Day: April 1, 2025

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Sundays, Beer, and Life Lessons from the Grocery Store


My Veteran

I wrote this story in 2012 when I first entered the blogging world and the Cactus Patch. Long forgotten, I ran across it this morning and felt it needed a re-tread. You meet some nice folks at your local grocery store, and it’s a good place to learn about life.

Sunday, the Sabbath, the seventh day of creation, is a time for rest and reflection. For more than fifty years, I have believed and found no fault with any of those holy descriptions.

Religious quotes take on different meanings over the years, and these days, if you took to the street and stopped any male between the ages of 18 and 30, and posed the question, What did God accomplish on the seventh day? Without missing a beat, his answer would probably be that he created football- what else? I can’t disagree with that. Historically speaking, it’s plausible that a few thousand years ago, on some vacant lot in Jerusalem, a group of kids were tossing around an inflated camel bladder. That is, until their mothers made them cease the silly game, afraid that they would break their little necks. With that ancient parental declaration, the game ceased and was lost to mankind until sometime in the late 19th century. It makes a man wonder what else was lost.

A few Sundays ago, I invited a couple of buddies over to watch the big game, Dallas against the Eagles.  Father Frank, our benevolent and supportive priest at ” Our Lady of Perpetual Repentance”,  gave most of the men an early discharge from mass so we could make it home for the kickoff. Quietly, the men filed out of the chapel, exiting to feminine hisses of ” blasphemer, sinners”. As I departed, my lovely wife, Momo, offered me a lip-quivering snarl. I thought it best not to point out that she had a piece of her breakfast bagel stuck between her front teeth.

Arriving home, I warmed up the flat screen and headed for the kitchen. I opened the fridge, but there was no beer. I went to the pantry, no chips, no bean dip, no nothing. I panicked. One hour to kickoff. I made it to the H-E-B grocery in record time.

I found the store overrun with packs of wandering males, lost and searching for the items on their list.

The chip aisle was a mosh pit—the dip cabinet was empty, and there was one frozen pizza left. “It‘s mine,” I yelled. Frantically, I headed for the beer section. The bodies were five deep, grabbing anything cold and alcoholic. I waded into the melee.

Beside me was an old gentleman, who looked to be in his nineties, in tow to a shriveled up wife of about the same age. He reached into the cooler and pulled out a six-pack of his favorite brew and placed it in their cart, next to the frozen dinners and the case of Metamucil. His wife, aghast, announced, “You know we can’t afford that on your pension, put it right back, now!” The old man offered a weak defense, ” It’s only a six pack and you know I have to have my beer when I watch my Cowboys”. Not to be. She stared him down, and he returned the treasure.

I noticed he wore an ancient Don Meredith jersey and a ball cap with a veterans patch, Airborne, it read, WWII, the real boys- boots on the ground after falling a mile- a soldier’s soldier, tough as boiled leather.

Do you know that feeling when something needs to be said but you can’t spit it out?

I wanted to blurt out,  “Don’t let that dried-up old Battle Axe take away your beer. Damn, you fought on the beaches and the fields of France, you killed Nazis, dodged bullets with your name on them, thumbed your nose at the Third Reich and Mussolini. You held your mortally wounded buddies as they drew their last breath, calling for their mother, as they started their journey home. You deserve to have your beer, tell the old Battle Axe to take a hike”.  I couldn’t say it. It would have made no difference, so I grabbed my beer and moved on. I watched them as they shuffled down the aisle, he slowly pushing the cart, she berating.

I needed some shampoo, so I made my way over to that aisle. There, in front of the beauty lotions, stood the old couple. Ms. Battle Axe was tossing bottles of creams, lotions, and astringents into their cart like a conveyor belt, and it seemed that their pension covered those items.

As I neared their cart, the old man, with perfect timing pipes up, ” you know we can’t afford all those expensive lotions on my pension, put that crap back!”

Battle Axe wheels around on her snow white Rockport walking shoe and fired back,” I need these things to make me look beautiful for you .”

The old veteran squinted his eyes, snarled his lip, and said, “Yeah, well, a six-pack of beer accomplishes the same thing, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.”

Everyone on the isle witnessed their exchange. Their chuckles, impossible to stifle. Embarrassed, the old couple, with crimson faces aglow, retreated down the aisle.

I caught up with them and offered my hand to the feisty old fellow. He shook my hand and gracefully accepted my impromptu, sputtering speech of appreciation for his service. My words finally exhausted, he looked me in the eye, winked, and gave my hand one last shake, squeezing my fingers like a small vice. We both smiled.

Without hesitation, I took my case of beer, stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in the cardboard, and dropped it into their cart.

Battle Axe said, “He doesn’t need that”.

In my most polite and official manner,  I  replied,

” It’s compliments of the  Dallas Cowboys, Mam”, and with that, I turned and walked away.

The old veteran yelled out, ” Sonny boy, hey son”

As I turned to face him, he raised a gnarled old fist and yelled, ” Go Cowboys!”. I returned the salute and continued on my way.

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A Grandfather’s War Stories: Realities Beyond Hollywood


Honor And Duty In 1918

I wrote this back in 2020; hope you enjoy.

My grandfather, in 1917-18, served in the Army and the war to end all wars: World War 1. He fought in the mud and bacteria filled trenches in France: wounded twice and gassed once. He killed Germans in close hand to hand combat with a bayonet and a knife, never forgetting the look on the faces. He lost friends in vicious battles. There was no time to grieve or pay respects. That would come later in life.

Looking back through my childhood relationship with him, he likely suffered from what we now call PTSD. My Grandmother said he was a different man after that war, and at times, not a good one.

He refused to talk about the fighting and killing until I was around ten-years-old, and he was dying from Lymphoma cancer. His doctors at the VA Hospital said it was caused by the gassing he received in the war. He knew that I might someday go to war, so he wanted to let me know it was not like the movies.

We sat for a many hours one afternoon a few weeks before his passing. His descriptions of battle and the things he had done for his own survival was beyond anything I could imagine. I was young, and war to me was black and white movies. James Cagney in “The Fighting 69th,” or John Wayne and a host of others playing army, like my neighborhood friends and I did. No one really died, and when shot, there was no blood or screaming.

The last few days of his life were spent in and out of reality, reliving those battles as he lay in a veteran’s hospital in Dallas. My father, a veteran himself, was the recipient of my grandfathers last horrors. Those days my father sat by his bed, listening to the nightmare his father had carried for all those years, had a profound effect on him.

John Henry Strawn made sure I knew what real honor and duty were about. It followed him for a lifetime.