Category: Granbury Texas

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Show A Little Kindness And Respect


I wrote this story a year ago but thought it would be appropriate to re-publish it today.

Last Saturday, before Memorial Day, my wife MoMo and I stopped at one of our local McDonalds for a sausage McMuffin and a Coke. Breakfast for two for under six bucks. We were on our way to Fort Worth for some items I can’t recall at this moment, but we often make the trip because our hometown, Granbury, Texas, is small, and the only place to buy things is Walmart and H.E.B. for food. I would as soon take a licking from a Cocaine Bear than shop at Walmart, but I give in, and we do; everyone in town eventually has to.

Sitting and eating our meager breakfast sandwich and sharing a Coke, I noticed an old man sitting alone at a corner table. I’m now officially an old man, but this fellow looked to be in his nineties. He wore a black ball cap that read; “Korean War Veteran” and a tee shirt with the American flag on the front; a walking Kane rested on the seat next to him. He wasn’t eating, although a sandwich and a cup of coffee were on his tray. The old fellow was unkempt and needed a shave, and his clothes showed signs that he likely lived alone and felt no need to spiff himself up for a trip to McDonald’s.

My wife says I say things that will one day get me maimed, shot, or worse, and yes, she is right. Outspokenness is a trait I tote in my back pocket, and it gets me in hot water with friends and relatives.

I got up, walking stick in hand, hobbled over to the old fellow, and asked if the folks in the kitchen got his order wrong? He replied that they had given him a more expensive sandwich and charged him more than he could afford, and he couldn’t eat eggs anymore, but it was okay; he would just drink his coffee and leave. Disrespect for our veterans, especially our older ones, who will soon be nothing but an old photograph on someone’s mantel runs deep in our society. The younger people have no idea the sacrifices these men and women made so they could drive their Teslas and keep their faces in an iPhone all day. This was one of the moments my wife MoMo frequently warns me of.

I asked to speak to the manager, a young Hispanic woman, maybe mid-twenties. I wasn’t looking for a fight or to berate anyone, but only to remind this business to treat our veterans with the respect they have earned and deserve. I wasn’t rude but direct, and I shamed her for overcharging him, and they should refund his money and apologize. She was shocked that one of her employees had committed this sin. She said she would make it right by him, but by then, he had emptied his tray into the trash can and walked out. If I ever cross paths with him again, I will buy him a big breakfast and maybe visit for a while; I bet he has some great stories to tell.

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“This Is Going To Be A Little Uncomfortable”


The Day Of “The Procedure” Arrives

I’ve gone through three-quarters of my life not dwelling on or talking about medical conditions. Since I’ve become an old fart, well, it comes with the aging process. As a small child, I was perplexed when the older relatives sat around and compared ailments. My grandmother was the queen bee of that circle and the biggest hypochondriac that ever breathed. I’m not sure how she lived with all the terminal diseases and crippling conditions she harbored in that small body. So, here is her grandson, now 74 years old, taking the family medical Olympic torch from the old gal and not carrying it too well.

I comically wrote a few days ago about the injection procedure my spine surgeon booked for me in lieu of more surgery, which will be on down the road. Thursday night, I was wound up like a “Nickle Rat.” anticipating the 6:10 to Yuma at the surgery center. So I did what any modern male would do: I went for the drugs. 600 mg of Gabapentin, a big old Hydrocodone tablet, an 8 oz glass of Zquill, five cups of hot Ovaltine, and topped it all off with a Willie Nelson Sleep Gummy I picked up in New Mexico. Nothing…I lay in my Barcolounger and buzzed like a five-year-old after eating a full bag of Halloween candy; I was as crazed as an old Hippie at a Lynard Skynard concert and begging for merciful sleep. Any mortal human would have been in the emergency room after all that. I guess I’m more than mortal, possibly a Viking or Indian Spirit Animal.

MoMo found me in my lounger at 4 AM, slobbering and mumbling incoherently, eyes wide open. I Showered and dressed in sweats, no coffee, no water, no nothing; she slurped her delicious morning cup of Java while I had a bad case of the cotton mouth and eyes as bloodshot red as Dracula.

The kind and caring Pre-Op nurse at the surgery center got me in my hospital bed, gown on, shower cap, booties, and a warm fuzzy blanket, along with a nice little IV in my hand. I was ready. MoMo worked there for six years, so it was like the old home week for a while. Everyone was yakking and hugging and giving their secret “Nurse” handshake. I felt a bit left out, but I knew her friends would treat me better than well. Being married to a big-time Nurse has its perks.

My CRNA asked me if I had been through this procedure before, ” Nope, I’m a newbie here,” I replied.

“Well,” he says, ” these days, it’s all done by a doctor-guided robot, so there are fewer missed shots.” The term missed shots caught my attention.

” You mean the robot has made a few mistakes?” said I. I began looking for an exit door in case I needed to bolt.

” Only a few here and there, it’s no big deal; it’s usually caused by user error or a bad controller unit; the robot is very good at what he does.” The CRNA is sold on this bot.

Wide awake and scared, I’m rolled into the OR. There, standing beside the stainless table is a six-foot robot holding an enormous syringe full of white liquid in each metal hand. He is a spot-on copy of “Robby The Robot” from the 1950s movie ” The Forbidden Planet.” My doctor sits on a stool staring at a large LED screen, holding a Nintendo Game controller and drinking a Red Bull. I am rolled onto the table, face down. The CRNA says I will receive a little Propofol in my IV and will have a sweet little nap. I ask if that is the same stuff Michael Jackson took; he says yes. We all know how that turned out. The robot gives me a reassuring pat on my behind and makes a few bleeps and whirly sounds; the nurse says count to ten; I’m out by three. I see Michael Jackson riding on a golden cloud, waving at me to follow him. No way, dude. Then Elvis stops in a cherry 55 drop-top Caddie. In the backseat are Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Robert Johnson, Roy Orbison, and Ertha Kitt. Sitting next to Elvis is a radiant Ann Margret. I hop in and take shotgun. Ann winks at me and says, “I’m not really dead, you know, but I have a special arrangement to come and visit E a few times a month, don’t tell anyone you saw me here.” Nope, your secret is safe with me, darlin’. She hands me a bottled Coke and a peanut butter and nanna samwich.

I open my eyes, and there is MoMo, giving me her reassuring attention. My Post-Op nurse is making sure I wake up and don’t freak out. I ask her about Elvis and Ann Margret, and I want some of that sleepy stuff to take home with me. She laughs and says that’s one of the best dreams yet. I’m dressed, wheelchair to the car, MoMo helps me in the passenger side, and the nurse hands us a card from the staff and an 8×10 glossy photo of “Robert,” the medical robot. He’s standing in front of a Western building wearing a flat-brim black hat and a Mexican sarape. Two holsters hold a handful of large syringes instead of a 45 Colt. In a weird shaky signature, it reads, ” Come back and see me, pardner; I never miss a shot.”

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Things To Ponder Or Wonder


Smarter Than The Average Bear

Cute stories in the news always catch my attention, especially if they include animals. Black Bears are recently included because of their prowess in breaking and entering homes. One Bear broke into a residence, raided the freezer, found a Tupperware container of Lasanga, and prepared a meal for itself. It included a small side salad and French garlic bread. The owners of the home surprised the furry chef, and he fled. The owners said the Bear was quite good at preparing the meal but didn’t take the time to clean the kitchen. They named him “Yogi Bourdain.”

Another Black Bear was caught on camera raiding the Halloween candy dish. The homeowner said the beast took all the Hershey chocolate and left the Jolly Rancher. Guess it didn’t want to break a tooth.

A Swiftless Series

The Texas Rangers won their first World Series last night, and Taylor Swift was nowhere to be seen, and that’s a good thing. When her commercials air on the tube, I scramble for the remote so I can change the channel. I’m convinced she can’t speak without “Autotune.”

Sweet Tooth

This Halloween, I did not “trick or treat.” My wife MoMo confined me to the house after my last candy outing resulted in my arrest when I told the shocked parents handing out sweets that I “identified as a six-year-old.” I thought it was a great idea; the kids I hung out with loved my ploy.

“It’s Alive, Alive I Tell You!”

Not bad looking for putting it together at the last minute

Tomorrow morning at 7:10 AM, I will be laying on a cold stainless steel table receiving massive injections in my spine to stop the pain from “run-away” rebellious nerves” caused by “two world-class old man bouncing off the concrete falls.” I will be knocked out cold for this “procedure,” as my nurse wife likes to call it. The good doctor will use a Robot with a large syringe in each metal claw, directing the shot to the exact spot in my poor spine. I’m pretty darn sure the doctor, before I go to La La Land, will say, “This might hurt a tiny bit.” No shit.

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The Final Gasp Of Hallows Eve


Eddie the Raven

Tis almost over, the night of ghouls, Ravens, and goblins, beggers of sweets, impersonators of the great, the terrible, and the incorrigible loose souls. I have made it through another Halloween and haven’t seen or heard anything about Taylor Swift. Thank the Lord she didn’t show up at the Rangers versus the Diamondbacks game.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

Until next year, I bid you adieu.

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A Nod To Labor Day And Boating


As usual, the town square here in Granbury is full of vendor tents selling their high-priced items to the tourists that invade our town every darn weekend. Labor Day is just another shopping day and another invasion. I guess they are doing their part, Laboring in the hot sun; it’s a balmy 103 today. There must be 10,000 pontoon, rocket boats, and personal crotch rocket jet skis tearing up the lake. I saw one pontoon boat full of senior folks in wheelchairs and personal scooters; I’m not sure they thought this out. No one had on a life vest, but they all had a frosty beer, so enjoy. The pontoon boat is the new ” let’s get the whole fam damnly on board and see if she sinks” type of vessel. I counted one boat at the marina with twenty-four bodies on board.

Ruut-Rooow, hold my beer and watch this!

Saturday afternoon, while eating at “Stumpy’s,” our local marina and lake food style restaurant, we were treated to the sounds of multiple fancy-assed cigarette boats with their 500 decibels ear-shattering 427 cubic inch stock car motors revving up. All this as we enjoyed our lake burger and a brew. Some of these boats can travel in excess of 200 mph, but if they hit a stump, of which there are plenty in Lake Granbury, it’s curtains. I thought these boats went out of style when Miami Vice ended? Guess not.

I got a haircut this morning and am considering mowing my lawn, but Laboring in the heat may cause my expiration date to go critical.

I think I’ll have a cold Oktoberfest German Beer and put off the Labor until tomorrow. Labor Day is for relaxing, and just pecking away at my laptop has already worn me out. Have a good one.

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The Squirrels of Havoc


An Observation of The American Tree Rat…

Little NutBreath

We have not seen a Squirrel in the four years we have lived on this rocky hill within throwing distance of Comanche Peak. I read that they don’t care for Cedar trees or rocks, which we have in abundance.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my recliner, gazing at the bird feeders and waiting for the mailman to pop something in our box, and “bam,” there’s a giant female Squirrel chomping down on our unique “good stuff” birdseed. I was shocked but excited to see her; I love Squirrels, even though they are destructive little critters. My friend, Mooch, lost most of his lawnchair cushions to a pack of them, and they chewed the railing on his deck like notches in a pistol handle. He plugged a few with his Daisy pellet gun, and the rest of the pack got the message and split the scene.

My wife tolerates Squirrels; she doesn’t share the love of them as I do. When we lived in DeCordova Estates, our home was surrounded by large Oak trees, their preferred dwelling. I had a semi-pet Squirrel named Daisy that I hand-fed peanuts to while sitting on my deck, drinking coffee or an adult beverage. If I was slow in feeding her, she barked and chattered. She bit me only once. My wife, MoMo, reminded me that the little darlings will wreak havoc around our property. I scoffed at her warning.

Now we have two older baby Squirrels visiting the bird feeders. Mama shows up, gives them proper directions, and points out which nuts are the best. It’s a cute scene, right out of a Disney movie, before they went wokie.

I sit in my recliner, transfixed, watching their antics, observing the table manners of the animal kingdom.

I checked the feeders this morning around daybreak and discovered widespread structural damage around the bird cafe. The Squirrels have chewed the plastic on one hanging feeder, chewed the wood sides on the other two, and are working on my nice horizontal fence, adding notches to the rails. MoMo was right; they are destructive little rats and are wreaking havoc at the “LaLa Seed Cafe.” I plan to buy some Planters Cashews and see if I can strike a truce.

The Squirrels of Havoc have struck.

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The 4th of July and Beer In Clear Plastic Cups


Granbury, Texas, Town Square

The Devil’s oven has descended on our renowned small town of Granbury. It’s hot, so there is no reason to piss and moan. It’s July, so we get over it, mostly.

Every year, the 4th of July weekend brings thousands of folks to the square looking for something they don’t have in Fort Worth, Dallas, Waco, or somewhere in rural Texas. The lake itself is a big draw. It borders downtown, and at least two thousand overloaded pontoon boats and jerk kids on jet-powered crotch rockets, ripping up the water.

Throngs of folks in SUVs and expensive pickup trucks show up and wander around the square, drinking beer in clear plastic cups. A few of the restaurants sell it in pop-up minibars along the streets. Men with a cup of beer in each fist, and women with their cups of white wine, walking, stumbling into shops, buying up everything they can find; great for the merchants, tough on the locals who want to enjoy some of the festivities.

We have a square that is the epitome of the old west. White rock buildings were constructed in the 1800s, with narrow streets and quaint shops. The Paramount television series 1883 was filmed in our town square and the countryside around us. Being voted the best small historic town in the country for four years has much to do with the invasion. I am noticing more young folks now than in years past, and that’s a good thing. The old folks are too tired to walk around in the heat, and they don’t spend much money and tend to only drink one beer if that.

MoMo and I sat at our usual picnic table at the Brew Drinkery on Pearl Street, enjoying a craft beer, some chips, and people-watching. Young folks, and old folks dressed in red-white-and-blue attire, some with hardly any attire, some with too much attire, dogs with clothes, dogs with shoes, big dogs pulling small people around, folks with too many kids to corral, and everyone has a clear plastic cup of beer. Cheers and a happy Fourth of July from Granbury, Texas, and the Cactus Patch.

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How Hot Is It You Say?


It will be around 106 to 109 degrees today in Granbury, Texas. MoMo and I are hunkered down in the house, shades closed, and fans running. I will go outside after dark to water my poor plants that are perishing from the heat, and a twenty-mile-per-hour wind, so it feels like a commercial hair dryer. The weather folks on the tube say it will be over one hundred all week. We are doomed.

When Armadillos start drinking iced cold beer, you know it’s hot. We have a house, Finch, nesting her eggs under our metal carport. MoMo is worried that she may get too hot or the eggs might cook, so she wants to buy the little bird a small air-conditioner or a misting machine. I’ll check with the bird tonight to see if she is interested.

In the 1950s, we had a heat wave that lasted all summer. Some folks say 1980 was the worst, but we had AC back in 1980, and in 1955, very few folks had AC; our family had an attic fan and a backyard water hose to spray ourselves with. One of our neighborhood girls put some biscuit dough on the sidewalk, and “boom,” she invented sidewalk biscuits. You couldn’t eat them without breaking a tooth, but they were great for chunking at kids you didn’t care for. Skipper, our resident wiz-kid, devised a weapon using sidewalk biscuits and cherry bombs, a kid’s hand grenade that we used in a battle against “the hard guys,” a group of punks from across the tracks tormented our gang of well-behaved heathen children. We couldn’t go to the Forest Park public pool because our mothers said it was a sure bet that all of us would contract the dreaded Polio virus and our neighborhood would be wiped out, so we were stuck with lawn sprinklers to beat the heat.

My neighbor, and mad scientist, Mr. Mister, purchased an enormous blow-up kiddie pool, filled it with ice he stole home from his employer, Carswell Air Force Base, filled it with his water hose, and ran a tube from an air pump in his garage to the pool, and invented the first “Spa.” Us kids sometimes got to use it, but it was mainly for himself and Mrs. Mister, who lay in the contraption until midnight drinking frosty adult beverages and smoking ciggies. We had to do what we could to stay cool in those “good old days.”

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“As The Cactus Patch Turns,”June 3rd, 2023


A Birthday For The Ages

It seems my oldest granddaughter, my only one, has obtained her driver’s license and is now eager to “Take to the highway, won’t you lend me your name, my way and your way seem to be one and the same.” ( James Taylor) For her birthday, which is today, we gifted her our 2008 Honda CRV. It’s a mighty little chariot with 167K miles and can hold its own against any new cars. She’s a bit fastidious, so I know she will care for her car and herself. Happy Birthday, sweet Madalyn. The only thing that would make a better day would be for your father to celebrate with us. I’m certain he is at Heaven’s portal watching you; don’t speed or run a stop sign, and don’t smoke cigarettes.

Planting For Dollars, Slave Labor, and Chicken Poop Fertilizer

When I started landscaping our property four years ago, I promised myself the foliage would be drought-tolerant and sparse, with more gravel and rocks than plants. Somewhere along the journey, my artistic genes kicked in, and the property became more of a canvas than a plot of soil. I have now done myself in, backed into a flora corner with no escape. The plants know me by name, call to me in my dreams and watch me as I meander around. It’s akin to “The Little Shop Of Horrors,” Feed me they scream as I beat them off my leg. One Chaste bush dared to grab my arm with a firm grip, demanding more fertilizer. My wife has no pity for me. I’m a doomed man. I have discovered natural chicken poop fertilizers, which is mildly repugnant, but the plants adore it.

Looking At Politics In My Rear View Mirror

In the past few days, I realized that I am done with politics. Both sides of our republic are equally to blame and are equally criminal. Our founding fathers, much less flawed than our current crop of grifters, had the forethought to see the future and what it might become; thus, the constitution and our laws that no one in the tidal basin seems to know, the first thing about. Payola, quid-pro-quo, back-scratching, good-ole-boy, kiss-ass, grab-ass, and insider trading is the rule of the day. Thanks to social media, our world is not a better place. Life before cell phones and the internet was manageable and somewhat more peaceful. I’m thinking limiting my television time to re-runs of “The Andy Griffith Show,” “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” and possibly ” Leave It To Beaver” would be beneficial to my health.

Read a Good Book And Improve Your Mind, Or Read a Bad One And Ruin It…

I’m halfway through a Biography of the great newsman Walter Cronkite. Watching him on television in my formative years gave me the lust for news, which I now find a curse. Uncle Walt, Grandfather Walt, whatever we chose to call him, was the real deal and gave it to us straight up with no BS. I am also trying to read a novel by Tom Hanks and I realize that Tom needs to stick to acting and reciting lines written by young hipsters; he is fooling himself if he believes he is an author. He ain’t Mark Twain or Truman Capote. I don’t see myself finishing the book and will likely sell it back to Half Price Books for almost nothing. ” The Killers of The Flower Moon,” a soon-to-be motion picture with Leonardo DiCraprio and Robert De’Craprio is the true account of how a group of greedy land and oil barrons stole the oil-rich land in Oklahoma from the Native Americans. Since I am of that heritage, I will enjoy this one. I also found my original “Roy Rogers” book from when I was five, so I may give that a re-visit, as well as “To Kill A Mockingbird.” I wrote a letter to the once great magazine, “Texas Monthly,” which my wife gave me a three-year subscription to, informing them that they are no longer the center of the universe and Austin is no longer a part of Texas. I miss Gary Cartwright, Stephen Harrigan, and Dan Jenkins; I also miss Bob Wills and Cindy Walker, as well as Billy Joe Shaver.

Spotify Has Liquified My Brain

My granddaughter introduced me to the popular streaming music service, Spotify. I am addicted. All the songs I love from my teen years are there, and the classic country music is endless. Patsy Cline, Haggard, Waylon and Willie and the boys. I’ve recently re-discoverd the beloved and talented, John Prine. What a loss to the world of music when he passed. “Angel From Montgomery” and “Clay Pigeons” are two of his great ones. Now, If I can figure out how to block anything by Taylor Swift and Beyonce, It will be a perfect companion.

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As The Crow Flies


Photo by Alfred Hitchcock

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
Edger Allan Poe

The bird population around the Cactus Patch has been growing by leaps and bounds. Our bird seed expenditure has doubled in the last month. Doves, Cardinals, Woodpeckers, Titmouse, Chickadees, House Finches, Bluejays, Blackbirds, Buntings, a squirrel, and now we have a family of Crows. They live in a large Cottonwood tree a few hundred yards towards Comanche Peak, our local mountain. I counted fifteen or so in their flock, which is also their family. Crows tend to stay close to cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and children. Our friends warn us when a Crow shows up it means a pending death in the family or at least bad ju-ju for our household. So far, everyone is intact, and as far as the bad luck, well we have had a few instances. I can’t make myself blame the Crows for bad manufacturing.

Two weeks ago, our over-the-range microwave bid us adieu, the oven signed out a few days later, then our hot tub died. Our neighbor said it was the Crows that caused our appliance meltdown. I refuse to believe it. Edger Allan Poe was a writer of weird stories and a few runs of bad luck. He also drank Abstinith and used opium, so, of course, he had conversations with a Raven, who wouldn’t. Poe gave the Crow, or the Raven a bad rap; it became a part of our American vernacular.

Crows are large bluish-black birds that eat bugs, my birdseed, and peanuts. The Squirrel and a Crow had a stare-down yesterday, and the Crow won the game. The nut breath exited without his usual peanuts. They are birds and don’t cook a witches’ brew back at their nest or make voodoo dolls out of garbage. They are quite a beautiful avian, and smarter than many people I know. I left a quarter on the fence by one of the bird feeders, the crow took it and returned a dime to the same spot. Who knows what he spent the fifteen cents on. I put a few more shiny trinkets near the feeder and the Crows took those; I’m waiting to see what they return. I could use a new pair of garden pruners.