Being a native Texan is a damn challenge, and not every one of us can pull it off without a series of small nervous breakdowns, panic attacks, and, of course, a few bottles of coldbeer (it’s considered a form of cultural blasphemy to pronounce it as two words in Texas). So, we tend to meld our words into one; it makes it easier to speak without sounding like a high roller walking around in high cotton. We do have our own language down here in the Lone Star State.
I consider writing my job now, perhaps my trade. So far, I’ve not made a nickel for any of my literature, possibly because it’s about Texas, my childhood, country music, and all the characters I’ve met along my journey on the lone prairie. There is a book of short stories in the works, but an addled mind has a problem picking out twenty of the four hundred I’ve written over the decades.
Gardening was a passion for a while; I became a master gardener and imagined my landscape to equal George Harrison’s Friar Park or Martha Stewart’s backyard. It’s too hot in this part of Texas to keep anything alive, so all of my plants are expiring, begging for me to put them out of their misery. I had a small service for two purple Salvias this morning, and last night, I saw another Rat at our bird feeder. Momo would cook for the little Avians every morning if I didn’t stop her.
Music would be my other pursuit of happiness. Still, I mostley play with our church band, which is primaraly worship songs: ain’t no Amie, The Weight, or Like A Rolling Stone getting played in the sanctuarary, even though we have the intrumentation to pull it off, and some of the musicians actually can play that type of music, mostley myself since I am the oldest old codger on stage and the rest of the bunch is in their 40s, and that leaves me as the “old relic from another era, the Woodstock generation, that played Hendrix and The Band, and tried to change the world, but failed miserably and had to go back home with our collective tails between our legs. Our parents laughed, “See, you stupid ass, we told you so.” They were half-right.
My main interest now is Mandolin: bluegrass, jazz, country, the music played by Ricky Skaggs, Sierra Hull, Mike Marshall, Sam Bush, Molly Tuttle, and Billy Strings, and of course Bill Monroe.
When I was a wee child, maybe five, my father brought home a tater-bug mandolin, likely given to him by a musician friend. I learned four or five two-finger chords, and then grew bored with the instrument: Cartoons were more interesting. My father was a professional country fiddle player, so he should have whooped my butt and made me stick with it, but my mother intervened. One musician in the home was more than enough. Now, that I’m older and bored with the guitar I’ve been playing since the age of twelve, I’ve gone back to the Mandolin and fiddle. I’m much too far down that rabbit hole to stop, and Momo, my wife, says it’s the only thing, except a trunk full of medications, keeping me alive: she is always right. If I stopped playing, within twenty-four hours I would assume room temperature and the paramedics would have to bag me and haul me away. So, I keep playing and writing. It’s a vicious circle, one that I created for myself. There is no escape, and I can’t take it with me when I go, and neither can any of you reading this. Everything stays here except your new suit and no shoes.
We are taking a road trip to Mount Rushmore in September, and I hope that seeing those big faces, Custer’s Last Stand, and maybe Yellowstone will revive us and add a few more years on our punch card. I plan to watch Not by Northwest before we go, so I can see how I could climb on Teddy Roosevelt’s nose and not fall off. I also have plans to run with the Bison, which is the newest form of self-destructive dopamine hits that old folks do these days. I’ve always wanted to pet a Buffalo, or a wolf, so this will be my chance.
I’m no travel writer or influencer, so don’t expect anything spectacular or even interesting when we return. I may do a Podcast full of rants, but that would be it. God Bless the Alamo and Texas.
The Texan
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(1) Momo is your prairie home companion.
(2) What do you call a mandolin for women?
(3) “It’s too hot in this part of Texas to keep anything alive.” You don’t often hear someone shouting, “It’s alive!” in the backyard of a private residence here in Las Vegas.
(4) “Our parents laughed, ‘See, you stupid ass, we told you so.’ They were half-right.”
People sometimes pursue half-assed dreams. And when those dreams fail to materialize, they often complain, “Ooh! that smarts!”
(5) Back in 1995, before moving to Las Vegas, my father and I went on a camping trip to the Bridger-Teton National Forest. On the way back, we drove through Yellowstone National Park (and witnessed an eruption of Old Faithful), toured the Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, stopped at Devils Tower to look for alien spacecraft, visited Mount Rushmore (but refrained from rock scrambling), and threaded our way through the Badlands.
NOTE: Perhaps you could publish several collections of short stories, where the stories are gathered thematically.
All points taken. Good idea about the short stories. I guess it would be a woman-a-lin, or like Joni Mitchell, a Dulcimer. I’ve lived in Las Vegas; it’s even worse than here, but it’s a dry heat. Right? We plan to visit Devils Tower and see if we can find Richard Dryfuss or any remnants of spacecraft. Not sure if this is true, but I read that the Grizzly Bears are easier to feed and pet than the Bison… we’ll see.
I forgot to add that Granbury is much like Lake Wobegon, except we don’t have a Bob’s Pretty Good Grocery Store, and Momo is far better looking than Garrison Keillor.
I know you’ll have a wonderful trip, Phil, we’ve been to see the presidents a few times, and the Crazy Horse memorial is also worth a stop. There are so many things to see and do in that area and the stories you share with us about your adventures will be far from boring, both because you “will” have adventures and because of your colourful writing style. One tip: whatever you do, do NOT get close enough to bison to pet one.
Thanks for the forewarning, Terry. It’s enticing to want to do that, but I can’t run as fast as I used to, like Hemingway said, ” You have to be faster than that damn thousand-pound Bull trying to run you down.” That ain’t me anymore. I’ll stick with petting a Grizzley.
We have long time friends who own a bison ranch near here, Phil. One day a few years ago, I asked David (the owner) if I could go out and get a few photos of the big brutes. His advice … “take a long zoom lens and don’t get anywhere near them, because they can attack you on a notion, and completely unprovoked.” I’ve never forgotten that advice, Phil.
Folks forget they are darn wild, big and have a mean streak. We have many of them in West Texas thanks to Charles Goodnight and his wife. I plan some photos, but if I want to pet a park animal, it will likely be Yoggi or BooBoo.
Whew!
I’ve played mandolin just enough to be dangerous years ago…I haven’t touched one in a while. Have a great time at Mount Rushmore…I’ve read where it’s smaller looking than you think by pictures…don’t know if it’s true. “See, you stupid ass, we told you so.” I heard that before!
Passions take us everywhere…now mine are ships but next month? Who knows? Thanks for the post Phil!
Thanks, Max. I’m also going to find that house in North By Northwest. Yep, that little beast is keeping me going.
Oh cool! Good luck with the house. I love that movie…
According to the internet, the Vandamm house was not an actual house, but rather a movie set that was built in Culver City, CA. Exterior shots of the house involved matte paintings. So you’ll find a wild goose before you’ll find that house. (And, by the way, I’ve seen Northwest by Northwest many times. Great film!)
Now, I’m bummed out. That was the ultimate MSM house. I saw the Psycho house on the Universal lot and was not impressed. It was built-in three-quarter scale. I’m still climbing Roosevelt nose, unless Momo medicates me.
Keep on writing and playing the mandolin, Phil, if that’s what it takes to keep you breathing and happy. Have a spectacular vacation and tell us about it when you return. Your narratives are awesome, funny, and a pleasure to read. 🙂
Expect a travel blog post from the cactus patch. Us’n Texans don’t get out much, so even Oklahoma is foreign to us.
🤠👍🇨🇱
Always a delight to read your mind – I mean your tales – Phil. AI deserves to be hated; it thinks more highly of itself that it oughta. Reading about ‘addled mind’ reminded me: another native Texan friend recently published a rootin’-tootin’ passel of stories in book form. It is titled “Thoughts from an Unhobbled Mind,” by Greg Crawford (Dunn, Texas). It is available on Amazon, of course. What ain’t?
Thanks, J.E, I’ll check it out. I like to read anything Texas, especially our own homegrown authors.