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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 