Think back to the old Saturday Night Live of the 70s, when there was a knock at the apartment door, and the voice in the hallway said pizza delivery; Gilda Radner opened the door, and the Land Shark got her. This new gotcha technology is getting scary, and I don’t mean the AI stuff. Israel killing that Iranian terrorist as he sat in his Barcolounger watching Lassie re-runs has to be a new form of brilliance. The little drone flew through an open patio door. The bad guy, Sinwar, saw the little fellow and threw a flip-flop at the drone. All that did was piss the drone off so it discharged his payload and blew the building up, bad guy was also blown up. Some young Israeli who grew up playing video games on his Xbox took out the terrorist flavor of the month while sitting at his desk eating a sandwich with a frosty Coke. With this technology, they can fly around neighborhoods, shopping centers, and food courts, find the bad guy and zap him. I am impressed.
Driving Lessons from Grandpa: A Childhood Memory
The dirt road was not much to speak of, so most folks didn’t. It was rutted, the kind of nasty ruts that could swallow a small child whole, never to be seen again.
No signs marked its path until my uncle Jay painted a small board with an arrow and the family name and attached it to a fence post with baling wire. People simply referred to it as the road to the Manley farm, the first right turn after crossing the bridge. It was a quiet, dirt path that meandered past Mrs. Ellis’s house and abruptly ended at a gargantuan cactus patch about a block past the railroad bridge.
My visits to the farm were during the summer, and I usually stayed for three weeks. I vividly remember the chickens, a noisy five hundred or so troupe circling the farmhouse, scratching the dirt, and being ever-busy. I also remember that almost everything on that farm wanted to kill me. The Mountain Boomers, Coyotes, and Rattlesnakes were my first worry, so I carried my completely ineffective Red Ryder BB Gun as protection.
My grandfather Jasper decided it was time for me to drive a car, as most farm kids did out of necessity. At ten years old, I had mastered the tractor well enough to tear down parts of his barbed-wire fence without a second thought. He believed I was ready for his old stick shift V8 Ford. My grandmother fretted about his failing eyesight and knew better than to step into the driver’s seat herself: driving cars and deep water haunted her dreams, and she wouldn’t face either. My grandfather needed a chauffeur, skilled or not, for his trips to the domino parlor in the town’s only cafe, The Biscuit Ranch. I was his first and only choice.
My first excursion behind the wheel was chilling, at least to me. What sort of adult would let a ten-year-old kid drive a car? If Grandfather was apprehensive, he hid it well.
Turning out of the farm gate, hitting a hard left, clutching and shifting to second gear, working the accelerator, and attempting to steer the metal beast without running us into a ditch was all I could handle. By the grace of God, we made it to the railroad bridge where the hobos gathered, so we stopped so Grandfather could visit a spell. He enjoyed chawing with the hobos, swapping stories, chewing and sharing his Red Man tobacco, and telling dirty jokes: things that weren’t allowed at home. One of the hobo’s remarked that I drove exceptionally well for a little kid, and he and his buddy could hitch a ride into town. My grandfather was out of chewing tobacco, so he invited the hobos into the back seat for our first trip to the feed store in town.
I was feeling optimistic and a bit cocky about my driving skills by the time we pulled up to the highway intersection. Grandfather checked for traffic and, finding none, told me to hit it, which I did: skidding out onto the pavement in front of the large truck he didn’t see coming; my small PF Flyer-covered foot floored the beast and hit second into third gear, squealing the tires like a stock car driver. The hobos in the back seat laughed and said I was the best kid driver they had ever known. The Ford made it to the feed store; then, we stopped at the Domino parlor, where I was introduced as the main chauffeur for the Manley family. When my mother came to collect me toward the end of July, I was car-driving Jessie. My grandmother marched me to the barn while my mother threw the grandest hissy fit ever after her father bragged about my good driving.
Chapter 12. Wagons Ho From Texas To California, War Comes To America
My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a man who walked through the shadow of World War I, kill or be killed, and he did that to stay alive. This left his life marked indelibly by the echoes of battle and the night terrors of remembrance.
Like a capricious storyteller, as most newspapers were in those years, in the bustling heart of Los Angeles, the “Daily News” spilled forth tales of a world war that often danced precariously between the lines of truth and embellishment. John Henry read the papers, listened to the radio, and sensed the winds of conflict stirring anew: England, under the dogged leadership of Churchill, had already been forced to take up arms against Germany, and the very fabric of Europe was being torn apart by Hitler’s relentless march. The veterans he worked with and once fought beside in the first war, their spirits worn yet resolute, whispered with a shared conviction that Japan, lurking in the periphery, was quietly readying itself for an insidious alliance with the Nazis, as if the world were a stage set for a dark, unfolding tragedy.
Though a year too young to answer the call of duty, my father carried the heavy knowledge that at eighteen, the war might come knocking at his door.
With weary eyes and a resolve hardened by fate, Churchill was bartering and begging Roosevelt for machines of war, trying to keep the demons of Hitler from roaming freely on Europe’s fields and invading his island nation. With the earnestness and bravo of youth, Young Johnny approached his father, asking him to sign the papers letting him enter the fray at seventeen. No man who had walked the grim aisles of battle wanted his only son to face the specter of death on foreign soil, yet in a moment of bittersweet surrender, he found himself issuing that reluctant blessing, driven by a love that could not deny the call of his son’s heart. Convincing his wife, Bertha, would be a battle he dreaded and would likely lose.
Japan unleashed its first thunderbolt, and as the morning awoke over Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, our once-proud Navel fleet lay shattered on the waters of war, a haunting reflection of the chaos unleashed on that fateful December 7th, 1941. The weight of long-forgotten battles seemed to press upon the shoulders of the divine Emperor Hirohito as if the specters of ancient warlords propelled him towards an unseen abyss, a dark and uncertain fate simmering beyond the horizon. The gates of Hell swallowed Japan, and the gatekeeper kept them imprisoned until their foolish folly was completed.
Three members of the string band Blind Faith had fancied themselves sailors and enlisted in the Navy, much to the dismay of Johnny, Blind Jelly Roll, Pancho Villa, and Le’ Petite Fromage, who found themselves in possession of a hefty bag of bookings badly in need of some good ol’ resolution. To add a sprinkle of chaos to the mix, Pancho Villa, the loyal seeing eye dog of Blind Jelly Roll, had now joined the ranks of the visually impaired, having lost sight in his last good eye. Sister Aimee, ever the resourceful soul, splurged on a certified German Shepherd to take over the seeing-eye duties, much like the replacement engine in a clunky old jalopy. Pancho Villa, undeterred and full of moxie, took to his new post on a small platform fixed to the back of this new pooch’s harness, barking orders like a captain adrift at sea, blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings. More than once, they came perilously close to being flattened by a passing car, prompting Jelly to stuff Pancho into a papoose on his shoulder, urging the little rascal to button it. It was becoming painfully apparent that the music of the Blind Faith string band was about to fade into the pages of history, as every good tale must come to an end; their final curtain had been drawn, and boy, did it drop with a thud!
Le Petite Fromage, bless her heart, found herself smitten with the charming trumpet player of the church orchestra, a situation that surely raised the eyebrows of the good girls in the choir. Sister Aimee tied the knot between the two in their rather cramped dressing room as a way of keeping things discreet—or perhaps just to save on wedding costs. Off they scampered on an Eastbound train to Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, the very next day, with visions of a well-timed little one dancing in their heads like so many sugar plum fairies. Meanwhile, good ol’ John Henry, ever the dutiful father, marched with his son Johnny to the enlistment office, signing his life away in exchange for a rather dashing Navy uniform, all at the tender age of seventeen. As for Bertha, bless her soul, she took to her bed like a shipwrecked sailor, wailing and concocting her questionable brews that promised to calm her nerves but likely only added to her woes. There she lay, utterly convinced that her son was on an express boat to Pearl Harbor and straight into the chaos of World War II. The dutiful son had left one duty to embrace another.
Needing Sleep, Not Finding The Right Reading Glasses And Where Did I Put My Surfboards?
Sleep is a sneaky little thing, often playing hide and seek; some nights, with the right concoction of pain medications, I drift off like a mighty oak, a tree that has finally decided to take a break from standing tall. Just the other night, however, the meds turned their backs on me, and there I was, half awake and befuddled, reaching for my trusty hot Ovaltine to lend a healing hand. With my vision askew from wearing the wrong pair of spectacles, I grabbed my Bible, thinking I’d find some solace in holy verses, only to stumble upon the most thrilling tales of storms, hurricanes, and the odd musings about planting under the October moons, eventually realizing that I’d accidentally opened the pages of the Farmers Almanac instead.
Many of my readers have been transfixed or shocked by the epic tale of the Strawn family, who, in a fit of brave lunacy, decided to traipse from Fort Worth, Texas, to Los Angeles, California, all during that notorious dust bowl of the 1930s. Now, as I wipe the dust from my fingers and finish this latest chapter, I find myself staring into the abyss of forgetfulness. Is my memory playing tricks—after all, reaching 75 isn’t exactly the golden age of recall—or did my father and aunt, long since departed, keep the family secrets tucked away like old socks full of silver coins? You see, I was but a wee lad, soaking up the stories like a dry sponge around the family campfire, spinning yarns until I waded into my twenties. I do recall reading the best of my grandmother’s missives to her siblings, which was the catalyst that started this literary campfire. So, onward, I go, armed with a mighty pen and a healthy dose of ancestral curiosity, ready to dig deeper into the sands of time! If I can locate my shovel.
Last week, Mrs. Momo and I set forth on a meandering journey to the sun-drenched sands of Padre Island, where we sought respite among the company of my son Wes, his wife Yolli, and my spirited grandson Jett, along with my oldest grandson, Johnathan, who had deftly forged a new life in Corpus after escaping the relentless grip of a desolate land rife with crime, situated just east of Fort Worth. Even after the passage of years, the name Dallas invokes within me the primal instinct to spit into the dirt or a sidewalk, a ritual harkening back to the deep-rooted traditions of Amon Carter’s Texas. My grandfather, a quintessential Texan in every sense, would erupt at the mere mention of that city, a sentiment that courses through the veins of my remaining kin. The few ventures I undertook into that sprawling metropolis during my youth were begrudgingly limited to solemn funerals or the obligatory excursions with my father, who charmed the patrons as part of the house band at The Big D Jamboree. But let us return to The Island, as the locals fondly refer to it. Our ambition was to embark on a fishing expedition in my son’s Gulf Coast fishing boat, cradled comfortably in the canal behind his home; yet, as fate would have it, life had scripted a different tale. The weather was hellishly hot, and now, knowing my limitations for physical abuse, the trip will happen another time. We did, however, find the opportunity to journey to Port Aransas, where we reveled in a banquet of seafood and marveled at the garish, towering temples—those three and four-story houses, not erected for the warmth of home but serving as mere rental coffins—sprouting up like unwanted weeds in a fishing village that had cradled myself and my sons childhood, now stripped of its charm and morphed into a pale imitation of Myrtle Beach. I remember driving every road in Port A during the late sixties with my surfboard secured atop my Korean War-era jeep, Captain America. That faithful jeep has since vanished, much like my surfboards, yet Wes has preserved a fine collection of vintage longboards. I will be embarking on these new wonder pharmaceutical supplements I catch glimpses of in commercials; perhaps I’ll summon the energy to paddle out and catch a wave, allowing me to once again sit atop the world. I can already hear the Beach Boys playing my tune.
Chapter 11. Westward Ho, The Movie Studio Comes Calling
With my grandmother, Bertha, now sober from her curious but legal elixirs, the Strawns greeted each day with the sun smiling through their kitchen window and robins launching into song like miniaturized opera stars: even Lady, the family Terrier, found a pal in the backyard squirrel named Little Nutbreath, a name that rolled off the tongue as easily as whiskey.
Now, the one pesky habit Sister Aimee couldn’t shake was her ceaseless missives to the sisters and friends she’d left behind in Texas. Each innocent hello morphed into a screenplay or a short novella, bursting at the seams with bravado but lacking even a whisper of truth from her ink-stained fingers. That woman could ruin a nice Parker fountain pen faster than a sailor could down a rum, and her right arm took on the brawn of Popeye the Sailor Man, ready to box anyone who dared challenge her. Norma and Johnny intercepted as many as possible, but the lion’s share slipped out of California like a secret lover in the night.
John Henry gifted Bertha a well-used typewriter, cheaper than the dozens of fountain pens. One novella, typed out on that clunky machine, landed on the executive’s desk at RKO Studios like a drunken sailor falling off a barstool. Bertha, bless her heart, sent the same tale to every big studio and received naught but indifferent glances in return. But this executive, searching for a breath of fresh air amidst the stale smoke of Hollywood hype, passed her little novella around like it was a shot of low-quality whiskey, but it might be drinkable. They extended her a contract—five hundred dollars, cold and hard, American cash. The family thought it was a cruel prank, perhaps RKO was tipsy, or just mean to a poor soul like Bertha. John Henry, ever the practical one, sought his boss’s advice, and the wise man assured him the offer was the real deal. They signed their names, returned it, and waited like a fisherman with a line cast out on a lazy afternoon. Days shuffled by, and then a courier showed up at the door, handing Bertha a certified check—a blessing or a curse, it was hard to tell. Could lightning strike twice in the same spot? Her tale, a wild ride of a detective couple and their scrappy little terrier turned into a screenplay and a film, but my grandmother, wise yet weary, never pocketed a nickel more, caught in the trap of a contract filled with weasel words.
When Northeastern Mobsters Hold Our Country Hostage
Rantings Of an Elderly Man That Has lost all filters and doesn’t give a damn if I ever get them back….
Let me set this writ straight from the start: I am not a union supporter and never have been. When I was building multiple projects at the Mall Of America in the early 90s, the local labor unions threatened me and my family with death numerous times. Tires slashed late-night phone threats and everything you could imagine if my employer, a Texas company, and I did not comply with their Nazi commands. This was in Minneapolis, Minnesota, supposedly America’s friendliest state; if you believe that whispering downhome wolf in a sheepskin suit, Garrison Keillor, the hometown boy, made good, then exposed as the unvirtuous butt-pinching bad boy of small-town America.
The longshoremen are shutting down the country because a forklift driver’s six-figure income is insufficient. The average income for a hardworking American is 58K. And a man driving a forklift on a dock is worth over three times that? Since when did our country go full “batshit crazy?”I would guess it was around when the sainted Franklin D. Roosevelt was crowned president for what he envisioned as a lifetime. An elitist northerner sporting a lilted half-European accent that smoked his ciggies in a pearl holder and humped more willing women than JFK could dream of. He was a cad, but considering the almost canine looks of his genius wife, I could throw him a bone: Sorry for the apparent cheap joke.
Momo and I are trekking to the HEB tomorrow to stock up on whatever is left. The panic buying is upon us like a flock of city park Ducks on a single Junebug.: my condolences to the dearly departed ducks in Springfield Ohio. Ordinary women in far-too-skin-tight leggings fight in the aisles over toilet paper, face moisturizers, wine, Mountain Dew, and Rice A Roni, the San Francisco treat. Down here in Texas, we won’t put up with that crap in the Northeast. We have plenty of farms with fresh produce, hordes of cows, pigs, and fish, feral pigs, feral cats and dogs, and feral people, and if we don’t have it, we will invade Mexico and take it. Why not? They have already invaded us.
Did I say too much? Probably. If you have any significant complaints, call me at BR-549 and ask for Junior.
Taking A Knee For The Right Reason
I’ve always believed in the raw strength of prayer. A small child kneels by the bed. A grown man kneels beside a dying parent. God listens. He may not grant all our prayers. There are reasons for this. A dying parent approaches the end, no cure in sight. It is time. We all have our moment.
Momo and I found ourselves at a prayer gathering in the park a week ago. The turnout was sparse, the heat oppressive, the air thick with discomfort. Yet, amid it all, the holy spirit lingered among us. Men, women, and children knelt, some on one knee, others prostrated on the pine needles, indifferent to the thoughts of strangers. The older ones were weighed down by age, needing to rise again; I understood. What struck me was the number of young folks present: teens and those in their twenties, engulfed in faith. I thought, why should I be surprised? This faith is not merely for the old; it is for the young, from the cradle to the grave and beyond. It filled me with a quiet hope against the dark forces that assail our nation—a small, emerging army ready to stand, bolstered by the strength of Michael, the Archangel. Change is coming; stay tuned.
Aspirations, Expectations And Exasperation
I’ve recently sprouted a beard, and much to my surprise, not a single dark hair dares to intrude upon my snowy facial wilderness: the scruffy testament to my frothy mirth matches the proud hue atop my head, a delicate white crown. As a son of Cherokee lineage, I stood astonished, finding myself transforming into an old man with pearly locks in my forties. This change, I suspect, is the handiwork of my father’s Scotch-Irish heritage—a rowdy clan of kilted revelers who seemed to navigate life with laughter and a touch of mischief. They must have commandeered a ship, setting sail for New York, then onto Pennsylvania, where the merry-making reached promising heights. My grandfather would neither confirm nor deny the wild tales of our kin. This speaks volumes about my love for Irish Whiskey, while the Cherokee blood in my veins draws me to large, sharp knives. Hand a drink to an Indian, and trouble isn’t far behind. History whispers of how Little Bighorn ended for Custer. Loose chatter suggests that Sitting Bull and Howling Wolf snagged a wagon load of drink the night before the fray, bestowing upon the braves a reckless spirit. Had they chosen an early night with a hearty breakfast of Buffalo tacos, perhaps the bloody disaster would have been averted.
As a boy of nine, I dreamt of writing like Twain. In my innocence, I thought I was his spirit reborn, dropped into a different time: September of 1949, the last year of the baby boomer generation. With a Big Chief Tablet and a number 2 pencil, I set out to capture the simple chaos of childhood mischief. There were four of us, bold and reckless, stealing cigarettes, hurling water balloons at police cars, and fighting with the tough kids across the tracks. The local papers laughed at my tales as if a child’s imagination could not hold weight. My aunt, wise and educated, introduced me to Spillane and Steinbeck. Spillane turned me into a wise-ass, insufferable child, resulting in numerous mouth cleansings with Lifeboy soap. Steinbeck felt right—my family had lived a life like Tom Joad’s, migrating to California during hard times of the Dust Bowl and the 1930s. I had stories in me, maybe even a book. A therapist dismissed it as a childish fantasy, saying it would fade. Yet here I am, much older, still tethered to that innocence. Now, I’m in my Hemingway phase, my looks echoing the rugged man who lived wild in Cuba, writing furiously while embracing the chaos of life.
There is more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top. I feel the end approaching. I do not wish to know the day or hour. I can only pray it is a good one, resulting in a trip to Heaven, which is better than the alternative. I am not the writer Twain, Steinbeck, or Hemingway was. They had talent, and they had time from youth to hone their craft and find their voices. Yet, I will still give it a try.
The Way I See It In The Cactus Patch…And It Ain’t Always Pretty
I realize my thoughts might carry as much weight as a thimble in a swimming pool, but at 75, I’ve witnessed more ups and downs than a cheap roller coaster. Lately, though, it feels like our dear old blue planet has taken a wrong turn and is spinning like a top on a greased floor, sending everything straight into a comical disaster!
Momo whisked me away to a swanky birthday supper at a place called 1890—how fancy! We had previously visited there, of course, but on that occasion, our wallets had us seated in the bar, indulging in a drink and a wedge salad that could barely fill a mouse’s stomach. This time, however, we plopped ourselves into the big boy chairs adorned with linen tablecloths and sparkling silverware that made us feel like we were pretending to be someone important. Our waiter—his name was a puzzler, something foreign that I couldn’t grasp, yet I distinctly recall his well-groomed beard and a whiff of patchouli oil wafting about him. It took me back to our youthful days as hippies in the 70s when that scent was all the rage with the hairy-legged hippie chicks. Momo went for a steak that could challenge a cow in size while I, with an empty wallet echoing my woes, settled for saltines slathered in butter and Tabasco—gourmet, I assure you! As we departed, stomachs full and wallet depleted, we spotted a black Greyhound-style bus parked at the courthouse. We mused that perhaps a country band was visiting our quaint township for a hearty meal. But lo and behold, when the door flung open, cats erupted like confetti, scattering everywhere—hundreds, I’d wager, taking over the square as if they owned the place. Nuns, dressed in their required uniform, handed out squeaky toys, kitty litter, and catnip to placate the new arrivals. Curious, I asked the driver what on earth was happening. With a grin, he informed me that the SPCA was orchestrating a rescue mission, whisking away all the cats and some distressed dogs from Springfield, Ohio, to Texas. It was, he said, a noble endeavor backed by a contingent of single cat ladies and a handful of purified nuns forever wed to their feline friends.
Football players are often regarded as the dimmest bulbs in the grand carnival of manly athletics, a parade of brawn where a surplus of testosterone is the secret sauce for getting through the heavy lifting of life. Picture, if you will, poor Travis Kelce, relegated to the bench like a discarded plaything, wearing the kind of woeful hang-dog expression that could bring tears to a Confederate statue. Ah, but even Neanderthals have their emotions, and it seems the Swift One is tucked away in her plush hotel suite, likely crafting a breakup ballad that might just capture the essence of their fleeting romance, a tale as old as time and yet as fresh as a morning breeze. Young love is a fleeting aura that departs on the fickle winds of gastronomical flatulence. He should have taken the strenuous advice of friends and whisked her off to a tar paper shack in deep Appalachia and kept her barefoot and pregnant with annoying little swifties playing small plastic Ukelales.
“Dreams Will Keep You In Line.” Recollections From A Scared Baptist Kid
This is an oldie but a goody. If any of you knew who Brother Dave Garner was, you’d appreciate my bringing him back for an earthly bow.
This morning, I shuffled into the kitchen at 4 am, chastising myself for not getting enough sleep, which I will pay later in the day. I figure a nap will take me down around noon. But, when my country and our laws are under assault from evil men, I take it seriously, even though there is little I can do except pray for divine intervention or a selective lightning bolt from Heaven. My dreams were filled with political discourse, and sleep was fitful at best. I awakened sweaty and fearful of what lay ahead. “Our ship is foundering in seas of discontent, and the ominous rocks are within sight. The sails are in tatters, our rigging is failing, and we are destined to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of an unknown land.” I paraphrase that description; it came from someone important, maybe Mark Twain or Confusious.
Last night, Mrs. MoMo and I watched the final seasonal episode of “The Chosen,” the story of Jesus and his disciples. The program is filmed in North Texas and Montana, and the cast is exceptional as well, as the writing takes the scripture and uses it as real folks would have heard and spoken it in those times, making it realistic and not words printed in the Holy Bible. We are fans. It’s as if I am attending a church service without the peripheral distractions of bad music and wailing children. I assure MoMo that I am not a heathen knuckle-dragging Neanderthal chewing on a Brontisaures leg bone, but a bonafide Christian who seeks Biblical truths and inspirations differently. She understands.
I spent too many hours on the hard wooden pulpits the Baptists prefer to be anything else. I knew that just below my pew, Hell awaited, and raging demons could pull me down through the wooden floorboards by my small legs if I faltered in faith. I equated faith with fear. Folks today are not fearful of God. Doing good deeds is commendable, but they won’t buy you a stairway to Heaven. Maybe Led Zepplin was onto something?
My zealous preacher, resembling a frothing-mouthed Bulldog pacing the stage, arms waving, and holding a large silver microphone to his dripping lips, advanced the service to a dramatic interpretation featuring hysterical heights that made the congregation swoon with the vapors. He reminded me of Brother Dave Gardner, the preacher turned comedian. I heard a few soft chuckles from my father occasionally; he was a fan of Brother Dave. Lofty condemnations, browbeating, and blanket accusations kept the flock in line; Amens were as plentiful as the women’s Beehive hair du’s, and the basket, when passed, was always overflowing with dollar bills and personal bank checks. I proudly gave my dime, which my mother pressed into my hand at the last moment. I was a kid and had no currency of my own to tithe. The little money I got from selling soda pop bottles went to candy bars, comic books, and Dr Peppers, the staples of child sustenance. Those unsettling experiences are burned into my conscience and come to me in dreams when I least expect them. Perhaps our country needs some of that “old-time religion” to scare the hell out of us.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 