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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An Odd Duck In A Crowded Pond


Don’t Believe What You Hear…It’s All Bull, And Then Some…

From the time I was a child, I was a bit skeptical of life in general. Blissfully ignorant with a tendency to play with the dust particles in the light of the window. My mother, bless her soul, thought me to be a bit touched, maybe from the Scarlet Fever I contracted at six years old to the concussion I suffered from falling on an iced sidewalk that same year. No matter the affliction, I was a feral child; the neighborhood was my jungle.

My little sister, five years younger, was spared the affliction, leading to a childhood of normalcy. I suspected I was the doomed child, the voodoo Chile, way before Jimi Hendrix wrote the tune. Not quite the walking brain-feasting zombie, but somewhere in between, I lived an existence in the Twilight Zone, not knowing what the next day would bring. Rod Serling could have been my Godfather. Captain Kangaroo scared me shitless, as well as his pal Mister Greenjeans. I thought Howdy Doody was a real kid with strings attached to his limp limbs. Icky Twerp was my hero. I was a good kid with streaks of inconsolable incorrigible rebellion that possessed me like a demon from hell. My paternal grandmother refused to be in the same room with me for many years, and then it was only to prepare me Campbell’s Bean Soup, which she was convinced was the favorite of young demonic possessed children. I was baptized so many times my skin was permanently shriveled. I had no idea of my afflictions. Having spent every Sunday in the hard wooden pews of the Poly Baptist Church, I was guaranteed a seat in Heaven, or so I believed.

Age and height rectified most of the imagined curse, but still, I suffered from a contrived family affliction. My Aunt Norma, a kindly bookish woman who loved Wejie Boards, Tarot Cards, and howling at the full moon at two in the morning, thought that she gave me a kindred spirit, of which I was not. I was a kid that liked to write stupid stories in a Big Chief Tablet and mail them to the Fort Worth Press Newspaper. Years went by with no response. It was as if I never existed as a writer, but then, those were the years that I believed myself to be the next Mark Twain, and that belief was unshakeable. If I couldn’t become Mark Twain, at least I was destined to be the next John Steinbeck, even though he was still alive and kicking and was working on his Homeric tribute to his dog and America, “Travels With Charley.” I could have written that book; it was there in my oatmeal mush brain, but the puzzle pieces were missing.

To most of us, childhood was a mystery that disappoints us, then we grow up and realize it was the best time of our lives.

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Remembering Late Night Television of the 1960s


Mark Twain’s Visits With Johnny Carson On The Tonight Show

Of Course it didn’t happen, but let’s assume it did.

Johnny Carson was as big as entertainers get in the 1960s and 1970s. I watched his show with my father many times a week, staying up past my bedtime, but hey, I was in high school, so it was allowed. He picked the best comedians as a guest and gave many their boot to fame by allowing them a few minutes on his revered stage. Just for fun, let’s assume he invited Mark Twain back from the dead as a guest. No, I haven’t been smoking hand-rolled ciggies, but wouldn’t it have been eye-opening.

Carson; “Please welcome to the show, Mr. Mark Twain.” Twain, wearing his trademark white Panama suit, enters from behind the multi-colored curtain with a lit cigar in his mouth, makes his way to the stage, shakes hands with Johnny and Ed, and then sits his lanky frame on the holy sofa.

Carson; ” So Mark, just how hard was it to get a pass to visit the earth and be a guest on my show? I assume you came from above and not from that other place?

Twian; ” Not hard at all Mr. Carson; Father God enjoys your humor and likes Doc and his band. I never watched your program until Clarence the Angel told me I was coming down for a night to guest on your stage. Is this in color or black and white? We don’t have many of these new televisions in Heaven, and I refuse to own one because they are too much of a distraction from my work. Did I mention I am writing another fifty novels, all in longhand, can’t stand those new-fangled typewriters. Huck and Tom are all grown up now and doing quite well in the riverboat business, so I am continuing their life’s story. We have rivers up there too, so pilots are in short demand. We don’t have many comedians. There’s this Lenny Bruce feller, he’s a hoot but a bit blue with his language, and he’s always in trouble with the council.”

Carson; ” So back when you were on earth, all those years ago, you were quite dour when it came to politics and outspoken about the men that ran the country, do you still hold those views?”

Twain; ” Hell, yes, I do. You show me a politician, and I’ll show you a scoundrel, a thief, and a liar. So, who is this Lyndon Johnson moron? Why are we over in Viet Nam helping folks who don’t like us? I see a lot of our young soldier boys in Heaven. They’re as confused as I am, and not happy to be dead. We got no dog in that hunt, and you all are pissing away good money and destroying our countries morals with all these Hippie people running around smoking plants and marching around carrying signs. I can’t pretend to understand you folks down here on earth.”

Carson: “Well, Mark, you certainly don’t hold back; why don’t you tell us how you really feel. (audience laughs), Ed looks uncomfortable, and Carson plays with his pencil.

Twain; ” I gotta go now, but let me give you some parting advice, in 2022, which is a good bit away, you idiots down here are going to be right back in a Viet Nam situation, but it’s going to be in a country called Ukraine, and you will be fighting Russia and the Chinese, it it ain’t going to be a pretty show. How do I know this? Well, fellas, God tells me everything when we play our chess game every Thursday over cigars and brandy. Oh yeah, Johnny, you’re going to get divorced real soon, and that gal is going to pick your bones clean as a whistle.” Twain blows a smoke ring with his Havana cigar and exits the stage. Doc and the band play “Dixie.”

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Palm Sunday Service In The Cactus Patch


Reverend “Chicken Little” conducted a rousing Palm Sunday service in our backyard this past Sunday. His Peeps, though fewer in attendance from last year, were attentive and behaved themselves, even though a Blue Jay carried a few of them away to an unknown fate. Also, a severe attack of fire ants cut the sermon short before Sister Bunny and her choir could provide the hymns.

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“The Show Must Go On” In The Cactus Patch


Things are a bit shaky in the Cactus Patch this week. Spring is here, but holding off a bit, giving us cool and cruel weather. I have a worrisome cough. I am never ill, except for the Cancer that I beat off with a stick a few years back. I should be a petri dish of diseases at my age, but my bride, an RN, keeps me going. I keep checking my arm for a bar code and an expiration date. My iPhone is able to read codes, so when one does appear, I will scan myself.

Mrs. MoMo and I are going to the legendary and beautiful Granbury Opera House on Friday evening to see “The Liverpool Legends,” a group of hand-picked ( by George Harrison’s sister) musicians that believe themselves to be The Beatles. They put on a great show, so I am stoked and a bit jiggy about the evening. We are meeting two more couples of our old friends for supper, adult beverages, and sharing the event. Danny, Jordan, and I played in a rock band for 19 years, The American Classics, to be exact. We played many Beatles tunes, so revisiting live music should give us a proper fix for a while. It would be the perfect event if our lead guitar player, John, was still with us, but he is playing with better musicians in Heaven and can’t make it. We can reform the band at a later date.

My wife, MoMo, has gone full Hippie Chic on me. She turned a pair of jeans into bell bottoms by adding a 60s-style fabric to create the bell effect. She didn’t stop there. Next, she made a genuine cow leather vest complete with fringe and other adornments dangling. The gal was a bit of a hippie wild-ass back in the day, so she knows that clothing makes the person and produces the proper vibe. She is so excited the concert has taken a back seat to the wardrobe. I look for her to grind her own wheat for homemade bread and stop shaving her legs and armpits; she may change her name to Sunshine or Saffron before Friday. I will remain the same grumpy codger but will sport my leather jacket with cow-fur trimmings and Larry Mahan Ostrich boots. My hair is not long enough for a pony-tail, but if I drink enough Chi-Tea, it may grow enough by then.

Our bird feeders have turned into a Shakespearean performance stage. It seems the small Avians have formed their own theater company and take great pleasure in giving us a good show every morning. Two Crows have joined the cast, and a pesky Squirrel hogs the Sunflower seed but does a formidable tap dance, so he is welcome. The Doves have joined forces and now number in the dozens, making a solid ensemble. They tend to deplete the seed in a manner of minutes, but we are well-trained and keep the critters well-fed. We have a wild Turkey that walks with a nice strut and an educated Road Runner that visits, but so far, no Coyote.

God Bless Davy Crockett, and remember the Alamo. Adios for now.

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The Truth won’t Set You Free, But It Will Offend Almost Everyone And Send Your Friends And Family Running For Your Door


I made a pledge to myself a while back that I would step away from expressing my political and religious beliefs, and for the most part, I have upheld my own self-imposed exile. However, the last two days have blown that apart, and I have to speak my mind; as juvenile and impetuous as it may seem, it is full of unpleasant truths that will likely offend many. I don’t apologize for the facts as I read or see them.

If the shooting at the Nashville church school isn’t horrific enough, our president, in a news conference to speak of this tragedy, tells jokes about chocolate ice cream and calls out the cute little girls in the back of the room, chuckling and yukking it up, then says a few mumbling words about the shooting; ban guns, ban Christians, put everyone in prison that isn’t a liberal Democrat, you know, the usual vomitous. Where is the national outrage over this behavior? There will be none…nada…zip. One of the clear signs of advanced dementia is the use of unpleasant, inappropriate speech. Notice anything inappropriate about that speech, “Dear Hearts?”

This weekend, one of the days will be declared a “National Day of Transgender Violence, or Vengence” it could change to something else by then. A group of sick individuals pushing this agenda have created another movement to captivate the masses. Just when the nation was getting over BLM, Antifa, and Hollywood. How will this be handled by the FBI and the DOJ without hurting their delicate feelings? Will they turn to the Kardashian women or The Oprah to soften the blow? How about us folks answering with a national day of American Christians against transgendered violence. I know…..I know, we are supposed to “turn the other cheek,” would that be the face one or the ass-one? I will turn neither and will give no quarter to these fanatical, confused, and now dangerous humans. The Ulvade police should watch the video of the Nashville policemen who ran to the shooter and took her, yes, a real woman, down within minutes of arriving on the scene. I once thought Texas had the best cops and Rangers in the country, but now I’m sure we don’t, just a bunch of wokie, pansy-assed-gun-toting-donut-eating good ole boys. I know a few cops who aren’t that, but I can’t vouch for the boys in Ulvade.

Where are the conservative voices in Washington? You know, the ones that were supposed to right all the wrongs in record time? Spiky Haired McCarthy, Turtle McConnel, WWF Jordan, and the others. The absence of Christian leaders speaking out? Franklin Graham, where in the world are you? Where is the swamp? Pelosi? AOC? all the other rats living in the tidal basin? They do not wish to offend the small percentage of freaks in the sideshow that might, through social media, influence their demise at the polls; that’s why no one is speaking out. We are in bondage to the gods of social media; Facebook, Instagram, Chinese Tik Tok, Rat Bastard platforms on iPhones, Google Chrome Notebooks, and every device that we carry.

In the words of the lunatic newsman from the classic movie Network, ” I’m mad as hell and am not going to take it anymore.” Did I say too much? Probably.

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When Evil Grabs A Gun


Another act of evil upon our young. Guns kill things, animals, humans, and everything in between; it matters not but the person who chooses to use them for evil. Children are lost to the devil that possesses humans. Now we learn the shooter is a woman but identifies as a man; could this be a factor? Confused identity or mental illness, is it one and the same? I’m a big boy and old, so come at me as you will. Words will not harm me; I am beyond that weakness.

This is a question we must ask ourselves, our loved ones, or the politicians that supposedly represent us. ” Is there a war on Christianity? I don’t wish to believe there is, but the attacks on churches and schools, and now on innocent young children attending a church school. There is a disconnect in our society. Every malcontent and sociopath has a movement against our nation’s treasured values that I remember well from the 1950s. Those years were not perfect, but they were Homeric compared to our now weekend society.

Our news media will not speak the truth on this act, any more than they do of anything of importance. In his expensive suits, Old NBC Lester Holt spits out the bullshit he is told; he has no balls or guts to speak the words the country begs to hear; he is a puppet, as our president is. If one is bullied, pushed, slighted, or looked upon hard, that is the reason to kill everyone that you feel has done you wrong. It is the new American way of repentance and evening the playing field. The perpetrators must pay with their lives. It’s fairness from the middle ages. An eye for a word.

In my youth, a lifetime ago, we threw a few punches, a wrestle or two in the dirt of the playground, shook hands, still remained friends, and moved on with our childhood and our lives. What changed, and when did it? I’m old, and now more confused than I was as a child.

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The Call Of The Wild


A few days ago, in the waning moments of the afternoon light, MoMo and I were sitting on our patio having a cocktail, as we often do these days. We both heard the sound at the same time. “What was that she asked?” I replied, ” that, my dear is a Thomas Turkey calling for his flock.” Gobble..gobble…gobble. What the hell? We have lived in our rural community for four years and have never heard of or seen a wild Turkey, so this was a shocker. This was turning out to be a week of discovery. That morning, a squirrel attacked the bird feeder and dispersed the pushy Doves away. He or she was a welcomed site since we have not seen a wee nut breath since we built our home here. I love the little bandits and had one as a pet some years ago; she bit me only once and never again after I gave her a goodly chastising. Daisy was her given name. Now we have a Wild Turkey and perhaps a flock of hens and youthlings. I am happy that nature has returned to our semi-wild community. This morning, MoMo stepped onto the patio, and the large brazen Turkey flew from our backyard, barely clearing the fence and onto the wilds of the woods across the street. She thought it to be a giant Vulture, or perhaps Mothra, or Birdzilla, but it was the Tom Turkey we heard the night before. Thank Davy Crockett, it’s not a cocaine Bear.

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As The Bird Feeder Goes, So Does The Country


My sixteen-year-old granddaughter visited us last week for her spring break. She flew in on a steel silver bird from Tulsa on Monday, and we met her at DFW. I hadn’t seen her in a few years, except in pictures on Facebook and text, but there she was, pulling her rolling suitcase, wearing the obligatory backpack, holding her iPhone, and wearing a pair of Doc Marten boots. She was quite a beautiful sight to behold. I ask my wife to tell me that a sixteen-year-old would rather spend a week with their grandfather than go to South Padre or Corpus and whoop it up on the beach? She assures me she is not a mirage, and some grandchildren are geared that way. I must be a lucky old guy to garner such love and respect from one so young.

Her brother, my oldest grandson, came over from that fancy eastern city, Dallas, and had Mexican food with us. Once back at home, we played loud rock guitars for a while, and I was shocked that he might be the next young Eric Clapton or at least Jimi Hendrix or Jimmy Page. His sister plays a different guitar style and declines to join the loud fracas; Joni Mitchell and classical finger-picking are more to her styling. As loud as it was, having my two oldest grandchildren together for a while was an unexpected joy. I’ve learned, at my age, to take moments as they unfold. The loud music from my Fender amp loosened a dental filling or two, but I survived it without more hearing loss than usual. I will ask my grandson If I might accompany him on his first tour as a roadie or guitar tuner. If CDs or vinyl albums are there, I can sell them at a table near the venue entrance.

They both lead busy lives, as all young folks do these days. Their social life on the cell phone takes up much of their time, but that is the norm now. I told the two that I would be a better person and much more relaxed if I didn’t own one of the foul little machines. How ancient I must seem to them; going to bed at 9 PM and arising at 6 AM, unheard of in their universe.

Retiring requires searching for tasks to keep your mind sharp and your body supple. My wife and I have a shared morning routine, feeding our visiting hordes of wild birds each morning after our cup of java. We have three feeders and a bird bath, and it didn’t take long for the word to get out that our side yard is the happening place in our rural community. Starting with one feeder last year and a bag of seed every month, we are now up to two bags a week and sometimes more. I feel that there is a sign written in bird language somewhere in a tree that gives directions to our yard. I fear the little invaders have trained us well.

My granddaughter was amused by the antics of the little Avians. Their busy stage is close to our bay window, so we have front-row seats all day. She pointed out that the drama around the feeders is akin to the survival programs on television, or perhaps like our government dimwits in Washington. Big birds always win out over the little birds; it’s the natural pecking order in their world; and ours. I think she is onto something, and how weird that a teenager should recognize the similarities. Still, she is bordering on Oppenheimer’s intelligence and is into more things at school than I can remember. Ahhhh- to be young again, and not in the ancient 1960s.

Brown and black Sparrows are the small fries, so they get to the feeders early before the chaos ensues; Finches, Buntings, Juncos, and Titmouse come in next, then the pushy Cardinals arrive and start throwing their weight around. The Wood Pecker and Blue jays sneak in for a peanut, then depart. The few White Wing Dove that came last year has now grown into a flock of twenty or more, and they move in and take over the show. Feathers and seed fly, and the little birds retreat to the ground to grab what they can. It’s pretty chaotic. A feral cat or two tried to move in for a few easy kills, but my accurate rock-chunking abilities dispersed them in a few days. No cats were harmed, but the small stones gave their buttocks an ouchy or two just to let them know they were not welcome to kill my small feathered friends. These days, the escalating war between the birds is becoming worrisome. Perhaps I can draw on my inner Henry Kissinger spirit and negotiate a truce, but I doubt any of the small Avians will be interested in listening to my gobbly-goop. So be it; let the battles continue.

I sat down to my coffee a few mornings after she arrived, and my perch is also by the bay window where the bird’s antics occur. I found a note from my granddaughter written on post-it paper that summed it up quite well. It read, “The Doves are the supreme consumer of the seed. Much like the British and tea, the Doves do not play. Birds are under Dove dictatorship.”

That sums it up quite nicely. Unfortunately, as the bird feeder goes, so does the country.

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Weekends Are Meant To Be Relaxing. Right?


Weekends are made for chilling out, napping, reading, yard work, gardening, listening to vinyl records, and other mundane pursuits. To start off a lovely sunny Saturday, I find banks are failing in California and other branches across the US and Europe.

Tech upstarts and shady banking boardroom skullduggery are the culprits, and they remind me of the classic movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” The banking boys in California are like the greedy Mr. Potter and his henchmen. After the run on the banks, George Baily’s Building and Loan may still be open for business, but that one dollar in his safe will not save him. Potter will, in the end, own Bedford Falls, even though the movie doesn’t show that. There should have been a sequel, but Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewert weren’t up to it. Finding out how Clarence the Angel made out after he received his wings would have been nice.

Is my IRA and retirement safe? Not in the least. Our current administration wants to add a higher tax, steal more from Social Security, and in general, cause the economy to implode and make life miserable for us seniors. I don’t care to live on the streets in a tent under a bridge, smoking crack and pissing on the sidewalk. Seniors now were the 60s generation of protesters, so why can’t we organize, protest in DC and facilitate change to save our own butts and those of our children and grandchildren. I, for one, would be willing to risk a bit of teargas and hard rubber bullets. I would use my sturdy aluminum Walmart cane as my weapon of dissent, burn my Cigna Plan D prescription card on the steps of the White House and chain myself and my personal scooter to a light pole. I can recruit my friend Mooch and his pals, the Granbury “Plowboy’s,” to come along. They’re continually pissed off at everything, so this would be a nice excursion for them, as long as a Waffle House is within walking distance of the march.

I read this morning that the American Red Cross organization, the ones that are there when tornadoes and floods hit the south, is distributing leaflets, maps, cash, credit cards, and investment advice to illegal immigrants in Central America and Mexico, showing how to cross the border in style and obtain free services once they break into our country. Come on in, free stuff for everyone, except American senior citizens, and our homeless. You might as well put Biden on the international bridge with a bullhorn shouting directions and other demented nonsense. No more donations from me and the missus to this traitorous group of wokies. I would say they are now more “Red” than “Cross.”

I am considering withdrawing and depositing my legal tender in the Bank Of Sterns and Foster.

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“Influence-inza,” Making Folks Sick, One Video At A Time


I am not easily influenced by anyone or anything. Putting a pretty gal with Kardashian eyebrows, trout lips, and a big butt on social media is not going to make me buy any product or service she is pushing. I am immune to such nonsense. Please excuse the first word in the title; I made that up and happen to think it’s appropriate.

Apparently, the younger folks latch onto these women known as “influencers” like they are their long-lost-fairy godmothers. How can a young woman, or someone pretending to be a woman, it’s difficult to tell these days, tell anyone to stick their head in a freezer for an hour, and it will take away their facial wrinkles? Oh my, but it may also give you frostbite, and you might lose your nose, ear, or even eyesight. Who are you gonna call ( my apology to Ghostbusters), the “influencer” chick or 911?

“Like wow Doc, like I tried really-really hard to call the influencer girl to help me, but her Tik Tok number is not listed, I can’t find my phone…have you seen my phone….oh no…I’m going into withdrawl.” says the dumbass teenager to the emergency room doctor.

Who are these people on social media, Tik Tok, Instagram, Facebook, and Youtube, and all the other platforms? Has our society gone so low as to believe what a “faked-out” extraterrestrial-looking person/thing says or, worse yet, instructs you to do? I have read articles from good and reasonable professional sources that the majority of these young women/things are as stupid as pasta noodles but not so stupid as to make millions of dollars in the process. Who watches this drool? Would you believe our children, pre-teens, and teenagers, even college-educated, supposedly intelligent twenty-somethings, with or without a paying job? That is their core audience. I’ve watched a few of them on Youtube to see what the fuss is about. There is no fuss, only stupidity, narcissism, and worshiping at the “church of social media,” Pastor Zuckerberg officiating and leading the service.

It came to me in the middle of the night. The Kardashian women are responsible for this scourge on society. They have turned American teens into a warped, weird version of themselves while making gazillions in cash and influencing our young. Look at the women on television. Our local news outlets have female presenters who look strangely like a Kardashian; big butts, swollen lips, and large, clownish eyebrows. I can’t get through the five-o’clock newscast without turning my television off. It makes me yearn for the 1980s newscasters, as bad as that was.