A brand-spankin-new series for folks that want to know what a Texan thinks
The Texan
Mr. Bromide S. Eltzer from Arizona sent me an email.
Q: Mr. Texan, my wife and little girl have taken over my stereo Hi-Fi setup. They play the same Taylor Swift album all day long and it’s driving me to drink, and I’m losing my faith in humanity. Do you have any thoughts on how to handle this situation?
Texan: First off, Mr. Bromide, Taylor Swift’s music is not real music; it’s a cartoon soundtrack. I can see your little one getting hooked on this nonsense, but your wife is another can of fishing worms. Are you drinking beer or whiskey? The quality of hooch does make a difference in how this stuff effects you. I prefer Redneck Riviera Whiskey out of Nashville, give that a try. Go find some good vinyl records by Creedence, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash, and when they’re not hogging your turntable, tie them up with some good rope from the Home Depot, and make them listen to some real music. If that don’t work, invest in a nice Bass boat and start spending time on the lake or river. If that doesn’t restore your faith, say a prayer to Saint Willie, and eat three Whataburgers, my son.
I wrote this recount a few years back and figured it might need a little sunlight shined on it.
We’ve been on North Padre Island for the past few days, visiting my son and his family. I’ll be 72 on the 17th and figured I owe myself a bucket list item: surfing one more time.
Wes, my son, also a surfer, was accommodating and borrowed a new, all-foam board that he thought I could handle. My grandson has a much shorter board because he is 8. The beach at Padre Island was the most crowded mess I have ever witnessed. Granted, the last time I was on a Texas beach on Labor day was in the mid-90s, and that was at Port Aransas. This was beyond stupid. Thousands of people parking their cars near the water, getting stuck in the sand, hogging any sliver of a spot to reach the water. After searching for an hour, Wes found a small opening and managed to squeeze his truck into the slot.
Beach chairs are unloaded, cooler and surfboards ready, so my grandson and I grab our boards and wade into the surf. As it turns out, the surf today was terrible. Slushy with no good form. We struggled to find a decent wave.
I paddled through the shore break past the first sand bar and tried to sit on my board. Nope, that wasn’t happening. I needed a real fiberglass and foam board. I took off on a wave and couldn’t stand up: nope, that neither. The head injury from two years ago is most likely the culprit. No balance and no equilibrium, and less good sense. Being 72 didn’t help my quest. I was a good surfer in the 60s and 70s, and I figured it was something that couldn’t be forgotten. Wrong on my part. The defeat was at hand, and I took it willingly.
Humility hung on me like my wet tee-shirt. I slow walked it back to the beach. I laid the board down and told my wife, Momo, that I could scratch this one off the bucket list. Sometimes your memories are bigger than your brain.
“We got ourselves into so much trouble that our Mothers would take shifts whooping everyone’s butt just to give the other moms spanking arm a break.” It was 1956, and that’s how it was for my neighborhood pals and me.
Summer was our best and our worst season because there was more playtime outside, increasing the opportunity to get ourselves into predicaments that never ended well. Our moms didn’t buy into that “Dr. Spock crap.” I would bet that none of the moms in my neighborhood ever heard of that weirdo. There was no negotiating out of corporal punishment, and trophies were non-existent.
My neighbor, Mr. Mister, was the neighborhood scientist and inventor; our very own Mr. Wizard. Not the dweeb on television, but a real-life mad scientist with a movie star wife.
We kids would spend our weekends sitting underneath his Mimosa tree, watching him build his oddball inventions in his garage that doubled as his laboratory. Looking back, he was more a “mad scientist” than an inventor. The only thing missing was the Frankenstein monster lumbering out of his garage.
Mrs. Mister, his Hollywood-looking wife, would keep a steady supply of cold Kool-Aid and cookies flowing. She closely resembled the movie star Jane Mansfield but could bake a cookie-like Betty Crocker. Always with a frosty martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she was the dream Mom none of us had. No butt whooping’s around the Mister household, no matter what we said or did. So we were free to be our feral selves.
Some of Mr. Misters’ inventions were downright crazy. My two favorites were his motorized and drivable charcoal griller and the half-size rocket that took Fred and Ginger, his wife’s twin poodles, into the stratosphere, returning the two. “Dog-o-nauts” small space capsule safely to earth; via an Army surplus parachute.
After the spectacular launch, which also torched the Misters’ back yard and part of their garage, Mr. Mister was paid a visit by the F.B.I. and the Air Force. Who in the world knew it was a national security violation to build and launch a solid-fuel rocket from your backyard?
That incident caused Mrs. Mister to suffer a minor breakdown, so no more using the pooches.
As in most neighborhoods, there are disagreements with other groups of kids. A gang of mean and nasty punks lived across the railroad tracks from us. They were older, bigger, and made our lives miserable. We called them “The Hard Guy’s.” A few of them carried switch-blade knives that had been smuggled in from Mexico. We all attended the same elementary school and suffered their daily attacks during the school year; now, they were sneaking into our neighborhood, cutting our bicycle tires with their switchblades, egging our houses, and stealing our goodies. So we devised a plan to get even, and of course, it involved our hero and mentor, Mr. Mister.
Mr. Mister said that he had experienced a similar gang of kids growing up in East Los Angeles. So he suggested a way to retaliate using every kid’s favorite firecracker, “Cherry Bombs,” delivered by an ancient invention called the catapult. Wow! what a guy. With his help, we built a small wagon-mounted catapult in a few hours. It was a beaut. He donated a shoebox full of the little bombs for the cause.
The first Cherry Bomb we launched from the weapon went 50 ft and exploded; not enough weight. So Georgie suggested putting a Cherry Bomb inside a sidewalk biscuit, like the ones his sister and her friends make.
For the folks that didn’t grow up in the 50s, the “sidewalk biscuit” is purely a kid invention native to Texas. It’s made by putting a large glob of dough on a red-hot 250-degree sidewalk and letting the heat do the rest.
We stuffed a Cherry Bomb into a fist-size glob of dough and placed it on my front sidewalk. Within an hour, we had our weapon of mass destruction. The hot concrete produced a biscuit-bomb the size of a grapefruit with a beautiful golden crust. Georgie tried to eat one and chipped a tooth.
The test shoot was a success; the biscuit bomb flew about 100 yards and exploded as it hit the ground; perfect. We were ready for revenge. Mr. Mister beamed like a proud Father.
Word in the neighborhood was that Chucky, the leader of the “Hard Guys,” was having a backyard birthday party, and his gang of hoodlums and their families would be attending. Unfortunately, we also learned that a few of our neighborhood girls would be there, which made them traitors to the cause. We tried to warn them without revealing our battle plan, but, oh well, they will be sorry when the crap hits the fan.
At dusk, our small group of commandos, wearing our best Army surplus helmets and packs, pushed the catapult to the edge of the railroad tracks. The party was in full gear, Elvis was on the record player, parents were dancing, kids were yelling, and a clown was making balloon animals; we could smell the hamburgers cooking, reminding us that it was supper time.
Skipper, our math wiz-kid, calculated the trajectory and distance with his father’s slide rule. Georgie loaded the “Biscuit Bomb” into the catapult pouch and then pulled a can of Ronson lighter fluid from his pack and doused the weapon. Countdown from five to one, I lit the fuse and the soaked bomb and pulled the release lever.
The “Flying Burning Biscuit Bomb” sailed high and long, leaving a trail of black smoke and flames as it soared toward its target. We gasped in awe at the beauty of our weapon.
The first biscuit bomb bounced once, landed on the charcoal grill, and exploded. The adults sitting nearby were coated in charcoal-broiled hamburger patties, weenies, and biscuit chunks. A piece of hot charcoal set Chucky’s mom’s beehive hair-do on fire, and his father wasted two cold Schlitz beers dousing the flaming mess.
The second “biscuit bomb” blew up “Squiggles The Clown’s” prize table, sending balloon animals, Captain Kangaroo penny-whistles, and birthday cupcakes in all directions. It was pure pandemonium at the party place.
The third bomb was a dud. We were in the process of loading a fourth when the “Hard Guys” came running towards us, followed by their fathers. We had no plan of retreat, no “plan B.” So we did what any commando would do; dropped our gear and ran like hell towards Mr. Mister’s back fence. Reaching the fence, we vaulted into the backyard and to safety.
Mr. Mister knew the attack was a bust, and he gathered us around the Mimosa tree. Mrs. Mister gave us a cold glass of Kool-Aid to calm us.
The “Hard Guys” and their fathers stood at the back fence yelling obscenities. Naturally, this didn’t go over well with Mr. Mister, so he walked to the back fence and addressed the lynch mob.
Mr. Mister didn’t sound like himself. His voice was deep and foreboding as he spoke to the group. ” Millard Mister here, Colonel, U.S. Air Force, this is my wife, Captain Jane Mister, U.S. Air Force, is there a problem here gentlemen?” The fathers jerked to attention, eyes forward. This sounded serious.
Chuckies father explained the scenario. Mr. Mister replied, ” I am aware of the operation and why it took place.” He then explained to the fathers all the havoc their sons were creating in our neighborhood. The gang of hoodlums realizing the jig was up, took off running for their homes, angry fathers right behind them. We had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.
Mr. Mister turned, gave us a salute, and said, “job well done men.” Three kids stood as tall as nature would allow and returned his salute.
The rest of the summer was great for us, and Mr. Mister invented the first Air-conditioned Riding Lawnmower.
Old Pal Mooch called this morning asking me if I would help him bury something. Mooch is not a sentimental guy, so I was a bit taken back with his request. He didn’t say who are what it was, or what happened. I immediately assumed it was his old Chihuahua, “Giblet.” He said he would pick me up in ten-minuets.
As I opened the passenger side of the pick-up truck, I noticed a tarp with something underneath, and a shovel laying in the bed. There was also a gas can. We drove in silence for a few miles then turned on a dirt road and onto some federal land.
Mooch found a spot by a large Oak tree and dug a nice little hole, about large enough for a small dog. He then retrieved the tarp and laid it on the ground next to the grave.
When he jerked back the tarp, I expected to see the remains of his beloved dog, but instead, there was his new Apple laptop that his wife had given him for a birthday present. He quickly pushed it into the hole, poured gas on the machine and threw in a match. The fire did it’s work in less than a minute. I was too stunned to say much about what I had witnessed so I let Mooch do the talking.
“I paid nearly two grand for that sorry piece of plastic and I turn it on this morning and get Error 19. Sum-bitch, the darn laptop has the COVID-19 Virus so here we are burning it just like they did when the plague was killing those folks in Europe” he says.
It was best to just remain quiet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a computer error, not a virus.
Over the years, I’ve spotlighted the storytelling skills of my two late Uncles, Jay and Bill. They remain in good standing and are the best liars and yarn spinners I have met. Each could have been as popular as Will Rogers, but they chose the farmhouse porch as their stage, shunning the spotlight and life as a celebrity.
Around the age of nine, I was convinced that the spirit of Mark Twain had somehow entered my body, and my destiny was one he had lived. My teacher, an older woman of little patience, was convinced that I was dropped on my head during infancy, which led to my outlandish literary behavior. She couldn’t see that I was destined to be a writer of some importance. Mathematics was a mystery I loathed, but I perked up when the curriculum came around to History and English. To me, everything became a story and originated from my grandparents’ farm, my extended street-rat crazy family, or neighborhood antics, and included made-up tales of ridiculous origins. Mrs. Badger, ever the suffering teacher, labeled me an insufferable pathological liar and called my mother in for the dreaded parental meeting, which included my school’s principal, who sat with a wicked wooden paddle in his lap, poised to administer punishment. Mother handled it well until we reached home. There was no butt whooping, but she did corner me in the kitchen, put her face nose to nose with mine and in a seething saliva spewing accusation said,
“You are one of them..my loathsome, worthless brothers have ruined you: I forbid you to associate with them, ever again.” She was right, they had, and I wore that tawdry badge proudly. All those nights sitting on the farmhouse front porch listening to their beer-infused tall tales, yarns, and lies formed me. I was spoiled, but happy goods. My family lacked the foresight needed to distinguish a liar from written fiction. My Aunt Norma, a tarnished angel, is the gal who taught me to read, write, and imagine. She understood my affliction.
While watering my landscape this morning, I heard a loud buzzing sound radiating from a Salvia bush. I part the leaves searching for this buzzing source.
Bingo, attached to a branch, is a Murder Hornet. I have a picture of the little beast on my refrigerator for identification, since I knew they were heading my way. The Farmers Almanac said they would make Texas by late spring, so the magazine was correct for once.
Why are all pandemics, poisonous foods, pharmaceuticals, and end-times monsters originating from the Asian continent, mainly China?
It’s a laundry list of evil mutants starting with Godzilla, Mothra, Son of Godzilla, King Kong fighting Godzilla, Giant Transformers, The Corona Virus, The Asian Flu, The Bat Flu, the Pig Flu, the Bird Flu, and now hornets with the face and murderous attitude of Charles Manson.
Fearing for the lives of my Bumble Bees, I spray the Murder Hornet with a substantial dose of Black Flag. It flaps its wings a few times and buzzes at me. No effect whatsoever. Okay, this mutant is chemical resistant and knows what I look like and where I live.
I retrieve my 1966 era Daisy BB Pistol from my work shed; old school tactics are now on the table.
I sneak up to the Salvia bush and spread the branches enough for a clean shot. There it sits with a Bumble Bee in its grasp, stinging the life out of the poor pollinator. I see a dozen more casualties on the ground below the plant—Satan with wings and a stinger. This monster has to go to La La Land now.
The first BB bounces off the buggers’ armor plating, putting a hole in my den window. There goes $300 bucks. Now it’s personal. The second and third shots wing the critter, and now it is insanely mad and buzzing like a chainsaw.
With only two BBs left in my pistol, I go for the kill shot to the head. I take my aim and begin to squeeze the trigger. The murderous thug-bug looks up at me with its Charles Manson eyes, and a shiver runs up my spine. ” Go ahead, kill me if you must, but I have friends that will track you down.” It’s look says it all.
I take the shot, and the invader falls to the ground, headless. The Bumble Bees, sensing victory, swoop in and finish the killer off. Payback for their fallen brethren.
I retrieve the dead hornet from the bush with a pair of Martha Stewart grilling tongs and place it on my backyard retaining wall. A few squirts of charcoal lighter fluid and a wooden match complete the deed, and the bad-ass bug is on its way to hornet Valhalla.
My wife walks up and says, ” so, you got him, good job. Look at these cute little packs of Chinese seeds that came in the mail just now.”
Dire news for the good citizens of Colorado Springs: the elusive and dangerous Chupacabra has returned. A local resident, Miss Sunshine, a retired mid-wife and medicine woman, spotted the semi-mythical creature sitting in the road in front of her home, and than later that night she found it feasting on feral cat food on her deck. She described it as a mangy muscled brown hot mess about the size of a large dog. The critter had glowing eyes that seared into her brain, a long pink snout, and illuminated toxic drool dripped from it’s mouth as it chomped down on a bowl of Little Friskies Feral Cat Feast.
Local NPR field reporter Maya Sharona asked her a few questions about her unnerving encounter with the Chupa.
MS: Miss Sunshine, what makes you think this was the mythical Chupacabra?
Sunshine: At first I thought it was the dog down the road, old John Boy, but the closer I got, it was clear to me that this was a Chupa. I drove around the thing and it started chasing me, sort of like those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, chasing that jeep. I floored my Prius and made into my garage and into the house, that’s when I called the sheriffs office to report it. Officer Fife and Chief Andy came out, but the thing was gone by then. Later that night it showed up on my deck and was eating the Friskies I put out for the herd of feral cats that live in the woods behind my house. I worry about them kitties because Sasquatch lives out there too and I hear he is fond of Cat meat. I took a good picture with my iPhone.
For my birthday a while back, my wise and thoughtful wife, Momo, gifted me a classic 1970 Underwood 310 manual typewriter. It is a wonderful present I would never have purchased, although I have yearned for one for a while now.
For some time, possibly five years or so, I have been whining and casually threatening to go “old school” with my writing and get away from this demon laptop. It’s too easy to keep on tapping and spit out a page or two of gibberish that has more words than needed and makes no sense. It’s not about speed and what your program does; it’s about the content. A typewriter makes you think before striking that key. The delete button does not exist.
Hemingway would tap for hours on end, and then if he wasn’t pleased with his effort, it went into the waste basket. Using a typewriter to transpose your thoughts to paper is a commitment, and not an easy one.
There was a typewriter in our household when I was a child. It was a large black beast of an Underwood, all pure American heavy metal, requiring a grown man and a hefty child to lift it. I would peck on it for hours and eventually come up with something legible. I never once saw my parents use it, so its presence in our home was a mystery. I heard from my older cousin, Cookie, that it was my grandmother’s when she lived in California, and she spent all of her waking hours tapping away letters and movie script ideas. It caused a good bit of drama and injury within the family, so it was banished to our household for safekeeping. My father wasn’t pleased when he would find me chicken pecking away.
My love of the machine started at an early age, and came into full blossom as a teenager in the 1960s, when I started to write stories. I took typing in high school to sharpen my skills and learn the keyboard. I studied two years of journalism, and learned to love the written word. My teacher was my mentor. She pushed me to excel. It all paid off well. When computers came about in the late 90s, I was a good typist and had no problem adapting.
I will keep you posted on how this “old school” project turns out. I typed a page on my Underwood, and my fingers are throbbing.
A few days back, my wife and I visited one of the big box stores looking to replace the water filter in our fancy refrigerator.
After reading the directions that came with the stainless beast, I realized that the filter is two years past its recommended change date, and it should be changed every six months. That explains why our ice tastes like garlic and smells like a stinky foot.
I told my wife, ” don’t get me started on why a two-thousand dollar refrigerator needs a water filter. Back in the day, we got cold water from an aluminum pitcher that sat in the icebox and our ice from trays, and that was plenty good enough.” She agreed and knew better than to push the matter when I use the term “back in the day.”
The orange store didn’t stock the filter but said they could order one, which may take up to six months to arrive. That got under my skin, but good, because we bought the sickly beast from them. We moved on to the other box store, the blue one.
The young lady at the blue store was no help. We gave her the part number and the model. She took a picture of the instruction page with her cell phone, then took a selfie and said she would be right back. Twenty minutes later, we are left standing in the appliance department, and the young lady is missing in action. My blood pressure is now up at least twenty points, and my hypoglycemia has kicked in, so I’m officially pissed, and dangerous.
I find the kiosk for the appliance department, and the young lady is sitting at the desk, talking on her smart-ass cellphone. The conversation was much too personal and not related to customer service. I stand directly in front of the kiosk, hoping to catch her attention when she holds up one finger and shushes me away. I don’t mind my wife doing that, but when a total stranger does it, it’s pure audacity. I can’t tolerate impertinence and rudeness, especially from youngsters.
I am now in full meltdown mode. My face is burning hot, my back is itching, and this seasoned body is trembling like a dog trying to crap a peach pit. And, of course, I have to pee. The bladder of a senior has no conscience or timeline, so I hustle off to the men’s room.
Returning to the kiosk, the young, “essence of rudeness” little moron is now texting. I snap and reach for her cell phone with the grace and speed of Mr. Miyagi teaching young Daniel-San to wax on, wax off. I remove the phone from her fingers. I then throw the device on the floor and stomp the smart-ass piece of technology to pieces. Miss Moron of the year, is too stunned to react.
I don’t remember the few minutes that followed the killing of the phone, but my wife said it was the most epic display of cursing, fit throwing and thrashing around that she has witnessed. Rightly deserved, she added.
While driving home, my wizened mate tells me, “you are going to see Doc Bones tomorrow.”
Still shivering and twitching from the effects of the demon that possessed me earlier, I ask,” why?”
She leans over, pecks me on the cheek, and says, “Darling, I believe your social filter is about twenty years past its change date.”
An old friend of mine passed a few months ago. We had been apart for years, yet he held a distinct place in my thoughts. I sometimes borrowed fragments of his vivid life for my short stories, which pleased him. His name was simply Junior. He believed a last name was of no consequence and cared little for family ties.
In 1957, he opened a coffee house in the heart of downtown Fort Worth, Texas. Although they will tell you that “The Cellar” was the first, the “Hip Hereford” came first by a full year.
Junior was born to be a cowboy. His father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and all the uncles and cousins wore the same boots and lived by the code of the West. There were more cowboys in his bloodline than in a John Wayne film. It should have been his fate. But then, his favorite horse, Little Bill, kicked him hard in the head. After that, he turned his back on the rugged ideals of the West. He became the owner of a coffee house club, a renaissance man, a poet, and a man who lived life like a Stetson-wearing beatnik. He said a life spent on a sweaty saddle, inhaling the stench of cattle farts, was not the life he dreamed of.
The opening night for the coffee house was Halloween 1957. Junior hires two street winos to help run the door and do odd jobs. They were reluctant to give him their birth names, so he christened them Wino 1 and Wino 2. They were good to go as long as Junior paid them and kept the booze flowing. The following is an excerpt from the unfinished story.
Around 7:15, Wino 2 informs Junior that the first performer has arrived and takes the stage for the introduction. He steps to the mic and, in that pleasant voice, says, “Ladies and gents, please welcome to the stage, Mr. Blind Jelly-roll Jackson and his nurse Carpathia.”
An ancient black man with hair as white as South Texas cotton, holding a guitar as old as himself, is helped to the stage by a prim female nurse dressed in a starched white uniform. The old man wears a red smoking jacket, a silver ascot, and black trousers. Dark sunglasses and a white cane complete his ensemble. The old fellow is as blind as Ray Charles.
The nurse gently seats the old gentleman in a chair provided by Wino 1 and lowers the large silver microphone to a height between his face and his guitar. She then stands to the side of the stage, just out of the spotlight. Blind Jelly Roll starts strumming his guitar like he’s hammering a ten-penny nail. Thick, viscous down strokes with note-bending riffs in between. His frail body rocks with every note he coaxes out of his tortured instrument. He leans into the mic and sings,
“We’s gonna have us a mess o’ greens tonight…haw..haw..haw…haw…gonna wash her down with some cold Schlitz beer..haw..haw..haw..gonna visit ma woman out on Jacksboro way…gonna get my hambone greased”. This was Texas blues at its best.
On cue, his nurse steps into the spotlight, extracts a shiny Marine Band harmonica from her pocket, and cuts loose on a sixteen-bar mouth-harp romp. Her ruby-red lips attack that “hornica” like a ten-year-old eating a Fat Stock Show Corndog. The crowd loves it. They dig it. When Blind Jelly Roll finishes his song, Wino 2 passes a small basket through the group for tips. Jelly Roll and his nurse take their kitty and depart. He’s due back at the old folk’s home before midnight.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 