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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The Knee Of Christmas Cheer


After many years of anguish and hand-wringing pain, the day came last Thursday; MoMo got her new carbon, Kryptonite, and stainless knee. Not just a few parts, but the entire show, socket and all. The surgeon sawed the leg bone in two places, glued in the replacement part stapled up the meat and muscle, and there ya go, she’ll be up and running in a few weeks. She is a miserable mess and whacked out on pain meds, but improving.

The old knee and tendon bones will be placed in a beautiful crystal jar and shipped to us before Christmas. A bottom-lit display with color-changing LED lights will make it the focal point of our Holiday decor and will delight our party guests for what few years we have left. Her surgeon said it’s the newest thing in replacement surgery, “it’s sick”, or so he says. I have the perfect place on our kitchen prep counter. Imagine when the grandchildren get to watch their grandmother’s old knee light up in 20 rotating colors. Wow. I haven’t told MoMo about this little gift, but will get around to it soon.

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Travels Without Charley


A few weeks back, MoMo and I traded our Honda CRV for a Honda Ridgeline pickup truck. I know, the looks I get from the boys in the Cummins Diesel and the giant GMCs. We would have bought a larger truck but neither of us can climb a ladder to get into the darn thing. They can laugh all they want, we are comfortable. The reason for the truck is to pull an RV trailer and visit our American National Parks. There are so many in Texas, that it will take at least a few years. Terlingua in the Big Bend, Marfa, and Fort Stockton are just a few calling our name. John Steinbeck wrote “Travels With Charley” back in the sixties. He and his poodle crisscrossed America in a pickup with a camper over the bed. He wanted to see his country as it was before it changed into something he feared was coming. The book is a masterpiece, and MoMo and I will be taking a cue from Mr. Stienbeck, but without Charley.

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Show A Little Kindness And Respect


I wrote this story a year ago but thought it would be appropriate to re-publish it today.

Last Saturday, before Memorial Day, my wife MoMo and I stopped at one of our local McDonalds for a sausage McMuffin and a Coke. Breakfast for two for under six bucks. We were on our way to Fort Worth for some items I can’t recall at this moment, but we often make the trip because our hometown, Granbury, Texas, is small, and the only place to buy things is Walmart and H.E.B. for food. I would as soon take a licking from a Cocaine Bear than shop at Walmart, but I give in, and we do; everyone in town eventually has to.

Sitting and eating our meager breakfast sandwich and sharing a Coke, I noticed an old man sitting alone at a corner table. I’m now officially an old man, but this fellow looked to be in his nineties. He wore a black ball cap that read; “Korean War Veteran” and a tee shirt with the American flag on the front; a walking Kane rested on the seat next to him. He wasn’t eating, although a sandwich and a cup of coffee were on his tray. The old fellow was unkempt and needed a shave, and his clothes showed signs that he likely lived alone and felt no need to spiff himself up for a trip to McDonald’s.

My wife says I say things that will one day get me maimed, shot, or worse, and yes, she is right. Outspokenness is a trait I tote in my back pocket, and it gets me in hot water with friends and relatives.

I got up, walking stick in hand, hobbled over to the old fellow, and asked if the folks in the kitchen got his order wrong? He replied that they had given him a more expensive sandwich and charged him more than he could afford, and he couldn’t eat eggs anymore, but it was okay; he would just drink his coffee and leave. Disrespect for our veterans, especially our older ones, who will soon be nothing but an old photograph on someone’s mantel runs deep in our society. The younger people have no idea the sacrifices these men and women made so they could drive their Teslas and keep their faces in an iPhone all day. This was one of the moments my wife MoMo frequently warns me of.

I asked to speak to the manager, a young Hispanic woman, maybe mid-twenties. I wasn’t looking for a fight or to berate anyone, but only to remind this business to treat our veterans with the respect they have earned and deserve. I wasn’t rude but direct, and I shamed her for overcharging him, and they should refund his money and apologize. She was shocked that one of her employees had committed this sin. She said she would make it right by him, but by then, he had emptied his tray into the trash can and walked out. If I ever cross paths with him again, I will buy him a big breakfast and maybe visit for a while; I bet he has some great stories to tell.

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“This Is Going To Be A Little Uncomfortable”


The Day Of “The Procedure” Arrives

I’ve gone through three-quarters of my life not dwelling on or talking about medical conditions. Since I’ve become an old fart, well, it comes with the aging process. As a small child, I was perplexed when the older relatives sat around and compared ailments. My grandmother was the queen bee of that circle and the biggest hypochondriac that ever breathed. I’m not sure how she lived with all the terminal diseases and crippling conditions she harbored in that small body. So, here is her grandson, now 74 years old, taking the family medical Olympic torch from the old gal and not carrying it too well.

I comically wrote a few days ago about the injection procedure my spine surgeon booked for me in lieu of more surgery, which will be on down the road. Thursday night, I was wound up like a “Nickle Rat.” anticipating the 6:10 to Yuma at the surgery center. So I did what any modern male would do: I went for the drugs. 600 mg of Gabapentin, a big old Hydrocodone tablet, an 8 oz glass of Zquill, five cups of hot Ovaltine, and topped it all off with a Willie Nelson Sleep Gummy I picked up in New Mexico. Nothing…I lay in my Barcolounger and buzzed like a five-year-old after eating a full bag of Halloween candy; I was as crazed as an old Hippie at a Lynard Skynard concert and begging for merciful sleep. Any mortal human would have been in the emergency room after all that. I guess I’m more than mortal, possibly a Viking or Indian Spirit Animal.

MoMo found me in my lounger at 4 AM, slobbering and mumbling incoherently, eyes wide open. I Showered and dressed in sweats, no coffee, no water, no nothing; she slurped her delicious morning cup of Java while I had a bad case of the cotton mouth and eyes as bloodshot red as Dracula.

The kind and caring Pre-Op nurse at the surgery center got me in my hospital bed, gown on, shower cap, booties, and a warm fuzzy blanket, along with a nice little IV in my hand. I was ready. MoMo worked there for six years, so it was like the old home week for a while. Everyone was yakking and hugging and giving their secret “Nurse” handshake. I felt a bit left out, but I knew her friends would treat me better than well. Being married to a big-time Nurse has its perks.

My CRNA asked me if I had been through this procedure before, ” Nope, I’m a newbie here,” I replied.

“Well,” he says, ” these days, it’s all done by a doctor-guided robot, so there are fewer missed shots.” The term missed shots caught my attention.

” You mean the robot has made a few mistakes?” said I. I began looking for an exit door in case I needed to bolt.

” Only a few here and there, it’s no big deal; it’s usually caused by user error or a bad controller unit; the robot is very good at what he does.” The CRNA is sold on this bot.

Wide awake and scared, I’m rolled into the OR. There, standing beside the stainless table is a six-foot robot holding an enormous syringe full of white liquid in each metal hand. He is a spot-on copy of “Robby The Robot” from the 1950s movie ” The Forbidden Planet.” My doctor sits on a stool staring at a large LED screen, holding a Nintendo Game controller and drinking a Red Bull. I am rolled onto the table, face down. The CRNA says I will receive a little Propofol in my IV and will have a sweet little nap. I ask if that is the same stuff Michael Jackson took; he says yes. We all know how that turned out. The robot gives me a reassuring pat on my behind and makes a few bleeps and whirly sounds; the nurse says count to ten; I’m out by three. I see Michael Jackson riding on a golden cloud, waving at me to follow him. No way, dude. Then Elvis stops in a cherry 55 drop-top Caddie. In the backseat are Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Robert Johnson, Roy Orbison, and Ertha Kitt. Sitting next to Elvis is a radiant Ann Margret. I hop in and take shotgun. Ann winks at me and says, “I’m not really dead, you know, but I have a special arrangement to come and visit E a few times a month, don’t tell anyone you saw me here.” Nope, your secret is safe with me, darlin’. She hands me a bottled Coke and a peanut butter and nanna samwich.

I open my eyes, and there is MoMo, giving me her reassuring attention. My Post-Op nurse is making sure I wake up and don’t freak out. I ask her about Elvis and Ann Margret, and I want some of that sleepy stuff to take home with me. She laughs and says that’s one of the best dreams yet. I’m dressed, wheelchair to the car, MoMo helps me in the passenger side, and the nurse hands us a card from the staff and an 8×10 glossy photo of “Robert,” the medical robot. He’s standing in front of a Western building wearing a flat-brim black hat and a Mexican sarape. Two holsters hold a handful of large syringes instead of a 45 Colt. In a weird shaky signature, it reads, ” Come back and see me, pardner; I never miss a shot.”

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Things To Ponder Or Wonder


Smarter Than The Average Bear

Cute stories in the news always catch my attention, especially if they include animals. Black Bears are recently included because of their prowess in breaking and entering homes. One Bear broke into a residence, raided the freezer, found a Tupperware container of Lasanga, and prepared a meal for itself. It included a small side salad and French garlic bread. The owners of the home surprised the furry chef, and he fled. The owners said the Bear was quite good at preparing the meal but didn’t take the time to clean the kitchen. They named him “Yogi Bourdain.”

Another Black Bear was caught on camera raiding the Halloween candy dish. The homeowner said the beast took all the Hershey chocolate and left the Jolly Rancher. Guess it didn’t want to break a tooth.

A Swiftless Series

The Texas Rangers won their first World Series last night, and Taylor Swift was nowhere to be seen, and that’s a good thing. When her commercials air on the tube, I scramble for the remote so I can change the channel. I’m convinced she can’t speak without “Autotune.”

Sweet Tooth

This Halloween, I did not “trick or treat.” My wife MoMo confined me to the house after my last candy outing resulted in my arrest when I told the shocked parents handing out sweets that I “identified as a six-year-old.” I thought it was a great idea; the kids I hung out with loved my ploy.

“It’s Alive, Alive I Tell You!”

Not bad looking for putting it together at the last minute

Tomorrow morning at 7:10 AM, I will be laying on a cold stainless steel table receiving massive injections in my spine to stop the pain from “run-away” rebellious nerves” caused by “two world-class old man bouncing off the concrete falls.” I will be knocked out cold for this “procedure,” as my nurse wife likes to call it. The good doctor will use a Robot with a large syringe in each metal claw, directing the shot to the exact spot in my poor spine. I’m pretty darn sure the doctor, before I go to La La Land, will say, “This might hurt a tiny bit.” No shit.

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The Final Gasp Of Hallows Eve


Eddie the Raven

Tis almost over, the night of ghouls, Ravens, and goblins, beggers of sweets, impersonators of the great, the terrible, and the incorrigible loose souls. I have made it through another Halloween and haven’t seen or heard anything about Taylor Swift. Thank the Lord she didn’t show up at the Rangers versus the Diamondbacks game.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

Until next year, I bid you adieu.

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The Boys and Girls of Summer


On the third day of summer vacation, the euphoria of no school for three months had lost its sparkle. Our gang of sweaty-smelly boys spent most of the day sitting under our neighbor, the Mister’s Mimosa tree, drinking grape Kool-Aid and eating home-baked oatmeal cookies baked by our mom-mentor, Mrs. Mister. Saturday couldn’t get here fast enough; that was the first day of official practice for our second-year little league team, “The Jets.”

This year, as a group, by a special vote in Skipper’s garage, we decided to let Cheryl and Ann play on the team, putting Freckeled Face Bean and Georgey on the bench for a few innings. Mr. and Mrs. Mister were in agreement; the girls were better at catching fly balls. In 1957, teams didn’t award participation trophies; it was all about winning the game. Cheryl played some last season, and we put Ann through the try-out wringer at recess. and she passed every test, so we will be the first and only team in the Fort Worth Little League system to have two girls on a boy’s team. We “broke on through to the other side” and didn’t know what we had done. I believe our assistant coach, Mrs. Mister, was secretly proud, being a former Air Force officer and ball player herself.

Saturday arrived, and our practice time on the diamonds was at noon, right when it was cooking like a griddle at a balmy 98 degrees. Mr. Mister worked with our two pitchers, and Mrs. Mister took the rest of us heathens to the field, hitting flys and grounders and yelling at us when we messed up. Ann and Cheryl caught every fly ball, and me, at shortstop, only missed two grounders and tosses to first. It was going to be a good season. Georgy and Bean sat on the bench, sulking. I guess I would, too, if I lost my spot to a girl. We were kids, but back then, even boys were a bit manly men, only smaller.

After practice, Mr. Mister told us that the coach from the Trimble Tech area team had been spying on us, hiding behind the concession stand and taking notes. It was a known fact that any team from that area of Fort Worth would be known as ” the hard guys.” We figured he was scouting out whose legs to break if they caught any of us out of our neighborhood and alone.

Our first game was a week later, and damn if it wasn’t the “hard guys” team. We watched from our dugout as they warmed up, fearing the worst. The pitcher had a five-o’clock shadow and arms so long that he left knuckle furrows in the infield dirt. Most of their team was a head taller than us and had to be old enough to drive. These guys can’t be Little League? Many had likely spent time at the Dope Farm or jail; they had all the markings of experienced delinquents. Their coach was a walking mugshot. We were doomed and knew it.

Bottom of the seventh, and we were down by two runs. Skipper was throwing his hardest and slipping in some calculated peppered pitches Mr. Mister had taught him. The “hard guys” weren’t even swinging hard, and all their balls went to the fence line and a few over it.

Our coach, Mr. Mister, suspected something for some reason and asked the umpire to examine their bats. The umpire was equally suspicious, so he grabbed a few of their bats, pulled a pen knife from his pocket, dug out a wad of wood filler, and emptied four large ball bearings into his hand. The little mobsters were using fixed bats. He then checked their cleats and found all of them to have been filed to a sharp edge. He confiscated their bats and shoes, making them play in sneakers or barefoot. He gave them a beat-up Rawlings bat to use. They were caught, and the crowd of parents booed them into the next county. After that, they couldn’t buy a ball past second base, and we scored three runs and beat them. Strike one up for the good guys. Mrs. Mister informed us that their team had been dissolved a few days later, and the players were suspended. Their coach was likely on his way back to Sing-Sing.

The rest of our season was memorable. Our two girls got a write-up in the paper, along with a cute picture. Skipper got bonked in the forehead and missed four games, and Freckled Face Bean caught a case of Polio and was out for the season but expected to make a full recovery. We missed the championship by two games, but hey, it was a great season.

The Misters gave the team a backyard cookout a few days before school started. Parents, siblings, dogs, and the whole shebang crowded into their backyard. At the end of the party, with fireflies drifting around us in the summer evening, our team gathered in a circle for a moment of recollection. We had been so wrapped up in months of baseball no one noticed that we all had changed. The school fat was gone, replaced with dark suntans and sinewy arms and legs. Baseball was our game, America’s game. At that brief moment, as we stood in the dark, silent, we were the boys and girls of summer.

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Bwana of The San Saba


Strange, how much he looks like Teddy Roosevelt

A good friend is an avid hunter of deer and other edible wildlife. His domain is Texas, so this story is about him. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The San Saba, Texas plains and rocky hills are as rough and desolate as any place in the state. The Great White Hunter prefers them that way. This harsh country is home to the skittish and elusive Texas white-tail deer, his favored game. He has taken many in the twenty years he has hunted this land, and the best are mounted on the walls of his private trophy room. Four walls of antlered Deer, all with a startled look on their faces.

A hot November day of hunting in the rocks and brush has yielded no Deer, but The Great White Hunter did bag three Squirrels, a Chipmunk, a Cottontail Rabbit, a large Rattlesnake, and four Blue Catfish from a sparkling creek. Supper tonight will be tasty. Maurice, his faithful guide, armorer, and camp cook, knows how to prepare wild game perfectly. Squirrel on a Mesquite stick is his signature dish. Add some fire-grilled Catfish, corn on the cob, pan-fried taters, and cold Lone Star beer, and it’s a campsite dish that would make Martha Stewart’s mouth water.

Maurice comes from East Africa, and it’s common to refer to a white man hunter as “Bwana,” a term for a boss or an important fellow. The hunter cringes when Maurice uses this address; it reminds him of a Bob Hope and Bing Crosby movie. He prefers “The Great White Hunter.” His fellow members of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge gave him this name decades ago because of the hundreds of pounds of venison he donated to the lodge’s food bank.

After the scrumptious supper, The Great White Hunter takes a constitutional stroll away from camp. Dressed in a tee shirt, safari shorts, and ankle boots, he walks a narrow, dry wash, enjoying the serenity of the Texas dusk. His rifle is left at the campsite, leaning against a Mesquite tree; his Colt pistol rests on a backpack near the fire; he has a Barlow pocket knife in his pant pocket for whittling and cleaning his fingernails. He is, for once, unarmed.

He rounds a bend and comes to a halt. Standing ten feet away is a feral boar. He estimates the size of the porker to be around three- hundred pounds. His tusks are formidable and likely razor-sharp. The pig is in a foul mood and looking for a scrap. There is an Oak tree close enough to climb, but making it to the tree before the pig is doubtful. He pulls the pocket knife from his pants, opens the two-inch blade, and waits for the attack. He stares the porcine monster straight in the eyes; the unafraid boar meets his star, doesn’t flinch, and scrapes the rocky ground with its hind feet. Slobber drips from its mouth; the stench of the animal is overwhelming and smells of death.

The hunter has been in perilous predicaments, but never a scrap as one-sided as this. The pig has a natural advantage; he knows the loser will probably be him and hopes the injuries will be minimal and Maurice can get him to the hospital in San Saba in time. It will be a fight to the death. He chastises himself for leaving his weapon at the camp, which is too far away to call for help.

The peccary makes its move and charges the hunter, but the hunter is swift, jumps straight up, and uses the back of the porker as a springboard to propel himself into a forward somersault, landing behind the pig. The boar turns, gravel and dirt flying as it makes a second frontal assault. The hunter jumps on the back of the hog and rides it like a pony, stabbing it with his pocket knife as the hog runs for the brush. The pig makes it to the brush, and the hunter is dismounted by a low limb. The hog races to the safety of its companions before it expires. The bloodied and torn hunter walks into the camp, where Maurice patches his wounds and offers praise for his bravery. Three shots of George Dickel whiskey help ease the pain. Sitting around the campfire late into the night, Maurice grins and says, ” Bwana did well today, very brave fellow.”

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“There Goe’s The Sun..And I Say”


My son, Wes, lives on Padre Island on the Texas coast. He took this picture of the solar eclipse on Saturday. I couldn’t see it that well from this part of Texas, but as you see, it was perfect viewing at the beach. Gotta love George Harrison.

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Tuesday, October 3rd Update On The Future Saint Swift


Not In My Lifetime, Kiddo!

The Question Everyone Wants To Know…

Doe’s Taylor Swift use Autotune when she talks?