Back in 1985, my father’s band, The Light Crust Doughboys, recorded an album that was meant to focus on Texas music, some present, mostly passed. Country music wasn’t invented in Fort Worth, Texas, but Western Swing was. Bob Wills started as a Light Crust Doughboy, as did most of the great talent from the 1930s onward. I was fortunate to have known every man on this record for my entire life. The members on this album were: Jim Boyd, vocals and rhythm guitar; Jerry Elliot, vocals and electric guitar; my father, Johnny Strawn, fiddle, electric mandolin, and vocals; Bill Simmons- keyboard; Elden Graham, stand-up bass; Marc Jaco, electric bass; Maurice Anderson, pedal steel guitar; Dale Cook-drums; Phil Strawn, five-string banjo; and Gary Murray, announcer. The album was recorded at Sumet-Burnet Sound Studios in Dallas, Texas, in April of 1985. Recording engineers were Bob Sullivan and Bobby Dennis. It was produced by Marvin Montgomery.
Songs on the album, in order, are: Side One 1. The Light Crust Doughboy Theme Song. 2. The Yellow Rose of Texas, 3. When The Bloom Is On The Sage, 4. Texas In My Soul, 5. Beautiful Texas, 6. Waiting For A Train, 7. Old Joe Clark with myself on five string banjo and my father on fiddle, 8.Tumbling Tumble Weeds, 9. You’re from Texas, composed by the legendary Cindy Walker. Side 2, 1. If You’re Gonna Play In Texas You Gotta Have A Fiddle In The Band, 2. Amarillo By Morning, 3. Across The Alley From The Alamo, 4. In The Mood, done the Texas western swing way, 5. Does Fort Worth Evdr Cross Your Mind, 6. Sure ‘Nuf Texan, 7. Texas When I Die, 8. Closing radio them, the song the band has always used since their inception in the early 1930s.
They are inductees into the Western Swing Hall of Fame and the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, and are part of the Country And Western Hall of Fame ( Chet Atkins always decided who would be inducted )
I traveled with these men for many miles, driving their van, loading and setting up their equipment, and playing bass, guitar, and banjo when one of them was ill and couldn’t make the show. Smokey Montgomery made me an official member of the band in 1984, which was the greatest honor any musician could dream of. The one cut from the album included in this post features my father (fiddle) and me (five-string banjo) playing the old 1800s standard, “Old Joe Clark,” with the rest of the Light Crust Doughboy band. We may grow old and die, but our music lives on forever.
Johnny Strawn on the left and Bob Will on the right. The Sunset Ballroom, early 1950s
I was born into music the way some children are born into weather—something that surrounds them before they have words for it. Long before my hands were big enough to hold a wooden neck or find a note on a steel string, the sound was already there, drifting through the rooms like a ghostly wind. A man doesn’t choose a life like that; he’s shaped by it, the way wind shapes a tree on an open plain. Our home pulsed with music, not a 78 RPM record on a Victrola but real instruments played by men, some would become mentors, lifelong friends, and a few I would help carry to their final rest, my hand supporting their coffin. It seemed they were always there, a few feet away or on the front porch and around the kitchen table, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and playing music. My younger sister and I thought it all to be quite normal, but it was so far from that.
My father carried his fiddle the way working men carry their tools—worn smooth by sweat and nights on the road, tuned by the laughter and sorrow of dance halls from Fort Worth to Nashville, Springfield, Tulsa, and to Abilene and then on to California. He played with the great ones, the ones whose names still hang in the air like smoke: Bob Wills And The Texas Playboys, Willie Nelson and Paul English, Milton Brown, Cliff Bruner, Adolph Hoffner, Bill and Jim Boyd, Smokey Dacus, Jake Ghoul, Artie Glenn, Ray Chaney, Smokey Montgomery, Jerry Elliot, Bill Hudson, Red Foley, Grady Martin, Roger Miller, Ted Daffan, Lefty Frizzell, Hank Garland, and the Light Crust Doughboys. Those bands were more than music; they were a kind of moving tribe, stitching the country together one dusty town at a time. And my father stood among them, bow in hand, drawing out the heartbeat of the West. He wasn’t a big man in stature, but when he drew that bow across those strings, he stood as tall as Iowa corn.
But the story didn’t start with him. It ran back through my grandfather, John Henry Strawn, and further still to my great-grandfather, Marion Strawn—men who bent their backs to the land by day and lifted their spirits with a fiddle by night. In those days, a tune wasn’t entertainment; it was survival. A way to keep the darkness from settling too heavily on a man’s shoulders. My grandfather, in his younger days, was a cowboy, but was always that campfire fiddler with a tune poised on his fingertips, as was his father.
So, of course, I was born into it. The first instrument wasn’t wood or wire but a small blue baby rattler, the kind a child shakes without knowing he’s keeping time with the world. I still have it tucked away in a box, along with those tiny shoes from The Little Texan shop in Fort Worth, 1945—leather soft as memory, soles barely scuffed by the earth. My Aunt Norma told me my feet didn’t touch solid ground until I was three or so. Proof that even then, before you could walk, the rhythm was already in your hands.
Some families pass down land, or money, a name carved into a building cornerstone, or a legacy that follows them through generations. Mine is passed down as a sound—a long, unbroken line of strings vibrating against fine old wood.
And so the question was never how I became a musician. The real wonder is how I could not become anything else.
The Great Depression settled on the land, especially the Midwest, from the Dakotas to the bottom of Texas. Misery was in every mouthful of whatever families could scrape together for a meal.
My grandparents loaded their dilapidated car with whatever scraps of a life could be carried, tucking them into corners already crowded with worry. They pulled away from Fort Worth in the hard years of the early 1930s, when work had vanished like water in a dry creek bed, and the dust from the Panhandle settled over the city in a fine, punishing veil. Folks walked with their shoulders bent, not from age but from the heaviness of days that offered little and took much. In those times, every family felt the pinch of hunger and the quiet shame of wanting more than the land and the cities could give. So they turned their eyes westward, toward a place they’d only heard about in stories — a place where the air was said to be softer, and smelled of blossoms, the work steadier, and opportunity flowed like milk and honey for anyone brave enough to chase it. Like the frivolous dancing girls in the unrealistic movies echoed, “We’re In The Money.” Come to California, and all will be healed, my brother, and happiness will be here again. For many, it was their salvation, for even more, it was their Waterloo.
The journey was a gritty trial; more than once, my grandparents’ aspirations lay shattered within the confines of the bloated car. Harsh words, blame, and unforgiveness forced the old Ford to veer back Eastward, yet practicality prevailed, and the road West stretched ahead once more. Route 66 transformed at times into a mere gravel-and-dirt dog track, its ruts so profound they could swallow a child, never to be seen again. Just beyond the Border Patrol in Needles, California, my grandfather—clad now in the worn label of an “Okie”—picked up an elderly blind bluesman and his tiny Chihuahua, supposedly his seeing eye dog. Still, the dog possessed one good eye, so his loyalty only went so far. They were fleeing from the shadows of Deep Ellum in Dallas, Texas, where the blind bluesman, in a pay dispute, had shot six folks in a bar at the aimining direction of the small dog, all the patrons were wounded, and the wrongdoer escaped unharmed. That chance encounter would shape the souls of all within that car, threading their lives together in an unbreakable bond forged by hardship and hope.
After depositing the old blues singer, Blind Jelly Roll Jackson, at Sister Amiee McPherson’s downtown Los Angeles Mission Church, my grandfather encountered a couple who sensed the need and subtle transformation within him. I have always believed that angels walk among us most days, though they sometimes take a leave of absence for their own reasons. In that moment of serendipity, my grandfather’s guardian angel appeared in the passenger seat beside him, illuminating the path with a chance encounter that offered help and guidance from above. He forged a friendship, secured an unimaginable job, found a modest home to rent, and within weeks, he bestowed upon his family the very gifts of life he had only dared to dream. God is awesome, but he sometimes requires his Angels to carry that extra pat of butter in their rucksack for special times.
Around the age of ten or eleven, my father, Johnny, expressed interest in learning the instrument. My grandfather showed him the basics, then handed him off to a retired high school music teacher on their block, who gave him violin lessons in exchange for mowing, weeding, and odd jobs. A $5 pawn-shop violin was purchased, and tutelage began. Within a few weeks, he could read music, had learned the notes on the fretboard, and could play a few simple tunes. Most nights, grandfather would sit on their front porch and play his father’s old 1812 German-made fiddle while spinning yarns to anyone who would listen. He was a master of Texas Dichos, and with each jig he played, there would be a life’s lesson or a tall tale to accompany the tune. Many nights would find a dozen folks sitting on the front lawn listening to his fiddle and his tall tales. All of it seemed to fit in life’s complex package. Every fiddle carried the tales of heartache and hope: real or imagined.
Around the age of thirteen, my father found himself among a group of schoolboys who, in their youthful exuberance, formed a string band that echoed the sounds of their dreams: they wanted to be country musicians like the ones they listened to on KUZZ, the famous country radio station out of Bakersfield, California. My father wielded the fiddle, the others accompanied with a stand-up bass, a tenor banjo, and a guitar perpetually missing a string, creating an element of embarrassment and laughter.
None of the young lads had the gift of a soothing voice to uplift their spirits, so my grandfather, with the wisdom of a man with a good musical ear, recalled the old black blues man he had once deposited at Sister Aimee’s Mission in downtown L.A.
A few calls were made, a meeting set, and the boys were graced by the presence of Blind Jelly Roll Jackson, accompanied by his loyal Chihuahua, Giblet, whose single keen eye began to see beyond the darkness. Blind Jelly, with the patience and kindness of a seasoned mentor, accepted their earnest offer to perform, insisting that a young Cajun girl from the church choir that he had grown fond of join them, a girl whose voice could lift the very rafters off their hinges. Le’ Petite Fromage, though barely five feet tall, could sing with a strength that belied her tiny stature. As they gathered on the Strawn’s front porch for their first rehearsal, the band realized they needed a name. “Le’ Petite proposed ‘Blind Faith,’ inspired by Blind Jelly’s newfound devotion to Jesus and the church, and his obvious disability.” Sister Aimee, her spirit both stern and forgiving, had an off-kilter sense of humor and deemed the name tinged with a slight touch of blasphemy, yet offered her blessing, recognizing the earnestness in their hearts. The band was born. A new type of country, Texas-style Cajun-infused Jesus music had arrived, without an organ or big hair, an edgy choir, and it hit Los Angeles like a Super Chief express train from Fort Worth.
Word of their talent reached every corner of the church community, a bustling hive of activity every weekend, filled with the laughter of children at birthday parties, the fierce spirit of chicken fights, the tender moments of school dances, and the somber gatherings of a few funerals; on lazy Sunday afternoons, they would often spill out onto the sun-warmed corner outside the church, entertaining any who would stop for a listen.
Le’ Petite’s father, Baby Boy Fromage, a nickname given to him because of his stature, brought his band “The Chigger Bayou Boys,” to Los Angeles, driven by an urgent need to escape the depression drought of paying jobs in Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma; he hoped that the burgeoning migration to Bakersfield might present a new opportunity. His unique blend of Cajun country, alligator tunes, skeeter-swatting antics, and the camaraderie of beer drinking seemed to resonate with the Californian spirit, and for a time, it flourished. Meanwhile, Le’ Petite found her own path, joining Sister Aimee’s church choir, which divinely led to a deepening friendship with Blind Jelly Roll. This bond blossomed into the formation of their band, Blind Faith, as if fate itself had conspired to align their destinies just right.
Bob Wills, a spirited and legendary member of The Light Crust Doughboys from Fort Worth, Texas, traversed the country in a bus, on a well-financed quest to promote the finest flour known to man, Light Crust Flour, milled in Fort Worth, Texas. It was Baby Boy Fromage, father of’Le’ Petite, who journeyed with his band from the marshy Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, to Bakersfield, where the heart of California’s country music pulsed with life. He orchestrated a thirty-minute live radio broadcast for this budding ensemble, cleverly pocketing the majority of the earnings. It was during this very broadcast that my young teenage father encountered the legendary Bob Wills, whose band had just wrapped up their own live radio performance. United by their Texas roots, they met and ignited a bond, with Bob assuring my father that, upon his return to Fort Worth, he could count on him to swing open the doors to the world of music. Johnny cherished that promise, as did Bob, both forever marked by the fleeting good grace of opportunity. A life-long mentorship had been formed.
When the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, every high school boy in the country wanted to enlist to fight them and Hitler. Three of Blind Faith joined up, then Johnny, with my grandfather’s consent, because he was seventeen, enlisted in the Navy. That left Blind Jelly Roll, Giblet, and Le’Peetite, who was sweeter by the day, on a sax player in the church orchestra. In a hurried wedding performed by Sister Amiee, the two returned to Chigger Bayou to start their family of ten children.
In 1954, my father, in a sweating fit of entrepreneurship, purchased a club on Jacksboro Highway, the Sunset Ballroom. Between the fights, the Fort Worth mob, making it their newest hangout, and the payoffs, he soon sold it and went back to playing the circuit.
After serving in the Navy in World War 2 and returning from Hawaii to Fort Worth, drawn by the unrelenting trysts of his alcoholic mother, attempting and failing to be in the nightclub business, Johnny was desperate but hesitant to bother Bob. After marrying my mother, he did contact him. As good as his word, Bob put his size-12 cowboy boot in many doors that led to the beginning of my father’s father’s, one of the best country fiddle players in the nation.
The fiddle he played was the very same his father had procured from a pawnbroker’s in Los Angeles; though it possessed a certain charm, it lacked the warmth and volume of a fine-made instrument. In a generous gesture, Bob often invited Johnny to perform with the Playboys and, in turn, gifted him a fiddle crafted by an esteemed Luthier from Fort Worth, Joseph H. Stamps, in November of 1947. Bob, ever the pragmatist, rarely ventured without two or three backups, ever mindful of the fragility of strings. His hands, though skilled, bore testament to a life of rough play, leaving this instrument with its fair share of scars—gouges and scrapes that contributed an unrefined but slightly brutal beauty to its sound. One gouge near the bridge was never repaired because it may have affected the tone, which, to a fiddle, is its purpose. I have preserved a few sepia-toned photographs of him and Bob weaving harmonies on twin fiddles, and that particular instrument, worn yet noble and soaked in history, remains in my care; I am now, even at the old age of seventy-seven, revisiting its strings, having been sidetracked by the allure of guitar since I was twelve and discovered rock n’ roll music. I was like most boys, wanting to be Elvis Presley or Carl Perkins, and neither of them played a fiddle. Young men make foolish decisions, yet my father let my folly continue.
Eventually, Bob approached my father, inviting him to join the Texas Playboys as his second twin fiddle. Without a moment’s hesitation, he accepted this incredible offer, much like a weary traveler might grasp at the hope of a warm meal or a sidewalk found wad of cash rolled in a rubber band.
My mother, embodying the spirit of countless wives of musicians, shared whispers with the other wives, and the tales spun on the circuit painted Bob and his crew as a band of unfettered ruffians and rapscallions ahead of their time. Yet, reality was far from those fabrications; Bob placed strict boundaries on his band, allowing only a few swigs of hooch on the bus after a show, to ease their restless hearts during long nights of travel. It was mere gossip, yet it fueled a storm within her; she planted her feet firmly, unleashing a tempest of emotion, declaring that if he chose that path, she and I would be far away when he returned. My father, grappling with the weight of his choice, made his decision, and there were tears in both men’s eyes as he told him that he must prioritize family, even though such a venture would have freed us from the clutches of borderline poverty by giving him fame and fortune. Bob chose another young fiddle player from Tyler, Texas, Johnny Gimble, who was eventually inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame posthumously in 2018. In later years, as adults, Father and I would share a scotch while he told me stories from his life on the road as a musician. I sensed that deep within him, he never quite forgave my mother for forcing an imagined and selfish decision on him. I believe that her having to deal with his addicted mother was the only reason for her reluctance.
Through the late forties and fifties, the old fiddle led the way, weaving melodies through the life of a musician. There were evenings filled with the long hours of playing for a thousand dancers with Ted Daffan’s band at Ted Daffan’s Crystal Springs Ballroom on Lake Worth, the beer joints on Jacksboro and Belknap Highway, and the Big D Jamboree in Dallas. where the laughter of dancing feet accompanied the day’s tunes. Western swing was more popular than Benny Goodman.
The stork left me on the front porch in September of 1949, so time was of the essence for a young man of talent to mark his spot in life’s grass.
Then came a call from an old friend in Nashville, the renowned guitarist Grady Martin, who rang in with an invitation to join Red Foley’s national television show, The Ozark Jubilee, cast in the heart of Springfield, Missouri, on ABC every Saturday night. Those were the transformative years for country music in the mid-1950s. We packed our lives into the car and found ourselves in Springfield in less than twenty-four hours, eager and wide-eyed, ready to embrace the unknown that awaited us. Grady and my father became fast friends, as did their wives. On the days they didn’t rehearse for the weekend show, Grady and he would drive to Nashville and do studio work for the top recording stars of the day. Grady brought my father into the tight fold of the A-Team, the country music version of The Wrecking Crew in L.A. He was not a full-time member yet, but since he and Grady were tight friends and his musicianship carried him, he was accepted. The old fiddle sensed the importance and, as always, pulled through. Grady worked on all of Marty Robbins’ records, as well as Patsy Cline’s, Loretta Lynn’s, Johnny Cash’s, The Browns, Hank Snow, Eddy Arnold’s, and almost every popular artist in Nashville. Chet Atkins ran the show like a drill sergeant, with no tolerance for unprofessionalism. I was a child and met most of these famous musicians and singers, but my memory is worn out. I can’t recall who or when, though I do recall the famous country singer Wanda Jackson cleaning my ears with a napkin and her spit, and standing in the wings of the Grand Ole Opry stage, watching the performers of the day weave their magic.
In no time, the sporadic phone calls and daily letters from my grandmother reached Springfield. She had ensnared my father in this manner throughout his existence; he was her chosen instrument of enablement, and escape was merely a mirage. The dosing of the popular medicines had now changed to hard-core hooch, and her demons were back livelier than ever. His older sister had flown the frazzled nest by marriage early on, but was now a raging hypochondriac who harbored every fatal disease known to humanity. I knew little of the contents of those missives, yet I recall their power, enough to unravel his career through mental grief and dismantle his bond with Grady.
An alcoholic parent can lay waste to a child, wielding either fists or cruel words, leaving scars that echo in the silence. The line of love and hate is often melded into one, and there is no choosing which to cross.
I awoke in the back seat of our worn car, under the gaze of the night sky, the hum of tires on asphalt a constant reminder of our hurried retreat from Springfield, leaving behind Grady, Red Foley, and even the unpaid milkman without a proper farewell. The weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, a testament to the unbearable tension that had twisted my father’s heart. Once again, his spirit was broken by his mother and her addictions. My mother knew this brutal betrayal was the worst yet, and it permanently dissolved the artificial, fragile peace with her mother-in-law into a hatred that would never be repaired.
Upon returning to Texas, the Light Crust Doughboys arrived with a proposition that seemed even more enticing than that of Bob Wills and his esteemed band. They would travel, but only for a few days each week, keeping most of their appearances local in the heart of Texas. My father, with his fiddle and mandolin, joined and played with them until 1994, when the cruel hand of brain cancer compelled him to step away from the music he so loved. Whenever the opportunity arose, I would accompany them, driving the band van, assisting with equipment, and playing bass or my five-string banjo. In the mid-1980s, Smokey Montgomery honored me as a member of the Light Crust Doughboys. He gave my father and me a chance to record a cut of Old Joe Clark on the album, “One Hundred Fifty Years of Texas Music.” This recognition, to this day, still leaves me breathless, profoundly aware of the historical gift bestowed upon me. That old fiddle, now repaired, sits in the warmth of its case, waiting for me to catch some of the magic my father left me.
I’m turning 77 in a few months, and the only object made from fine wood that I want is a Gibson F5 G Mandolin. Banjo Ben in Mo. has a used one for 4900. bucks. I’ve contacted The Southwestern Medical Center about selling a kidney ( I only need one to pee), maybe a pinky toe, and both testicles, but no response just yet. My son is checking into a clinic in Martamoras, Mexico, that is willing to give me a nice sum for all usable parts, so I can purchase the instrument. I don’t need balls, a pinky toe, or two kidneys to play, so it may work out. I’ll keep you all informed on the negotiations, though my Spanish is limited to “more chips and salsa.” Pronto. How many testicles does a man really need?
I lifted the title line from Mac Davis’s hit ” Looking At Lubbock In My Rear View Mirror.” He’s gone for a while now, so I don’t think a fellow Texan would mind.
As this year slipped by, I want to thank all of you who follow my blog and comment. I’m too computer-challenged to thank an entire list like Max, so this will have to do for now. I’m hiring a six-year-old down the street as my PC tutor.
Who would have thought that our country would be in such an uproar about every darn thing anyone could dream up, but here we are.
I think Mark Twain says it best:  No matter how healthy a man’s morals may be when he enters Washington politics, he comes out again with a pot-marked soul. Makes you wonder if any of those flamboyant bastards will ever make it to Heaven? I certainly hope they find the Lord, but I still don’t care to patronize them when I get there. Sort of like a high school reunion: I wasn’t buddies with you then, so what makes you think I want to hang out with you now?
All of these privileged, university-educated white kids running around carrying signs, wrapping their heads in checkered tablecloths, and throwing objects at our Jewish Americans and our underpaid and overworked police. They seem to be mostly young white women, so that doesn’t say much for the future of marriage and child production for the good old U.S.A. Did they learn this behavior at home, or are they so misinformed and ignorant that they follow any evil cause that greets them when they wake up in the morning? Not enough caffeine, and too much weed, will alter one’s consciousness and turn their brain to nursing home gruel. They need a good ass whooping with a Mesquite Tree switch, and then give the same to mommy and daddy, and maybe the grandparents as well. Sort of reminds me of the sixties and the young folks protesting on college campuses, in between cum-by-ya campfires, pot parties, and humping like wired up Rabbits, but at least then, they had a real cause, like the Vietnam War and their dislike for LBJ and Goldwater. It got messy and dangerous at times, like in Chicago in 1968. The National Guard against the radical students at Kent State University brought it all to a nasty head, and the protest dwindled after that, but the well-informed students and older Americans did make a difference, and the average law-abiding citizen did listen and learn. I was fresh-squeezed out of high school in 1969, waiting for the draft board to send me to Asia, and a long-haired, rock ‘n’ roll-playing musician. I put myself right in the midst of that mess, but refused to buy into the radical side of it. You could call me an anomaly of sorts. Conservative before it was cool to be. I felt that my stance on things had brought my depression era Roosevelt-Democrat Kennedy-voting parents over to the other side, changing coats in the winter of chaos. My father became so conservative that he couldn’t force himself to make a left turn when driving, so many days he drove in circles or took hours to reach his destination. I am not kidding.
September 10, 2025. Free speech and Christianity in America: do we still have it? Charlie Kirk certainly thought so and put it into practice in a brilliant way that no one in the media would have thought possible. Now we have little trophy-winning kiddos like those I described in the paragraph above, thinking they can assassinate someone because they don’t like their speech or ideas on religion. One more trophy his parents can add to his childhood bedroom shelf, next to his Star Wars posters and action figure collection. They must have missed the weapons stored under his trundle bed.
Christianity. I am a Christian, proud to be so, and I will tell anyone, anytime, that I follow Jesus Christ and his teachings. As a child, I was dunked and baptized so many times that my hair smelled like river water, and I learned to swim. Dear Hearts, we are under attack most cruelly. Our attackers are Islamic, and our castrated politicians have given them total approval to rid our country of us Christians. Maybe we Christians should take matters into our own hands and rid our country of both. I might write more about this, but the time feels off today. Besides, I have to clean my guns and go buy some ammo before The Walmart stops selling it as well.
The NFL. Once again, the Dallas Cowgirls have blown another season. It’s been thirty years since old Jerry has been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy. One more thing: why is it called the Super Bowl? What’s so super or special about it? Just another game with self-serving, overpaid, obnoxious young men. And of course, Taylor Swift is in the stands with her five patented facial expressions. I don’t watch football anymore; it gives me a headache like the one I got the one time I listened to Taylor Swift sing one of her cartoon music songs. I had to take a Valium IV drip to get over that one.
I promised my wife, Momo, that I would refrain from writing about politics, and for a year now I have kept my word. It’s often maddening to refrain from grabbing the laptop and cutting loose. Let me say this: New York City electing a Muslim mayor who is a proud socialist and follower of Islam has sealed the fate of this once great city. In the near future, maybe weeks, we will be reading of large corporations and average citizens vacating to the south, mainly Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, and a few other states. I will welcome them to my small town of Granbury. One condition is that they must not bring their East Coast attitude and lifestyle with them and expect to survive in Texas. Fancy Italian olive oil suitable for bread dipping, and Texas spring branch water don’t mix. Driving through town a few days back, I saw a Tesla with New York plates, and it had a sofa, a chair, and other pieces of modern furniture tied to the roof; the only things missing were Granny and Elle Mae sitting in rockers. The exodus and invasion have begun.
I’ve received a sack full of mail and numerous emails from all over the country addressed to my Ask A Texan advice column, so there will be more of those posted soon. I can assume that, since Ann Landers is no longer around, folks think an old Texan can help them navigate this mess. Being a senior member of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge was the catalyst, and being a student of the revered Texas “word slinger” J. Frank Dobie inspired me to help, or at times, hinder others with often good but sometimes questionable down-home advice. See you later this year.
“Do not forsake me, oh my Darlin,” on this our wedding day,” who didn’t know the first verse of that song from the radio? A massive hit from the 1952 movie “High Noon,” performed by everybody’s favorite singing cowboy, Tex Ritter.
In 1957, I was eight years old, and on some Saturday nights, I got to tag along with my father to the “Cowtown Hoedown,” a popular live country music show performed at the Majestic Theater in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. My father was the fiddle player in the house stage band, so I was somewhat musical royalty, at least for a kid.
Most of the major and minor country stars played Fort Worth and Dallas as much as they did Nashville, and I was fortunate to have seen many of them at this show. One, in particular, made a lasting impression on my young self.
I was sitting on a stool backstage before the show, talking to a few kids; who, like me, got to attend the show with their fathers.
My father came over and asked me to follow him. We walked behind the back curtain and stopped at a stage-level dressing room. There in the doorway stood a big fellow in a sequined cowboy suit and a 30 gallon Stetson. I knew who he was; that is Tex Ritter, the movie star and cowboy singer. My father introduced me, and I shook hands with Tex. I was floored, shocked, and couldn’t speak for a few minutes. What kid gets to meet a singing cowboy movie star in Fort Worth, Texas? I guess that would be me.
Tex asked my name and then told me he had a son the same age as me. We talked baseball and cowboy movies for a bit, then he handed me a one-dollar bill and asked if I would go to the concession stand and buy him a package of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. So I took the buck and took off down the service hallway to the front of the theater. I knew all the shortcuts and hidey holes from my vast exploration of the old theater during the shows.
I knew nothing of the brands and flavors, not being a gum chewer, but the words Juicy Fruit made my mouth water. Not having much money, what change I did get from selling pop bottles went to Bubble Gum Baseball Cards, not fancy chewing gums.
I purchased the pack of gum for five cents. Then, gripping the change tightly in my sweating little hand, I skedaddled back to Tex’s dressing room. He was signing autographs but stopped and thanked me for the favor. He then gave me two quarters for my services and disappeared into his dressing room for a moment. He handed me an autographed 8×10 photograph of him playing the guitar and singing to the doggies when he returned. I was in country and western music heaven. He also gave me a piece of Juicy Fruit, which I popped into my mouth and began chewing, just like Tex.
Juicy Fruit became my favorite gum, and now, whenever I see a pack or smell that distinct aroma as someone is unwrapping a piece, I remember the night I shared a chew with Tex Ritter.
Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”
I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.
I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?
Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”
Getting older guarantees one thing for certain: each week is a new and often, rousing experience. This week was my Opus moment: I had a heart monitor installed. A nice piece of technology super-glued to my chest that tells my cardiologist, Dr. Squatch, if my heart is acting abnormally, and if sudden death is imminent. At least I now have an inkling of when it might happen.
The first nurse had the bedside patient demeanor of a prison guard. ” Lay down, be still, don’t finch, don’t breathe, don’t do anything,” she says. She applies a gooey substance to my neck so she can use a Channel 5 Doppler radar to detect blockages in my carotid arteries. I, being my lovable, imaginative, smart-ass self, asked her if it was a boy, a girl, or an alien implant? She wasn’t amused, but my Cardiac Nurse wife, Momo, got a giggle.
The Doppler imaging completed, we were ushered into another room where the second nurse explaied the device to us. It was rather smart looking, small, many lights and buttons, and had to be attached to my chest with Gorilla Super Glue. After she installed the contraption, she expalaied how it worked: Momo being a fellow nurse uderstood all of it.
She pushed buttons, sent some signals to somewhere far away, and I was in business. ” If the light blinks green, it means you are doing alright. If it goes yellow, that means you are stressed and need to slow down and don’t look at that Sydney Sweeney Eagle jeans commercial. If it blinks red and glows like ET’s finger, then the doctor will call you with instructions for your final moments on earth. If he is busy or not near his phone, you can kiss your ass adios,” I understood. ” It will also connect to your hearing aids via Bluetooth, so you can listen to the soothing sounds of your own heartbeat, or the bass drum beat to In A Gadda Da Vida.” I am impressed.
Momo drove me to Home Depot so I could get into an altercation with a salesperson to see if this thing really works. If you don’t get another post soon, you’ll know Janis took another piece of my heart, baby.
This Texan received an exceptionally long telegram from a fellow Texan, a Mr. Forest H. Crouch, from somewhere in London, England. It seems his wife got herself in trouble, and now he’s stuck and can’t get home.
Mr. Crouch: Mr. Texan, I’m in dire need of help here. I saw your ad in the back of a Penny Shopper paper at the train station. I’m stuck in London and can’t get back to Texas. I just want to go home to my Armadillo ranch. The wife, The Lovely Juanita, that’s what she insists I call her, even though she’s not Mexican, but has a dark complexion and thinks she’s really cute. Well, The Lovely Juniata and I took this trip for our 30th wedding anniversary. We had never been out of the US, so it was a cultural shock to us since we’ve lived just outside Luckenbach, Texas, all our lives and are the proprietors of the Luckenbach Armadillo, Watusi Cow, and Llama Ranch. We were eating at a nice Pub by Marble Arch Station, here in London, and I tell you, I was freezing my balls off because no one will turn the heat on in this city. My toes were like frozen Vienna sausages, and The Lovely Juanita was turning blue, even with her dark complexion and all. Even my Justin boots (manly footwear)couldn’t keep those frozen toes warm. Well, The Lovely Juanita orders some fish and chips, and I order a steak with gravy, since the menu said it was chicken fried like in Texas. The barmaid thought she was really cute and made some smartass remarks about us being from Texas. The Lovely Juanita takes a taste of her fish and spits it out and yells, “This crap tastes like bait, I want some Bass, or at least some Catfish nuggets, and then, thanks to four big glasses of warm beer, the missus jumps up and slugs her. Well, that started the fight, and two big old Limey boys get me down and are working on me pretty good. I couldn’t get up because there was this big Sheep Dog in the Pub, and he started chewing on my leg. Somewhere in the fray, I lost my Sony Walkman, which had all my favorite country music from Amarillo and Abilene on that cassette. The Lovely Juanita grabs a cheap acoustic guitar from the stage and starts beating them about their limey heads, yelling at me to “run, Forest run,”(which is my first name, folks back home call me Hondo), which I did. I run out of the pub just as the limey police come and arrest The Lovely Juniata for assault with a musical instrument, which I guess is a crime here in London. Hell, back in Luckenbach, we use guitars to bust folks’ heads all the time if they can’t play for shit. Just a month ago, I smacked some little Austin hippie dippy man bun wearing boy for butchering Jerry Jeff’s Mr. Bojangles. The bartender bought me a beer for that one. Well, The Lovely Juanita is locked up in a limey jail somewhere in London, and she has all the money in her Pioneer Woman purse, and the hotel key. Somewhere in the fight, I lost my billfold and my lower false teeth, I think the dog may have eaten them, and now I can’t get in my room, and can’t chew nothing. The Lovely Juniata is in the jailhouse now, and all I want to do is go home, be in a Texas bar, and tend to my Armadillos and Llamas back in Luckenbach. Can you help a pal out?
The Texan: Well, Hell, Hondo, I hope I can call you that, it sounds better than Forest. I’ve never been to England, but I have been to Oklahoma, and folks tell me it’s nice there. I’m leery of overseas travel, especially for Texans; it just ain’t safe these days. My cousin from Buda went to Paris, France, and was walking down the sidewalk when he tripped on a prayer rug and the moron kneeling on it, and broke his collarbone. Best to stay in the Hill Country. I contacted the London Police, and Prince Charles and they won’t release The Lovely Juanita until she pays for the cheap guitar, or replaces it. I’m sending the cops a new Fender guitar to take care of the fine, and you and The Lovely Juanita some cash to get home, and of course, a box of Cherry Bombs so you can throw a few into that crappy Pub. Let me know how it all turns out. I’ll be down your way in a few weeks and will stop by to say howdy.
Pretty Stable Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas And Can’t Get Here
The Texan
This Texan received a letter from Miss Sparkle, a business owner in Chattooga, Georgia. She runs the Papa Gus River Rafting and Fish Camp, which was made famous in the movie Deliverance.
My little boy, Joe Bee before he grew up into a man
Mr. Texan: I can’t get no help around here from nobody: it’s just a bunch toothless hillbillies sitting around drinking moonshine, so maybe you can shine a light on my predicament. I enclosed an old picture of my boy, he’s real shy and won’t let me take a picture now that he’s older.
Back in 1972, a group of Hollywood boys filmed a movie here on the river. It was all fun, and my family got to be in the movie. I enjoyed many an evening drinking shine with some of the actors and got to know one of them really well. Bless his heart, he’s passed on now, but I’ll always remember his funny laugh and how good he was with that bow and arrows. Now, in 1984, a bunch of rich big-shots from Washington, DC came down to ride the Chattooga like in that famous movie that was filmed here. They were nice men and treated me with respect, even though I was just a river rat. Daddy hadn’t been gone long, and I was really sad, so it was nice to have some company at the camp. One night, the bunch of us were sitting around the campfire drinking daddy’s famous shine, and this one fellow they called Joe B started sniffing my hair. I didn’t mind cause I had just washed it with lye soap, and it smelled pretty good. He was a nice man, in a creepy sort of way. Too much shine always gets you in trouble, and I’ve had plenty of it since then. Well, about a year later, the old stork shows up with this bundle of joy. I call him Joe Bee. He ain’t no kid no more and doesn’t want to do anything but sit in his porch swing all day long playing the same song on his damn-ole’ banjo. I’ll tell ya, it’s driving us all to drink more than we normally do, and that’s a bunch. We tried hiding it, but he always finds the darn thing. Little Joe Bee just wants to know who his daddy is. My two other boys, the twins, Smokey and Bandit, their daddy never comes to see them either, but that’s cause he’s dead as a shot squirrel. I’ll give him a pat on the back; at least he gave them each a black Pontiac Trans Am for their sixteenth birthday. At least Joe Bee’s daddy could send him a monster truck or something. He just wants to meet his daddy and have something with big wheels to drive.
The Texan: Miss Sparkle, I’m sorry to hear of your problem and Joe Bee’s fatherless miserable life. Like you, I couldn’t stand to hear a banjo picking all day long. At least you have some good moonshine to knock the edge off. Looks like your boy’s Pop might be found in Washington, DC, and shouldn’t be too hard to track down; the family resemblance to a former big-shot should help find his daddy. We folks down here in Texas believe that every boy deserves a big truck to drive. Keep in touch, and tell your son I’m sending him a DVD of the Smokey And The Bandit movie along with a month’s supply of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 