Category: Granbury Texas

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The Retail Rebel: A Fugitive’s Tale


A Wanted Man On The Run

I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.

Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.

Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.

It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.

I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.

The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.

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Three Strikes Doesn’t Mean You’re Out Of Life’s Game


How many chances are we allowed when we screw up? As a child, I was, at times, allowed three strikes and then I was out. The first one was the warning, the second was a more stern warning with parental icing, and the third was the one that always resulted in the butt busting and exile to my room with no cartoons or Ovaltine. I remember them well. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one who didn’t remember the first two chances as being severe enough to deter me from the dreaded third. Most kids have been there, my two boys included.

This past Saturday, Momo and I volunteered through our church, Generations Of Granbury, to help feed the homeless in our hometown of Granbury, Texas. It’s known, and touted as the number one celebration town in the country, as well as being the number one small historical town in the USA, it also has homeless folks. How is that possible? Look past the beautiful square, the lake, the historical charm, and all that razzle-dazzle hype. You find that yes, it’s like any other small town or city in Texas: we have homeless people living on our streets, or in cheap motels, paying by the week, or day for a bed and a bathroom. Good people who were dealt a bad hand found themselves without their castle, their home, their pride. It may not have been more than a few bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, but those walls and a roof held so many family memories of past Christmases, children’s birthday celebrations, graduations, and Thanksgivings past. The laughter and joy are gone in an instant because they couldn’t make the mortgage payments, or perhaps a divorce, loss of a job, or alcohol and drugs were to blame for their misfortune. Our society does not guarantee everyone a safe, warm home; that is up to ourselves to make that happen. What our government and NGOs do guarantee is that people from third-world countries come here illegally and freely partake in the American dream, and then some for breaking our laws and contributing nothing for what they receive. Just be sure to vote as we tell you, or the freebies stop. How about the poor American citizens and veterans who need a hand? Do they receive the same red-carpet treatment? Hell no.

We arrived at the Classic Inn, set up the tables, laid out the hot food and sack lunches, and waited for people to stop by for a meal. On our way from the church, I had noticed a young couple with backpacks sitting under a stand of oak trees by the highway. I told my wife, Maureen, that if they are still there, I would like to take them a sack lunch and some water. Everyone thought that was a good idea. I found them lying under a stand of trees in the front yard of a bank building. The young man was flat out and not moving; the young lady, his wife, was lying by their belongings, which consisted of a backpack and a grocery sack with grapes and an orange drink. I handed her the lunches, and she was grateful. I asked her where they were headed. She looked up, bottom lip quivering and tears in her eyes, and said she didn’t know where they were going or what to do. I saw the look of despair, hopelessness, fear, and defeat in her young eyes. She was mortified to be accepting food from a strange old man and to be in her situation. Here she sat, guarding the few things they owned, no home, no money, no nothing except her husband, who was going through his fourth day of agonizing detox from Fentanyl addiction. She had been clean and sober for over a month. Drugs knocked them to their knees, robbed them of their possessions, their pride, and then brought them to this shady patch of grass in Granbury. Whether I liked it or not, it brought them to me. I told her I would be right back and ran for backup, which was my wife, Maureen. She’s a nurse and a strong Christian warrior, and these situations are what she is made for.

We returned with hot food and more water. Maureen sat on the grass talking to the young lady while I purchased two bottles of Poweraid from the grocery store next door. When I returned, she asked me to go to the Classic Inn and pay for them a room for the night. Her nurse mode had kicked in, and she knew the young man needed out of the heat and a bed. The demons of detox had hold of him in the worst way. I procured a room and returned. We helped the young man, who could barely walk, to our truck and took the two of them to the motel. The Classic Inn is no Motel 6, but more like a Motel 4: no frills, just air conditioning, a bed, and a bathroom. We decided they needed another night, which we arranged, considering the condition of the man.

When we left them in the motel room, Maureen prayed with the young girl and was told they have a four-year-old son who is being cared for by the man’s mother. This made their situation even more dire, as a child is involved and away from his mother. Evidently, they had been given the three strikes you’re out from their families, and had failed: kicked out, and banished.

Maureen embraced the young mother, and she clung to her. It was not the easy embrace of friends, but one of desperation, and thanks for understanding and helping without judgment. We went back to the food table and helped load up, but as we finished, a car with a lady and three children pulled up and asked if there was still food left. They left with boxes of food for their supper that night.

Maureen and I went home, shaken by what we had dealt with for the last two hours, praying for God to heal and help these two young parents. They may have used that third strike and were considered out, but sometimes, folks deserve a fourth or fifth strike to get it right.

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Ask A Texan: The Magic Of The Yeti Cup


Illuminating Advice For Folks That Seek It

The Texan

Another old friend of mine, Bwana of San Saba, wrote me with a question. Like our other mutual friend, Mooch, Bwana refuses to talk on the phone because he won’t wear his high-dollar hearing aids. He’s also forgotten the art of texting and avoids computers. At this point in our lives, I attribute all unusual behavior to old age. He writes that he is losing sleep over knowing how his Yeti cups and ice chest work; the technology is foreign to him.

Bwana Of San Saba: Mr. Texan, I need help in the worst way. I can’t sleep, eat, or drink my hooch, and my wife is about to banish me to the Deer lease in San Saba because I’ve gotten her last nerve. I’ve owned and excessively used Yeti cups and ice chests for years: I use only the best when it comes to hunting gear. My man trailer on the lease is full of Yeti stuff. Did you know they make a Yeti iron skillet, pans, forks, knives, hunting clothes, and a darn good Deer rifle? Neither did I, until my wife stocked my hunting trailer with the gear, which makes me uneasy because I’m thinking she is baiting me, and wants to get rid of me. Well, I was sitting on a rock in a dry creek bed waiting for a Bambi to trot by so I could nail his little white-tail ass. This is the same creek bed where I killed the 1,000-pound wild pig with my Yeti pocket knife. I told you about that battle many times. It’s damn hot, too hot for Deer, so I reach in my Yeti backpack and pull out my Premium Ultra Yeti Tumbler for a drink of water. Mind you, that tumbler had been in my pack for half a day in 100-degree Texas heat, and when I pulled a swig, the water was so cold it gave me a brain freeze, and that’s when my sleepless nights and obsessive behavior started. I was so discombobulated that the Bambi I was waiting to shoot walked up to me to see if I was alright. I’m sitting there thinking about that damn Yeti cup and the biggest 20 pointer I’ve seen is in my face begging for a drink of water or a Granola Bar. I poured a handful of cold Ozarka water into my hand and gave the Bambi a sip or two. He turned, wagged his white tail at me, farted, and trotted off. I need some advice here. How does this Yeti thing work? I’m having a nervous breakdown here.

The Texan: Well, Bwana, I can see how not knowing how mystical, magical technology works is causing you to lose your marbles. When I was a young’un, right about the same time you were in the 1950s, my mother bought me a genuine Davy Crockett lunch box. In the tin box was a Davy Crockett Thermos Bottle. It was a dandy, with a coon-tail attached to the lid. I took that box to school every day, and my milk was always icy cold, which baffled me. Why would Yeti make a rifle? Does a gun need to remain at a specific temperature to work correctly? Now I’m confused. I used to feed the Deer in Ruidoso watermelon and Nabisco Granola. They loved it and would almost sit on my lap to get a treat, so it’s not surprising the Bambi in San Saba approached you. Even a thirsty Deer knows a quality product. I believe Yeti has used the same magical technology in its products as Davy Crockett. I’m no scientist, and am as jiggered as you on this one. The answer to your question is: ” It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold…how do it know?” I’m sending you a package of Deer Of The Month trading cards and a box of Cherry Bombs to help you unwind and relieve your anxiety. Let me know if you figure the Yeti thing out.

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Ask A Texan. Cloning For Dollars


Positive Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did.

My old pal, Mooch, whom I don’t see much of anymore because he became a vegan, and now we can’t meet at Whataburger for lunch. We always ordered a Number 1, no onions, extra pickles, large fries, and a Dr Pepper. I sure miss those days of culinary camaraderie. A week ago, instead of calling me, he wrote a friendly little letter on the back of a two-year-old garage sale flyer. He forgot I also have an email and receive texts on my iPhone.

Mr. Mooch says he’s about to have marital problems because of clones.

Mooch: Mr. Texan, you know me well, and you also know that I like to tinker with science and gadgets, right? Well, Giblet, my twenty-five-year-old blind and toothless Chihuahua, is close to cashing in his kibbles, so I decided to have him cloned. I took a sample of his drool to the South Side Animal Research Center over in Fort Worth. Their ad in the Nickel Shopper paper sounded very professional, and what the hell, I’m a sucker for science fiction. The science guy’s were real nice and said they could grow me a new little doggy with no problem. I paid them half down and said, “get-er-done.” Three months passed, and they called to say that Giblet Jr. was ready for pickup. Mrs. Mooch and I were so excited that she peed in her pedal pushers. We’re standing in the lobby, drinking a free Latte, and out trots an exact puppy copy of my old Giblet. I picked him up, and he bit my nose and peed on my shirt, just like old Gib. He needed a name for the certificate, so I decided to call him Gravy. Now I have Giblet and Gravy. Mrs. Mooch is so excited that she wants to have her old cat, Here Kitty, cloned as well. She said the clone cat would be called Here Kitty Kitty. She said if she can’t clone her Here Kitty, she’s going to do a Tammy Wynette Divorce song on me, and that would mean losing my truck and bass boat. Any thoughts on this little buddy? I’ve got to go fishing.

The Texan: Mooch, I rarely have any thoughts on the bat-shit crazy things you do. Charging folks to swim with the Mexicans across the Rio Grande, The Mooch 2000 Life Meter, and burning and burying your laptop are just a few that come to mind. I’m really sort of sorry, but not much, about that mean little demon dog Giblet, is about to expire, and now you have yourself a replica of the little Hell-Hound dog from below? I will admit that carrying him in a chest papoose was cute for a little while. I’ve known you for over forty years and didn’t know Mr. Mooch had a cat named Here Kitty, which is a ridiculous name for an animal. I guess a clone named Here Kitty Kitty makes as much sense. Old Possum didn’t do too well after Tammy and that song, so you might consider letting her clone the feline so you can keep fishing. I’m sending you a gift card to Whataburger, so if you ever decide to come back from the dark-vegetable side and eat some real food. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs so you can blow up those clones if they turn into little Frankenstein monsters.

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Ask A Texan 4.25.25


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.

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2025 The Year Of Reading Dangerously


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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.

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Ask A Texan 4.23.25


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.

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Burying a Laptop: A Friend’s Unique Farewell


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.

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The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

Preacher Little, to the left, addresses his small congregation with a firm reminder that the sky is not a-falling and that it’s high time they get a grip on the wild ride we call life. An hour later, a raucous band of Fire Ants laid siege to the squishy Peeps, and thus, the service came to an untimely end. My wise old Grandfather, or maybe it was an old-man neighbor, once opined, “Son, you can’t go traipsing about with your head aimed at the clouds, waiting for a disaster to drop from the sky. Best keep your eyes peeled to the ground, lest you unwittingly find yourself knee-deep in a nest of Fire Ants.”

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Invasion Of The Murder Hornets


Murder Hornet 1

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.”