At the behest of my university-educated and business-savvy son, I took the plunge into the world of Substack, a venture that, mere days ago, felt as alien to me as a distant star or a life-ending asteroid. I had heard murmurs of its name in passing, as I walked by the youngsters at church, yet I had dismissed it as just another one of those social media realms teeming with the eccentric and the unhinged, the kind of characters who seem to have a direct plugged in line from their phones to some endless well of chaos in their minds; perhaps I shall be proven right, though time will tell. “They,” you know, the ones that seem to know everything, say this space is meant for writers and thinkers, for those of reason and reflection, free from the vitriol of bomb throwers and purveyors of discord. So, I remain cautious, waiting to see what unfolds. My heart is heavy with weariness of Twitter and X, a landscape that has become the breeding ground for hatred and the raving lunatics of our age, where the young teeter on the brink of madness, consumed by their own shadows cast by the glow of their phones and laptops in the dark of night as they sit drinking a Redbull Margarita while consuming a bag of gluten free Cheetos as they watch re-runs of Friends, the Best of CNN or the latest Ken Burns series. Further posts will confirm my suspicions or surprises.
We’re a suspicious, scurrilous, and at times uncouth crowd not fit for fine dining at a Waffle House, but right at home at a 24-hour Whataburger or consuming gas-station sushi after a night of drinking Jack Daniels, sitting in a bass boat telling lies and catching crappie. Stay tuned.
My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.
Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.
The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!
When I was young and started to read books, real books, not the comics my friends read, and I had no interest in, I discovered Mark Twain. I thank my late aunt Norma, my father’s older sister, for that. She gently guided me into a world of imagination through a masterful author. She taught me to read and write at the age of five. She was an avid reader of great literature: Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer were her favorites, as was any trashy romance novel available. Armed with a book-smart, salty vocabulary, I was king of the neighborhood, and it didn’t take long for the mothers to come knocking on our door. My mother threw a world-class hissy fit and demanded Aunt Norma change my reading material. That’s how I discovered Mark Twain.
After reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was going to be Mark Twain. It didn’t matter to me that almost a hundred years earlier, he had already been Mark Twain; I was set on becoming him, me, a six-year-old with limited writing ability. However, I did have a colorful imagination, so that was a good start.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t write; by the age of eight, I wrote exceptionally well for my age, but I didn’t possess the mind of Mr. Twain. I hadn’t known Tom Sawyer, or Jim, or Huckleberry, or lived on the banks of the mighty Mississippi River. I was a landlocked kid stuck in Fort Worth, Texas, with a dozen Big Chief Tablets and a handful of No. 2 pencils.
I read other authors as well, but they weren’t Mr. Twain. Jack London was a bit scary, and there were too many wild animals that I imagined living under my bed. John Steinbeck was a masterful storyteller, and I did make it through most of The Grapes of Wrath, which mirrored what my grandparents and father had lived through. I continued to write on my tablet. I didn’t knowingly plagiarize any author, but they did give me good ideas and taught me to group words into a story.
I busied myself writing childish exploits of myself and my neighborhood gang of friends. I was certain that the Fort Worth Press would give me a column and perhaps a few bucks for my stories. I churned them out at a fevered pace, sending one a week to the publisher. A year passed, and I gave up. I still wrote, and my editor, my mother, filed them away in a drawer.
The day my class let out for Christmas vacation, my teacher asked the class to share what we wanted to be when we grew up. It wasn’t a serious exercise, only one to kill the last 30 minutes of the school day.
The usual vocations for our age group were doctors, firemen, policemen, and some girls who wanted to be teachers or nurses. When my turn came, I stood up and announced, with all seriousness, that I was Mark Twain. Mrs. Badger, my teacher, promptly informed me that there was already a Mark Twain, and that he had been dead for a while now.
I answered, “Yes, I know, but his spirit requires that I continue on with his writings and wit. So I am the reincarnation of Mark Twain.” I was in the principal’s office within a few minutes. The principal, a kindly old fellow, understood my affliction, and because I was earnest about it, he backed off a bit when administering the paddle. My teacher, bless her old-maid heart, never cared for me after that and treated me like a leper. To make myself feel better, I blew up her mailbox with a cherry bomb.
My aunt Norma was overjoyed when I told her of my plans and my new affliction. She went so far as to make me a tailored white linen suit and gave me one of my uncle’s large cigars to complete the ensemble. My parents weren’t thrilled; my mother blamed my father since his extended family was street rat crazy from drinking homemade hooch, and she was certain I inherited this malady from him. She seemed to have forgotten that her two brothers had turned me into a habitual liar and teller of tall tales. There were some whispered discussions about doctors and bad family genetics, but I paid no attention to that adult chatter.
After a few months, I discovered Earnest Hemingway. I never became Mark Twain, except in my daydreams or nightmares, but I did learn to appreciate good writing and stories.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 