I’ve always believed in the raw strength of prayer. A small child kneels by the bed. A grown man kneels beside a dying parent. God listens. He may not grant all our prayers. There are reasons for this. A dying parent approaches the end, no cure in sight. It is time. We all have our moment.
Momo and I found ourselves at a prayer gathering in the park a week ago. The turnout was sparse, the heat oppressive, the air thick with discomfort. Yet, amid it all, the holy spirit lingered among us. Men, women, and children knelt, some on one knee, others prostrated on the pine needles, indifferent to the thoughts of strangers. The older ones were weighed down by age, needing to rise again; I understood. What struck me was the number of young folks present: teens and those in their twenties, engulfed in faith. I thought, why should I be surprised? This faith is not merely for the old; it is for the young, from the cradle to the grave and beyond. It filled me with a quiet hope against the dark forces that assail our nation—a small, emerging army ready to stand, bolstered by the strength of Michael, the Archangel. Change is coming; stay tuned.
I’ve recently sprouted a beard, and much to my surprise, not a single dark hair dares to intrude upon my snowy facial wilderness: the scruffy testament to my frothy mirth matches the proud hue atop my head, a delicate white crown. As a son of Cherokee lineage, I stood astonished, finding myself transforming into an old man with pearly locks in my forties. This change, I suspect, is the handiwork of my father’s Scotch-Irish heritage—a rowdy clan of kilted revelers who seemed to navigate life with laughter and a touch of mischief. They must have commandeered a ship, setting sail for New York, then onto Pennsylvania, where the merry-making reached promising heights. My grandfather would neither confirm nor deny the wild tales of our kin. This speaks volumes about my love for Irish Whiskey, while the Cherokee blood in my veins draws me to large, sharp knives. Hand a drink to an Indian, and trouble isn’t far behind. History whispers of how Little Bighorn ended for Custer. Loose chatter suggests that Sitting Bull and Howling Wolf snagged a wagon load of drink the night before the fray, bestowing upon the braves a reckless spirit. Had they chosen an early night with a hearty breakfast of Buffalo tacos, perhaps the bloody disaster would have been averted.
As a boy of nine, I dreamt of writing like Twain. In my innocence, I thought I was his spirit reborn, dropped into a different time: September of 1949, the last year of the baby boomer generation. With a Big Chief Tablet and a number 2 pencil, I set out to capture the simple chaos of childhood mischief. There were four of us, bold and reckless, stealing cigarettes, hurling water balloons at police cars, and fighting with the tough kids across the tracks. The local papers laughed at my tales as if a child’s imagination could not hold weight. My aunt, wise and educated, introduced me to Spillane and Steinbeck. Spillane turned me into a wise-ass, insufferable child, resulting in numerous mouth cleansings with Lifeboy soap. Steinbeck felt right—my family had lived a life like Tom Joad’s, migrating to California during hard times of the Dust Bowl and the 1930s. I had stories in me, maybe even a book. A therapist dismissed it as a childish fantasy, saying it would fade. Yet here I am, much older, still tethered to that innocence. Now, I’m in my Hemingway phase, my looks echoing the rugged man who lived wild in Cuba, writing furiously while embracing the chaos of life.
There is more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top. I feel the end approaching. I do not wish to know the day or hour. I can only pray it is a good one, resulting in a trip to Heaven, which is better than the alternative. I am not the writer Twain, Steinbeck, or Hemingway was. They had talent, and they had time from youth to hone their craft and find their voices. Yet, I will still give it a try.
I realize my thoughts might carry as much weight as a thimble in a swimming pool, but at 75, I’ve witnessed more ups and downs than a cheap roller coaster. Lately, though, it feels like our dear old blue planet has taken a wrong turn and is spinning like a top on a greased floor, sending everything straight into a comical disaster!
Momo whisked me away to a swanky birthday supper at a place called 1890—how fancy! We had previously visited there, of course, but on that occasion, our wallets had us seated in the bar, indulging in a drink and a wedge salad that could barely fill a mouse’s stomach. This time, however, we plopped ourselves into the big boy chairs adorned with linen tablecloths and sparkling silverware that made us feel like we were pretending to be someone important. Our waiter—his name was a puzzler, something foreign that I couldn’t grasp, yet I distinctly recall his well-groomed beard and a whiff of patchouli oil wafting about him. It took me back to our youthful days as hippies in the 70s when that scent was all the rage with the hairy-legged hippie chicks. Momo went for a steak that could challenge a cow in size while I, with an empty wallet echoing my woes, settled for saltines slathered in butter and Tabasco—gourmet, I assure you! As we departed, stomachs full and wallet depleted, we spotted a black Greyhound-style bus parked at the courthouse. We mused that perhaps a country band was visiting our quaint township for a hearty meal. But lo and behold, when the door flung open, cats erupted like confetti, scattering everywhere—hundreds, I’d wager, taking over the square as if they owned the place. Nuns, dressed in their required uniform, handed out squeaky toys, kitty litter, and catnip to placate the new arrivals. Curious, I asked the driver what on earth was happening. With a grin, he informed me that the SPCA was orchestrating a rescue mission, whisking away all the cats and some distressed dogs from Springfield, Ohio, to Texas. It was, he said, a noble endeavor backed by a contingent of single cat ladies and a handful of purified nuns forever wed to their feline friends.
Football players are often regarded as the dimmest bulbs in the grand carnival of manly athletics, a parade of brawn where a surplus of testosterone is the secret sauce for getting through the heavy lifting of life. Picture, if you will, poor Travis Kelce, relegated to the bench like a discarded plaything, wearing the kind of woeful hang-dog expression that could bring tears to a Confederate statue. Ah, but even Neanderthals have their emotions, and it seems the Swift One is tucked away in her plush hotel suite, likely crafting a breakup ballad that might just capture the essence of their fleeting romance, a tale as old as time and yet as fresh as a morning breeze. Young love is a fleeting aura that departs on the fickle winds of gastronomical flatulence. He should have taken the strenuous advice of friends and whisked her off to a tar paper shack in deep Appalachia and kept her barefoot and pregnant with annoying little swifties playing small plastic Ukelales.
This is an oldie but a goody. If any of you knew who Brother Dave Garner was, you’d appreciate my bringing him back for an earthly bow.
This morning, I shuffled into the kitchen at 4 am, chastising myself for not getting enough sleep, which I will pay later in the day. I figure a nap will take me down around noon. But, when my country and our laws are under assault from evil men, I take it seriously, even though there is little I can do except pray for divine intervention or a selective lightning bolt from Heaven. My dreams were filled with political discourse, and sleep was fitful at best. I awakened sweaty and fearful of what lay ahead. “Our ship is foundering in seas of discontent, and the ominous rocks are within sight. The sails are in tatters, our rigging is failing, and we are destined to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of an unknown land.” I paraphrase that description; it came from someone important, maybe Mark Twain or Confusious.
Last night, Mrs. MoMo and I watched the final seasonal episode of “The Chosen,” the story of Jesus and his disciples. The program is filmed in North Texas and Montana, and the cast is exceptional as well, as the writing takes the scripture and uses it as real folks would have heard and spoken it in those times, making it realistic and not words printed in the Holy Bible. We are fans. It’s as if I am attending a church service without the peripheral distractions of bad music and wailing children. I assure MoMo that I am not a heathen knuckle-dragging Neanderthal chewing on a Brontisaures leg bone, but a bonafide Christian who seeks Biblical truths and inspirations differently. She understands.
I spent too many hours on the hard wooden pulpits the Baptists prefer to be anything else. I knew that just below my pew, Hell awaited, and raging demons could pull me down through the wooden floorboards by my small legs if I faltered in faith. I equated faith with fear. Folks today are not fearful of God. Doing good deeds is commendable, but they won’t buy you a stairway to Heaven. Maybe Led Zepplin was onto something?
My zealous preacher, resembling a frothing-mouthed Bulldog pacing the stage, arms waving, and holding a large silver microphone to his dripping lips, advanced the service to a dramatic interpretation featuring hysterical heights that made the congregation swoon with the vapors. He reminded me of Brother Dave Gardner, the preacher turned comedian. I heard a few soft chuckles from my father occasionally; he was a fan of Brother Dave. Lofty condemnations, browbeating, and blanket accusations kept the flock in line; Amens were as plentiful as the women’s Beehive hair du’s, and the basket, when passed, was always overflowing with dollar bills and personal bank checks. I proudly gave my dime, which my mother pressed into my hand at the last moment. I was a kid and had no currency of my own to tithe. The little money I got from selling soda pop bottles went to candy bars, comic books, and Dr Peppers, the staples of child sustenance. Those unsettling experiences are burned into my conscience and come to me in dreams when I least expect them. Perhaps our country needs some of that “old-time religion” to scare the hell out of us.
Taylor Swift is back in the news—not that she ever left. I was hoping that her knuckle-dragging boyfriend would have married her by now, moved to a tar paper shack in Appalachia, and kept her barefoot and pregnant. No such luck. The millions of her lemming-like young fans have been breathlessly awaiting her choice for president. The anointed swift-one dropped it on social media. She is supporting the Harris Walz duo. Does she not understand that more than half of America is conservative and controls the purse strings of their children, her fans. Ali wants the new Taylor Swift album priced at forty dollars. I think not. Crafty marketing has turned her into a money machine. She knows the power she wields with the pre-teen and teenage girls. They have made her a billionaire. A tall, leggy blond who writes and sings cartoon music, perfect for a Saturday morning children’s show. Millions of young girls hang on to her every word and march like soldiers to her orders. Say something wrong about their golden idol, and they will unite and come for you in the middle of the night.
Somewhere in Kansas
A quiet suburban street, older homes, well-kept with tidy yards. The car in the drive is going on at ten years old, and the pickup parked next to it is a year older. The mother works at Walmart, and the father is an auto mechanic and a volunteer fireman. Blue-collar, over-taxed, middle-America Christians. Their thirteen-year-old daughter, a swifty, which is what her cult following calls themselves, walks into the kitchen where her parents are seated at the breakfast table, shuffling the monthly bills in two stacks: pay and don’t pay. They are counting their dollars and now counting coins, hoping to have enough to pay for the groceries for the week. In a snotty know-it-all tone, typical for her age, the daughter, in a demanding tone of voice, tells her parents that they must vote for Harris because Taylor Swift endorsed her, and they need to give her five hundred dollars for a ticket to her show next month because Taylor says all Swifties must unite.
Her father looks at her and says, “We are in a financial squeeze, young lady, so to pay the bills and buy food, I will need your iPhone right now, and I am canceling your subscriptions to Spotify, iTunes, your phone service, and the internet. You will also need to get an after-school job, or drop out and work full time, your college fund is no more, we had to use it to pay the mortgage and for your braces. That nice car you wanted for your sixteenth birthday, well, that’s not going to happen. Now, since you are united, call Miss Swift and ask her to send you a check.”
As the months stretched into years, the Strawn family flourished financially, finding their footing in the golden land of California. The prospect of permanence hung in the air, and the pull of Texas grew less each year. Johnny’s elder sister, Norma, had begged to remain with one of her aunts to complete her schooling, but destiny had other plans. Completing her education in Fort Worth, she succumbed to the barrage of pleading letters from her mother, who was convinced that her death was only weeks or hours away, but she would try and hold on until her daughter made it to California. Knowing Bertha’s love for dramatics, her aunts consoled Norma and thought it best that she traveled to California and could return if needed. With a small amount of currency in her purse, she embarked on a westward journey with a family bound for Los Angeles, paying for a seat in their car.
After two years of absence from the fold, Norma returned to find her family ensnared in a web of not-so-well-hidden disillusionment. The initial euphoria of their reunion faded, exposing the harsh light of reality. Her father, now a manager, toiled away long hours with little time left for living, while Johnny when not in school, devoted all his time to the members of his string band, Blind Faith. Her mother’s dependence on medicinal elixirs was the worst of it.
Bertha, a dedicated aficionado of her restorative elixirs, consumed multiple weekly bottles. She has a friendly rapport with the local pharmacist, who considers her his best customer and gives her a discount. She would often be found at the kitchen table for most of the day, dosing her tonics and composing lengthy, nonsensical letters to her sisters. By this time, her siblings had come to understand that the words emanated from the pen of a medicinal lunatic. Norma and Johnny acknowledged the necessity of professional intervention for their mother, and, with assistance from Le Petite Fromage and Blind Jelly Roll, they formulated a plan for Bertha to undergo a holistic religious cure under the guidance of Sister Aimee McPherson.
On that Sunday, a vibrant sermon accompanied by half a dozen show tunes with a dazzling chorus line stirred the congregation as Sister Aimee made her return to the pulpit for three thunderous ovations. Following the service, Le Petite Fromage and Johnny, the fiddler, as he is now called, escorted Bertha to the orchestra dressing room, believing her holiness sought to personally meet her and perhaps bestow a signed copy of her latest literary work, “You Can’t Take It With You When You Go So Give It To Me.” Embracing Bertha warmly, Sister Aimee presented her with a signed book before guiding her to a crimson velvet settee that had previously served as Blind Jelly’s salvation vehicle. With hands upon Bertha’s head, she prayed for deliverance from the grip of elixirs and zealous missives to her siblings. Understanding she had been played by her blood kin, Bertha, teeth-gnashing and fist-squeezed white, surrendered and embraced the moment. The healing transpired in a mere ten minutes as Sister Aimee proudly proclaimed the departure of the demons, assuring that all would be splendid by supper time. As she departed the dressing room, a divine fragrance lingered in the air. Blind Jelly Roll spoke up, ” I smells me some Channel No. 1. ” Leave it to a blind bluesman with the senses of nine cats to figure it out.
With the spoke mended in the family wheel, taut and ready for the road, John Henry indulged the family, comprising of Le Petite and Blind Jelly Roll, to a Sunday supper at a restaurant. Their choice fell upon Treasure Island, a pseudo-swanky seafood establishment under the ownership of the actor Wallace Beery. The best restaurants were on the Sunset Boulevard, known as the Strip. The entrance was the front hull of a sailing schooner, complete with a mast and sail. Johnny noticed the address above the door: 77 Sunset Strip: that address would come up again a bit later. Bertha and Le Petite were giddy, anticipating the prospect of encountering Hollywood movie stars savoring fish and chips washed down with a dirty Martini.
While awaiting their meal, James Cagney and his raucous family were seated a few tables away. Clark Gable and Carman Miranda snuggled in a cozy booth, where they indulged in sips of Martini and beer. Le Petite and Bertha were in a state of apoplexy. Carman Miranda made her way to the lady’s room, passing their table. Pancho Villa sat upon Blind Jelly’s lap, nibbling on a saltine. As the movie star strolled by, she took notice of Pancho and remarked on the adorable little doggie. When she reached out to pet Pancho, she received a vicious bite that tore off the long middle fingernail from her left hand’s digit. Stunned by the sudden attack, she yelled, “Get that little demon dog out of here!” Pancho and Blind Jelly concluded their meal in the comfort of Strawn’s car.
If you missed Chapter 9, click the link below for more amusement.
Tonight, I discovered that my pitching arm doesn’t work anymore. Listening to the debate, I couldn’t tell who deserved my ire. Trump could have done better, and Harris surely had the questions, possibly weeks in advance, so it wasn’t really a debate but a corrugated yuk-yuk party. I started scanning my den for objects to hurl at my flat screen. My Dallas Cowboys honorary brick would go through the set and possibly the wall, so that was out. Maybe a vinyl record album, but then I like them too much. A music CD, nope, I like them too. Maybe a sandal, nope, might ruin the footwear. So I threw an old Texas Highways magazine, and it bounced off: no power in my throwing arm anymore. Trump did bring up the Haitians eating people’s pets, which got a yuk from the moderators, but folks, that is true. I read that one Ohio grandmother watched a hungry Haitian eat her little Yorkie while she still held the leash. Haitians have a new dish, Kitty Tacos, which we’ve likely eaten before if you lived in Texas. I can’t take any more politics, so this will be my last post about the subject. Chapter 10 on Wagons Ho to California is about in the can, so stay tuned for that. May the force be with you…well, maybe not; Luke Skywalker likes Harris. Why did he have to go and ruin my Star Wars memories?
Notes From The Cactus Patch 