Serious advice for those who don’t live in Texas but wish they did.
Mr. Cletus Snow sent me an email seeking advice.
Cletus: Mr. Texan, I’m a long-haul trucker for Walmart out of Arkansas. My route takes me to Chicago, then to Minneapolis, then to Yellowstone, then to Arizona, and I wind up in Fort Worth. My dog, Bandit, and I are trucking 3,000 miles a week hauling Coors beer. I’ve developed a fatal case of hemorrhoids, and so does Bandit. Any suggestions on how to deal with all this mess. East Bound and Down.
The Texan: Mr. Snow, you have my sympathies. I, too, drove a truck for a while, and the biggest complaint I heard at the truck stops was the scourge of the Hems. I suggest you remove the driver’s seat and drive while standing up, thus relieving pressure on the sensitive area. I’ve got a good buddy who developed a cure for hemorrhoids when he was killing Viet Congs over in the Nam. He got his hands on a Vietnamese Death Pepper, the hottest pepper on the planet. It took him a while, but he invented a hot sauce that can cure almost anything. Since he is a Texan, too, he calls it “Davy Crockett’s Ass Cannon.” Believe me, I’ve seen it cure the lame, make a blind man see, give an old woman the body of a Hooters girl, and, of course, burn off those pesky hemorrhoids. I’m sending you a bottle. Keep in touch.
The makeshift sunblock my father had fashioned from a tarp and four cane fishing poles wasn’t beautiful, but it worked fine. Sitting under the contraption was my little sister, mother, and grandmother. I was eight years old. He and my grandfather were not far away, holding their fishing rods after casting into the rough surf. Whatever they caught would be our supper that evening. I wasn’t invited to fish with them; I was too young, and the surf too dangerous. Besides, my small Zebco rod was only strong enough to catch a passing perch.
The visit was our annual summer fishing trip to Port Aransas, Texas, a small fishing village on the northern tip of Mustang Island. I don’t remember my first visit, but my mother said I was barely one year old. After that, the Gulf of Mexico, the beach, and that island became part of my DNA
I’m an old man now, but I can recall every street, building, and sand dune of that small village. Over the decades, it became a tourist mecca for the wealthy, destroying the innocent and unpretentious charm of the town. Gone are the clapboard rental cottages with crushed seashell paving and fish-cleaning shacks. Instead, rows of stores selling tee shirts made in China sit between the ostentatious condominiums, restaurants, and hotels. I prefer to remember it as it was in the 1950s when families came to fish, and the children explored the untamed beaches and sand dunes.
Born in 1891, my grandfather was an old man by the time I was eight years old. Tall and lanky, with white hair and skin like saddle leather. He was a proud veteran of World War 1 and as tough as the longhorn steers he herded as a boy. He lost part of his left butt cheek from shrapnel and was gassed twice while fighting in France. Nevertheless, he harbored no ill feelings toward the Germans, even though he killed and wounded many of them.
On the contrary, he disliked the French because they refused to show proper gratitude for the doughboys saving their butts from the Krauts. As a result, he wouldn’t allow French wine in his home. He preferred Kentucky bourbon with a splash of branch water or an ice-cold Pearl beer. He left his hard-drinking days in Fort Worth’s Hell’s Half Acre decades ago. He told a few stories about the infamous place, but he was careful to scrub them clean for us youngsters.
His one great joy in life was saltwater fishing with my father, playing his fiddle, and telling stories to whoever would listen. The recounting of his early childhood and life in Texas captivated my sister, cousins, and me for as long as the old man could keep talking. He told about being in France but never about the horrors of the war. He lived a colorful childhood and, for a while, was a true Texas cowboy. Half of it may have been ripping yarns, but he could tell some good ones. My mother said I inherited his talent for recounting and spinning yarns. If that’s true, I’m proud to have it.
He could have been in a Norman Rockwell painting while standing in the surf, a white t-shirt, a duck-billed cap, and khaki pants rolled to his knees. I was in awe of the old man, but I was too young to know how to tell him. My grandmother said he was crazy for wearing his gold watch while fishing.
The timepiece was a gift of gratitude from his employer when he worked in California during the Depression years. A simple gold-plated 1930s-style Bulova. It was an inexpensive watch, but he treated it like the king’s crown, having it cleaned yearly and the crystal replaced if scratched. He called that watch his good luck charm and wore it when fishing for good juju. It was a risk that the salt water might ruin it, but he took it. He caught five speckled sand trout and half a dozen Golden Croaker that day, so the charm worked. Add the three specs my father snagged, joined with the cornbread and pinto beans my mother and grandmother cooked, and we dined like the Rockefeller’s that night.
The next few days were a repeat of the same thing. I rode my blow-up air mattress in the shore break and caught myself a whopper of a sunburn on my back. The jellyfish sting added to my discomfort. I was miserable and well-toasted, but I kept going, determined to enjoy every second of beach time. We returned to Fort Worth as a spent and happy bunch. The family would give it another go the following year.
Two years passed. One day, my father told me my grandfather was sick and would be in the veteran hospital in Dallas for a while. He mentioned cancer. I was young and didn’t understand this disease, so I looked it up in our encyclopedia and then understood its seriousness. One week, he seemed fine, sitting in his rocking chair playing his fiddle and telling stories, and the next week, he was in a hospital fighting for his life. His doctor said being gassed in the war was the cause of his cancer. It was not treatable and would be fatal.
Near a month later, he was not the same man when he came home. His face was gaunt; his body, which was always lean and wiry, was now skin and bone. The treatments the doctors ordered had ravaged him as much as the disease. My grandmother’s facial expressions told it all. There was no need to explain; I knew he would soon be gone. My father was stoic, if only for his mother’s benefit. His father, my grandfather, was fading away before our eyes, and we couldn’t do a thing to change the outcome.
A week after returning home, Grandfather found his strength, walked to their living room, and sat in his rocking chair. He asked me for his fiddle, which I fetched. He played half of one tune and handed it back to me. I cased it and returned it to the bedroom closet; he was too weak for a second tune. His voice was raspy and weak when he spoke, but he had something to say, so I took my position on my low stool, as I often did when he recounted his tales. I noticed his gold watch was loose and had moved close to his elbow. His attachment to the timepiece would not allow removal. It was a part of him. He spoke a few words, but continuing was a painful effort. My grandmother helped him to his bed. He removed his watch, placed it on the nightstand, and lay down. He was asleep within minutes. From that day on, he would sleep most of the time, waking only to be helped to the bathroom or to sip a few spoonfuls of hot soup. I would visit after school, sitting next to him while he slept, cleaning his watch with a soft cloth, winding it, and ensuring the time was correct. I felt he knew I was caring for this treasured talisman.
I came home from school on a Friday, and my grandfather was gone. I could see the imprint in the bed where he had laid, and his medication bottles and watch were missing from the nightstand. Mother said he took a turn for the worse, and my father took him back to the veteran’s hospital.
The following day, my father came home and told us my grandfather had passed away during the night. I noticed he was wearing his gold watch. I thought if the timepiece was such a lucky charm, as I had been told all these years, why had it not saved my grandfather?
Life continued on Jennings Street; for me, some of it was good, and a little of it was not. Father wore grandfather’s watch in remembrance and respect. He waited for the magic to come. He gave me his worn-out Timex, which was too big for my wrist, but I wore it proudly.
The magic of the watch began to work for my father. He acquired two four-unit apartment houses near downtown, fixed them up a bit, rented them out, and sold them. We then moved to Wichita Falls, where he started building new homes. A year later, we moved to Plano, Texas, where he continued to build houses. It appeared the good luck of the watch was working overtime. I became a believer in this talisman. The hard days in Fort Worth were well behind us now. The future held promise for our family.
On a day in 1968, riding with my father to lock his homes for the night, we had a long overdue father-to-son talk. I rarely saw him because of his work, so I welcomed the time. Had I thought about college? What was going on in my life? I played in a popular rock band, so that was a point we touched on. He didn’t want me to become a professional musician as he had been. I assured him this phase would end soon. He and my mother were worried I would be drafted and sent to Vietnam. We talked for two hours. He remarked that as long as he wore his father’s watch, everything he touched turned gold. My father was successful, so how could I doubt his beliefs?
In the summer of 1969, the band on the old watch broke while we were fishing for Kingfish in the gulf off Port Aransas. While gaffing a Kingfish, my father bumped his wrist against the side of our boat. The watch fell into the water, and in a flash, it was gone. He said that if he had to lose it, this was a fitting end, lost to the water his father loved so much.
I’m an old-school reader. An Amazon tablet sits in my desk drawer, but it has gone untouched for four years. Electronic devices don’t allow me the same experience as holding a book made from cardboard and ink printed on recycled paper. Technology is fine for some but for the written word.
It starts with the jacket. Most are now in color, printed on shiny paper, with the author’s name as large as the title, a nice photo or drawing, and a few lines of publisher praise to capture your attention and make you feel that the $30 or more you paid wasn’t in vain. It’s a dance of sorts, but our money has been collected, so it’s best to continue the waltz.
Then comes the preface or the dedication to loved ones, friends, or contributors. Some are short, sweet, and curt and fail to credit the deserved; others ramble on until I lose interest.
Truman Capote snubbing Harper Lee’s dedicated research with “In Cold Blood” comes to mind. A few excluded words of thanks ruined a lifelong friendship. He wasn’t the first, but his pettiness was unforgivable.
I notice the typeset and spacing information, the font, the Library of Congress notes, the printing dates, and then the first paragraph, which sets the tone for the next few hundred pages or more.
Ernest Hemingway said a book should begin with ‘one true sentence.’ He knew it was a waste of the author’s and their readers’ time if it didn’t. His advice has taught me well.
My wife, Momo, a Registered Nurse, retired last August. Soon after, she underwent major back surgery, and during her recuperation, she re-discovered her love of reading. Now, instead of watching television until late hours, we both retire early, prop ourselves up on our bed pillows, and read our books late into the night.
I recently revisited ” In Cold Blood,” Capote’s masterpiece that so affected his life that he never fully recovered to write another novel. I enjoyed it more this time than I did thirty years ago. It was a butt-whooping to the end. Every chapter contained a piece of his soul.
Anthony Doerr’s two newest novels are commanding reads. My wife and I have read both, and she is on the verge of starting his third. I am reading Amor Towels and find his storytelling to be in the style of Steinbeck and Hemingway. I was once a James Elroy fan, but his last two books were an effort from start to completion. He is on my rest list for now.
Besides ” Fun With Dick and Jane,” the first real books I read were Mark Twain’s ” The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and then his follow-up “The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn.”
I come from a family of non-readers, so my love for books comes from somewhere, possibly my elementary school librarian or my father’s sister, Norma. She was a voracious reader who leaned toward romance schlock, Cormack McCarthy, and Micky Spillane noir. I am thankful to both for their influence and guidance. It was Aunt Norma who introduced me to Thomas Wolf. I returned the favor with Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut.
My wife and I are relieved that the year 2024 is behind us. It won’t be missed. No tears from this household, only two middle fingers pointed skyward. Our ages allow us to forget what we wish to and remember the best. I believe 2025 will be our year of reading dangerously. We may, holding hands and a frosty cocktail, step out onto that literary ledge and take the leap, attempt to leave our comfort zone, and take a chance or three. Time is of the essence, my eyesight is on the fritz, I have a blister on my thumb, and the books keep coming.
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.
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.
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.
My grandfather, in 1917-18, served in the Army and the war to end all wars: World War 1. He fought in the mud and bacteria filled trenches in France: wounded twice and gassed once. He killed Germans in close hand to hand combat with a bayonet and a knife, never forgetting the look on the faces. He lost friends in vicious battles. There was no time to grieve or pay respects. That would come later in life.
Looking back through my childhood relationship with him, he likely suffered from what we now call PTSD. My Grandmother said he was a different man after that war, and at times, not a good one.
He refused to talk about the fighting and killing until I was around ten-years-old, and he was dying from Lymphoma cancer. His doctors at the VA Hospital said it was caused by the gassing he received in the war. He knew that I might someday go to war, so he wanted to let me know it was not like the movies.
We sat for a many hours one afternoon a few weeks before his passing. His descriptions of battle and the things he had done for his own survival was beyond anything I could imagine. I was young, and war to me was black and white movies. James Cagney in “The Fighting 69th,” or John Wayne and a host of others playing army, like my neighborhood friends and I did. No one really died, and when shot, there was no blood or screaming.
The last few days of his life were spent in and out of reality, reliving those battles as he lay in a veteran’s hospital in Dallas. My father, a veteran himself, was the recipient of my grandfathers last horrors. Those days my father sat by his bed, listening to the nightmare his father had carried for all those years, had a profound effect on him.
John Henry Strawn made sure I knew what real honor and duty were about. It followed him for a lifetime.
Chapter 19: The continuing saga of the Strawn family and the challenges of living in Texas during the 1930s and 1940s.
Johnny Strawn around 1948, Fort Wort,h Texas
My grandfather, John Henry, walked to his job at the furniture shop. Years ago, the same place had closed down, driven by the Depression, forcing him to move his family to California for work. Now, twelve years later, he has taken giant steps back, from a good job in Los Angeles to once more building furniture for an hour’s wage. Defeat weighs heavily in his heart. Middle age has come, and the future is murky. So, doing what men do, he keeps walking, counting his steps to nowhere. There are many to blame, but he alone bears the burden of his failures.
The iced ground crunches under his shoes. The cold goes to his bones. His jacket is no match for this weather. He favors the feel of the ground beneath his feet over the Ford sedan in the garage, which is idle most of the time and now a home for mice and other wandering critters.
After the upsetting homecoming with his father, Johnny walked a few blocks to the small neighborhood grocery store to call his best friend, Dick Hickman. His father remained firm in his decision about the telephone, vowing to never have one in the house. The old man viewed the contraption as a rattlesnake in a bag. Lousy news reached him in time enough; no reason to expedite misery.
Two sisters from Germany ran the store, always open, even when the ice storm howled outside. They preferred work to idleness; a dollar was worth more than knitting by the stove. They missed their homeland, but not the darkness that had settled under Hitler’s shadow. Johnny walked in and felt the warmth; they had known him since he was a boy. Following a few hearty hugs and cheek kisses, he was offered a mug of coffee, hot and strong with bourbon and a hint of cinnamon, a taste of what once was.
Dick and Johnny had forged a bond on the playground one morning; Dick was trapped by older boys, their intentions were dark, and Dick knew he was in for a ruckus. Johnny, a full head smaller than Dick, added his small fist for ammunition. A few busted lips and a bloody nose ended the altercation, and the boys would be bound for life by bloody noses and skint knuckles.
Dicks mother, a woman of stern Christian resolve, lived simply, her heart full of faith. Father Hickman was a ghost of a man, suddenly appearing from nowhere, then off again to somewhere. Mother Hickman, as she was called, gave what little extra money they had to Preacher J. Frank Norris, the charismatic leader of the First Baptist Church of Fort Worth. Nice clothes were a luxury during the Depression, and most children at R. Vickery’s school wore hand-me-downs or worse. Dick wore the yellow welfare pants distributed by the Salvation Army, a sign that his folks were poor. Mother Hickman saw nice clothing as a sign of waste, except when it came to her Sunday fashions. Johnny had a pair of those detestable canvas pants but refused to wear them; the old dungarees with patches did just fine.
Both boys felt the weight of loss when the Strawn family left for the promised land. They exchanged a few postcards during the years in California. Nevertheless, they adhered to the unspoken rule that young men did not write to one another. This was a relic of manly notions of the time. A line or two every six months was enough. Both joined the Navy around the same time, meeting briefly in Pearl Harbor. Then came the seriousness of war. Young sailors, they carried on.
Dick arrived at the two sisters’ store to fetch Johnny. His transportation was a rattle-trap Cushman motor scooter. It refused to stop on the icy street. The scooter slid on its side into the curb and threw Dick off of the beast. The ride to Dick’s apartment was a jolt, far worse than the taxi. Johnny vowed to buy a car when the weather cleared, maybe one for his buddy, too. He held a tidy wad of cash from Hawaii.
A brotherly deal was struck. Johnny would share Dick’s large apartment on Galveston Street, splitting the rent and bills evenly. They were friends again, but now men, and they had different thoughts, dreams, and needs. Dick was courting a young woman from Oklahoma and doing a miserable job of it. Still, marriage lingered in the air, heavy like the rich aroma of brewing coffee, the kind they both drank too much of. Dick took his poison with cream and sugar; Johnny preferred his black and strong.
Johnny’s goal was to play music for a living, and this was the right city to make that happen. He joined the musicians’ union and sent a message to Bob Wills that he was back in Fort Worth.
Wills was now the celebrated band leader of the western swing band, The Texas Playboys. He remembered that meeting at the radio show in Bakersfield, California, long ago. The boy stood out. It was no small feat because Wills was the finest fiddle player in country music.
Bob Wills was not a man known for kindness. He could be brash and indifferent to fans and bandmates alike. Yet, for Johnny, he made an exception. Bob took the young man under his wing, becoming a mentor to my father. A few calls were made, and the boot was in the door. Johnny secured auditions at some of Fort Worth’s best clubs, and each went well. Bob invited him to rehearse with the Playboys. It was there he met men who would soon be legends in country music. A few years later, he would find himself in that circle.
There is a school system on the East Coast that is changing its grading system so every student can “feel better” about themselves. This smells suspicious, and is likely extracted from the same rotten education bag as “everyone gets a trophy.” Every letter grade is now lowered by five points, promoting a grade of “C” to a “B” and so on. Who benefits from this PC madness?
From personal experience, I can tell you that bringing home a low grade on your report card does have negative consequences. The younger you are, the fewer repercussions from your Mother since you are still her baby. As you age, the fear factor increases.
There is nothing that scares a kid more than bringing home the dreaded “F” or even the slightly better “D.”
You slow-walk your way home, looking for every excuse to prolong the firestorm that the small piece of cardboard will create. You’re begging God to intervene and miraculously change that red “F” to an acceptable, blue “C.” Nothing changes, and you accept your fate. God is likely a teacher on the side. With the end nearing, I take a moment to notice the blue sky, the chill of autumn in the air, and the singing of the birds. Even the neighborhood dog that always gives chase sits with sad eyes as I pass. Little things that may be my last moments of life.
With a cheesy fake smile on my face, I hand the report card to my mother, hoping for leniency.
Everything is fine until she sees that miserable sixth letter of the alphabet. Her happy smile fades, and her squinty-eyed mom’s stare paralyzes me.
My young life flashes before my eyes; I’m a goner. In desperation, I blame everything except my own stupidity. I fall to my knees, crawling across the kitchen floor, squeezing out fake tears, begging for forgiveness. She has none of it. The mom court is adjourned. I await my sentence.
Short of having my butt whipped with a Tupperware cake holder, or being sent to the “Dope Farm,” my mother’s go-to threat, I get off well and alive. I cannot watch cartoons for two weeks, play outside for a week, have Hostess cupcakes and Ovaltine, or play Saturday baseball for a month, which is alright; it’s winter, and I am in hibernation mode.
My next report card showed a vast improvement—not one failing grade. The specter of personal failure and my mother’s watchful eyes loomed large, shaping my educational journey. It’s a curious thing, our human desire for high marks—some students hustle and toil beneath the weight of those lofty expectations. But if we lower those standards, those who might shine will find themselves unfairly penalized, while those who merely coast by will come to view diligence as a nuisance.
Thanks to the new Netflix movie “The Highwaymen,” the
two most famous outlaws from Texas are captivating a generation that has never
heard of them. I’m referring to those two crazy kids from West Dallas; Bonnie
Parker and Clyde Barrow.
Their hijinx and daily run-ins with the law kept many a small-town newspaper in print and propelled the two young delinquents into living legends of their own time.
The car chases, robberies of banks, merchants, grocery stores, five and dimes, gas stations, gumball machines, lemonade stands, produce stands, and just ordinary citizens made spectacular fodder for the papers. They were the new folk heroes of the southwest, and as bad as these two were, their antics were pure journalistic gold. And, they didn’t mind killing a few lawmen and citizens if deemed necessary.
In the 1920s and early 1930s, my father’s Aunt, Katy Eberling, owned and operated a beauty salon on the corner of Rosedale and Hemphill Street in Fort Worth, Texas. For seven years, it was prosperous and allowed her to employ four beauticians and a manicurist. She was thriving and often turned away new clients or referred them to other shops. She wasn’t wealthy but made a darn good living for the times. Then, along comes that pesky old depression and she loses three beauticians and the manicurist because her clients now do their hair at home, or go to Leonard Brothers Department Store for two dollars less per set. Katy is weeks away from closing the doors when a visit from a new client changes her luck.
A cold December Friday afternoon finds Katy sweeping
up the shop and preparing to close when a man and women enter through the back
alley door.
The women, a frail, bony little thing is dressed in
the best clothes that money can buy. A pale yellow cashmere sweater with a
beige camel hair skirt. A string of pearls drapes her little neck. The man that
accompanies her wears a three-piece pin-striped suit and a black fedora. These
two are right out of Macy’s of New York.
The woman is small, almost child size, no more than
eighty pounds. She strides up to Katy, extends her tiny hand and says, “ My
name is Bonnie and could you please give me a wash, cut and set. I know its
late, but I will pay you nicely if it is not too much trouble.”
Katy, having made little money that day, agrees and
escorts her to the shampoo sink. As Katy is shampooing Bonnie’s hair for the
third time, she notices the man sitting by the back door holding a shotgun in
his lap. It is then, reality sets in, and Katy realizes who this new client
might be. She removes her hands from the woman’s wet hair and retreats a few
steps.
Bonnie, sensing
her fright, assures her in a kind voice, “ Mam, I am here for a beauty
appointment, we mean you no harm and will pay for the service.” Katy assured
that she will not be gunned down, completes the shampoo and leads Bonnie to the
beautician’s chair.
Once Bonnie Parker is seated, it’s as if she’s a lost
Catholic girl returning to confession.
She recounts her childhood, being married young,
wanting to be a poet and attend a good university and make her Mama proud. She then
makes mention of that mongrel over there by the door and how he has ruined her
life beyond repair.
Once she begins
the tales of their lives on the run, she cackles like a mad witch and has Katy
laughing along with her. First-hand knowledge makes it all the crazier. Katy
knows that Bonnie is leaving out the killing parts to spare her.
Two hours later, the appointment is finished. Bonnie
Parker hands Katy six twenty-dollar bills and says she will be back next month
around the same time of day if that is alright. Katy says that will be fine,
and Bonnie departs with Clyde in tow.
Knowing she has to keep this to herself, she tells her
husband Harvey, and no one else. Katy is full of remorse, knowing that the
money she accepted is probably blood money or someone’s life savings, yet she
took it because it will allow her to keep her shop open for another few months.
If she is truthful with herself, she enjoyed the excitement it produced.
The next month, on a Friday, the two most wanted
crooks in the land arrive at 4:30 PM. Bonnie receives a wash, trim and set and
the confessions continue. Katy earns another six twenty-dollar bills. This
time, she is less remorseful and less frightened.
Bonnie visits twice more. The last visit was
un-nerving for Katy. Bonnie Parker is unwashed, and her clothes need to be
cleaned. She is gaunt and hollow-eyed. There are no confessions or funny
stories. Clyde remained in their car and Bonnie, upon being seated in Katy’s
chair removes a 38 pistol from her purse and cradles it in her lap as if she
was expecting trouble.
When the appointment is finished, Bonnie Parker checks
her makeup in the mirror, straightens her skirt and says to Katy, “ My mama
always says, a girl’s gotta look good when she goes. How do I look, Miss Katy?”
Katy replies, “ You look lovely as ever.”
Bonnie hands Katy eight twenty-dollar bills and says
she will see her next month.
A few weeks later, Katy reads in the newspaper that
Bonnie and Clyde were killed in a shootout with the law in Louisiana. Katy
hopes she looked good when it happened.
This story was told to myself and my cousins many
times. When we were young, Aunt Katy left out much of the detail. As we grew
older, into teenagers, the story became more graphic and colorful. I had no
idea Aunt Katy was so famous.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 