What was once cool, then not, is now cool again. Back in “the day,” meaning the 1960s, some of the flower children went a bit too naturally. Hairy armpits, legs, and other areas were part of the “back to nature” movement. I was not a fan, nor was Momo. The most back-to-earth she got was making her own bread, which she still does and does quite well.
Momo and I were in H.E.B. a few days ago, and a hippish-looking young lady in an Armani sleeveless top had so much armpit hair that it looked like she had Buckwheat in a headlock. As Momo walked past her, she couldn’t help saying, “Otay.”
Well, dear hearts, it’s official: another Polar Vortex will be in Texas by Sunday night, about the same time the Dallas Cowboys kickoff against whoever in the hell they are playing for whatever, something, or another position in the NFL universe. I’m very over my former home team. My son, Wes, the rabid family Cowboy fan, is coming in from Corpus Christi for the big game and is taking an entourage of family and friends to the game: he owns seats at the Death Star, and instead of selling them for enough to retire on, he actually attends games, pays $18.00 for a BBQ sandwich, $20.00 for a warm beer, and $150.00 to park, and then walks two miles to the stadium. I watch it on TV and enjoy my own food and my Barc-o-lounger. He’s young and has the stamina and the chutzpah.
We do experience winter in this part of Texas, but damn, in 2021, we had ice and single digits for a week: Momo and I were stranded in our hilly community and were cooking frozen wieners over the butane firepit.
This cold snap, as we call it in Texas, will be about the same. H.E.B. was a crazy town today: No baskets, people snarling and slugging each other over a loaf of Mrs. Baird’s bread, and then, I ran into my buddy Mooch at the frozen pizza case. There he stood, fifty or so Red Baron Frozen Pizzas in his cart, thirty bags of Pork Rinds, and two cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. He is ready for the apocalypse. A young boy, around the age of six, stood staring at his cart. Mooch had taken all of the Red Baron Pizzas, and it was obvious that they were also the kid’s favorite. Mooch is a gruff old fart, but that little boy, staring at him with those Puss-In-Boots watery eyes, broke the man down. He handed the kid a twenty dollar bill and told him to go buy some Paul Newman’s Pizzas. What a humanitarian. The kid took the bill, gave him the finger, and took off to find his momma.
Momo paid an old lady some cash for her empty cart and loaded the baby up with milk, what was left of the bread, some produce, a few Boston Market Pot Pies, yogurt, eggs, ground turkey, ground Chipmunk, Ostrich steaks, Emu-On-A-Stick, bacon wrapped jalapenos, bacon wrapped Gerbils, bacon wrapped chicken wings, smoked cheese, smoked smokies, aged corn beef hash, Betty Crocker Elf Cookies, ten bags of tater chips, two cases of ginger-ale, three bottles of wine, a dozen jars of Ovaltine, Terlingua Chili Mix, three dozen cans of Tomato soup and a large bottle of Tums. We are ready for the Vortex, so bring that Canadian baby on. The “Police” patrolled the aisles to keep the peace, and I thought I saw “Sting” over by the deli counter signing autographs; there is a rumor he now lives in Granbury with his crazed wife and their fourteen children.
I’ll keep my Cactus Patch pals appraised of our survival as the weather deteriorates. If you don’t hear from me by Tuesday, you know Momo and I didn’t make the cut.
Butch, Sundance, and the gang during a weekend in Granbury, Texas
Maybe some bloggers need prompts to give them that “get along little doggy” push, but I’m not one of them. My personal writing space and white laptop screen belong to me alone. I don’t need ” Big Brother Blogger” to lead me in any direction. I get lost enough on my own. WordPress means well. They want to help us. Think of them as the “Blog spot with a heart, we are all one big internet family, it takes a village” and all that crap. My track record of offending everyone is extensive and documented. No prisoners were taken, and none were harmed. My internal and social filters were lost some years ago. Not even WordPress can reinstall them. I am a rebel with no cause.
Me, the author, back in the day before I got a haircut
The writing prompt for today was a zinger: what would you put on a highway billboard. Considering most drivers have one eye and hand on their cell phones and are not paying attention to the road, why would the morons be looking up at a billboard? “Get your face back in that phone you idiot! Are you trying to cause a wreck?” would be an appropriate sign.
I don’t have a problem with highway advertising. Buc-ee’s has some great signs, as do Dairy Queen and McDonald’s. The only time they catch my attention is when Momo is driving, and I have time to scan the horizon. Churches are getting more inventive, ” Next Exit To Save Your Soul” visit the Second Baptist Church of Twickelstick, Texas, turn right and go 4 miles to reach Heaven. Car dealers are the most annoying. The classics that scream of desperation are ” Dust Bowl City, Where Texas History Lives.” Every darn town in Texas is not a historical landmark. My town, Granbury, is a true old-west historic town., and has been voted that honor for many years now. Lots of notable stuff went down here in the 1800s. General Granbury of the Confederate Army of Texas is a famous man; he lived here, so the town was named after him. The city fathers have armed citizens standing guard over his statue on the square because the new wokie residents from California want to pull it over with a rope tied to their Tesla.
Notable and historical visitors, gangsters, outlaws, and past residents of Granbury were; Billy The Kid, Sam Bass, Bass Reeves, Billy the singing Bass, The Bass-O-Matic, The Purple Passion Triple Jiggle Bass Lure, Cheif Quanah Parker, Santana, Sitting Bull, Crawling Bull, Annie Oakley, The Statler Brothers, Jerry Reed, Wild Bill Hickock, Jack Ruby, Lee Harvey Oswald, Lyndon Johnson, Lady Bird, Big Bird, The Surfing Bird, Elmo, Burt and Ernie, Clarance Odbody, Mr. Potter, George Baily, Rasputin, Krushev, Stalin, The Big Bopper, Buddy Holley, Candy Barr, Bill Barr, Captain Kangeroo, Mr. Peppermint, Ickey Twerp, Steve Allen, Ernie Kovacs, Soupy Sales, Mr. Greenjeans, Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Rogers, Roy Rogers, Buck Rogers, Roger Ram Jet, The Jetsons, Sky King and Penny, Poncho and Cisco, Yogi Bear, Boo-Boo, Willie Nelson, Charles Nelson Riley, Paul Lynde, Wally Cox, Rose Marie, Dick Van Dyke, Little Dutch Boy with his finger in the dyke( Rosie O’Donnel) Van Dyke Parks, Jack Keroauc, Sal Paradise, Wavey Gravy, Deputy Dawg and Muskie, The Three Stooges, Chewbacca, Princes Leia, R2D2, CP30, Willie Wonka, Kim Kardashian, Eddie Murphy, The Vanderbilt family, William Randolph Hearst, Patty Hearst, Huey Newton, Huey Lewis and the News, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Rodney Dangerfield, The Gopher, Carl the greenskeeper, Lacy Underall, The judge, Davey Crockett, Jim Bowie, the defenders of the Alamo, The Hole In The Wall Gang, and others liked the food at the hotel and the drinks at the saloon. The Paramount TV show 1883 was filmed here, and I heard that Taylor Sheridan liked the town so much he plans to buy it. So Granbury has some bragging rights and the signs to prove it. My town finds its way into many of my stories, as do the citizens, who now have it out for me. I have to go incognito when strolling the square.
The bottom line is I will not be prompted to write about trivial ca-ca. If what I do write turns out to be bull crap, then so be it. I fear this post, against my will and better writing judgment, accomplished what WordPress requested. But, as any five-year-old will say: “You ain’t the boss of me.”
Some of my late relatives celebrated New Year’s in 1955
For me and my wife, Momo, New Year’s Eve wasn’t much different than the day before it. We had a nice supper, watched a bit of TV, and then we were in the sack by 9:30 CT. Texts from my son, grandchildren, and friends went off at about 11:45 PM, prompting me to get up and answer back. I’m getting better at texting once I found out how to use the voice-to-text part on my iPhone. That’s what us old folks do for special occasions: nothing, and we do it quite well.
The fireworks started about dark and continued until around 1 AM. Our neighborhood is a “no fireworks” area, so many of the residents got around the law by firing their automatic handguns and rifles into the air. The Sheriff will give them a ticket for a bottle rocket, but firing weapons at random is ok by them: It’s a Texas thing. Momo and I were tempted to take our automatic handguns into the backyard and fire off a magazine or two, but it was too cold, and we were already in our jammies and had slurped down hot Ovaltine and old folks meds. Maybe next year.
New Year’s Day will be the same as the day before. Nothing, with a bit more of nothing, except adding some of Momo’s Blackeyed Pea Soup with Jalapeno and Texas-style cornbread, will keep it gastronomically interesting for the rest of the day. She made a batch of homemade salsa and put a smidgen of my Vietnamese Death Pepper in the mix. It was pretty darn good once I got past the tearing eyes, the shortness of breath, and the muscle spasms that occurred when I leaned over the pot and dipped my Frito into the sauce. She also whipped up some homemade “Nanner-pudding” with Vanilla Waffers embedded in the luscious mix. I plan to eat myself into a mild desert-induced coma this evening.
I hope everyone who follows my blog and the ones I follow has a great 2024 year. Let’s be honest about it: things can’t get much worse than they were in 2023. Well, maybe they could, but I’ll address that in a few days. From the cactus patch, have a Happy New Year, folks.
Two days after Christmas, half past midnight, I just had my second cup of hot Ovaltine and am ready to pontificate.
It appears Taylor Swiftless is now the new “Yoko Ono,” having ruined the KC Chiefs chance at returning to the Superthang and cursing her Charlie Football for life. I always thought that poor Yoko got a bad rap when it was Paulie who pulled the plug on the Fabs. Not so with Person of the Year, Swifter Girl; she is toxic to human men. A football-inspired ex-boyfriend album and an NFL tour of all the stadiums will be coming soon. The games will be played at halftime.
Momo and I watched the Christmas movie, “Elf” on the 25th. I guess age has dulled my sense of humor since I find Will Farrel irritating. I enjoyed him in “Eurovision ( the elves went to far)” but Buddy the oversized Elf needs to go to LaLa Land. I thought James Caan got knocked off in The Godfather?
Momo made her infamous Greek Ribs today. Her daughter Tammera and the fam stopped by for an early supper and gift exchange; what a nice afternoon. I finished my first in the series of old-time circus sideshow posters yesterday; there are only seven more to go. I remember going into one of those freak or sideshows at the state fair. Lizard Woman, Alive! Cost me twenty-five cents. Turned out it was an ugly gal with a bad case of Dermatitis. The Lady With Five Legs was worth the change. Bonnie and Clydes Death Car was an old Ford that some moron drilled holes into the body and poured some red paint on the seats. PT Barnum was right, ” there’s a sucker born every minute.”
My Boy Scout grandson, Jett, his troop, and his Pop are doing another winter campout starting tomorrow. For Christmas, I gave him a family heirloom six-inch razor-sharp skinning knife in a leather scabbard, much like the one O.J. and Jim Bowie used. My grandfather said he carried it in WW1 and used it to open canned Pork N Beans and stab Germans when he ran out of ammo. I believed every word of it.
So Kwanza is here. A fictional, absurd holiday invented by a felonious black American male who needed a steady income after prison. So what about “Festivus?” George and Kramer deserve a day to celebrate, too. I always felt bad for the Seinfeld folks; what did they do on Christmas since the Soup Nazi was closed? I am working on inventing a holiday for senior citizens called ” Respect Your Elders Day.” Catchy slogans like “Get the hell off of my lawn” and “Do you think money grows on trees?” will go over well with our age group. All adult children, grandchildren, and neighbors will relate.
New Year is approaching. We live in a rural community outside the city limits, so the joyous and festive sounds of fireworks, 9mm pistols, and assault rifles fired into the air will be keeping us up all night. The problem is, those bullets have to come down, and they can kill you. Last year, it sounded like Santa was plodding around on our roof; turned out it was only bullets ruining our shingles. Insurance doesn’t cover that.
Now that Christmas is done and gone, I’m ready for the traditional Texas after-holiday meal of a Whataburger, large fires, and a Dr Pepper. Father Frank, our groovy-hip young priest at Our Lady Of Perpetual Repentance, is having a blessed by Willie service this coming Sunday. Governer Abbott has petitioned the Pope to make Willie Nelson a Patron Saint, at least here in Texas, so our good priest, getting the early ball a-rolling, will have a Willie Nelson approved impersonator give communion to any who wish to partake. A tiny bite of a Whataburger( no onions and extra pickles), a small toke of Willie’s popular Dripping Springs righteous weed, and a sip of rum-infused ice tea to wash urn down, and you can be ” on the road again” and feeling real good. Pretty sure the church will be at full capacity.
I ran into old buddy Mooch at H.E.B. on Christmas Eve. I stopped by to pick up a few things Momo forgot: Eggnog, Milk, Cedar Fever Elixer, and more birdseed. Our Avian friends have been a demanding lot as of late since the flock of Crows moved in. They sit on the fence and Caww-Caaww until I load the flat feeder with peanuts, their favorite. The poor Cardinals and the Dove have to wait until the big boys leave. The Crows like shiny trinkets, so I left a quarter in one flat feeder and a Crow took it. The next day, there was a dime in the feeder. I have no idea what the Crow spent the other fifteen cents on.
After fighting off the food sample ladies, I spotted Mooch staggering around in the frozen food aisle with a hand-carry basket full of Red Baron pizzas, his favorite. I eased up beside him and wished him a Merry Christmas, but no response. I tapped his shoulder, but no acknowledgment. I stepped in front of him and gave him a friendly stare, glazed eyes, and a stream of slobber on his chin. In desperation, I shook his shoulders, and he snapped back into the moment.
” Sorry old buddy, I’ve been drifting in and out of it for a few days,” he says.
I am worried, so I ask, ” Don’t you think a visit to Doc Bones is in order, I thought you might have stroked out on me pal?”
” He was apologetic and explained, ” Nawww…I went Deer hunting last week and shot me a big ole Buckster. We ate some Deer chicken fry steak yesterday, and now I think I’ve got the Deer Zombie disease. Mrs. Mooch is convinced I’m a Deer Zombie but without the ten-point rack of horns.”
Momo requested some Christmas music this morning so I dug around in my vinyl stash looking for my Elvis Christmas album; I couldn’t find it… must have given it away. I did run across a Perry Como and a Sing Along With Mitch Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to spin them, and I have no idea why they are in my collection. I streamed some Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, which did the trick.
Christmas is upon us; it will come and then be gone in a flash. A full year of hype and anticipation will be kaput in twenty-four hours. There will be the usual big letdown after the presents are unwrapped, the eggnog is gone, and Zuzu tells her Dad, “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings.” That darn movie makes me a blubbering idiot. With age, some of us lose our filters. I fear all of mine are long gone. I’m apt to say anything at any time and am completely politically incorrect. Just ask the folks at Home Depot; my picture is posted at all the service counters. Same thing at Lowes.
I was in H.E.B. with Momo a few days back, me pushing the cart and her shuffling along on her fancy walker with a seat, 4 wheels, and 2 handbrakes. Her new and improved bionic knee is almost healed and ready for butt-kicking action. We ambled down the pet food aisle to purchase bird seed, and I found myself tearing up, thinking about my little dog Winnie, who’s been gone for two years. I will likely sniffle and snuffle at anything these days, especially around Christmas. I blame it on a lack of old-guy testosterone or the lesser grade of Kentucky bourbon; I recently changed to a cheaper brand; times are tough in the cactus patch. Maybe Santa will bring me some George Dickell. Standing in the checkout line, this nice lady behind me taps my shoulder. ” I know you two,” she says. She is a fellow Plano Wildcat from the 1960s. Her father and my father were good friends back in the day. Good to see an old high school classmate since there aren’t that many of us left. The shopping trip was a shocker. Half a basket of foodstuff, a few household items, and some allergy pills, all for $230.00. It might be cheaper to eat all of our meals at McDonald’s; those dollar burgers aren’t that bad once you get past the first bite, and with an adult Happy Meal, I get a toy that might be a plastic Unicorn that farts glitter or one of those goofy big-eyed girls from Frozen. I would rather have a drink coupon for the brewery on the square.
We made a trip to Walmart to pick up meds. The parking lot was packed. Inside, there were people everywhere, snarling, pushing, grabbing, and yelling. A young girl speeds down the aisle on a stolen Barbie Bike and almost takes out an old guy riding a personal scooter. He dodged her at the last second but rammed an old lady and her cart from behind. The old gal takes a baguette of fresh, warm French bread from her cart and beats him about the head, cussing a blue streak between whacks. The poor man’s wife pulls out her iPhone and starts filming the assault. It will likely be on TikTok or YouTube by this evening and get ten thousand views, and they will make a load of cash, just in time for Christmas. Good to know the spirit of the season is alive and well. The Salvation Army red kettle was at the front door, and a teenage boy and girl, instead of an older adult, were ringing the bell. I’m a sucker, so I push some legal tender into the kettle. I hope they use it wisely. I saw half a dozen women in their pajamas and slippers. Last year, I saw only two. What’s up with that? Then I remembered I was wearing my $5.00 pair of Goodwill white painting pants covered with acrylic paint spots. Momo kept her distance. I should have put a bandage on my right ear to complete my outfit.
Basement Bar Dancers (Photo by Dennis Rowe/Mirrorpix/Getty Images)
For a few years past, my wife, MoMo, has jokingly informed me that she would “kick my butt” if my mood or actions didn’t improve. She is right-handed, so her good kicking leg would be her right. She made a few attempts and misses, but her form was good, and she had more power in her kick than I imagined. When she was a younger gal, she was an indoor soccer player and a darn good hippy-hippy-shake dancer before she became a senior citizen, so the know-how is still there.
I used to be quick, an artful dodger of everything that might hurt. Dodgeball in the gym, with that hard red rubber ball, errant baseballs, soccer balls, water balloons, shotgun pellets, etc. Now that my right leg has gone south, and I’m older than I should be, I’m a sitting duck waiting for the kill shot.
MoMo received a new Kryptonite, stainless steel, industrial-grade knee two weeks ago. Her surgeon, a young whippersnapper, says that in a few months, she will have the knee of a twenty-year-old and be able to dance the “bugaloo, The Pony, The Shag and the Twist,” leap low fences in a single bound, push a grocery cart at breakneck speed through H.E.B. and kick a soccer ball like a pro. She will now have the right knee of a superhero. I fear I’m a sitting duck.
After many years of anguish and hand-wringing pain, the day came last Thursday; MoMo got her new carbon, Kryptonite, and stainless knee. Not just a few parts, but the entire show, socket and all. The surgeon sawed the leg bone in two places, glued in the replacement part stapled up the meat and muscle, and there ya go, she’ll be up and running in a few weeks. She is a miserable mess and whacked out on pain meds, but improving.
The old knee and tendon bones will be placed in a beautiful crystal jar and shipped to us before Christmas. A bottom-lit display with color-changing LED lights will make it the focal point of our Holiday decor and will delight our party guests for what few years we have left. Her surgeon said it’s the newest thing in replacement surgery, “it’s sick”, or so he says. I have the perfect place on our kitchen prep counter. Imagine when the grandchildren get to watch their grandmother’s old knee light up in 20 rotating colors. Wow. I haven’t told MoMo about this little gift, but will get around to it soon.
A few weeks back, MoMo and I traded our Honda CRV for a Honda Ridgeline pickup truck. I know, the looks I get from the boys in the Cummins Diesel and the giant GMCs. We would have bought a larger truck but neither of us can climb a ladder to get into the darn thing. They can laugh all they want, we are comfortable. The reason for the truck is to pull an RV trailer and visit our American National Parks. There are so many in Texas, that it will take at least a few years. Terlingua in the Big Bend, Marfa, and Fort Stockton are just a few calling our name. John Steinbeck wrote “Travels With Charley” back in the sixties. He and his poodle crisscrossed America in a pickup with a camper over the bed. He wanted to see his country as it was before it changed into something he feared was coming. The book is a masterpiece, and MoMo and I will be taking a cue from Mr. Stienbeck, but without Charley.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 