Category: Notes From The Cactus Patch

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2025 The Year Of Reading Dangerously


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I’m an old-school reader. An Amazon tablet sits in my desk drawer, but it has gone untouched for four years. Electronic devices don’t allow me the same experience as holding a book made from cardboard and ink printed on recycled paper. Technology is fine for some but for the written word.

It starts with the jacket. Most are now in color, printed on shiny paper, with the author’s name as large as the title, a nice photo or drawing, and a few lines of publisher praise to capture your attention and make you feel that the $30 or more you paid wasn’t in vain. It’s a dance of sorts, but our money has been collected, so it’s best to continue the waltz.

Then comes the preface or the dedication to loved ones, friends, or contributors. Some are short, sweet, and curt and fail to credit the deserved; others ramble on until I lose interest.

Truman Capote snubbing Harper Lee’s dedicated research with “In Cold Blood” comes to mind. A few excluded words of thanks ruined a lifelong friendship. He wasn’t the first, but his pettiness was unforgivable.

I notice the typeset and spacing information, the font, the Library of Congress notes, the printing dates, and then the first paragraph, which sets the tone for the next few hundred pages or more.

Ernest Hemingway said a book should begin with ‘one true sentence.’ He knew it was a waste of the author’s and their readers’ time if it didn’t. His advice has taught me well.

My wife, Momo, a Registered Nurse, retired last August. Soon after, she underwent major back surgery, and during her recuperation, she re-discovered her love of reading. Now, instead of watching television until late hours, we both retire early, prop ourselves up on our bed pillows, and read our books late into the night.

I recently revisited ” In Cold Blood,” Capote’s masterpiece that so affected his life that he never fully recovered to write another novel. I enjoyed it more this time than I did thirty years ago. It was a butt-whooping to the end. Every chapter contained a piece of his soul.

Anthony Doerr’s two newest novels are commanding reads. My wife and I have read both, and she is on the verge of starting his third. I am reading Amor Towels and find his storytelling to be in the style of Steinbeck and Hemingway. I was once a James Elroy fan, but his last two books were an effort from start to completion. He is on my rest list for now.

Besides ” Fun With Dick and Jane,” the first real books I read were Mark Twain’s ” The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and then his follow-up “The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn.”

I come from a family of non-readers, so my love for books comes from somewhere, possibly my elementary school librarian or my father’s sister, Norma. She was a voracious reader who leaned toward romance schlock, Cormack McCarthy, and Micky Spillane noir. I am thankful to both for their influence and guidance. It was Aunt Norma who introduced me to Thomas Wolf. I returned the favor with Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut.

My wife and I are relieved that the year 2024 is behind us. It won’t be missed. No tears from this household, only two middle fingers pointed skyward. Our ages allow us to forget what we wish to and remember the best. I believe 2025 will be our year of reading dangerously. We may, holding hands and a frosty cocktail, step out onto that literary ledge and take the leap, attempt to leave our comfort zone, and take a chance or three. Time is of the essence, my eyesight is on the fritz, I have a blister on my thumb, and the books keep coming.

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Ask A Texan 4.23.25


A brand-spankin-new series for folks that want to know what a Texan thinks

The Texan

Mr. Bromide S. Eltzer from Arizona sent me an email.

Q: Mr. Texan, my wife and little girl have taken over my stereo Hi-Fi setup. They play the same Taylor Swift album all day long and it’s driving me to drink, and I’m losing my faith in humanity. Do you have any thoughts on how to handle this situation?

Texan: First off, Mr. Bromide, Taylor Swift’s music is not real music; it’s a cartoon soundtrack. I can see your little one getting hooked on this nonsense, but your wife is another can of fishing worms. Are you drinking beer or whiskey? The quality of hooch does make a difference in how this stuff effects you. I prefer Redneck Riviera Whiskey out of Nashville, give that a try. Go find some good vinyl records by Creedence, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash, and when they’re not hogging your turntable, tie them up with some good rope from the Home Depot, and make them listen to some real music. If that don’t work, invest in a nice Bass boat and start spending time on the lake or river. If that doesn’t restore your faith, say a prayer to Saint Willie, and eat three Whataburgers, my son.

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Burying a Laptop: A Friend’s Unique Farewell


Old Pal Mooch called this morning asking me if I would help him bury something. Mooch is not a sentimental guy, so I was a bit taken back with his request. He didn’t say who are what it was, or what happened. I immediately assumed it was his old Chihuahua, “Giblet.” He said he would pick me up in ten-minuets.

As I opened the passenger side of the pick-up truck, I noticed a tarp with something underneath, and a shovel laying in the bed. There was also a gas can. We drove in silence for a few miles then turned on a dirt road and onto some federal land.

Mooch found a spot by a large Oak tree and dug a nice little hole, about large enough for a small dog. He then retrieved the tarp and laid it on the ground next to the grave.

When he jerked back the tarp, I expected to see the remains of his beloved dog, but instead, there was his new Apple laptop that his wife had given him for a birthday present. He quickly pushed it into the hole, poured gas on the machine and threw in a match. The fire did it’s work in less than a minute. I was too stunned to say much about what I had witnessed so I let Mooch do the talking.

“I paid nearly two grand for that sorry piece of plastic and I turn it on this morning and get Error 19. Sum-bitch, the darn laptop has the COVID-19 Virus so here we are burning it just like they did when the plague was killing those folks in Europe” he says.

It was best to just remain quiet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a computer error, not a virus.

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No Rain…No Rain…


Read this morning that Woodstock will be back for another encore. It’s been fifty-six years since half a million young people sat in a pasture, listening to rock music, believing they had changed the world. It was revisited in the 90s and was a miserable mess, even without the rain and mud. Some things should be remembered for what they were and leave it at that. But possibly, this 56-year reboot could be a winner.

Imagine if some of the original musicians returned, and they might if asked. It would be worth the ticket cost to see Stills, Nash, and Young wheeze through a set. They could set a full size cardboard figure of Crosby next to them, since he has gone to Nirvana. Melanie could ride her little scooter onstage and croak through a few tunes. Country Joe and the Fish could do the Vietnam song again, and Joni Mitchell might even make the gig this time. John Fogarty will be born on the bayou again. Of course, Hendrix, Janice Joplin, and the mighty Joe Cocker have checked out, so Santana must fill that void. John Sebastian and Arlo Guthrie could do their hippie single-guitar thing and say “wow” a few hundred times. Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm could run the concessions.

I’m sure the rest of the lineup will consist of current stars. Rappers, dancers, acrobats, and singers fly through the air or take the stage via a zip line suspended from a cell phone tower a mile away. It’s not about talent these days. It’s all, “look at me” and auto-tune. Katy Perry can fly in on a Game of Thrones dragon while lip-singing any of her forgettable songs. Courtney Hadwin, the fiery young reincarnation of Janice Joplin, will probably steal the show. Greta Van Fleet will wow the crowd with their spot-on imitation of Zeppelin. Wonder how that will turn out since Robert Plant will be performing?

I attended the 1969 Texas International Pop Festival and saw most of the acts at Woodstock a few weeks later, so I can say, “been there and seen it all.” It will be fitting for the old-timers to show the young fans how it used to be. ” No rain-No rain.”


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Finding My Voice Through Tall Tales and Truths


Over the years, I’ve spotlighted the storytelling skills of my two late Uncles, Jay and Bill. They remain in good standing and are the best liars and yarn spinners I have met. Each could have been as popular as Will Rogers, but they chose the farmhouse porch as their stage, shunning the spotlight and life as a celebrity.

Around the age of nine, I was convinced that the spirit of Mark Twain had somehow entered my body, and my destiny was one he had lived. My teacher, an older woman of little patience, was convinced that I was dropped on my head during infancy, which led to my outlandish literary behavior. She couldn’t see that I was destined to be a writer of some importance. Mathematics was a mystery I loathed, but I perked up when the curriculum came around to History and English. To me, everything became a story and originated from my grandparents’ farm, my extended street-rat crazy family, or neighborhood antics, and included made-up tales of ridiculous origins. Mrs. Badger, ever the suffering teacher, labeled me an insufferable pathological liar and called my mother in for the dreaded parental meeting, which included my school’s principal, who sat with a wicked wooden paddle in his lap, poised to administer punishment. Mother handled it well until we reached home. There was no butt whooping, but she did corner me in the kitchen, put her face nose to nose with mine and in a seething saliva spewing accusation said,

“You are one of them..my loathsome, worthless brothers have ruined you: I forbid you to associate with them, ever again.” She was right, they had, and I wore that tawdry badge proudly. All those nights sitting on the farmhouse front porch listening to their beer-infused tall tales, yarns, and lies formed me. I was spoiled, but happy goods. My family lacked the foresight needed to distinguish a liar from written fiction. My Aunt Norma, a tarnished angel, is the gal who taught me to read, write, and imagine. She understood my affliction.

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The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

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

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Invasion Of The Murder Hornets


Murder Hornet 1

While watering my landscape this morning, I heard a loud buzzing sound radiating from a Salvia bush. I part the leaves searching for this buzzing source.

Bingo, attached to a branch, is a Murder Hornet. I have a picture of the little beast on my refrigerator for identification, since I knew they were heading my way. The Farmers Almanac said they would make Texas by late spring, so the magazine was correct for once.

Why are all pandemics, poisonous foods, pharmaceuticals, and end-times monsters originating from the Asian continent, mainly China?

It’s a laundry list of evil mutants starting with Godzilla, Mothra, Son of Godzilla, King Kong fighting Godzilla, Giant Transformers, The Corona Virus, The Asian Flu, The Bat Flu, the Pig Flu, the Bird Flu, and now hornets with the face and murderous attitude of Charles Manson.

Fearing for the lives of my Bumble Bees, I spray the Murder Hornet with a substantial dose of Black Flag. It flaps its wings a few times and buzzes at me. No effect whatsoever. Okay, this mutant is chemical resistant and knows what I look like and where I live.

I retrieve my 1966 era Daisy BB Pistol from my work shed; old school tactics are now on the table.

I sneak up to the Salvia bush and spread the branches enough for a clean shot. There it sits with a Bumble Bee in its grasp, stinging the life out of the poor pollinator. I see a dozen more casualties on the ground below the plant—Satan with wings and a stinger. This monster has to go to La La Land now.

The first BB bounces off the buggers’ armor plating, putting a hole in my den window. There goes $300 bucks. Now it’s personal. The second and third shots wing the critter, and now it is insanely mad and buzzing like a chainsaw.

With only two BBs left in my pistol, I go for the kill shot to the head. I take my aim and begin to squeeze the trigger. The murderous thug-bug looks up at me with its Charles Manson eyes, and a shiver runs up my spine.
” Go ahead, kill me if you must, but I have friends that will track you down.” It’s look says it all.

I take the shot, and the invader falls to the ground, headless. The Bumble Bees, sensing victory, swoop in and finish the killer off. Payback for their fallen brethren.

I retrieve the dead hornet from the bush with a pair of Martha Stewart grilling tongs and place it on my backyard retaining wall. A few squirts of charcoal lighter fluid and a wooden match complete the deed, and the bad-ass bug is on its way to hornet Valhalla.

My wife walks up and says, ” so, you got him, good job. Look at these cute little packs of Chinese seeds that came in the mail just now.”

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Is the Chupacabra Back? Colorado Springs Residents Report Sighting


Dire news for the good citizens of Colorado Springs: the elusive and dangerous Chupacabra has returned. A local resident, Miss Sunshine, a retired mid-wife and medicine woman, spotted the semi-mythical creature sitting in the road in front of her home, and than later that night she found it feasting on feral cat food on her deck. She described it as a mangy muscled brown hot mess about the size of a large dog. The critter had glowing eyes that seared into her brain, a long pink snout, and illuminated toxic drool dripped from it’s mouth as it chomped down on a bowl of Little Friskies Feral Cat Feast.

Local NPR field reporter Maya Sharona asked her a few questions about her unnerving encounter with the Chupa.

MS: Miss Sunshine, what makes you think this was the mythical Chupacabra?

Sunshine: At first I thought it was the dog down the road, old John Boy, but the closer I got, it was clear to me that this was a Chupa. I drove around the thing and it started chasing me, sort of like those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, chasing that jeep. I floored my Prius and made into my garage and into the house, that’s when I called the sheriffs office to report it. Officer Fife and Chief Andy came out, but the thing was gone by then. Later that night it showed up on my deck and was eating the Friskies I put out for the herd of feral cats that live in the woods behind my house. I worry about them kitties because Sasquatch lives out there too and I hear he is fond of Cat meat. I took a good picture with my iPhone.

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The Art of Writing: Going Old School with Typewriters


Old Ernest is tapping away on another good book.

For my birthday a while back, my wise and thoughtful wife, Momo, gifted me a classic 1970 Underwood 310 manual typewriter. It is a wonderful present I would never have purchased, although I have yearned for one for a while now.

For some time, possibly five years or so, I have been whining and casually threatening to go “old school” with my writing and get away from this demon laptop. It’s too easy to keep on tapping and spit out a page or two of gibberish that has more words than needed and makes no sense. It’s not about speed and what your program does; it’s about the content. A typewriter makes you think before striking that key. The delete button does not exist.

Hemingway would tap for hours on end, and then if he wasn’t pleased with his effort, it went into the waste basket. Using a typewriter to transpose your thoughts to paper is a commitment, and not an easy one.

There was a typewriter in our household when I was a child. It was a large black beast of an Underwood, all pure American heavy metal, requiring a grown man and a hefty child to lift it. I would peck on it for hours and eventually come up with something legible. I never once saw my parents use it, so its presence in our home was a mystery. I heard from my older cousin, Cookie, that it was my grandmother’s when she lived in California, and she spent all of her waking hours tapping away letters and movie script ideas. It caused a good bit of drama and injury within the family, so it was banished to our household for safekeeping. My father wasn’t pleased when he would find me chicken pecking away.

My love of the machine started at an early age, and came into full blossom as a teenager in the 1960s, when I started to write stories. I took typing in high school to sharpen my skills and learn the keyboard. I studied two years of journalism, and learned to love the written word. My teacher was my mentor. She pushed me to excel. It all paid off well. When computers came about in the late 90s, I was a good typist and had no problem adapting.

I will keep you posted on how this “old school” project turns out. I typed a page on my Underwood, and my fingers are throbbing.

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Senior Moments: The Importance of Social Filters


A few days back, my wife and I visited one of the big box stores looking to replace the water filter in our fancy refrigerator.


After reading the directions that came with the stainless beast, I realized that the filter is two years past its recommended change date, and it should be changed every six months. That explains why our ice tastes like garlic and smells like a stinky foot.

I told my wife, ” don’t get me started on why a two-thousand dollar refrigerator needs a water filter. Back in the day, we got cold water from an aluminum pitcher that sat in the icebox and our ice from trays, and that was plenty good enough.” She agreed and knew better than to push the matter when I use the term “back in the day.”

The orange store didn’t stock the filter but said they could order one, which may take up to six months to arrive. That got under my skin, but good, because we bought the sickly beast from them. We moved on to the other box store, the blue one.

The young lady at the blue store was no help. We gave her the part number and the model. She took a picture of the instruction page with her cell phone, then took a selfie and said she would be right back. Twenty minutes later, we are left standing in the appliance department, and the young lady is missing in action. My blood pressure is now up at least twenty points, and my hypoglycemia has kicked in, so I’m officially pissed, and dangerous.

I find the kiosk for the appliance department, and the young lady is sitting at the desk, talking on her smart-ass cellphone. The conversation was much too personal and not related to customer service. I stand directly in front of the kiosk, hoping to catch her attention when she holds up one finger and shushes me away. I don’t mind my wife doing that, but when a total stranger does it, it’s pure audacity. I can’t tolerate impertinence and rudeness, especially from youngsters.

I am now in full meltdown mode. My face is burning hot, my back is itching, and this seasoned body is trembling like a dog trying to crap a peach pit. And, of course, I have to pee. The bladder of a senior has no conscience or timeline, so I hustle off to the men’s room.

Returning to the kiosk, the young, “essence of rudeness” little moron is now texting. I snap and reach for her cell phone with the grace and speed of Mr. Miyagi teaching young Daniel-San to wax on, wax off. I remove the phone from her fingers. I then throw the device on the floor and stomp the smart-ass piece of technology to pieces. Miss Moron of the year, is too stunned to react.

I don’t remember the few minutes that followed the killing of the phone, but my wife said it was the most epic display of cursing, fit throwing and thrashing around that she has witnessed. Rightly deserved, she added.

While driving home, my wizened mate tells me, “you are going to see Doc Bones tomorrow.”
Still shivering and twitching from the effects of the demon that possessed me earlier, I ask,” why?”

She leans over, pecks me on the cheek, and says, “Darling, I believe your social filter is about twenty years past its change date.”