Month: April 2025

Posted on

Who Needs A Doctor When You Have the Farmers Almanac


I have been reading the revered Farmer’s Almanac for the past six months, and it’s surprising how accurate and sometimes inaccurate it can be.

The Almanac and I go back a long way. My Grandparents introduced me to the book when I was six years old and spent summers on their Texas farm trying to convert myself from a city slicker to a country boy. They were firm believers in the power of its predictions, although they were let down more than a few times.

This fine morning, as I drink a cup of java and read the pages, it tells me the summer in this part of Texas is forecast to be cooler and wetter than average. I knew it to be BS the moment I read it. No summer in Texas is cooler and wetter. Every day is a mix of misery and suffering, topped off with biting and stinging bugs. We are the land of burn-your-ass-off heat, and everything planted or growing wild turns brown and shrivels away by August; the bugs are with us until the first freeze. It was a bit wetter in July, but the temperatures are still around 95 degrees, making you feel wrapped in a hot, wet towel and sitting in the devil’s sauna. Unfortunately, they missed that forecast by a few hundred miles.

There is no mention of the Corona Virus and all the hoopla that came with it. So, how did the staff at the Almanac not know about this bug?

Back when the Farmers Almanac was in its heyday, rural folks depended on it for farming, ranching, and day-to-day living. The book was also full of home remedies, potions, poultices, plants, and hocus-pocus to treat their maladies. Unfortunately, doctors were few, and most families lived their lives without seeing one. As a result, most country folks were born at home and also died there.

The Almanac takes great pride in “do it yourself” folk remedies and contains dozens of them, along with questionable ads for elixirs, oils, good luck charms, H’aint Bags, and voodoo dolls. Grandmother used them all. I knew if I became ill while at the farm, all of these would be administered. My Grandfather was strangely healthy for his age. He knew better than to get sick around his wife. If he was ill, no one knew it.

It was bound to happen. In the summer of 1956, I am spending my summer on the farm. Fever and chills arrive during the night. My temperature is off the charts, and I am shaking like a hound dog passing a peach pit. Grandmother calls in her friend down the road, Mrs. Ellis, for a second opinion. The two-country alienists stand at the foot of my deathbed in deep consultation.

It is decided. I will receive the complete treatment reserved for the rare “Raccoon Flu” and possible “demonic possession.” Treatment will commence immediately.

The two women dragged me from my sickbed and thrust my aching body into a cold water bath for an hour. Grandmother gives me two doses of salts, three teaspoons of “Reverend Moses Triple Strength Root Tonic,” and a double-dog dose of “Dr. Sal’s Really Good Opioid Extract.” Then, my shivering torso is coated with “Sister Amy’s Pure And Blessed Olive Oil” from the banks of the River Jordan. Next, I am wrapped like a mummy in a white cotton blanket; a mustard poultice is glued to my chest, and a burlap bag of foul-smelling something is tied around my neck. They place me in bed, covering me with 6 quilts, and two speckled hens are brought in to sleep in my room overnight. Grandmother says I will be well by breakfast. At this point, I am praying for death during my sleep.

Dawn brings a cool breeze into my sick room, and I am awakened by one of the spotted hens sitting on my chest. She is clucking softly as if to say, “it’s time to get up; you’re well now.” I realize the hen is right; I feel like a new kid. No fever or chills, and I am hungry for a fat biscuit and my Granny’s country gravy.

I follow the two hens down the hallway into the kitchen. Grandfather sits at the breakfast table, reading the Almanac. Without looking up, he exclaims, ” going to rain today, The Almanac says around noon.” The last rain the farm had was over a month ago; what does the stupid book know.

Granny tells me to take the two-spotted hens outside and feed a big handful of laying mash because the Almanac said mottled hens will have an excellent laying week. She doesn’t ask how I feel; she knows her hocus pocus worked.

I head back to the farmhouse for noon dinner after spending the morning building Horned Toad houses out of pebbles and sticks. We sit at the kitchen table, munching on fried chicken, when a loud clap of thunder shakes the house. Granddad, without looking up, says, “Yep.”

Posted on

Ask A Texan 4.23.25


A brand-spankin-new series for folks that want to know what a Texan thinks

The Texan

Mr. Bromide S. Eltzer from Arizona sent me an email.

Q: Mr. Texan, my wife and little girl have taken over my stereo Hi-Fi setup. They play the same Taylor Swift album all day long and it’s driving me to drink, and I’m losing my faith in humanity. Do you have any thoughts on how to handle this situation?

Texan: First off, Mr. Bromide, Taylor Swift’s music is not real music; it’s a cartoon soundtrack. I can see your little one getting hooked on this nonsense, but your wife is another can of fishing worms. Are you drinking beer or whiskey? The quality of hooch does make a difference in how this stuff effects you. I prefer Redneck Riviera Whiskey out of Nashville, give that a try. Go find some good vinyl records by Creedence, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash, and when they’re not hogging your turntable, tie them up with some good rope from the Home Depot, and make them listen to some real music. If that don’t work, invest in a nice Bass boat and start spending time on the lake or river. If that doesn’t restore your faith, say a prayer to Saint Willie, and eat three Whataburgers, my son.

Posted on

The Challenges of Surfing at 72: A Personal Story


I wrote this recount a few years back and figured it might need a little sunlight shined on it.

We’ve been on North Padre Island for the past few days, visiting my son and his family. I’ll be 72 on the 17th and figured I owe myself a bucket list item: surfing one more time.

Wes, my son, also a surfer, was accommodating and borrowed a new, all-foam board that he thought I could handle. My grandson has a much shorter board because he is 8. The beach at Padre Island was the most crowded mess I have ever witnessed. Granted, the last time I was on a Texas beach on Labor day was in the mid-90s, and that was at Port Aransas. This was beyond stupid. Thousands of people parking their cars near the water, getting stuck in the sand, hogging any sliver of a spot to reach the water. After searching for an hour, Wes found a small opening and managed to squeeze his truck into the slot.

Beach chairs are unloaded, cooler and surfboards ready, so my grandson and I grab our boards and wade into the surf. As it turns out, the surf today was terrible. Slushy with no good form. We struggled to find a decent wave.

I paddled through the shore break past the first sand bar and tried to sit on my board. Nope, that wasn’t happening. I needed a real fiberglass and foam board. I took off on a wave and couldn’t stand up: nope, that neither. The head injury from two years ago is most likely the culprit. No balance and no equilibrium, and less good sense. Being 72 didn’t help my quest. I was a good surfer in the 60s and 70s, and I figured it was something that couldn’t be forgotten. Wrong on my part. The defeat was at hand, and I took it willingly.

Humility hung on me like my wet tee-shirt. I slow walked it back to the beach. I laid the board down and told my wife, Momo, that I could scratch this one off the bucket list. Sometimes your memories are bigger than your brain.

Posted on

The Kindness of Strangers: My Encounter with a Hobo


The current image has no alternative text. The file name is: create-a-highly-detailed-high-resolution-image-depicting-an-old-black.png

I wrote this story in 2021. It’s a real-life encounter near my Grandmother’s farm in Santa Anna, Texas: I was seven years old.

I was told not to go near the railroad tracks or the bridge over them; Hobo’s lived there. My Grandmother warned me daily of the consequences, which were all bad. Scary men, vagrants with no home and no family, they were just there, alone, living their life as best they could. I was seven years old and unafraid.

The dirt road along the tracks took me past Mrs. Ellis’s shack of a home. She didn’t live much better than the Hobo’s, but she had a home, a warm dry bed, chickens, and a dog, so she was poor but stable. She waved as I walked by, and then, as I got a few yards past, she took off to my grandmother’s farmhouse to tattle on me. I knew I was in trouble even before I got to the bridge. I considered turning back, but no, I needed to see this through.

As I got closer to the bridge, I could see there was a lone figure sitting on a bucket next to a campfire. I was puzzled because Granny always said there were dozens of those evil men under the bridge. Now, there was only one, and he appeared to be old and not much of a threat, sitting on his bucket cooking a can of something in the campfire. I approached him but with caution and a bit of fear. The Hobo waved me over. He was an old black man with hair as white as south Texas cotton. His clothes, mostly rags, hung on his frail frame; he resembled the scarecrow in my Papa’s garden. Next to him was a Calico cat, curled up in an old felt hat, purring and licking its paw. In the fire was a can of pork and beans cooking on a flat rock and bubbling like a witch’s brew. I sat crossed-legged on the dirt next to him.

” Does your Granny know you are here?” he asked.

” No sir, she don’t know, and I’m in a heap of trouble.” said I.

He smiled at me and said, ” It’ll all be good, your Granny knows old Bebe. I used to do odd jobs for her and your Papa and she paid me good and always fed me her heavenly biscuits and gravy. She is a wonderful lady, your Granny.” I couldn’t disagree with that, so I smiled back.

He took a worn-out spoon, heaped a large serving of beans into a dirty tin cup, and handed it to me. I was hungry. We ate our dinner together without talking. He gave the cat a spoonful of his beans. It was then that I noticed he had given me most of the can, and left little for himself. This old Hobo is living under a bridge with hardly any food and nothing of value to his name, except maybe the Calico cat, which he shared with a stranger, possibly his one meal of the day. In the mind of a seven-year-old, this seemed normal.

Bebe told me a little about his life and how he came to be a Hobo. I shared what little life experience I had accumulated up to that point. We laughed a little, and then he said I had better head back to the farm. We shook hands; I scratched the cat and walked down the road towards a switching I knew was coming.

My Granny took my explanation well. There was no switching my butt this time and no dressing down. As I walked through the screen door and headed for the barnyard, she said, “Sometimes the folks who have the least share the most. Remember that.” I have.


Posted on

Our Neighborhood Wizard


“We got ourselves into so much trouble that our Mothers would take shifts whooping everyone’s butt just to give the other moms spanking arm a break.” It was 1956, and that’s how it was for my neighborhood pals and me.

Summer was our best and our worst season because there was more playtime outside, increasing the opportunity to get ourselves into predicaments that never ended well. Our moms didn’t buy into that “Dr. Spock crap.” I would bet that none of the moms in my neighborhood ever heard of that weirdo. There was no negotiating out of corporal punishment, and trophies were non-existent.

My neighbor, Mr. Mister, was the neighborhood scientist and inventor; our very own Mr. Wizard. Not the dweeb on television, but a real-life mad scientist with a movie star wife.

We kids would spend our weekends sitting underneath his Mimosa tree, watching him build his oddball inventions in his garage that doubled as his laboratory. Looking back, he was more a “mad scientist” than an inventor. The only thing missing was the Frankenstein monster lumbering out of his garage.

Mrs. Mister, his Hollywood-looking wife, would keep a steady supply of cold Kool-Aid and cookies flowing. She closely resembled the movie star Jane Mansfield but could bake a cookie-like Betty Crocker. Always with a frosty martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she was the dream Mom none of us had. No butt whooping’s around the Mister household, no matter what we said or did. So we were free to be our feral selves.

Some of Mr. Misters’ inventions were downright crazy. My two favorites were his motorized and drivable charcoal griller and the half-size rocket that took Fred and Ginger, his wife’s twin poodles, into the stratosphere, returning the two. “Dog-o-nauts” small space capsule safely to earth; via an Army surplus parachute.

After the spectacular launch, which also torched the Misters’ back yard and part of their garage, Mr. Mister was paid a visit by the F.B.I. and the Air Force. Who in the world knew it was a national security violation to build and launch a solid-fuel rocket from your backyard?

That incident caused Mrs. Mister to suffer a minor breakdown, so no more using the pooches.

As in most neighborhoods, there are disagreements with other groups of kids. A gang of mean and nasty punks lived across the railroad tracks from us. They were older, bigger, and made our lives miserable. We called them “The Hard Guy’s.” A few of them carried switch-blade knives that had been smuggled in from Mexico.
We all attended the same elementary school and suffered their daily attacks during the school year; now, they were sneaking into our neighborhood, cutting our bicycle tires with their switchblades, egging our houses, and stealing our goodies. So we devised a plan to get even, and of course, it involved our hero and mentor, Mr. Mister.

Mr. Mister said that he had experienced a similar gang of kids growing up in East Los Angeles. So he suggested a way to retaliate using every kid’s favorite firecracker, “Cherry Bombs,” delivered by an ancient invention called the catapult. Wow! what a guy. With his help, we built a small wagon-mounted catapult in a few hours. It was a beaut. He donated a shoebox full of the little bombs for the cause.

The first Cherry Bomb we launched from the weapon went 50 ft and exploded; not enough weight. So Georgie suggested putting a Cherry Bomb inside a sidewalk biscuit, like the ones his sister and her friends make.

For the folks that didn’t grow up in the 50s, the “sidewalk biscuit” is purely a kid invention native to Texas. It’s made by putting a large glob of dough on a red-hot 250-degree sidewalk and letting the heat do the rest.

We stuffed a Cherry Bomb into a fist-size glob of dough and placed it on my front sidewalk. Within an hour, we had our weapon of mass destruction. The hot concrete produced a biscuit-bomb the size of a grapefruit with a beautiful golden crust. Georgie tried to eat one and chipped a tooth.

The test shoot was a success; the biscuit bomb flew about 100 yards and exploded as it hit the ground; perfect. We were ready for revenge. Mr. Mister beamed like a proud Father.

Word in the neighborhood was that Chucky, the leader of the “Hard Guys,” was having a backyard birthday party, and his gang of hoodlums and their families would be attending. Unfortunately, we also learned that a few of our neighborhood girls would be there, which made them traitors to the cause. We tried to warn them without revealing our battle plan, but, oh well, they will be sorry when the crap hits the fan.

At dusk, our small group of commandos, wearing our best Army surplus helmets and packs, pushed the catapult to the edge of the railroad tracks. The party was in full gear, Elvis was on the record player, parents were dancing, kids were yelling, and a clown was making balloon animals; we could smell the hamburgers cooking, reminding us that it was supper time.

Skipper, our math wiz-kid, calculated the trajectory and distance with his father’s slide rule. Georgie loaded the “Biscuit Bomb” into the catapult pouch and then pulled a can of Ronson lighter fluid from his pack and doused the weapon. Countdown from five to one, I lit the fuse and the soaked bomb and pulled the release lever.

The “Flying Burning Biscuit Bomb” sailed high and long, leaving a trail of black smoke and flames as it soared toward its target. We gasped in awe at the beauty of our weapon.

The first biscuit bomb bounced once, landed on the charcoal grill, and exploded. The adults sitting nearby were coated in charcoal-broiled hamburger patties, weenies, and biscuit chunks. A piece of hot charcoal set Chucky’s mom’s beehive hair-do on fire, and his father wasted two cold Schlitz beers dousing the flaming mess.

The second “biscuit bomb” blew up “Squiggles The Clown’s” prize table, sending balloon animals, Captain Kangaroo penny-whistles, and birthday cupcakes in all directions. It was pure pandemonium at the party place.

The third bomb was a dud. We were in the process of loading a fourth when the “Hard Guys” came running towards us, followed by their fathers. We had no plan of retreat, no “plan B.” So we did what any commando would do; dropped our gear and ran like hell towards Mr. Mister’s back fence. Reaching the fence, we vaulted into the backyard and to safety.

Mr. Mister knew the attack was a bust, and he gathered us around the Mimosa tree. Mrs. Mister gave us a cold glass of Kool-Aid to calm us.

The “Hard Guys” and their fathers stood at the back fence yelling obscenities. Naturally, this didn’t go over well with Mr. Mister, so he walked to the back fence and addressed the lynch mob.

Mr. Mister didn’t sound like himself. His voice was deep and foreboding as he spoke to the group. ” Millard Mister here, Colonel, U.S. Air Force, this is my wife, Captain Jane Mister, U.S. Air Force, is there a problem here gentlemen?” The fathers jerked to attention, eyes forward. This sounded serious.

Chuckies father explained the scenario. Mr. Mister replied, ” I am aware of the operation and why it took place.” He then explained to the fathers all the havoc their sons were creating in our neighborhood. The gang of hoodlums realizing the jig was up, took off running for their homes, angry fathers right behind them. We had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

Mr. Mister turned, gave us a salute, and said, “job well done men.” Three kids stood as tall as nature would allow and returned his salute.

The rest of the summer was great for us, and Mr. Mister invented the first Air-conditioned Riding Lawnmower.


Posted on

Burying a Laptop: A Friend’s Unique Farewell


Old Pal Mooch called this morning asking me if I would help him bury something. Mooch is not a sentimental guy, so I was a bit taken back with his request. He didn’t say who are what it was, or what happened. I immediately assumed it was his old Chihuahua, “Giblet.” He said he would pick me up in ten-minuets.

As I opened the passenger side of the pick-up truck, I noticed a tarp with something underneath, and a shovel laying in the bed. There was also a gas can. We drove in silence for a few miles then turned on a dirt road and onto some federal land.

Mooch found a spot by a large Oak tree and dug a nice little hole, about large enough for a small dog. He then retrieved the tarp and laid it on the ground next to the grave.

When he jerked back the tarp, I expected to see the remains of his beloved dog, but instead, there was his new Apple laptop that his wife had given him for a birthday present. He quickly pushed it into the hole, poured gas on the machine and threw in a match. The fire did it’s work in less than a minute. I was too stunned to say much about what I had witnessed so I let Mooch do the talking.

“I paid nearly two grand for that sorry piece of plastic and I turn it on this morning and get Error 19. Sum-bitch, the darn laptop has the COVID-19 Virus so here we are burning it just like they did when the plague was killing those folks in Europe” he says.

It was best to just remain quiet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a computer error, not a virus.

Posted on

No Rain…No Rain…


Read this morning that Woodstock will be back for another encore. It’s been fifty-six years since half a million young people sat in a pasture, listening to rock music, believing they had changed the world. It was revisited in the 90s and was a miserable mess, even without the rain and mud. Some things should be remembered for what they were and leave it at that. But possibly, this 56-year reboot could be a winner.

Imagine if some of the original musicians returned, and they might if asked. It would be worth the ticket cost to see Stills, Nash, and Young wheeze through a set. They could set a full size cardboard figure of Crosby next to them, since he has gone to Nirvana. Melanie could ride her little scooter onstage and croak through a few tunes. Country Joe and the Fish could do the Vietnam song again, and Joni Mitchell might even make the gig this time. John Fogarty will be born on the bayou again. Of course, Hendrix, Janice Joplin, and the mighty Joe Cocker have checked out, so Santana must fill that void. John Sebastian and Arlo Guthrie could do their hippie single-guitar thing and say “wow” a few hundred times. Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm could run the concessions.

I’m sure the rest of the lineup will consist of current stars. Rappers, dancers, acrobats, and singers fly through the air or take the stage via a zip line suspended from a cell phone tower a mile away. It’s not about talent these days. It’s all, “look at me” and auto-tune. Katy Perry can fly in on a Game of Thrones dragon while lip-singing any of her forgettable songs. Courtney Hadwin, the fiery young reincarnation of Janice Joplin, will probably steal the show. Greta Van Fleet will wow the crowd with their spot-on imitation of Zeppelin. Wonder how that will turn out since Robert Plant will be performing?

I attended the 1969 Texas International Pop Festival and saw most of the acts at Woodstock a few weeks later, so I can say, “been there and seen it all.” It will be fitting for the old-timers to show the young fans how it used to be. ” No rain-No rain.”


Posted on

Finding My Voice Through Tall Tales and Truths


Over the years, I’ve spotlighted the storytelling skills of my two late Uncles, Jay and Bill. They remain in good standing and are the best liars and yarn spinners I have met. Each could have been as popular as Will Rogers, but they chose the farmhouse porch as their stage, shunning the spotlight and life as a celebrity.

Around the age of nine, I was convinced that the spirit of Mark Twain had somehow entered my body, and my destiny was one he had lived. My teacher, an older woman of little patience, was convinced that I was dropped on my head during infancy, which led to my outlandish literary behavior. She couldn’t see that I was destined to be a writer of some importance. Mathematics was a mystery I loathed, but I perked up when the curriculum came around to History and English. To me, everything became a story and originated from my grandparents’ farm, my extended street-rat crazy family, or neighborhood antics, and included made-up tales of ridiculous origins. Mrs. Badger, ever the suffering teacher, labeled me an insufferable pathological liar and called my mother in for the dreaded parental meeting, which included my school’s principal, who sat with a wicked wooden paddle in his lap, poised to administer punishment. Mother handled it well until we reached home. There was no butt whooping, but she did corner me in the kitchen, put her face nose to nose with mine and in a seething saliva spewing accusation said,

“You are one of them..my loathsome, worthless brothers have ruined you: I forbid you to associate with them, ever again.” She was right, they had, and I wore that tawdry badge proudly. All those nights sitting on the farmhouse front porch listening to their beer-infused tall tales, yarns, and lies formed me. I was spoiled, but happy goods. My family lacked the foresight needed to distinguish a liar from written fiction. My Aunt Norma, a tarnished angel, is the gal who taught me to read, write, and imagine. She understood my affliction.

Posted on

Whataburger: The True Texas Burger Experience


Death By Burger. Photo by Ronald McDonald

In Texas, if you want a hamburger, you go to one place: “Whataburger”. Born in Corpus Christi in 1950, it is the homegrown holy grail of burger joints. Always fresh cooked to your order with all the fixins’. It is a redneck culinary delight. Sure, we have other boys popping up on prime real estate. “In And Out,” and “Five Guys” are a bunch of West Coast flakes trying to sneak in here and contaminate our burger pool. Cute little paper-wrapped sandwiches you eat with one pinky finger sticking out like you’re drinking a glass of Chardonnay at a movie star pool party. I would like to see Spielberg try to eat a Whataburger.

I whipped into my local orange and white Whataburger here in Granbury yesterday for my monthly fix: a burger, fries, and a Dr Pepper made to my order.

The voice from the speaker said, ” would you like to try our number 4?”

I replied, “no mam, just a Whataburger meal number 1 with fries and a small Dr Pepper, hold the onions and add two spicy ketchup’s.”

A few moments ticked by, the voice says, ” Sir, the meal comes with a large drink.”

Not trying to be difficult, well maybe just a bit, I say,” Yes, I know that, but that is too much liquid and my old bladder is smaller now, so I can only handle a small Dr Pepper or I will wet my jeans. I will pay for the large drink, but make it a small.”

Now the voice from the speaker is getting testy,” Sir, it comes with a large drink, and you have to take the large drink, that’s what has to happen.”

I pull up to the pick-up window for my meal. The lady opens the window and thrusts a large drink into my hand.

I hand the drink back to her, and she shoves it back to me. I set it on the ledge and said,

” I will pay for the large Dr Pepper, but I want a small drink. Just make the substitution, and I will be on my way.”

She is clearly shaken and bug-eyed. She leaves, and in a few seconds, the manager appears at the window.

“Sir, you have to take the large drink, that’s the way it is. Our kitchen is in turmoil now because you changed the Number 1 meal.”

“Tell you what Bub, take the Dr Pepper back, and give me a small Dr Pepper shake with chocolate ice-cream instead of the Dr Pepper drink,” I say.

Now the crap is really hitting the fan. The window lady, standing behind the manager, is leaning against the counter, weeping. The manager looks like he got goosed by a cattle prod, and the kitchen is in a tither.

After a few minutes, the vehicles behind me began to honk. The guy in the pick-up truck directly behind me takes his shotgun off the gun rack and chambers a shell. Texans take their burgers seriously, and this is about to get nasty. There is nothing scarier than armed men in pick-ups having low blood sugar because they can’t get their feed bag.

The window opens again, and the manager tosses me my burger meal, a large and a small Dr Pepper, and a small Dr Pepper shake. He also gives me a gift card for twenty dollars, a Whataburger COVID-19 mask, and a coupon for 30 days of free Whataburgers. ” No charge, and have a nice day,” he says.

Posted on

The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

Preacher Little, to the left, addresses his small congregation with a firm reminder that the sky is not a-falling and that it’s high time they get a grip on the wild ride we call life. An hour later, a raucous band of Fire Ants laid siege to the squishy Peeps, and thus, the service came to an untimely end. My wise old Grandfather, or maybe it was an old-man neighbor, once opined, “Son, you can’t go traipsing about with your head aimed at the clouds, waiting for a disaster to drop from the sky. Best keep your eyes peeled to the ground, lest you unwittingly find yourself knee-deep in a nest of Fire Ants.”