we are together, but it’s possible that after a few bourbons, my inside voice became my outside voice, and a wayward word or two slipped out, and there you have it; friendship canceled—no return calls or text, no email addressing the possible offending reference, only non-confrontational silence.
I feel bad about these misunderstandings, but not too bad. Friendships can be strong and unwavering, and I have a few of those, or they can be as casual as a tank top and flip-flops, and I have some of those too.
When I turned ten years of age, my late father shared a pearl of wisdom with me. Speaking from experience, he said,” there are two things you should never discuss with family or friends; religion and politics.” A wise man he was. Having forgotten his advice over the years, I have paid the price many times over; and it appears I continue to do so.
I promised Momo, my wife, that I would dial back my post on politics. So far, I have done well and only posted a few little blurbs in the last few years. I can let most things go, and go water my plants, or play my guitar, but this is one I can’t walk away from, so here goes.
As a proud American and Texan, I am one opinionated S.O.B., and I have lost all of my social filters as I have aged. My wife and I believe that the fall of New York City will affect everyone in this country, not just the residents of the city and the state of New York.
I live in small-town America: Granbury, Texas, a Christian town full of gun-toting, Bible-carrying, Jesus-loving, patriotic Texas folks. We may have a few socialists and Muslims here, but they keep themselves under wraps and don’t cause trouble.
If the young, liberal, elitist citizens of New York are ignorant enough to vote in a communist Muslim that will attempt to turn the most influential city and the hub of financial America into a third-world terrorist Disneyland, then they shall get what they deserve, and the good citizens of New York will either have to suffer through it or revolt against it. Do you think the Mafia boys are going to let this moronic little boy ruin their city and their business, no matter how illegal it may be? Do you think the good Christian’s and the Jewish community will stand by as he attempts to turn their city, their home, into a Muslim controlled city and come after them because of their religious beliefs? I doubt it.
Britain, France, Spain, Germany, Ireland, Scotland, and a few other EU countries are ruined. Their cultures are on the verge of elimination because of unchecked immigration, handouts, and crimes committed by illegals and from third-world countries that refuse to assimilate. Exactly what the US has been doing for decades. Muslims have taken over Europe, and if Zohran Mamdani is elected mayor of New York, this will be the start of the takeover of every large city in the United States, starting in the northeast and working its way west. The Democrats, along with Soros and a few more, will back the invasion and takeover. We have the young, university-educated, white boys and girls who will vote him in because they have been brainwashed to believe our country is racist, and capitalism doesn’t work. They all expect, after receiving their degree in Taylor Swift Music Theory or Middle Eastern History, a high-paying job, a Rolex, a rent-controlled million-dollar apartment, and a new BMW parked in their parking garage. Pipe dreams and speeches sprinkled in Fairy Dust never come true, and that smoke that has been blown up their rears will dissipate the moment Mamdani is sworn in with his hand on the Koran.
Somewhat Intellectual Advice For Folks That Don’t Have An Intellect Or Can’t Spell The Word…
I received a letter written on the back of a missing cat poster. I called the number, and the owner confirmed that the cat had come home, which is a good thing. The man who wrote the letter on the absconded poster, A Mr. Thurston Howell, claims his wife has lost her mind and is attempting a home remedy facelift.
Mr. Howell: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Wall Street Journal and thought you might be able to offer some sound advice. I ran out of printing paper, so I used a missing cat poster that I found stapled to my mailbox to print this letter. I hope you don’t mind. Besides, the lady put the posters everywhere in our upscale neighborhood, which is against our HOA rules here in Beverly Hills. It seems her cat goes missing at least once a month, and Elly Mae Clampett, the sweet girl down the street, searches and finds the missing furball. The crazy cat lady has around fifty cats, so missing one would be no big deal. I found three of them eating a mouse on the Cordovan leather backseat of my Bentley last week and had to trade the car in for a new one. Anyway, that’s not the issue I’m addressing.
My wife, Lovey, has been begging for a face lift. She says all the women at the country club are getting them. I told her no way because, since our banker, Mr. Drysdale, made some bad investments with our money, we are on a strict budget. She’s a big fan of that TikTok thing on her phone. She saw that an influencer in Hawaii has invented a do-it-yourself at-home facelift using Gorilla Duct Tape. I’m familiar with the benefits of duct tape. When Lovey and I were stuck on a deserted island a few decades ago when a tour boat we were on hit a reef and marooned us with a group of idiots, one of the smart guys used a roll of duct tape and some Palm Tree bark to fix the hole in the boat, and we were able to get back to Waikiki a few years later, just in time to see Elvis on the beach filming a movie.
The Texan: Well, Mr. Howell, forgive me for being forward, but you can probably afford a good plastic surgeon for Lovey if you live in Beverly Hills, belong to the country club and drive Bentley cars. It sounds like you’re being a bit stingy. TikTok has messed up a lot of folks. My daughter-in-law followed an influencer’s advice and used Super Glue to style her hair, only to wind up in the ER, where the surgeon, with the help of a beautician, had to remove all her”Rapunzel-esque” mane. As a result, she is now as bald as Kojak. So, if your wife is stupid enough to do what some moron on TikTok advises, she may well need to see an expensive Beverly Hills shrink. I would first take away her smartphone and have Rosie, your robot maid, destroy it. Then, I would have Rosie hold Lovey down and rip off the duct tape. Tell Ginger to lie like a garage sale rug and tell your wife she is as pretty as that other girl, Mary Ann. Call Elly Mae Clampett to come down and style Lovie’s hair and loan her a tight pair of American Eagle jeans to accentuate her figure and make her look like Sydney Sweeney. If that doesn’t do the trick, it’s likely that Granny Clampett, Elly’s grandmother, will have some sort of possum belly-based cream to fix the damage from the duct tape. I’m sending Lovey a CD of a great TV series to watch while she recovers. “Petticoat Junction,” I’m also enclosing a box of cherry bombs so you can blow up the cats before they ruin the leather seats in your newest Bentley. Let me know how this all turns out.
Breaking Real Hot News From; The Dead South News Service. Photo’s courtesy of author James Dickie.
Maya Sharona, reporter for the Dead South News Service and NPR is in Northeastern Georgia with a breaking story that is sure to get everyone’s attention.
Uncle Gus’s Riverside Rafting and Fish Camp located on the Chattooga River has been in operation since 1962 and is well known as the location where the actors and film crew stayed, and filmed the 1972 movie “Deliverance”.
Uncle Gus has long since departed the camp but his memory and influence are kept alive by his constant presence. When Uncle Gus passed back in 1982, his only daughter, Sparkle, had his body stuffed by the local taxidermist, and today, he sits in his favorite easy chair near the potbelly stove at the back of the camp store. For a few dollars, visitors can pose for a picture with old Gus and his two blue-tick hounds that are also stuffed and obediently sitting at his feet. Framed pictures of Uncle Gus and Sparkle with the cast of “Deliverance” decorate every wall in the store. A life-size cardboard Burt Reynolds stands behind the counter next to the cigarette display.
‘Miss Sparkle,’ as she is known around these parts, is a feisty red-headed single lady in her sixties. She contacted me on the Facebook saying she had a story that would beat all.
Miss Sparkle tells a whopper of a story so I will share it with you in her own words.
She tells it like this; “back in 1984, a bunch of rich bigshots from Washington DC came down to ride the Chattooga like in that famous movie that was filmed here. They were nice men and treated me with respect, even though I was just a river rat. Daddy hadn’t been gone long and I was real sad, so it was nice to have some company at the camp. One night the bunch of us were sitting around the campfire drinking daddy’s famous “shine” and this one fellow they called Joe B started sniffin’ my hair. I didn’t mind cause I had just washed it with lye soap and it smelled pretty good. He was a nice man, in a creepy sort of way. Too much “shine” always gets you in trouble, and I’ve had plenty of it since then. Well, about a year later the stork shows up with this bundle of joy. I call him Joe Bee. He ain’t no kid no more and doesn’t want to do anything but sit in that swing all day long playing the same song on that damn banjo. I’ll tell ya, it’s driving us all to drink more than we normally do, and that’s a bunch. We tried hiding it, but he always finds the darn thing. Little Joe Bee just wants to know who his daddy is. My two other boys, the twins, Smokey and Bandit, their daddy never comes to see them neither, but he gave them each a black Pontiac Trans Am for their sixteenth birthday. At least Joe Bee’s daddy could send him a monster truck or something.”
I wrote this in 2019, but thought it appropriate to bring it out again for Halloween.
I’m sad to say, that my wife did not believe me when I announced this would be my last “trick-or-treat” before my coming demise. There are three things left on my bucket list, and this will reduce it by one.
Walking out of the front door in my black jacket, black shirt, black jeans and Texas Rangers baseball cap, the look on her face says that she didn’t believe I would really do it. I reminded her to “hide and watch” as I departed down the sidewalk carrying my Trader Joes paper bag.
A few blocks down, I joined a group of children in search of sweets. It was cold, so most had on heavy jackets that hid their fancy costumes. The kids assumed I was someone’s grandfather and welcomed my presence as a chaperone and comrade. A few of the mothers gave me the stink eye, but being a kindly older fellow went a long way in easing their fears.
A few dozen houses behind us, the group was thinning down to a dedicated few. The hour was late and the school bell rings early, so the younger ones retreated for home to sort their spoils. I noticed that my bag was getting heavy, so I told the group I would do one last stop, then split for home.
Our last stop was a retirement apartment complex. One kid said ” it’s the best because old people miss their grandchildren and really pile on the goodies.” I can identify with that, and I would do the same if I was wielding the candy bowl.
As predicted, the octogenarians loaded our bags to the bursting point. They didn’t mess around with the bite size candy bars, everyone received full size bars, like the ones you see in grocery stores. My bag, one handle ripped, was maxed out.
Unable to carry my booty, I summoned my wife to drive me home. She was excited over the amount of candy I collected because she loves chocolate as much as any six-year-old, and I had enough to last for months.
At home, we turned on “The Bride of Frankenstein” and dumped my bag of goodies onto the den rug. We were, for a moment, children again. A treasure trove of candy lay piled before us. It was the largest haul of my life. I gave my spouse a smug “told you so” smile, as she clapped with glee and sorted out the best chocolate bars for her consumption. It was then things took a weird turn.
From the pile of sweet treasure I pulled a plastic bag of No. 2 Male Catheters. I’m thinking someone at that retirement home must be missing these by now. Digging further, I exhumed a new tube of hemorrhoid cream, two tubes of denture paste, a bottle of stool softener, handwipes, a pair of reading glasses, an adult diaper rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon and three 50% off coupons from Luby’s Cafeteria. I was mortified. My wife laughed so hard she barely made it to the bathroom. Well, at least I gave it a shot.
Advice For Non-Texas Folks That Need It, Whether They Know It Or Not
The Texan
I received an email from Mrs. Lillian Munster of Winston, Massachusetts. It seems her husband is determined to have one last Halloween, and she is fearing the worst.
Mrs. Munster: Mr. Texan, I read about your advice in a magazine I got at the Goodwill Store last week. My husband, Boris, is 92 years old and recently had an episode from being electrocuted while working in his shop ( he calls it his lab ). Still, it’s really just a shop in our garage, which is full of crazy stuff he has been building for decades: lots of glass tubes, electronic machines, tables with straps, and things like that. He was installing a large Ham Radio tower and lightning struck it, knocking him out from the jolt. Our oldest son, Eddie, just happened to drop by and found him on the garage floor mumbling nonsense. The doctor at the ER said the lightning jolt and the fall likely affected his brain. Now he is insisting that he go trick-or-treating because he thinks this will be his last Halloween, and it may well be. The jolt and the fall gave him a cut on his forehead, but Eddie used a staple gun to close the injury, and it did disfigure his face a bit, giving him a limp, and he now drags one leg behind him, and it’s hard for him to walk because he is 7 feet 6 inches tall. It also affected his speech, and he now only talks gibberish and is afraid of fire. He wants to go trick-or-treating with the kids in the neighborhood, but I’m afraid for his safety. We have folk in our rural area that own guns, pitchforks and torches, and they might get the wrong idea when he mumbles for some candy. He does look a bit scary. Do you have any suggestions on how I can prevent him from going through with this? I’m sending you a recent photo of him so you’ll see what I’m talking about.
My husband, Boris, after his morning coffee
The Texan: Mrs. Munster, I can see why you are concerned. He looks pretty scary, and if I answered the door and he was standing there with his plastic pumpkin candy holder mumbling gibberish, I might well grab my 12-gauge or a garden pitchfork too. Try to persuade him to visit a haunted house, or at least attend a Halloween carnival at the local school or church; he would likely be a big hit with the kids there. My late uncle Zevon developed a facial condition, and long brown hair grew and covered his entire face, which made him resemble the Wolf Man from the old 1930s movies. He became increasingly self-conscious and stopped going out in public; instead, he began to make a living by writing hit songs. I’m sending you a CD of Halloween songs, which includes the Monster Mash, the tune my uncle wrote. I’m also sending your husband a box of Cherry Bombs to keep him occupied in his lab. Keep in touch.
I wrote this story in 2012 when Momo and I lived in Berry Creek, a golfing community in Georgetown Texas. I played golf with a large group of men that are mentioned, and this account, although written from an animals perspective, is true. Another Texas Tale, but not too tall of one.
Shorty J. Squirrel
On a sultry Texas afternoon, a group of men gather around a small, flag decorated concrete pedestal just a few paces from the 18th tee box.
They stand in a loose semi-circle, reverent, staring at a small metal figurine of a Squirrel.
From a box, one of the men produces a metal plaque and passes it around to the others for their approval. It makes the rounds, one by one, each man taking a moment to read the inscription, and nod his approval.
This will be their final tribute to one of God’s small creatures that had touched each of their lives.
In the woods of Berry Creek, life for the animals is good. The Deer are safe from hunters, the Ducks are well fed and sassy, and the wily Squirrels rule the forest. The occasional Bobcat and Coyote might pay a visit, but they don’t fancy the closeness of the humans, so they quickly move back to the wooded outskirts. The Skunks are courteous and know their place.
Most mornings, as dawn creeps over the tree tops, life on Lanny’s Pond is already in full swing.
The Ducks congregate to plan their day of begging, and who will get the prime mooching spots. The Mallards usually win the best locations based on their good looks and surly attitude. The other Ducks resort to the equivalent of standing by the cart path with a cardboard sign.
The Squirrels, not ones to socialize with the lowly Ducks, meet at the base of a gnarled oak tree behind the 13th tee box to discuss the previous days events.
Who’s still around, and who’s not? Who stole somthing from the giants little cars yesterday? It’s always a vibrant discussion, and the main topic usually involves their encounters with the “giants”. In Squirrel language, there is no word for humans, so they simply refer to humans as “giants”.
The Squirrels consider themselves the self-appointed royalty of Berry Creek, and take no lip or beak from the other critters. They view the Ducks as stupid and clueless, the Deer, beautiful but dangerous, and the Skunks a foul annoyance. The remaining animals are categorized as flagrant opportunist. But not the Squirrels. They always have a plan. They don’t beg, they just take what they need.
In Texas, legends are part of the culture. Every patch of woods in the state has at least one critter or human that falls into the legend category.
We have Ol’e Rip the Horned Toad, Bob the Bobcat, the Chupacabra, Big Foot, the Jack-a-lope, Pecos Pete, Davy Crockett, William Travis, Ol’e Blue, Ol’e Yeller and Pasquale the horned toad that started the battle of the Alamo. There’s no shortage of legends in Texas, and it’s folks like it that way.
But the woods of Berry Creek, there is but one uncontested legend, Shorty J. Squirrel.
The oppressive Texas heat is tough on all the critters, but Shorty knew how to keep cool. He would find a bare spot beneath a tree, stretch out on his belly, and let the damp earth cool him down.
On one of these cooling off sessions, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t hear the large black dog creeping up from behind.
Jolted awake by the sense of being flung violently through the air, Shorty realized something large and vicious had a firm grip on his tail and was swinging him around like a stuffed toy.
After several violent roundhouse swings, the dog lost its prize, when a large piece Shorty’s tail broke off in its teeth.
Escaping to a nearby tree, bloodied, and missing more than half of his familiar rear plumage, Shorty glared down at the slobbering mongrel standing there with a substantial piece of his former beautiful tail protruding from it’s muzzle.
“Stupid inbred animal” he barked.
Shorty knew he was lucky, and thankful to be alive. Many of his extended family had been whisked away by the dog killers.
Squirrels, because they all look-alike, are not prone to personal vanity, but they do have a bit of a rude streak and tend to take notice when one of their own looks a little different.
The few days after the dog incident, Shorty made his morning appearance at the meeting tree, and was greeted not with concern for his brush with death, but by laughter and ridicule focused on his damaged tail.
He explained the attack in animated and vivid detail, wanting the others to know how close he came to death at the jaws of the large dog killer, but the other Squirrels could only point at his damaged appendage and laugh all the louder.
Disgusted and dejected, Shorty made his way over to the sand bunker on the 17th green, sat down and had a good sulk.
While sulking in that sand bunker, Shorty noticed a group of the “little cars” stopped nearby, and being the breakfast hour, he hopped over to see if there were any hidden morsels worth taking. Creeping ever so quietly, he raised himself into the little car.
Smelling something fragrant and nutty, he climbed into the glove box, finding a nice piece of a half eaten granola bar.
Hidden in the glove box and munching away on his prize, Shorty didn’t notice the little car moving forward. It was too late, he was trapped in the little car.
Shorty, hunkered down in the glove box, frozen in fear, and no way to escape, could only stare up at the faces of the two giants riding in the little car.
When it stopped and the giants exited, Shorty escaped back to the safety of the sand bunker. He told himself that was a little risky, but well worth the meal, and he would likely try it again.
The next morning, the same group of little cars came again.
Shorty saw one of the giants throw a handful of nuts onto the ground next to the car.
When the giants were on the mound swinging their long sticks, Shorty stole a few of the nuts and scampered back to the sand bunker.
The giants smiled in amusement as they drove away.
A few days later, the little cars came again, and Shorty bounded over to see what was to be offered.
One of the kind giants sitting in the car, held a nut in his paw and offered it to Shorty. Cautiously, he approached the large paw and took the nut from its grasp. He devoured it, and the large paw produced another nut, then another, and another, until Shorty could hold no more.
After a rousing round of nuts, Shorty was uncomfortably full, and waddled back to the sand bunker. Not having to look for food that day, he relaxed in the sand. ‘This is the life” he told himself.
The other Squirrels, having watched this scenario for a good while, approached Shorty, begging to learn his technique of training the giants to give him food.
Shorty, being pretty full of himself at this point, and seeing an opportunity to raise his status in the clan, explained that only “he” was able to train the giants.
His newly deformed tail had bestowed upon him, special powers that allowed magical interaction between himself and the giants.
The other Squirrels, being somewhat ignorant, and naturally superstitious by nature, accepted his explanation without question.
As the days progressed, Shorty, intent on milking this to the end, and starting to believe his own story, would put on his daily show for the clan.
Shorty would approach the little cars, raise up on his hind legs, and staring intensely at the giants, would wave his small paws in a circle, bark a few commands, and the giants would extend a nut bearing paw. The Squirrel clan, watching from the trees would bark in wonderment and approval of their new guru.
The giants enjoyed the unusual antics of the little Squirrel, and noticing his shortened tail, appropriately named him “Shorty”. They thought he was the friendliest Squirrel they had ever encountered.
As the months progressed, Shorty warmed to the giants and would trustingly climb into the little car and take nuts from an ever-present bag. The giants would speak to him, using his new name and he would respond as best he could with a chatter and the flip of his small tail.
When the little cars would approach the 17th green, the friendliest giant would sometimes yell out Shorty’s name, and he would scamper over to receive his handout.
The other Squirrels in the clan, noticing how completely Shorty had trained the giants, unanimously elevated him to “deity status”.
Shorty’s name was now sacred in the woods of Berry Creek.
As Shorty’s legend grew in the woods, it equally grew in the community of giants.
Giants in their little cars would yell for Shorty and throw nuts on the ground as they drove by.
But Shorty was confused. These giants were not “his giants”, and some threw objects at him when he tried to retrieve the nuts. He was always happy to see “his giants”, and they were always happy to be in his company.
One afternoon, Shorty was retrieving a nut that had been thrown from a little car. Dashing across the cement path, he failed to see the little car as it sped toward him, and
Shorty was crushed beneath the wheels of the little car.
His last thought was of his circle of “giant friends”, and who would now train them?
Who would be their friend?
The driver of the little car, thinking it was just a lowly Squirrel, continued on his way. Not caring, not knowing that he had ended the life of a “small legend”.
The life of Shorty J. Squirrel.
One of the kindly friends of the giants found Shorty on the path, took his small broken body home and called Shorty’s “favorite giant” to inform him of his death.
The group of giants were grief-stricken at the passing of their small friend, and vowed to give Shorty a proper tribute to honor their friendship.
As the sun sinks low, one of the men places the small metal plaque on the monument and they silently walk away into the Texas afternoon.
Their tribute, now complete.
After Shorty died, the group of about 30 men, which grew to around a hundred, established a memorial golf tournament held every year in August. It was called The Shorty and was quite popular. I wrote the original story and painted the first poster for the event. As far as I know, it’s still going strong, from what I hear from my friends who live there. We take our critters seriously here in Texas.
Classic Advice For Folks That Have Never Been To Texas…
The Texan
This Texan received an email from a Mr. Charles “Chunk” Fromage, who lives in Velveeta, Wisconsin. He and his wife visited Waco recently for a wedding and are puzzled by why everyone in Waco drives a giant pickup truck.
Mr. Fromage: Mr. Texan, the folks around Velveeta call me “Chunk,” that’s my nickname because I am a taddy on the chunky side. I saw your article in the back of the Pioneer Woman Monthly Cook Book that my wife, Nora Pat, bought at Walmart while we were in Waco, Texas, to attend the wedding of her cousin’s ninth marriage. I didn’t want to go because I was forced to attend the other eight. The last two lasted a few weeks at best, so I can’t see wasting time and fancy money on this one either. These JetBlue airplane tickets are spendy, but that’s another story I’ll write you about later.
Back home, in Velveeta, I drive a “oh fer cute” perky little pickup truck—a 1995 Ford with Michlen snow tires and only 55K original miles, kept in a heated garage in the winter. She’s a real beaut, and all the boys down at the Moose Lodge have been trying to get their hands on her for years. So, when we were at Walmart in our Avis rent-a-car, picking up a wedding present for the wife’s cousin, we both said, “Holy Moley” — the entire parking lot was full of these ginormous pickups with tires the size of a Dairy Cow. So, I’m telling Nora Pat that a man would need a ladder to get in and out of these rigs. I was right. One fella parked in the handicap space was using a hydraulic hoist installed in the bed of his giant truck to lift his hefty wife into the passenger seat because the truck was at least ten feet off the asphalt. Geez Louise! What is going on down in Texas with your pickup trucks?
The Texan: Well, Mr. Chunk, everyone in the south knows that everything is bigger in Texas, that includes our pickup trucks, our tires, Stetson hats, houses, bass boats, and our wives’ hair. The fascination with big wheels on our pickup trucks started at the Alamo back in 1836. I know the inside skinny on this because I am a member of the Sons Of The Alamo Lodge, and we keep up on our history.
When the Mexicans were advancing on the Alamo mission in San Antonio, Colonel Travis instructed his men to roll their cannons up dirt ramps to improve their accuracy. It was muddy, and the small, solid wooden wheels became stuck, and so did the cannon. One clever Texan took the large wooden spoked wheels off of an old wagon and rigged it up on the cannon, and bingo, the problem was solved, plus the cannon looked pretty darn sharp all jacked up off the ground. After firing a few shots at the Mexicans hanging out on the riverbank singing and doing shots of Tequilia, the boys noticed the cannon jumped around a bit too much when fired, so the same Texan removed the bed springs from Jim Bowie’s sick bed, which really pissed him off, and rigged them up on the cannon frame, allowing the firearm to resist the recoil of the explosion. The custom cannon was so accurate that the Texans obliterated the Mexican army’s Food Wagons (early versions of the Food Trucks), which pissed off Santa Anna because the men didn’t have their breakfast tacos and refused to attack until they were adequately fed. Even though the Texans lost the battle, the Mexicans were impressed by the captured cannon and began building their own the same way. Within a few months, the Texans got their hands on the Mexican cannons when they whooped their butt at San Jacinto, and pretty soon, all the wagons and buggies in Texas had big wheels and springs, jacking them up in the air so they would clear the rocks and rough roads. As pickup trucks grew bigger, Texans took that same technology and started jacking up their trucks and adding large wheels and tires so they could drive around the deer lease without a problem. Then they added roll bars and bright lights, loud stereo speakers, campers, and a hoist so they could get that freshly shot Buck into the back of the truck bed. Now, most of the pickups here in Texas have big wheels and handy little step ladders that fold out so we can get into our trucks. So, all of the fancy pickups and big wheels started at the Alamo. Betcha didn’t know any of that. By the way, why do you folks wear those blocks of cheese hats to your football games? I’m sending you a CD copy of John Wayne’s movie The Alamo and a box of cherry bombs you can use to blast an ice-fishing hole in your frozen lake.
Down Home Advice To Folks That Watch Too Much TV And Can’t Keep Their Faces Out Of Their Cell Phones…
The Texan
This Texan received a letter from Mrs. Olsen of Folger, Minnesota. Her grandson is having religious issues and needs some advice before he makes a big mistake.
Mrs. Olsen: Mr. Texan, I saw your page in the back of our church magazine, The Protestant Presbyterian. I figured a wise old man like yourself could help me out, don ‘cha know.
I was over having a hearty breakfast with my son and his family a few days ago, explaining to my daughter-in-law how to make a good pot of coffee, when their twelve-year-old son, little Rudy, announced that he wanted to become Jewish instead of Presbyterian. Well, by golly, by gosh, this set us all back on our heels for a moment. He recently attended a classmate’s Bar Mitzva and saw all the gifts and cash his friend received, saying it was around twenty grand or so of cash and such, and he wants the same. He said Jewish kids have more fun than we Protestant ones. Well, I’m not so sure about that. I had plenty of yippy when I was a Hippie, attended Woodstock, and dated every boy in the neighborhood. A few days later, I see him and his little pals at the mall, and he’s wearing a yarmulke and a Star of David necklace, telling all his buddies he is now Jewish and will be announcing his Bar Mitzvah soon. Now I don’t know skiddy-do about religion, outside of our little church in town, but I believe there is more to it than that. How do we get this little nimrod to listen to us?
The Texan: Well, Mrs. Olsen, a good cup of coffee is hard to find nowadays. I prefer a percolator and have been in a Starbucks only once. I will agree with your grandson, Jewish kids tend to have a lot of fun, that’s if they live in Texas and not near Palestine. I don’t have a lot of experience with that religion, except that a good friend of mine, now deceased, was Kinky Friedman, the famous, talented founder and leader of the Texas band “Kinky Friedman And The Texas Jew Boys.” Great western swing music in the vein of Bob Wills. I contacted Kinky’s good friend, Little Jewford, who carries on the band these days, and he says for little Rudy,” If he wants to be happy for the rest of his life, he should make a Jewish girl his wife.” “Little Jewford is a lifelong Jewish fella, so he knows his Matzo balls and is a wise old fella. Little Rudy will have to marry a Jewish girl and convert to Judaism, but by then, he will be too old for a Bar Mitzva, so he’s SOL. Tell him to stick to being a good, boring Presby boy, go to church, listen to his Pastor, get his education, read some Garrison Keillor books, and move to Dallas or Houston to find a nice Jewish wife. I’m sending him a CD of Kinky’s Greatest Hits and a box of Cherry Bombs to add some excitement to his life. After all, like Kinky says in his biggest song, ” They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” and that’s a fact. Shalom and adios.
Words of Wisdom From A Wise-Assed Old Texan Taken At Your Own Risk
The Texan
A Mr. Rowdy Yates from Rawhide, Wyoming, writes that his wife is a fan of some young actress named Emma Stone and is convinced she has to emulate everything she does.
Mr. Yates: Mr. Texan, my wife Miss Dale was a champion barrel racer on the rodeo circuit up here in Wyoming for twenty years or so. She saw this young actress who looks a lot like her when she was a young’un in a movie called “The Help,” a story about a young southern girl who writes books about black maids and rich white plantation folks. Well, Miss Dale sort of looked like that young actress girl when she was younger, and she is in her fifties now. She has some identity issues, and I won’t fib, so do I. I’m losing my once Clint Eastwood-looking hair, and my teeth are falling out. I’m looking scary, but that’s another matter. Miss Dale still looks good in her Rocky Mountain jeans and Justin boots, and can still ride her old horse, Buttermilk. About a week ago, she read in a magazine that the Stone girls’ new movie is coming to town, and you could get in for a free screening if you shaved your head like the actress in the movie did. Bald women don’t look good. Miss Dale had the most beautiful head of grey hair in town. Long flowing tresses that any movie star would kill for. It was naturally piled high on her head, and she looked like a young Dolly Parton, but without the added additions. She went to the feed store, bought some horse shears, and shaved her head for a free ticket to that stupid movie. Now she looks like Yule Brenner and is going around thinking she is a female Pharaoh or something. I didn’t notice this for the forty years we’ve been married, because she had a lot of hair, but her head is shaped like a cone, and her left ear is about an inch lower than her right one, and two tiny horns are growing out of the top of her scalp. She’s gotten really testy and told me to buy her a new Dodge truck Chariot model to drive to the movie premiere. She says crap like ” So it shall be written, so it shall be done.” I wish she would go out and buy a Dolly Parton wig or something. Do you have any ideas for helping an old cowpoke out?
Miss Dale
The Texan: Boy, Mr. Yates, I feel your pain, all the way down here in Fort Worth. I can’t relate to your hair problem; I still have all of my teeth except for the alien implant in one of my molars, and my snow-white follicles are flowing like Robert Redford’s, although ole Sundance is a corpse now. Sounds like Miss Dale has been on TikTok too much; that’s where all this crap usually starts. My late aunt Beulah lost all her hair from bleaching it too much, so she had the Ten Commandments tattooed on her bald head; she was very religious and wound up in a bunch of B or C movies playing a nut-job nun. I checked up on this Emma Stone girl used AI in the movie; she didn’t really shave her head, so all these women going hairless like a Chihuahua just to get free tickets to a bad movie are morons. Go ahead and buy her the truck, but if she won’t put on a Dolly Parton wig, and go wander in the desert for forty days and nights, until her hair grows back out. Moses had a good time walking around in the wilderness. Who knows, you might find some stone tablets out there in the sand. I’m sending Miss Dale some new hair-growing gel and for you, a box of cherry bombs to blow things up in the desert. Send me a picture of Miss Dale.
Southwest Texas in the 1930s was its own special kind of hell. It wasn’t better or worse off than most of the state, but it was way out yonder and then some. Most Texas folks never ventured that far.
You could find a hundred preachers and ask them if God was punishing Texas farmers, and they would all praise the Lord and tell you times are hard, but we are blessed. Preachers back then were good at blowing smoke up folks’ backside, and then blessing them after the plate was passed.
One main highway, US 377 from Fort Worth, led to Stephenville, Dublin, Brownwood, Coleman, Santa Anna, and on to San Angelo, then farther out to desolate West Texas and the Chihuahuan Desert Big Bend. Small crop and cattle farms along the route, made up of God-fearing, gun-toting, worn-down, and dirt-poor families, faded into heat waves and obscurity as the fence post clicked by. The WPA was new to road and highway repair. Craftsmen and skilled labor were scarce, and what was available was assigned to building and repairing buildings, schools, bridges, and parks. The last place our government wanted to send its money was to the South to make living conditions better for poor southern white folk. Not much has changed in Washington, but we folks in Texas figured it out.
My grandparents, during those years, were cotton farmers in Santa Anna, Texas. A good crop of anything was a dream, a decent one, a miracle. Johnson Grass and Thistle Weed ruled the rows, and if a family could keep them at bay, a sellable crop of cotton might be picked: that’s if rain fell, and like miracles, there wasn’t much of either available.
My mother, Mozelle Manley, one of four children, lived on her parents’ farm and suffered through those hard-scrabble times. These are her recollections as told to me over many years. Sometimes over a glass of wine, or a late-night conversation, or just a visit while she prepared dinner. She didn’t keep a diary or put her thoughts to paper, but she was exceptional in her oral history, and I, if nothing else, was a devoted son and an apt listener.
Around late September, the cotton was getting ripe for picking. My grandfather, a miserly old goat, used his children as unpaid farm labor, which was the custom back then: the more kids you had, the less labor you paid. My mother, a delicate young girl, wanted to write poetry and stories, but her pen was the wooden end of a hoe, chopping weeds in the cotton rows. I learned this after I was an adult in my forties, and she finally gathered the courage to tell me about her childhood years. I played the part of the good son, listener, and historian.
Pickers would come to their area around harvest time to pick the cotton for the families they knew needed the help. They mainly were black folk from around San Angelo, or farther west. They had their own farms, but could make a good buck picking sacks of white gold, enough to hold them over for the winter months and beyond.
One family would come to Santa Anna every year: a large black family from San Angelo. The patriarch was an old snow white haired man folks called “Preacher.” He was an actual certified man of God with his own small country church, but had a passel of kids that worked to keep the family afloat. My grandfather never knew much about the man, or the brood, but always paid them in cash money, and trusted him enough as to not quibble over the weight or his sacks of cotton weighed at the gin at the end of each day. Preacher always said he had a “mainline to God.” No one doubted that, ever. You could see it in his eyes, his face, his demeanor, and his spirit that traveled with him like a treasured handbag. Men of God have a discerning spirit and a glow about them, even in the dark of night.
Every summer, my mother and her siblings would chop weeds in the cotton rows. Pesky little growths that kept the poor soil’s nutrients from feeding the precious cotton bolls. By harvest time, the entire group of children was worn down to a nubbin and ready to catch the first hobo freight out of town for Fort Worth or Dallas. My grandfather was a hard-assed father who used his children as day labor and often treated them the same way. In his later years, he found Jesus and softened a bit, but only enough that you could spread his soul like hard butter on a two-day-old biscuit.
Preacher and his family would show up about the time grandfather was pacing the wood off of the back porch floor. They would pitch a few tarp tents, sleep in his barn and eat a few of granny’s five-hundred or so Chickens. The cotton was picked, weighed, and the Preacher and his clan got their cash and went home to San Angelo and their church. This went on for years, maybe a decade or more.
As my mother and her siblings aged and graduated high school, they knew what they must do: leave the farm to forge a life for themselves. My uncle joined the Navy, fighting in the Pacific theater against the Japs. My mother and her two sisters caught the train to Fort Worth and built bombers and fighters in the aircraft plants for World War II. The days of free labor were over, and grandfather switched from cotton to maze, corn, and Johnson grass for hay. Preacher came back once, but seeing that the end was there, never returned. He knew the things that could kill a family’s spirit, and he didn’t care to see this one end. He truly had a mainline to God. I found it amazing and yet amusing what a few glasses of wine and a few hours with my mother taught me about her family.
Having a mainline to God is a special gift. My mother knew this and always kept Preacher in her prayers and thoughts.
I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.
I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?
Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”
Getting older guarantees one thing for certain: each week is a new and often, rousing experience. This week was my Opus moment: I had a heart monitor installed. A nice piece of technology super-glued to my chest that tells my cardiologist, Dr. Squatch, if my heart is acting abnormally, and if sudden death is imminent. At least I now have an inkling of when it might happen.
The first nurse had the bedside patient demeanor of a prison guard. ” Lay down, be still, don’t finch, don’t breathe, don’t do anything,” she says. She applies a gooey substance to my neck so she can use a Channel 5 Doppler radar to detect blockages in my carotid arteries. I, being my lovable, imaginative, smart-ass self, asked her if it was a boy, a girl, or an alien implant? She wasn’t amused, but my Cardiac Nurse wife, Momo, got a giggle.
The Doppler imaging completed, we were ushered into another room where the second nurse explaied the device to us. It was rather smart looking, small, many lights and buttons, and had to be attached to my chest with Gorilla Super Glue. After she installed the contraption, she expalaied how it worked: Momo being a fellow nurse uderstood all of it.
She pushed buttons, sent some signals to somewhere far away, and I was in business. ” If the light blinks green, it means you are doing alright. If it goes yellow, that means you are stressed and need to slow down and don’t look at that Sydney Sweeney Eagle jeans commercial. If it blinks red and glows like ET’s finger, then the doctor will call you with instructions for your final moments on earth. If he is busy or not near his phone, you can kiss your ass adios,” I understood. ” It will also connect to your hearing aids via Bluetooth, so you can listen to the soothing sounds of your own heartbeat, or the bass drum beat to In A Gadda Da Vida.” I am impressed.
Momo drove me to Home Depot so I could get into an altercation with a salesperson to see if this thing really works. If you don’t get another post soon, you’ll know Janis took another piece of my heart, baby.
Many years ago, as I was starting my landscaping and building my side yard fencing, the Polar Vortex, which caused temperatures to drop to -2 degrees for many days, accompanied by ice and snow, took out many of my plants, and I had to start over.
I was a Southern Baptist kid, not by choice of my own, but by my mother and father’s doing. I was a feral six-year-old, and my sister was a swaddled titty baby along for the ride. My father had not yet been dunked, but my mother had been many times at the First Baptist Church in Santa Anna, Texas. I was a captive, unable to escape, so I had no choice but to enter the holy tub of East Fort Worth’s unfluoridated river water.
The good Reverend Augustin Z. Bergeron, our illustrious chain-smoking, iced-tea-drinking preacher from the bayou of Louisiana, was a world champion baptizer. He could hold a body under the water for a good minute while orating the word of God to the congregation on why this sinner had found their way to his tub of holy water. I was a kid, I didn’t know sin, or lying, or anything, I was just a dumb little fart that was dragged to church every Sunday and fell asleep in my own sweat-covered pants sitting on oak wooden pews, holding my feet high so I wouldn’t be dragged to the depths of Hell through the hot wooden floor of the church. My sainted mother thought it was time for me to take the dunking, which marked the start of a once-a-year ritual that would last for half a decade. I was baptized so many times that’s how I learned to swim. It was that or drown. My skin was permanently wrinkled, my scalp was free of Brylcream and dandruff, my skin was soft, and I smelled of Trinity River holy water most of the school week after my Sunday dunking. I may have been the cleanest and holiest kid in school. My teacher, Mrs. Edwards, a strong Christian lady of faith, always knew on Monday morning that I had been cleansed; she treated me better than the other little heathens in our class. I got two towels to lie on at nap time. I rather liked my status.
I remember my first baptism. I was barely six years old. My mother cornered the good reverend and demanded I be cleansed. My cousins, all a few years older, were considered world-class professionals, having been dunked every Sunday for two years. Mother, not wanting to be outdone by her sister, needed me to catch up. Reverend Z was hesitant because I had not been a regular attendee at Sunday School, but that didn’t deter my mother; she was determined to pursue her mission. He finally agreed over a glass of iced tea while my mother smoked three Camel cigarettes while nursing my sister and making her point.
The big-haired church ladies sang the usual hymns, a few of the overly faithful fainted and were carried out of the church. Reverend Z preached his usual knock-down-drag-out sermon, complete with rolling on the floor, smoking a half-pack of Lucky Strikes, and drinking a gallon of iced sweet tea. Not a hair on his coiffed head was out of place, and his suit was creaseless. He was a holy mannequin of God, in a good way, of course. The good Lord appreciates a snappy dresser.
After the two-hour sermon with four or five cigarette breaks, the line of folks to be baptized was down to me. Dressed in my best pants and a starched white shirt, Snap-On tie, and my new Timex kids’ watch, I was somewhat stylish for a boy my age. The young girls in the congregation gave me their toothless grin of approval. I had no idea what awaited me when the good reverend called my name to approach the pulpit and the holy tub. It was a quick affair. Reverend Z lifted me into the water, shoes, watch and all, said a few words, held me under until my legs kicked, and then raised me up, gasping for air. I was terrified. If the holy ghost had entered my body or wrapped their arms around me, I was unaware. I gagged and couldn’t catch my breath. The good reverend, seeing I was in holy distress, slapped me on the back, causing my breakfast to hurl into the holy water, which in turn made the congregation gasp in horror. This dumb-assed kid puked into the baptismal water, blaspheming and ruining the whole experience. I had eaten biscuits and gravy that morning, so the volume and solidity of the puke were rather disgusting. Reverend Z literally threw me out of the tank, lit a cigarette, took a swig of tea, and continued with a remarkable recovery sermon, saying I had rebuked the devil. The mess in the tub was the demon I expelled. It was a brilliant recovery, a saving grace for both of us. I went on to participate in many more Baptisms over the years and improved with each one, learning to hold my breath and refrain from eating before church.
It pains me to say this, but the Crows are back. Not the band, but the Avian models. I moved the bird feeders to a new, more open location, hoping to deter squirrels, crows, and other critters, such as rats, field Mice, Possums, and other nocturnal creatures. It didn’t work. The Hawks or the Horned Owl that calls a back lot tree home may have dispatched the pesky Squirrels, but the Crows are a nuisance. Pushy Avian bullies exhibit an attitude similar to that of high school students. They park themselves outside of our bedroom window and squawk, starting before daylight. I know that somewhere in the woods behind our land, there is a roughly written sign in bird language with directions to our back yard feeders. There is also a barcode since the Crows will take a quarter and bring me back a dime in change. They are smart, and no, I haven’t found the sign yet. So, Momo, my overly sympathetic wife, continues to feed them peanuts, their favorite food, as if we run a Luby’s bird cafeteria. Today, the Blue Jays beat the Crows to the peanuts and cleaned them out, so now the Crows are amassing on the high wires, similar to Hitchcock’s famous movie. I need my eyes, so I’m staying in the house this afternoon, or at least until they go to roost. I’ve also oiled up my old 4-10 shotgun, just in case.
I was born too late to meet my calling as a writer. Instead of being birthed in 1949, I should have appeared in 1931, no later than 1933, then I may have had a fighting chance. By the time I began writing about serious topics, I was in high school, in the mid-1960s. We had the Vietnam War, Hippies, rock music, and pot to contend with. Writing about Hippies held no interest for me, but the war, music, and politics did, and so I wrote a few things for my high school paper and journalism class that brought instant grief my way. My mentor and writing coach, Mrs. Mischen, chastised me for the language I used, which, in retrospect, was a bit crude and too hip for a high school paper. However, she also gave me an “atta-boy” for having the courage to put myself out there. I wasn’t anti-establishment, anti-war, or anti-Hippie; I wasn’t anti-anything: only a rock musician playing in a popular band, and that’s about all I had to offer the world at that point. That’s why I should have been a writer in the 1950s, hanging out in the Village with Kerouac and Boroughs, and even Hemingway and Steinbeck in late-night bars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking whiskey, and arguing about the fate of America after the two recent wars that had led to a drastic shift in our country. I would have been a perfect cohort. Instead, I spent my childhood years writing in a Big Chief Tablet about neighborhood shenanigans and mailing my articles to the Fort Worth Press, hoping for a spot in the Sunday news, all the time, believing I was the incarnation of Mark Twain. Now, I’m too damn old to be the incarnation of anyone, and can’t remember what to write, and can’t find my notebooks full of ideas.
I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.
Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.
Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.
It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.
I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.
The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.
Reasonable Advice For Folks That Don’t Know Their Butt From Fat Meat
The Texan
Mr. Don Limpet, a resident of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, writes that he had laser eye surgery at his local Walmart and has complications.
Mr. Limpet: Mr. Texan, I saw your advice column in the back of Bass Of The Month magazine at the Tractor Supply. You seem to be a down-to-earth fellow and have given some good advice to folks, so I’m hoping you can help a brother out here. My eyesight has been deteriorating for years, and it’s become so bad that I can’t distinguish a Yellow Booger Picker Bass Lure from a Purple People Eater Crappie rig. My lovely wife, Little Sheba, yes, that’s her real name, she’s a belly dancer who performs at Old Folks Homes and Funerals. Little Sheba said that Walmart has a special on Cataract eye surgery: $ 49.95 per eye, and you get to choose the color of lens after they suck out the cataract. So I say, ” Hell ya, with the money I’ll be saving, I can buy that new Evinrude motor for my Bass boat. The lady who was getting me ready couldn’t get the IV in the right vein, and my arm swelled up like a poisoned Possum. She finally called the gal over in the make-up department to get the sucker in the right vein. Little Sheba said I should go with the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles lenses since he was her favorite actor. I told her he’s dead, and so is his sidekick, Sundance, but she was insistent, so I went with the blue lenses. The procedure took longer than expected, and the boys in the produce department had to help out the tech suck out the cataracts with a Turkey baster. When I woke up, Little Sheba took one look at me and fainted dead out. The girl got the wrong lenses. Instead of the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles, she installed the Count Dracula Red Devil lenses, and now I look like Dracula or a Demon from Hell. The manager at Walmart says the operation is irreversible, and he is genuinely sorry. To make it up to us, he gave Little Sheba a $ 500 gift card to be used on Christmas Decorations. I look awful, and the preacher at church won’t let me in the door because I scare all the little kids. Can you help out a cursed man?
The Texan: Well, well, Mr. Limpet, you are either the biggest cheap-ass in New Mexico or a complete moron that doesn’t know your butt from a piece of fat meat. What did you expect for $49.95 per eye? Those folks at Walmart make $13.00 an hour and can’t even ring up a purchase correctly. As far as the red eyes, you can always get a job at those Halloween Spirit stores, or a spook house. I, too, once had a problem with red eyes, but it was the result of smoking too much pot back when I was hanging out at the Armadillo World Headquarters down in hippie land, Austin, Texas. Back then, everybody had red eyes, so it wasn’t a big deal. Try mixing some Murine and blue food coloring, or wear dark glasses and use a can like Ray Charles. I’m sending Little Sheba a 45 record of Ray Stevens’ big hit, ” Ahab the Arab,” the sheik of the burning sands, and of course a box of Cherry Bombs so you can set a few of them off in The Walmart. In closing, let me know how everything turns out, and you are the biggest dumb-ass moron I know.
Questionable But Believable Advice For Folks That Dream About Living In The Land Where They Can Be An Urban Cowboy And Date Debra Winger
The Texan
This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Whipple Charmin of Lawton Oklahoma. It was written on the back of a Walmart grocery list, and after reading what the poor man is being fed, I’m amazed he’s still alive. It seems his wife, Luanna Rosanna Cash, is going through a midlife change and is searching for her “inner self.”
Mr. Charmin: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Popular Chicken Magazine at Tractor Supply and figured you might be able to help a brother out. The Missus, Luanna Rosanna Cash( her mama named her that after her favorite singer), is going through the change of life, at least that’s what her Chiropractor and her hairdresser tell her. She recently saw that Sydney Sweeney girl on TV wearing those tight jeans and looking pretty fine, so she thinks she wants to be like her. The problem is, Luanna has a butt the size of a 1957 Buick and the only jeans she can fit in is those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans at The Walmart. I come home from work at the chicken-killing plant, and she’s all laid out on the sofa with a cold bottle of Ripple Wine, wearing those stretchy jeans, and a Dolly Parton wig and a Urban Cowboy western shirt open to the waist. Her little Poodle dog, Tidbit, is sitting on her butt, with his leg up licking his own little butt, which killed the mood. I know her hormones are all messed up and she’s going through one of those identity crises and all, so I tell her she looks real fine. Well, she asked me if those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans make her look like Sydney Sweeney? That dog sitting on her butt kinda threw me off my nut, and I said, No, honey, you look just like that nice waitress down at the Waffle House. The doctor at the ER stitched up my forehead and said the scar should go away in a few years, but the imprint of the Lodge frying pan logo might be permanent. I need to make things right with Luanna cause I’m tired of living at the Motel 6 cause they keep that damn light on all night, and I can’t sleep.
The Texan: Whipple, you Okie moron, didn’t your Daddy teach you anything? It doesn’t matter if her butt looks like the Goodyear Blimp floating over Cowboy Stadium; you lie like a two-dollar garage sale rug. I, too, once was in a similar situation. The wife, squeezed into her 1980s Madonna, Like A Virgin outfit, she was wearing to our class reunion. She looked at me with those big, old, fake eyelashes eyes and that teased-up hair, and asked me if the dress made her butt look too big. I was working on my fourth or fifth Jack and Coke, so I told her the tushie looked just like that Led Zeppelin album cover. The prom was a little icy, and a few days later, I came home from the Sons of the Alamo Lodge meeting, and she had donated my bass boat to the Goodwill store. So, Whipple, you’d better learn to lie like a Democrat. I’m sending you a copy of ” Liars for Dummies” and my usual box of Cherry Bombs just to make you feel better.
It’s been a few weeks since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and a few days since his memorial, which was a landmark television event in itself. Yes, many folks of high standards and lofty ideals spoke in eloquent tones, delivered soaring soliloquies on the life of a young patriot taken too soon. It was somber for the most part, but like any television production, it utilized technology to connect with the audience.
My wife, Momo, and I shed a few tears, moved by the words spoken by government officials that professed their Christianity to the world, and didn’t hold back. Near the end, when Charlie’s widow, Erika Kirk, spoke with humility and eloquence, I knew she had been chosen to lead a new revival of young men and women to Christianity and conservatism. She will lead them to reclaim our country as envisioned by the founding fathers.
Then, in a flashback, uninvited moments I often have as I grow older, I envisioned it as something entirely different. In crystal-clear black and white, it evoked the memory of an old-time 1950s Texas Christian revival I attended as a young child, held in a weathered circus tent in a field of drought-stricken grass near Santa Anna High School. Unlike the sturdy Baptist Church in town, there were no pews or wooden floors; only hard wooden folding chairs and a foot-trampled, grassy floor, harboring insects that crawled up my legs and delivered vicious bites. I yelped, and my mother smacked me on the back of my tiny, crew-cut-wearing head. “Be respectful,” she sternly whispered, “God is using the preacher as his lightning bolt.” No matter how hot the weather and the misery caused by pestilence, I obeyed. Pretending to listen to the droning sermon, half asleep from the heat and boredom, I would rather have been anywhere but that tent. My grandparents sat behind us, their hands holding heavy black Bibles that would leave a mark when connected to an insulant child’s behind. I could feel the searing stare of my grandmother’s laser eyes on the back of my neck. I looked straight ahead in fear, knowing that if my chin dipped half an inch or I wavered sideways, a bump from the good book would remind me why I was there. I was six years old and a reluctant, ignorant, bordering on a Christian at best. I yearned in silence to follow my older cousins; they were washed in the blood of the Lamb, bathed in the Holy Spirit, and had been dipped like spring sheep in a trough of holy water. I was just a young kid with no spiritual compass to guide me. It took some time, too slow to my mother’s liking, but I eventually came to Jesus in my own terms. Making me kiss the casketed, heavily perfumed body of my dead great-grandmother set me back a few years, from trauma alone. But God did find me, and I found him. It wasn’t the lightning bolt jolt from above, but a slow and gentle process that fitted my preciousness.
The memorial service in Arizona was similar, but in a larger way. Thousands gathered in air-conditioned comfort, with cold drinks and hot dogs served to feed the masses. Clean restrooms, paved parking, and ushers were on hand to help you find your seat. Believers and those seeking to become believers gathered to pay respects to a young man who will likely become the unofficially appointed sainted leader of the next Jesus Revolution, similar to the one started by Pastor Greg Laurie in the early 1970s in California. Take away the stadium, put the masses in a tent with no air conditioning, a grass floor, a rural setting, and a grieving, electrifying widow instead of a hellfire and brimstone preacher delivering the word of God, and you have today’s equivalent of an old-time tent revival. And, it’s about time.
How many chances are we allowed when we screw up? As a child, I was, at times, allowed three strikes and then I was out. The first one was the warning, the second was a more stern warning with parental icing, and the third was the one that always resulted in the butt busting and exile to my room with no cartoons or Ovaltine. I remember them well. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one who didn’t remember the first two chances as being severe enough to deter me from the dreaded third. Most kids have been there, my two boys included.
This past Saturday, Momo and I volunteered through our church, Generations Of Granbury, to help feed the homeless in our hometown of Granbury, Texas. It’s known, and touted as the number one celebration town in the country, as well as being the number one small historical town in the USA, it also has homeless folks. How is that possible? Look past the beautiful square, the lake, the historical charm, and all that razzle-dazzle hype. You find that yes, it’s like any other small town or city in Texas: we have homeless people living on our streets, or in cheap motels, paying by the week, or day for a bed and a bathroom. Good people who were dealt a bad hand found themselves without their castle, their home, their pride. It may not have been more than a few bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, but those walls and a roof held so many family memories of past Christmases, children’s birthday celebrations, graduations, and Thanksgivings past. The laughter and joy are gone in an instant because they couldn’t make the mortgage payments, or perhaps a divorce, loss of a job, or alcohol and drugs were to blame for their misfortune. Our society does not guarantee everyone a safe, warm home; that is up to ourselves to make that happen. What our government and NGOs do guarantee is that people from third-world countries come here illegally and freely partake in the American dream, and then some for breaking our laws and contributing nothing for what they receive. Just be sure to vote as we tell you, or the freebies stop. How about the poor American citizens and veterans who need a hand? Do they receive the same red-carpet treatment? Hell no.
We arrived at the Classic Inn, set up the tables, laid out the hot food and sack lunches, and waited for people to stop by for a meal. On our way from the church, I had noticed a young couple with backpacks sitting under a stand of oak trees by the highway. I told my wife, Maureen, that if they are still there, I would like to take them a sack lunch and some water. Everyone thought that was a good idea. I found them lying under a stand of trees in the front yard of a bank building. The young man was flat out and not moving; the young lady, his wife, was lying by their belongings, which consisted of a backpack and a grocery sack with grapes and an orange drink. I handed her the lunches, and she was grateful. I asked her where they were headed. She looked up, bottom lip quivering and tears in her eyes, and said she didn’t know where they were going or what to do. I saw the look of despair, hopelessness, fear, and defeat in her young eyes. She was mortified to be accepting food from a strange old man and to be in her situation. Here she sat, guarding the few things they owned, no home, no money, no nothing except her husband, who was going through his fourth day of agonizing detox from Fentanyl addiction. She had been clean and sober for over a month. Drugs knocked them to their knees, robbed them of their possessions, their pride, and then brought them to this shady patch of grass in Granbury. Whether I liked it or not, it brought them to me. I told her I would be right back and ran for backup, which was my wife, Maureen. She’s a nurse and a strong Christian warrior, and these situations are what she is made for.
We returned with hot food and more water. Maureen sat on the grass talking to the young lady while I purchased two bottles of Poweraid from the grocery store next door. When I returned, she asked me to go to the Classic Inn and pay for them a room for the night. Her nurse mode had kicked in, and she knew the young man needed out of the heat and a bed. The demons of detox had hold of him in the worst way. I procured a room and returned. We helped the young man, who could barely walk, to our truck and took the two of them to the motel. The Classic Inn is no Motel 6, but more like a Motel 4: no frills, just air conditioning, a bed, and a bathroom. We decided they needed another night, which we arranged, considering the condition of the man.
When we left them in the motel room, Maureen prayed with the young girl and was told they have a four-year-old son who is being cared for by the man’s mother. This made their situation even more dire, as a child is involved and away from his mother. Evidently, they had been given the three strikes you’re out from their families, and had failed: kicked out, and banished.
Maureen embraced the young mother, and she clung to her. It was not the easy embrace of friends, but one of desperation, and thanks for understanding and helping without judgment. We went back to the food table and helped load up, but as we finished, a car with a lady and three children pulled up and asked if there was still food left. They left with boxes of food for their supper that night.
Maureen and I went home, shaken by what we had dealt with for the last two hours, praying for God to heal and help these two young parents. They may have used that third strike and were considered out, but sometimes, folks deserve a fourth or fifth strike to get it right.
I thought this country couldn’t get worse than it was a few weeks ago, then the young innocent Ukrainian woman was murdered on a commuter train by a sick thug who had been arrested and released back into our society fourteen other times. She was stabbed in the neck while other commuters, all black Americans, sat a few feet away from her, and did nothing. The look of complete fear on her face as she bled out, not comprehending that she was dying. She came to the United States to escape the war in Ukraine, start a new life, find employment, and feel safe in a country of freedom. In her moment of death, she likely wondered why the people sitting around her would not help. I’m not afraid to call people out: the pointing of fingers and cries of “racist” don’t bother me in the least. I call it like it is, and over the years, it has caused me a few bumps and bruises. The mainstream media said not one word of sympathy or outrage over her murder, because the girl was white and the killer was a black career criminal, as was the sainted George Floyd, and that won’t fit their narrative for national news. Sickening.
Now we have the assassination of Charlie Kirk, a conservative Christian political figure, and a husband and father of two small children. He wasn’t an elected official, but had a staggering following of young people, and that is what scares the left the most: young Christian conservatives who will vote Republican and shun the leftist politicians and ideology. When they catch the killer, we will slowly find out the truth about him and why he chose Charlie as his grand Opus.
The comments and cute little videos on Twitter/X by young liberal white men and women were, at best, vicious and vile. These fools are either brainwashed from indoctrination by the school system or possessed by Demons from Hell. I think it’s all those afflictions that make them what they are —the most dangerous movement in our country. The main stream media and cable news like CNN and MSNBC have stoked the fires in the beast’s of hate twenty-four hours a day since President Trump was elected. Charlie Kirk was a prize-winning target for these people. Young, well-adjusted, happily married with children, Christian, and a lily-white male. He was the leftist equivalent of a Fifteen-Point Buck they could hang on the wall of their lyre. They are celebrating: dancing in the streets, and buying rounds of Red Bull for their friends. One more down, and thousands more to go.
It’s akin to putting a college-age person in front of the television or tablet and feeding them a sick version of NPR’s Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, and Mr. Rogers is a 300 lb. Transvestite male. And we wonder why young people think they should have a vagina or a penis, instead of what God gave them. You may want to be a girl or a boy, take massive amounts of transitioning drugs that ruin your brain and reasoning, and then dress like one, act like one, and try to convince society that you are female. Still, you are not, unless you lose that useless appendage between your legs and your chromosomes magically change. Now, have this screwed up boy or girl believe the vile crap they read, give them a reason, provide them with access to a weapon or two, point them in the direction of any business, school, church, political rally, or anyone that “done them wrong,” and you have an indoctrinated, mentally ill killer, who the news media will cover their ass when it’s all said and done.
Have I said too much? Yep, probably. Feel free to call me at BR-549, ask for Junior.
Once, many years ago, I remember being in a San Antonio hotel bar and conversing with an older man who claimed to be beholden of holy powers, extraordinary visions, and able to see the future and to change the present.
I was in town for business for one day and night, then back to Dallas. My project was in Eagle Pass, Texas, a forgetful border town full of crime and drug cartels. My superintendent carried a sidearm and counted the minutes until the Lowes store was completed.
I was drinking an almost flat beer, and the fellow seated next to me was somewhere around his second or fourth round of expensive neat scotch. The bartender had removed it from the top shelf with a stool and a set of tongs and dusted the bottle before she poured it; it was obviously an expensive vintage from merry old Scotland. She gave him less than a full shot, but he didn’t notice, maybe didn’t care. Four drinks of scotch would significantly affect my speaking ability, but not his. Without introduction, he started a conversation.
He was a credible orator with a mellifluous voice like a hypnotist, an NPR radio host, or a con man might use. He was the main speaker of a soiree that would gather in the hotel’s small ballroom within the hour and was well on his way to being a drunken hot mess, but who am I to warn him off. This could be his method before speaking; fire water gives the weak courage to make a fool of themselves.
In our conversation, the words preacher and minister came up a few times, as did divinity school and exorcisms. Billy Graham was a fishing buddy; he had lunch with the Pope and was a regular guest on late-night radio shows. I assumed he was a man of God, but with the amount of alcohol he had consumed, it was questionable. Jesus and his disciples drank wine, but this guy was a certified sot.
Middle-aged men in lightweight suits and women in colorful summer dresses floated through the bar on their way to the ballroom. A few stopped to pick up a white wine or a cocktail. I was his captive for a while longer; being the only empty seat at the bar, I had claimed it as mine. The man and his story came with the territory.
This balding, pudgy, bespectacled fellow reminded me of Mr. Toad of the children’s books. I christened him “Toady.” He was convinced and said to be believed by thousands that if you think about a situation hard enough and long, you can change the physical nature of that situation to your advantage by creating an ectoplasmic event, changing the outcome of nature or God’s will. I asked him if that meant returning the deceased or healing the lame and sick? He had yet produced no one from their final rest, but he and his believers had cured a few people of minor illnesses. They were so close to returning the departed; it could happen any day now. I listened for a while longer, bought him another round of house scotch, and formed an opinion that his belief was the spoutings of a mad-hatter conferee, a half-assed self-educated preacher that believed his own self-absorbed rantings. He wouldn’t admit to being a Believer or even a papered man of God, but he knew how to captivate and emulate as one did. He was a beggar of alms from the poor fools who believed in him. He didn’t possess the stature or the hair to be a TV preacher, so this was his gig. He was good at his trade. As I unseated to leave, “Toady” grabbed my arm and said,
” I beg of you to try my method; believe in the power of the mind.”
“No thanks,” I replied, ” I only believe in the power of God and the Holy Spirit; anything more than that is new-age crap.”
That said, I moved on to a table to eat supper and left him to his fifth scotch and his followers awaiting in the ballroom.
I have been watching videos of Pastor Greg Laurie, the now older man who played a significant part in the Jesus Revolution in the late sixties. One particular video addressed the right and wrong way to pray and repentance. Watching the video reminded me of the encounter with a fellow in the hotel bar.
I can stare at the cedar trees in my backyard for twenty-four hours straight without blinking and drink Irish Whiskey until I see holy visions, but my prayers, repentance, wishes, and yes, some begging will not bring my son back to this earth, death is final, and there is no return.
I called them the Old Scotchmen; my mother had a few different names, none of which were complimentary.
In 1968, my father, John Strawn, and his friend Dexter Prince were known characters on the island of Port Aransas, Texas, which was an honor, considering the long list of other local characters that added lore and color to the quaint fishing village. Lawnmower Ted, Shorty Fowler, Spanny Gibbs, Carlos Moore, Captain Rick Corn, and the notorious but lovable Jack Cobb were a few, and the list changed weekly depending on their antics.
My parents had purchased a house on East Street in the winter of 1968 and planned to spend holidays and summers on the island. Our main home was in Plano, Texas, where my father was a custom home builder and developer. Saltwater and the island were part of my childhood, shaped by the journeys to Port A, which satisfied my father’s and grandfather’s love of saltwater fishing, which began when the family lived in Los Angeles during the 1930s. Dexter and his family had been coming to the island just as long and preferred to live in one of Gibbs’ Cottages, his home away from home. Dexter and my father were avid fishermen, competent tellers of tall tales, and aficionados of fine Scotch Whiskey. My father’s AquaSport fishing boat allowed them to fish until they were spent, and then manufacture believable lies about their catch to anyone who would listen, which was usually the patrons of Shorty’s Place, their favorite post-angling hangout.
Most evenings, when both were on the island, Dexter would swing by the house around ten-thirty. My father, already into his routine of watching The Tonight Show would be dressed in his pajamas and working on a nice tumbler of scotch. He would change into shorts and a T-shirt, and the two characters would take their drink and drive around the island in my folks’ turquoise dune buggy, making big plans and yapping. That was back when Port A was small and the police knew everyone in town, so they left the old Scotchmen alone. The strict DUI laws were years away.
One evening, Dexter dropped by around eleven or so, and the two jumped in the dune buggy and took off for their ride. About halfway through the exploring, they realized they needed more scotch, so Dexter recommended a stop at Shorty’s Place. My father balked because he didn’t change, and was wearing his red silk pajamas and barefoot. Dexter said it would be fine, the place would be empty on a Tuesday night. It wasn’t: it was full of locals and tourists. They strolled in and took a seat at the bar. Shorty, ever her sweet self, told my father he could sleep on the cot in the storeroom since he was dressed for bed. They ordered a nice glass of Chivas Regal scotch. A few other patrons made some smart-assed remarks, making my father turn as red as his attire. Even the local gal who wore nothing but a white satin slip on most nights complimented him on the cute red pajamas. After that, John always made sure to bring a bottle of Scotch for the ride around.
Somewhat Unsophisticated Advice For Those Who Seek The Truth instead of Smoke Being Blown Up Their Backsides…
This Texan received an urgent email this afternoon from Marfa, Texas. A Mr. Daddy-O-Of-The-Desert (that’s how he signed the email, not my idea) says his wife, Brushy Sue, has packed his Sears and Roebuck camping bag and is sending him and the dog packing into the desert because the dog keeps howling and singing all night long.
Daddy-O: Mr. Texan, I need some real-time advice, right now. I’m sitting here at a computer in the library and will wait until I hear from you. My wife, Brushy Sue, is a real hum-dinger of a gal. We met in high school, and it was love at first sight. Her having a full set of teeth and not being knocked up also helped our love to blossom. Snake Canyon, our hometown, is a small bump in the road located just outside of Presidio, where we grew up; however, we have been in Marfa for a long time. A few weeks ago, a buddy of mine and I were drinking beer at Planet Marfa, and he mentioned that he had a dog he needed to find a home for. He’s kinda wild and will need some training, but other than that, he’s really lovely. So, being a dog lover, I say yes, I’ll take him. I pick him up the next day, and the dog bites me three times before I can get him into the pickup, then he rips my leather seats all to hell and eats the microphone on my CB Radio, now I can’t talk to the truckers at night. After demolishing the inside of my Ford, he settles down, lays his cute head in my lap, and has a nap as I drive home. When I drag him into the house, Brushy Sue has a conniption fit; she doesn’t care for dogs. The dog, sensing she didn’t care for him, ate her Pioneer Woman house slippers and then chewed up her VHS copy of Dirty Dancing, and that was it. The dog and I are outside, I’m sleeping in a tent, and he’s barking and singing all damn night. I can’t take the dog back to my buddy, he moved during the night, and Brushy Sue won’t let me back in the house until the doggy goes. I’m a little worried because, around midnight, while he was singing in the back yard, a pack of Coyotes came to the cyclone fence to visit, and they all started singing the same song: it sounded like a scratched-up Taylor Swift CD. My buddy may not have told me the truth. Any ideas how to fix this mess. I’m waiting here at the library.
The Texan: Well, Mr. Daddy-O, which is such a cool name for a dude that lives in the desert. You have a problem, but it’s fixable. First, I think your ex-buddy sold you a rotten bill of goods. I grew up in Texas and know a lot about our critters. From your description, you likely have a half-wild, half-domesticated coyote, which is the worst kind: you never know when that wild streak is going to come out. One minute, he’s lying on the floor watching Lassie with the kids, and then he grabs little Susie by the throat and drags her out the doggy door in the kitchen. You can’t trust a Franken-dog. I suggest you let your dog loose and see how it goes with the coyotes. I’ve been to Planet Marfa a few times, and you folks are just too damn weird. I’m sending your wife a CD of Dirty Dancing and an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze dancing the Bug-a-loo, and of course, a box of Cherry Bombs to throw at the doggy if he doesn’t leave on his own.
Pope Leo, an American from Chicago, has bucked tradition at the Vatican. He is choosing a newly renovated Papal ten-room apartment in lieu of the sparsely furnished Papal palace. He is bringing roommates: his close friend, Jose, a personal gardener named Tatu from Peru, a five-year-old black and white Llama named Millie, also from Peru, and Charo, his favorite Peruvian cook. Asked if bucking Vatican tradition will cause problems, Pope Leo said, ” screw ’em, if the Bears win the Super Bowl, I’m having them for dinner and they won’t be eating ravioli. ” My kind of Pope.
The Mormon Church, you know, the two guys on bicycles that knock on your door when you’re eating breakfast or supper and try to convert you on your front porch, is now allowing female Mormons to wear sleeveless shirts, tank tops, and undergarments instead of the constricting biblical, rough-sewn, pioneer clothing as required by their church. The women are ecstatic since men run the church and like to keep them covered up, barefoot, and continually pregnant. Word on the paved streets of gold in Provo, Utah, is that the girls are pushing to hire Sydney Sweeney as their new spokesperson so they can wear American Eagle jeans.
Beverly Hills is no longer the wealthiest zip code in the U.S. Top honors go to Alligator Alcatraz in Florida. The number of Cartel members, bosses, drug lords, and dealers with annual incomes, before and after incarceration, equals $95 billion, way more than 90210. Oprah is calling for a recount because she believes her block should be valued more highly than a bunch of violent criminals. Governor Ron DeSantis is considering charging them rent and taxes for the duration of their stay.
Jasmine Crockett, that foul-mouthed fake ghetto-gal from Texas, who is not really from the ghetto but grew up wealthy, is filing a lawsuit against President Trump for trying to put an end to mail-in ballots. She claims that ending them will “inconvenience and hinder dead people in her district from voting.” Imagine that.
DHS Head Kristi Noem has hired a team of Navy MWR painters to paint the entire iron border wall flat black. Since the wall is located along border states that reach over 100 degrees daily, adding black paint will make the steel hotter by as much as fifty degrees. This will deter illegals from climbing the wall. Asked about when the weather cools and the steel won’t be as hot, Secretary Noem said we will be coating the steel in good old American ball bearing grease. It works on Squirrels, so why not illegals? They’re both after the same thing: free stuff. What a gal.
Target, the woke wonderland of big box retailers, fired their wokie CEO and replaced him with one a bit less woke. Today, their stock and that cute white Terrier took a red and white dump right in the middle of their bulls-eye logo, and they are panicked. Call in Dylan Mulvaney? Lady GaGa? Kim Kardashian? Nope, it’s rumored they are in secret talks with the new face of white girl America, the luscious curveball-throwing, blue jean-wearing Sydney Sweeney. As Yaakov Smirnoff says, “America, what a country.”
Perhaps Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty had it right? Drive a beat-up car across the country, searching for the real America; find that touchable and believable reality. The young Marylou is along for the ride; she adds the angst to their search: a real woman, one to drive the two of them mad. Three is a tangled mess. Two recovering Catholic boys question their upbringing. Harsh realisms, self-flagellating, pot smoking, cheap liquor guzzling, teetering on becoming a criminal or a saint.
Roughians, hooligans, hipsters, Bohemians, and rapscallions. These were the self-educated beast shaped by the great depression that taught us that America isn’t perfect and never can be as long as flawed and greedy people make decisions for the masses. Lords and Cerfs; Alms for the poor, sir?
The late 1940s was a time of realism. Fantasy was for the dreams of children. The recent brutal world war ended the tragic depression years, and sacrifices and loss of human life in far-off lands all played out in real-time, not on a roll of film. There was no “escape from reality.”
The coterie of Bohemian writers and artists was forming. Jackson Pollock was dripping paint, Picasso was mutilating women on canvas, and Papa Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Alan Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Neal Cassady, and Jack Kerouac sat around small tables in dingy cafes and bars slamming down hooch, and writing the real stuff that made us smile, think, cry, or recoil in disgust. They took the American reality from the 1930s and 1940s and gave it to us with a backhanded slap to the face. It awakened some of us, the ones that paid attention.
Jack Kerouac and the rest of his group weren’t meant for literary sainthood; they were too stained, too fallible, and over-baptized. America was real; life was not always the astringed family of mom and pop, two kids, and a cocker spaniel. Sometimes it hurt. More often than not, it was damned good. Men were riddled with imperfections but still knew how to be male, and women were as perfect as they were created to be.
Somewhere on this trip, along the road, America lost its reality, and people turned to fantasy. Now, we are lost in a landslide, with no escape from a warped reality. The road goes on.
After church service on Sunday, I was visiting with my Pastor. I had finished playing in the worship band, and we talked music for a minute or two, then he asked me about a recent post I had written about my uncle’s dog eating his false teeth. He wanted to know if the dog ate all the teeth and whether the story was true.
I am blessed with a colorful family on both my parents’ sides, so most of what I write is factual and as accurate as my old mind remembers. My cousins disown me, and the rest of the living family thinks I make everything up and have a mental disorder, which I may have, thanks to a bad fall and brain trauma I suffered a few years back that erased part of my memory. However, I didn’t need that part anyway; I still have plenty to tell. I will admit to embellishing the historical facts a bit, only to make the story more believable and easier on those who lack imagination. If I hadn’t witnessed the events firsthand, I wouldn’t believe them either.
The Pastor and I got to talking about my experience as a child attending the Polytechnic First Baptist Church back in the 1950s. I was young, only six years old, with no formal religious training or exposure, except for a few weeks of vacation Bible School in Santa Anna, Texas, taught by two of the meanest, vengeful old bags in town —old maid sisters who were as mean as a sun-stroked Rattlesnake. So my attending that church was a tiny miracle, because I was traumatized by the old battle-axes and should have been in professional counseling. My parents were always short on cash, so a cup of hot Ovaltine and some cookies were the cure for most everything, including childhood trauma.
The good Reverend Augustin Z. Bergeron, the preacher at Poly Baptist, was no mere mortal man. He came from the deep in the Louisiana bayou country, a small Parish named Chigger Bayou, which is also the home of Le Petite Fromage and her daddy, the famous Cajun musician Baby Boy Fromage. My father was good friends with Le Petite during his teenage years in Los Angeles, California.
Reverend Bergeron possessed magical, mystical, fantastical powers, or so the legend is told in Fort Worth. He could cure folks from almost any malady, and did so weekly during Sunday services. He possessed an uncanny resemblance to the famous preacher turned comic, Brother Dave Gardner, another southerner with a bombastic Beatnik style wit and a side wink at southern-style Christianity. Reverend Bergeron either copied Gardner or Gardner saw the good reverend in Chigger Bayou and stole his schtick, which was controversial for a preacher. My father always compared him to Brother Dave, saying his wit was just as sharp and funny. I was a kid, so I didn’t get any of it. I was two years away from discovering Gardner’s comedy records, but when I did, I wore them out and fancied myself a mini-Brother Dave: when I wasn’t pretending to be Mark Twain.
The congregation at Poly Baptist never knew what to expect when the service started at 9 AM. The chorus of big-haired gals in purple robes sang the traditional hymns, all boring and dry as a week-old biscuit. Reverend Bergeron would saunter in from stage left, grab the microphone off the pulpit, and start singing like Ray Charles. The organist followed suit, and the choir became Martha and the Vandellas. That’s when the place started rocking like a black church in the Mississippi low country, which was strange, because most white folk Baptist churches in Texas didn’t have music other than a choir, and no hot-shot keyboardist. The Reverend would dance across the stage, duck walking like Chuck Berry, spinning, falling to his knees, yelling “Thank you, sweet Jesus”, then crawling across the stage like a baby, and, all the time holding on to his lighted Camel cigarette and the microphone. Another blasphemous act, since smoking was deemed a sin by the church. He also had a large Tupperware tumbler of Ice-Cold sweet tea sitting on the pulpit and would constantly refill the tumbler from a pitcher just off stage. Some folks speculated it wasn’t tea, but hooch, and that was the reason for his antics. My parents loved the guy and would smoke as many cigarettes as he did during the service. Almost everyone in the church smoked and would drop their ashes on the wood floor, another sinful citation. An ethereal cloud of toxic blue smoke hung in the air of the un-airconditioned church. It was so thick that it hid the tops of the stylish ladies’ Bee-Hive hairdo. It gave the place a creepy feeling, as if we were suspended in the clouds or the fires of Hell were seeping through the cracks in the old wood floor. I believed it to be from below, and always kept my small legs propped on the Bible holder on the back of the pew. Satan wasn’t going to pull my young butt through those cracks in the floor.
Our family left the church a year or two later and attended an Episcopal Church, which was boring compared to Reverend Bergeron’s Baptist Church. I still dig Brother Dave Gardner.
Oh, help us, Sweet Baby Jesus, Taylor Swift is dropping a new album. Now, she believes she is a Las Vegas Showgirl instead of a tortured poet like poor Sylvia Plath, who met a tragic end. Makes one wonder if the swift one knew about her demise? More cartoon music for the young girl masses that follow her blindly into the abyss of pop-less music. One day, they will awaken and grow up to be mothers and productive citizens, just maybe. I guess it’s better than standing atop someone’s Tesla and twerking their asses to the public.
The former first son and all-around good American criminal fellow says the first lady met her husband through Jeffrey Epstein. She calls it a lie and slander, demanding a public apology; otherwise, she will sue the Hunted one into oblivion for a billion bucks. The petulant former boy wonder artist and meth aficionado says F…that and is refusing to apologize. I don’t think Daddy-o will be able to save him this one last time. The Trumps have more money than Bubba Gump, and he has zero. Dr. Jill needs to drug test her boy. What a moronic man.
I am a cancer survivor, so the latest news from the Cowboys camp bothers me. After fifteen years, Smiley Jones, their Arkansas hillbilly owner, comes out with news that he beat cancer via experimental drugs. Why wait so long to tell the world? Let me guess, the Cowboys got their butt’s handed to them in pre-season, the team’s star players are threatening to move on for more money, they haven’t been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy in 30 years, and Jones is playing the “pity” card on his fans, who are deserting in mass. Poor Jerry, poor Cowboys, show me some love and keep buying those high-priced tickets, absurdly priced memorabilia, and $ 15.00 beers at his giant stadium that needs curtains to block the sun to keep the teams and the fans from melting. I know, I’ve been to many a game there, and my son, unfortunately, owns two seats that he can’t unload.
Thanks to a young actress, Sydney Sweeney, white girls are back! I’m talking really back. Sororities are going crazy, girls are buying American Eagle jeans again. All American blonde, brunette, and redheaded young women are once again strolling the streets, driving their cars to the mall, going to the beach, attending public functions, and making a spectacle of themselves in public—all thanks to a cute little gal with ginormous boobs and an All American girl spirit.
Putin and Zelensky, who’s going to win? Who you gonna call? Not Ghostbusters, but The President, and he should enlist Dana White to host a pay-per-view event at Madison Square Garden, pitting Putin against Zelensky in a UFC-style cage fight. Whoever wins will get the land, either Ukraine, Russia, or both. My money is on Zelensky. He’s younger, and there are reports that Pooty-Poot wears a Depends.
One of my recent “Ask A Texan” write-ups included a blurb where a large dog ate a man’s lower false teeth. It fit the story well, and it actually occurred about 67 years ago, and I was around when it happened.
My late, late, late uncle wore choppers, as he called them, and had a love-hate relationship with his false teeth. This was back in the days when the technology was archaic at best, and folks suffered greatly when wearing the prosthetics. They weren’t quite George Washington’s wooden teeth, but not much better. I’ll tell the story as best I remember it, as it was told to me by my uncle, then my Sainted Mother.
My two late uncles were the best liars and yarn spinners I have known. My Mother says I am possessed with their restless spirit, wisdom, and imagination: I’ll gladly accept that. Uncle Jay was the best of the two. Uncle Bill was close and at times could out-lie and rip a great yarn better than his brother, but only after Jay drank too much Pearl Beer. I would sit in awe as the two of them went at it on the front porch of the farmhouse on hot summer nights. Of course, cold Pearl Beer always made everything better. One night, the two of them may have had a bit too much beer and retired early. Uncle Jay had lower false teeth, a result of an injury in World War II. He collided with his anti-aircraft gun, or that’s the story he told. My Mother, his sister, said he got them knocked out in a barroom brawl, which sounded about right; he was a mighty scrapper. He also had a large Chow dog named Mr. Pooch. As dogs go, he was friendly, but only if you didn’t get too close, look at him, or try to pet his big head; then he would rip your arm off. So, we cousins stayed the hell away from Mr. Pooch.
Upon turning in for the night, Uncle Jay removed his lower teeth and set them on a chair by his bed. Mr. Pooch, ever the faithful dog, slept by the bed on a pallet of Granny’s quilts. The dog needed something to chew on, so during the night, he helped himself to Jay’s lower false teeth. In the morning, Jay, seeing a tooth and some gum material on Pooch’s pallet, realized the dog had eaten his teeth. Country folks didn’t use vets back in the 1950s, so he figured Pooch would pass the teeth in a day or two. Granny gave Mr. Pooch a dose of salts and some fiber to speed up the process.
The cousins, including me, were doing our usual daytime activities: shooting chickens with our BB Guns, roaming around the Mesquite Tree woods looking for Rattlesnakes, the usual kid stuff. My cousin, Beverly, headed back to the farmhouse by herself, probably to get some ice tea. We heard her scream and took off running. We found her plastered against the wooden plank wall of the smokehouse, crying and snow white; she was having a minor breakdown. We checked her for a snake bite and found none. She then pointed to a large pile of dog poop about ten feet away and wailed louder. Jerry and I walked over to the unusually large pile, and there, alone, was one of the most enormous dog turds we had ever seen. Looking closer, we saw that it had human teeth and was smiling. It scared the hell out of us, and we ran to join Beverly. We didn’t know that Mr. Pooch had eaten our uncle’s lower false teeth, so we thought it was a demon turd from hell or something worse. After Granny told us the story and inspected the poop, we all had a great laugh. Uncle Jay and Mr. Pooch never lived that one down. We never let him forget it.
This Texan received an exceptionally long telegram from a fellow Texan, a Mr. Forest H. Crouch, from somewhere in London, England. It seems his wife got herself in trouble, and now he’s stuck and can’t get home.
Mr. Crouch: Mr. Texan, I’m in dire need of help here. I saw your ad in the back of a Penny Shopper paper at the train station. I’m stuck in London and can’t get back to Texas. I just want to go home to my Armadillo ranch. The wife, The Lovely Juanita, that’s what she insists I call her, even though she’s not Mexican, but has a dark complexion and thinks she’s really cute. Well, The Lovely Juniata and I took this trip for our 30th wedding anniversary. We had never been out of the US, so it was a cultural shock to us since we’ve lived just outside Luckenbach, Texas, all our lives and are the proprietors of the Luckenbach Armadillo, Watusi Cow, and Llama Ranch. We were eating at a nice Pub by Marble Arch Station, here in London, and I tell you, I was freezing my balls off because no one will turn the heat on in this city. My toes were like frozen Vienna sausages, and The Lovely Juanita was turning blue, even with her dark complexion and all. Even my Justin boots (manly footwear)couldn’t keep those frozen toes warm. Well, The Lovely Juanita orders some fish and chips, and I order a steak with gravy, since the menu said it was chicken fried like in Texas. The barmaid thought she was really cute and made some smartass remarks about us being from Texas. The Lovely Juanita takes a taste of her fish and spits it out and yells, “This crap tastes like bait, I want some Bass, or at least some Catfish nuggets, and then, thanks to four big glasses of warm beer, the missus jumps up and slugs her. Well, that started the fight, and two big old Limey boys get me down and are working on me pretty good. I couldn’t get up because there was this big Sheep Dog in the Pub, and he started chewing on my leg. Somewhere in the fray, I lost my Sony Walkman, which had all my favorite country music from Amarillo and Abilene on that cassette. The Lovely Juanita grabs a cheap acoustic guitar from the stage and starts beating them about their limey heads, yelling at me to “run, Forest run,”(which is my first name, folks back home call me Hondo), which I did. I run out of the pub just as the limey police come and arrest The Lovely Juniata for assault with a musical instrument, which I guess is a crime here in London. Hell, back in Luckenbach, we use guitars to bust folks’ heads all the time if they can’t play for shit. Just a month ago, I smacked some little Austin hippie dippy man bun wearing boy for butchering Jerry Jeff’s Mr. Bojangles. The bartender bought me a beer for that one. Well, The Lovely Juanita is locked up in a limey jail somewhere in London, and she has all the money in her Pioneer Woman purse, and the hotel key. Somewhere in the fight, I lost my billfold and my lower false teeth, I think the dog may have eaten them, and now I can’t get in my room, and can’t chew nothing. The Lovely Juniata is in the jailhouse now, and all I want to do is go home, be in a Texas bar, and tend to my Armadillos and Llamas back in Luckenbach. Can you help a pal out?
The Texan: Well, Hell, Hondo, I hope I can call you that, it sounds better than Forest. I’ve never been to England, but I have been to Oklahoma, and folks tell me it’s nice there. I’m leery of overseas travel, especially for Texans; it just ain’t safe these days. My cousin from Buda went to Paris, France, and was walking down the sidewalk when he tripped on a prayer rug and the moron kneeling on it, and broke his collarbone. Best to stay in the Hill Country. I contacted the London Police, and Prince Charles and they won’t release The Lovely Juanita until she pays for the cheap guitar, or replaces it. I’m sending the cops a new Fender guitar to take care of the fine, and you and The Lovely Juanita some cash to get home, and of course, a box of Cherry Bombs so you can throw a few into that crappy Pub. Let me know how it all turns out. I’ll be down your way in a few weeks and will stop by to say howdy.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 