Author: Phil Strawn

I'm a 7th generation Texan and write about growing up in this great state. Tall tales and ripping yarns are what Texas is about, and I will oblige my readers with these. Most stories are true, some are a total fabrication, and others are a bit of both.
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From Skeptic to Writer: A Texan’s Dive into Substack


The Texan

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.

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Happy Trails From The Alamo and Demon Rats Visit The Ayatollah


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!

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Speaking Of The Famous Battle, And The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge


I am not a talented orator, so being asked to speak from the lodge podium is an honor of the highest order. I am preverbally stuck in the first degree of The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge, which is an offshoot of the Masons, but without the secrecy and historic scandals. To be a member, a relative had to have died in the battle against Santa Anna. My great, great, great, and late, cousin, Tiberius Straughn, on my father’s side of the family, was my ticket into the hallowed halls of Texas history.

The Grand Poohbah of the lodge asked me to keep my remarks, or speech, or story, whichever blurted out, on track with what the lodge stands for, Sons of the Alamo, of course. My speech was more of a story, starting with the Alamo and blending into my family’s deep and troubled Texas roots. The lodge was full of members, not so much to hear my spiel, but it was all you can eat Catfish and Bingo and free beer night, so I made the best of it. I put on my made-in-China coonskin cap and stepped to the podium. Half of the hall was full, Chinette plates of Catfish and cornbread balanced on their laps, and a cold brew sitting on the floor next to their feet.

My mother, the family historian by default, didn’t see the need to preserve any part of her or my fathers ancestry in writing, and knew little of my fathers great great great, late, cousin Tiberius Straughn’s life, except that he was a baker of bread and pastry delights by trade, and friends with Gustav Shiner, the founder of Shiner Beer, Angus Stiles Sr, the famous BBQ founder, and a special close friend of another baker, Veronica Baird, the mother of the Texas bread dynasty. Tiberius and Veronica were rumored to have been a couple before and during the battle. She suspected there may have been some minga-minga behind the adobe ovens, or in the powder keg room, which was a gamble if a candle was used to illuminate the frolic.

She and Tiberius, while not pawing each other, made bread for the ragtag Texan army, while Angus Stiles served up some delightful chef’s surprise meats, and Gustav cracked a keg or two of his delicious beer. I imagine that if they knew they were destined to die, why not do it on a full stomach and a nice buzz? The three men perished in the battle, but Veronica, along with the other women, was given a free pass out of the decimated fortress. So that is why I am a member of the lodge and have now been invited to speak.

My mother, without my fathers permission, didn’t sugarcoat Tiberius’s exploits and grouped him in with the other worthless wanderers on her and my father’s side of the family. He was a cad, a gambler, a womanizer, a liar, a horse thief, a half-assed writer, and a hopeless romantic and petulant drunk, so he fitted in with most of the defenders, especially Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, both fond of their home-stilled sour mash bourbon and smooth Tennessee Whiskey.

So, as I sat at my desk into the wee hours of the morning, flipping through pages of notes from conversations with relatives and family friends, and from ancestry research, I found a small treasure chest of information that can be tied into my oratory debut.

On my mother’s side of the family, my Grandmother, Marcy, was born and raised on the Cherokee Reservation in Oklahoma. Her father was a Deputy Marshal who worked out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and was running buddies with Bass Reeves, the first black Marshal in history. That would make Bass and Tonto the first minorities to hold high historical positions. I can imagine it grated on The Lone Ranger that Tonto always knew where the outlaws were hiding by simply holding a wet finger to the wind or putting his ear to the ground, plus he had a great head of long dark hair, and family said old Lone had a bad case of ocular acne around the eyes, so that explained the mask. My great-grandfather was one mean Indian sumbitch, and had so many notches on the handle of his Colt that it gave him a palm rash. My grandmother, still a teen and before she married, was rumored to have had many moonlight walks along the banks of the Canadian River with the famous Chief Quanah Parker and to have been running buddies with Tiberius offspring, the infamous outlaw Belle Starr, the granddaughter of the departed Alamo hero, Tiberius Straughn, which was somehow, through blood relations, or irreputable relations, tied into my fathers family, Mother was never quire sure of how it worked out, and didn’t care to know. My grandmother showed Belle how to make Buffalo Blood Pudding and Dutch oven biscuits, and Belle taught my granny how to fast-draw and fire a pistol. Granny caught the mischievous chief in a delicate position with Belle and, out of meanness, shot off Quanah’s pinky toe, right through his custom-made Buffalo hide boot.

Tiberius, before he made his way to the Alamo, traveled with Lewis and Clark up the Missouri River into no-man’s-land and, being part Indian but mostly Scottish, was able to communicate with the somewhat friendly tribes they encountered. Not all the Indians were jovial, and Lewis and Clarke had to dispel many of the ornery ones.

Cousin Tiberius’s favorite Indian lady was Sacagawea, a stunning young Shoshone woman who joined the expedition as an interpreter and guide. Long dark hair that glistened in the sun, high cheekbones, deep green eyes, and a strong but curvy figure. She was a knockout dressed in those buckskins. Tiberius was smitten to the point of lustful stupidity, allowing his youthful obsession with Sacagawea to affect his duties, so Lewis and Clarke relieved him of his charge and sent him back down the river in a borrowed bark canoe. A few years later, he found himself in South Central Texas, baking buckwheat bread and sticky cinnamon buns for the new Texians coming from the east. By chance, he ran into an old acquaintance, David Crockett, and his band of long rifle Tennesseans, who convinced Tiberius to join up with them to help with a little skirmish down in south Texas at a little mission called the Alamo. Tiberius, still smarting from a broken heart, felt obliged to join up with the gang of rabble-rousers.

Upon arrival through the gates of the mission, Tiberius figured old Davy had sold him a bag of rotten apples: this was no small squirmish, but a certain death sentence. Across the shallow San Antonio river, thousands of Mexican grenadiers sat polishing their bayonets, eating frijoles, tacos, and singing songs, all fueled by a few wagon loads of Tequila and loco weed. El Rancho Grande seemed to be the favorite sing-along led by General Santa Anna playing his gut-string Spanish guitar. Tiberius quickly converted an old adobe oven to bake some bread and rolls, and Stiles cooked up a few hogs and served the hungry army the first BBQ sandwiches in Texas: Angus Shiner furnished the beer. Veronica Baird, having known Tiberius for a year or so, sneaked down to the river, had a bath, washed her hair with lye soap, and waltzed around from behind the oven, giving Tiberius the shock of his life: Sacagawea was now a footnote in history. Who could resist a woman who smelled like a cinnamon bun?

The next few days were intense. Bullets flew, cannon balls exploded, Mexicans climbed ladders up the outside mission walls only to be repelled, but resistance could only last so long, and the enemy army breached the walls and sat about killing all the Texans. Tiberius, Augustus, and Stiles fought with all they had, laddels, spoons, knives, baker’s paddles, kicking and biting, but in the end, they were killed. Veronica Baird, along with the other women were spared and escorted from the mission. Veronica spotted Santa Anna about to take a bite from one of her cinnamon buns, grabbed a rock, chunked it, and knocked the delicacy from the general’s hand. His dog, Mucho Pero, ate the bun in one gulp. My recollection might not be the most bravado exploit, but it got me into the lodge and a coonskin cap.

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The News Had It Wrong, I’m Still Alive….


I’ve received a few emails asking where I’ve been. The reports in the papers and internet news are false, I am not deceased in any way: not having reached room temperature, still able to walk upright, not being carried or anything similar, and I didn’t wake up dead. I have been blogging for over twelve years without much of a break, so I have been on a break.

I recently became reinvolved with my second-favorite instrument, the mandolin. I learned it as a child, walked away from it for rock n roll guitar, but have not reconnected with the tiny instrument and needed some time to re-familiarize myself with it. I had no idea how hard that would be. Four strings doubled to eight, tuned like a violin, EADG, nothing like a guitar, of which I have played since age 12. How hard could it be, right? Well, for a 76-year-old man, it’s damn hard and then some, but I have played twice with my church band and report that the little wee beast is now my friend again, and all is well. I will resume my ridicule and poking the bear, as well as tall tales from Texas, in a few days. The second big thing in my life is that Rats and Mice took up residence in Momo’s hot tub and did some considerable damage to the water lines. I have set traps and poison to ensure their demise, but a few defenders remain to be dealt with. I think the term Rat Wars is a good description. My son is sending me a nice 12-gauge shotgun to help in the battle, but I fear the shot will do more damage to the tub than the rodents. Momo is afraid I will shoot my one good foot off, then I will be pulled around in a Western Flyer wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin, and she will be the one doing the pulling. I’ll keep you all posted on the epic battle.

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Upon Becoming Mark Twain: My Time As A Dead Author


Photo by: Ansel Adams

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.

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The Legend of Little Moses: A Texas Rancher’s Tall Tale


Little Moses of Texas with his herd of followers

My grandfather on the left and his friend Hymie Rothstein with his horse, Miss Golda.

Hymie Rothstein departed the “old country”ā€”New York Cityā€”in 1910, driven by a fierce longing to carve out a life as a cattle rancher. Armed with a tidy sum of money, a gift from his father, he purchased 500 acres of ranch land between Weatherford and Mineral Wells, filling the vast plains of Texas with 500 head of Hereford cattle. In a nod to his roots, he named the ranch “The Flying Menorah,” a tribute to his mother’s enduring spirit.

His motherā€™s cousin in New York, a man of ambition and impeccable taste, owned a fine restaurant in Manhatten. He made an agreement with Hymie to provide kosher meat for his clientele that desired it. Hymie, not one for shouldering piety, found himself adrift in the ways of raising kosher cattle. He took his best shot, his only shot.

He instructed his hands to don traditional Yarmulkes and grow their beards long as if the mere outward appearance would somehow sanctify the herd. On Fridays, just before the onset of the Sabbath, he would wheel a wagon through the pastures, a local Rabbi perched in the back, chanting blessings over the cattle and the land itself. Hymie, in his complacency, assumed some transformative power in these rituals. However, the Rabbi was paid twenty-five dollars for his solemnity and kept his thoughts on the insufficiency of such blessings close to his vest. A buck is a buck.

It was then that Hymie, seeking to nurture and grow his herd, purchased a massive Hereford bull from a neighboring ranch. The rancher who sold the bull warned Hymie that the bovine suffered from a restless spirit and could not be contained by mere wire fences. The bull’s wildness seemed almost elemental; he broke through barbed wire as if it didn’t exist, suggesting desperation and freedom to roam. Hymie named the bovine “Little Moses.”

As December descended into winter, a blue Texas norther swept across the prarie, enveloping it in a foot of snow. It was two days before Hymieā€™s ranch hands could reach the cattle, and when they finally did, they found the herd had vanished into the vastness, leaving only a gaping break in the fence. “Little Moses,” with his insatiable desire to roam, had led the others away into the boundless prairie.

Worry filled the air as the cowboys scoured the land for trails, only to lose their way in the rugged hills. Frantic, Hymie called upon the local sheriff, JD Ramses, to put out an alert for the missing cattleā€”a flyer caricaturing a group of smiling cows decorated every telephone pole and storefront in town. The sheriff alerted law enforcement in the surrounding counties. The poster added a comic touch in desperate times. Reports trickled in from West Texas of a large number of cattle seen crossing Route 66 a week ago.

Hymie and his men doggedly pursued the herd, picking up cow tracks outside of Lubbock. Thirty-nine days had passed, and the exhausted cowboys were ready to return home. On the fortieth day, they stumbled upon their herd resting against the edge of Palo Duro Canyon. All seemed accounted for, save for their leader, “Little Moses.”

As twilight descended, one of the men caught sight of a ghost emerging from the canyon, a snow-white bull, trembling, stumbling, yet proud. “Little Moses” had returned, his dark coat transformed into a glaring white, his eyes a startling blue that shifted like lightning in a storm. The bull had witnessed a Biblical apparition, possibly a burning tumbleweed or a flame-engulfed Mesquite tree.

The beast settled near the campfire, surrounded by his loyal herd, which gathered to pay homage as if sensing the moment’s gravity. Hymie offered him bread and a few sips of kosher wine as a final kindness. “Little Moses” then lay down next to the campfire. Accepting the warmth and the final moment, he drew his last breath, exhaling a vapor cloud that floated upward into the chilled night.

The sky boomed with thunder, a sudden crack of lightning that could have startled any common cattle, yet no one moved. Instead, they stood, rapt in attention, staring upward as a celestial sound of trumpets pierced the night. From somewhere above, two heavenly Holstein Angel Cows, graced with beautiful white wings, descended, each adorned with a golden trumpet in their right hoove.

The angelic cows flanked “Little Moses,” and, in a transcendent moment, the trio ascended into the heavens, a journey not just for the bull but for every living soul that had wandered alongside him. The Cowboys were left gobsmacked.

The group of men, in stunned silence, sat by the campfire, finding solace in their whiskey, rolled cigarettes, and hardtack. Dialogue sputtered and finally ended: no one could explain the miraculous ascending of Little Moses. Hymie, being the most religious of the bunch, said, “If God takes us sinful cowboys to Heaven, why not a cow? “

As dawn painted the sky anew, the cowboys awoke to find a snow-white bull calf standing proud among the cowsā€”fiery blue eyes that sparked with the promise of a bovineious legacy. This new leader, born from the mystique of the canyon, would guide the way back to the Flying Menorah, a symbol of continuity in a world that had brushed against the divine.

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Armageddon Is Upon Us…The Last Days of Texas


I am not a snow person, nor an ice one. Cold weather is fine for a while, but then I want to be bathed in the warmth of the sun (Brian Wilson). But then, in Texas, the sun’s warmth means cooking alive in 100-plus-degree heat. So, living in Texas is for tough folks. Alas, the winter snow and ice Armageddon is about to return in two days; the last one was in 2021 and crippled the state for a week.

Momo and I stopped by our HEB for a few items this afternoon, and that was a mistake. The place was like a zombie apocalypse: folks fighting and snarling over the last loaf of bread, fists flying in the aisles over Hamburger Helper, and riots at the frozen pizza case. It was all entertaining, watching my fellow Texans act like, well, crazed Texans. We don’t do well when bad winter weather is approaching, and even worse once it arrives. My truck has All Wheel Drive, so I’m good with the snow, but not the ice storms, then we stay in and watch 1883 or 1923 again.

Momo is already fretting about missing church on Sunday because of the storm. I told her that God will understand, after all, he’s the one who created this lousy weather and is sending it our way. I stocked up on extra bird seed and peanuts for the Crows, Blue Jays, and now the pesky Squirrel has returned and found the relocated bird feeders, so it’s back to war with the little nut-breath. The Racoons, Possum, and Skunk are still visiting nightly, enjoying their cafeteria of dog food and sliced apples. My backyard is the equivalent of Luby’s for critters. Now, a Coyote has been coming around, but I have roadrunners on the property, so we’ll see how that plays out.

I’ll post some pictures of the end of Texas as we know it, if and when it happens…if we survive.

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Ask A Texan: Minneapolis Ain’t Lake Wobegon


Sometimes Questionable And Often Brilliant Advice For Folks That Want To Be A Texan, But Can’t Afford To Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a dispatch from a Mr. Hardy Wood Guthrie of Okemah, Oklahoma, written on the back of a Walmart sales receipt. It seems his wife, Little White Dove, is dead set on going to Minneapolis to join in all the fun the protestors are having.

Mr. Guthrie: Mr. Texan, please excuse my bad manners for writing on a Walmart receipt. Just so you know, my wife bought all that useless stuff, except for the Chili Pork Rinds, which are my favorite snack, and of course the carton of Marlborough’s and the Natural Light Beer. Little White Dove, my Cherokee Indian wife, has lost her arrows. She’s watching the news and seeing all these protesters up in Minneapolis playing in the snow, throwing snowballs, and making snow angels with the help of those nice ICE boys. Now they’ve taken over Target Stores and are getting all that free stuff plus $200 a day for protesting. She’s real fond of that Pioneer Woman stuff and is hoping to get a new set of cookware and a bathrobe for free. I told her it’s about to get really serious because the Army boys are coming to town, but she got really smartie-pants with me and said, “I’ll do what I want to, this land is your land, this land is my land.” She said not to worry, she has a friend named Alice, and she has a restaurant where she can get anything she wants, over in Edina, where all the rich folks live. She is a big fan of that schmuck Garrison Keillor, Mister Handsy Man that lives over in Lake Wobegon, and is going to look him up and have a Lutefisk sandwich with him. She thinks it’s all a big party, sort of like Woodstock on ice, and won’t listen to me. I’m so frazzled, I’m thinking about writing a protest song about all this mess. Got any advice for me?

Little White Dove

The Texan: Well, Mr. Guthrie, sounds like Little White Dove needs a visit from the medicine man. I have a little experience with protest and such, as I went to the University of Texas in Austin, with all those hippie folks, and most of them are still there, riding around on their handicap scooters and smacking visitors with their walking canes. Back then, they weren’t collecting a paycheck for protesting, rioting, and burning things up; they got hopped up on those funny cigarettes and just did it for the fun of it. Not trying to name drop here, but I also spent some time with old Bob Dylan and his squeeze, Joan B. I think Bob is a poet and didn’t know it. and you can tell Little White Dove to be careful, because after all, the times, they are a-changing. I’m sending her a nice bouquet of big sunflowers to stick in the barrels of those Army boys’ guns, a Garrison Keillor VHS tape of Prairie Home Companion, and you a box of cherry bombs to relieve your anxiety. I’ll be watching the news to see how she does.

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Wills Journey


My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a Dichos, a storyteller, a bearer of folklore, and a master weaver of tales who could grip the heart of any listener. By the time I came to appreciate his art, he had become an old man, his form hunched and weary from years of living, yet his spirit gave his narratives power. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, close beside his rocking chair, absorbed in the stories that spilled from his lips, losing myself in the world he painted with words. Ever so often, he would pause, lift his fiddle from its case next to the rocker, and play a few licks to accentuate his tales. Folks like him didn’t bother to write; they told their stories around a campfire or in front of a fireplace on a cold winter day. Those were the days I cherished most. When he told me this story, he was in his last days, suffering from cancer caused by getting gassed in World War 1. He passed away a month or so later, but he did manage to leave me with some of the best parts of his life to write about.

A small group of cowhands is sitting on the porch of a bunkhouse on a night without a breeze. The coal oil lamp was placed out in the front dirt yard of the shack to draw the bugs away. The ranch they worked was west of Mineral Wells, Texas, way out yonder in the low mountains of the Palo Pinto rough country.

The white-haired visitor sitting to Rufus’ left had been quiet throughout Del’s story; staring at his boots and showing no emotion. So, Rufus, trying to be hospitable, asked him if he had something to say.


The way he wore his hat, all cockeyed and sweat-stained, was sad. He was in dirty clothes, worn-out boots, and no woman miserable. Del, had just finished his story about fighting a gang of Mexican outlaws down on the Rio, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about anything this old codger had to say, but he is a guest, so he gets to speak.


The visitor opened a Pearl, drank it all in one swig, gathered himself for a minute, and said, “My name’s William; my friends call me Will. I grew up around Kennedale and fought in the Great War back in 1917 over there in France. I ain’t never told anyone about this, but I’m getting old, and the angels are coming to visit me in my dreams at night, so I figure it’s about time to let this out.” A few of the men moved closer to the visitor.


“I joined up in the Army over in Fort Worth in 1917. Then I got sent to Kansas for training and was then shipped over to France on a boat. When I got there, my Captain, knowing I was from Texas, put me in charge of the caissons and the mules that pulled them. He figured if I was from Texas, I was a cowboy. I never told him differently. At least I was stationed back from the worst of the fighting, taking care of the stock. I was okay with that. It saved my sorry ass. I got pretty fond of those mules, and it hurt me a lot when one of them got killed. I always fed them more than needed. They were happy, critters. I liked my job; I loved being alive.


One cold miserable muddy morning these three German boys come walking across the battlefield holding a white hanky. They were giving up. Some of the boys wanted to shoot them, but our Captain said that wouldn’t be right to kill an unarmed man. Captain was funny that way. He was a preacher back in Oklahoma, so he tried to live by the word. Even in war.


Those Kraut boys were pitiful. No coats, dirty and scared, they were a mess. We fed them some grub and gave each a blanket and a tin of hot coffee with a bit of brandy. They were grateful. One boy sobbed a bit, and then, in pretty good English, thanked us for not killing them. His name was Frank. I liked that young fella.


After a week with us, the men didn’t bother watching them anymore. Those boys helped with chores and even did KP for us. They were nice boys who didn’t want any part of this war, but like us, they were doing their duty. They were our prisoners, but we treated them like they were one of us.


I asked Frank if he wanted to help me with the stock, and he was happy to oblige. He said that back in Bavaria, his family raised farm horses for a living, so he knew horses. I was glad to have him help. I never imagined I would become friends with a German soldier, in a damned old war, but that’s what happened. Frank and I became best of buddies. We exchanged addresses and such, so when the war was over, we could keep in touch.


After a while, he and the other two got moved to a town in France and turned back over to the Germans when the war was over. I didn’t know if I would ever hear from him, but I hoped I would. I never had many friends, except for a couple of dogs and my horse.


A year after I got home to Waco, my Momma brought me a letter from Germany. Frank, in his best English, wrote to me about him coming home, getting the horse ranch and farm going again, and marrying his girl. A baby was coming soon. He closed his letter asking me to sail over to Bavaria and work with him on his farm. He wanted to make me a partner. I didn’t have anything going on in Texas, so I told my Momma that I was moving to Germany. I wrote him back and said I would come to Bavaria and be his pard. We exchanged a few more letters, and he writes that a boat ticket has been purchased for me to sail from New York next April. He also said that he has a cute cousin that might be interested in meeting me. Hot dog! I was going to live in Germany and marry a little alpine princess. Whooooo-weeee.


I got my affairs in order. Sold my horse and saddle, found a home for my dogs and such, and was counting the days until I rode the train to New York City. It was never meant to be.
In early March, I received a letter from Frank’s wife, Liese. She told me Frank had died in a farm accident a month or so back. She said I could still come, and she could sure use the help running the place.

I couldn’t do it, not with Frank being dead and all. I sent her a telegram saying I wouldn’t be making the trip and I was sorry about Franks passing.


I was devastated. It changed my life, and not for the better.
I had a second chance to do something other than being a dirty cowhand, and it was jerked right out from under me. I was a real, bitter man for a long time. I drank too much whiskey and did some bad things to people. I was a horrible person at times. I didn’t know myself anymore, but I did know enough that if I didn’t change, the good Lord was not going to be calling my name on judgment day.


I sometimes did odd jobs for an old Mexican fellow named Pepe. He saw the demons on my back and talked me into coming to his church to worship with him and his family. I never was a church person, but I went just to shut him up. I never saw any of what happened until it hit me. When I walked into that little Mexican church, the demons lifted off my back. I accepted the Lord into my sorry life, and he led me to salvation. Imagine that.


I went around and apologized to everyone if I ever did any wrong. I wrote to Franks’s widow and apologized for not coming over to help her.
I enclosed a separate letter for her to put on Frank’s grave.
There it is. I’ve said it all. Feels good to get that off my chest after all these years.”

The two of us sat in silence for a while; grandfather finished his warm beer, and I my Coke. He rose from his chair, put his beer and my Coke bottle in the trash can, and gave me a goodnight hug. It was only after I got in bed and awoke in the night that I realized that the man in his story had been himself.

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Looking At 2025 In My Rear View Mirror


I lifted the title line from Mac Davis’s hit ” Looking At Lubbock In My Rear View Mirror.” He’s gone for a while now, so I don’t think a fellow Texan would mind.

As this year slipped by, I want to thank all of you who follow my blog and comment. I’m too computer-challenged to thank an entire list like Max, so this will have to do for now. I’m hiring a six-year-old down the street as my PC tutor.

Who would have thought that our country would be in such an uproar about every darn thing anyone could dream up, but here we are.

I think Mark Twain says it best: Ā No matter how healthy a man’s morals may be when he enters Washington politics, he comes out again with a pot-marked soul.Ā Makes you wonder if any of those flamboyant bastards will ever make it to Heaven? I certainly hope they find the Lord, but I still don’t care to patronize them when I get there. Sort of like a high school reunion: I wasn’t buddies with you then, so what makes you think I want to hang out with you now?

All of these privileged, university-educated white kids running around carrying signs, wrapping their heads in checkered tablecloths, and throwing objects at our Jewish Americans and our underpaid and overworked police. They seem to be mostly young white women, so that doesn’t say much for the future of marriage and child production for the good old U.S.A. Did they learn this behavior at home, or are they so misinformed and ignorant that they follow any evil cause that greets them when they wake up in the morning? Not enough caffeine, and too much weed, will alter one’s consciousness and turn their brain to nursing home gruel. They need a good ass whooping with a Mesquite Tree switch, and then give the same to mommy and daddy, and maybe the grandparents as well. Sort of reminds me of the sixties and the young folks protesting on college campuses, in between cum-by-ya campfires, pot parties, and humping like wired up Rabbits, but at least then, they had a real cause, like the Vietnam War and their dislike for LBJ and Goldwater. It got messy and dangerous at times, like in Chicago in 1968. The National Guard against the radical students at Kent State University brought it all to a nasty head, and the protest dwindled after that, but the well-informed students and older Americans did make a difference, and the average law-abiding citizen did listen and learn. I was fresh-squeezed out of high school in 1969, waiting for the draft board to send me to Asia, and a long-haired, rock ‘n’ roll-playing musician. I put myself right in the midst of that mess, but refused to buy into the radical side of it. You could call me an anomaly of sorts. Conservative before it was cool to be. I felt that my stance on things had brought my depression era Roosevelt-Democrat Kennedy-voting parents over to the other side, changing coats in the winter of chaos. My father became so conservative that he couldn’t force himself to make a left turn when driving, so many days he drove in circles or took hours to reach his destination. I am not kidding.

September 10, 2025. Free speech and Christianity in America: do we still have it? Charlie Kirk certainly thought so and put it into practice in a brilliant way that no one in the media would have thought possible. Now we have little trophy-winning kiddos like those I described in the paragraph above, thinking they can assassinate someone because they don’t like their speech or ideas on religion. One more trophy his parents can add to his childhood bedroom shelf, next to his Star Wars posters and action figure collection. They must have missed the weapons stored under his trundle bed.

Christianity. I am a Christian, proud to be so, and I will tell anyone, anytime, that I follow Jesus Christ and his teachings. As a child, I was dunked and baptized so many times that my hair smelled like river water, and I learned to swim. Dear Hearts, we are under attack most cruelly. Our attackers are Islamic, and our castrated politicians have given them total approval to rid our country of us Christians. Maybe we Christians should take matters into our own hands and rid our country of both. I might write more about this, but the time feels off today. Besides, I have to clean my guns and go buy some ammo before The Walmart stops selling it as well.

The NFL. Once again, the Dallas Cowgirls have blown another season. It’s been thirty years since old Jerry has been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy. One more thing: why is it called the Super Bowl? What’s so super or special about it? Just another game with self-serving, overpaid, obnoxious young men. And of course, Taylor Swift is in the stands with her five patented facial expressions. I don’t watch football anymore; it gives me a headache like the one I got the one time I listened to Taylor Swift sing one of her cartoon music songs. I had to take a Valium IV drip to get over that one.

I promised my wife, Momo, that I would refrain from writing about politics, and for a year now I have kept my word. It’s often maddening to refrain from grabbing the laptop and cutting loose. Let me say this: New York City electing a Muslim mayor who is a proud socialist and follower of Islam has sealed the fate of this once great city. In the near future, maybe weeks, we will be reading of large corporations and average citizens vacating to the south, mainly Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, and a few other states. I will welcome them to my small town of Granbury. One condition is that they must not bring their East Coast attitude and lifestyle with them and expect to survive in Texas. Fancy Italian olive oil suitable for bread dipping, and Texas spring branch water don’t mix. Driving through town a few days back, I saw a Tesla with New York plates, and it had a sofa, a chair, and other pieces of modern furniture tied to the roof; the only things missing were Granny and Elle Mae sitting in rockers. The exodus and invasion have begun.

I’ve received a sack full of mail and numerous emails from all over the country addressed to my Ask A Texan advice column, so there will be more of those posted soon. I can assume that, since Ann Landers is no longer around, folks think an old Texan can help them navigate this mess. Being a senior member of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge was the catalyst, and being a student of the revered Texas “word slinger” J. Frank Dobie inspired me to help, or at times, hinder others with often good but sometimes questionable down-home advice. See you later this year.