Religion

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God’s Wisdom Works In Quiet Ways: A Young Man’s Journey Begins

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments

Bad relationships were always the same: they started starry-eyed, then grew wary, then became shaky, and ended in a flurry of fleeing.  This had been the young man’s life for years. His siblings were as trapped as he was. Bondage has many forms. There was no way out except through the back door, and on to somewhere, anywhere. But once that door closed behind him, he was homeless, and the dark of the night enveloped him like an evil blanket.

A new town, a new state, a new boyfriend. How many had there been in his mother’s life? His father had been purposefully absent for a long while now.  He and the boy still spoke a few times a year, but he had moved on, and his mother was still fighting her inner demons, hoping to find the right man to be a provider, or perhaps a father for her children, but the same wrong choices produced the same results. Now, another move from a failed relationship was in process, back to their home state.  He couldn’t stomach leaving his high school, his friends, or his church.

His Church Youth Pastor, a man of Christian principle and a solid father to his children, all high school age themselves, offered the young man a place to stay in their home until he graduated: a temporary solution to a frantic problem. The offer was genuine, and the Christianity and camaraderie in the home were what the boy needed, craved, and sought. His journey to God began in desperation, as he needed to distance himself from peers who were leading him into dark places.  He needed to be loved and helped in his lowest times.  He accepted the offer from the pastor; his mother, once again, moved, leaving him with nothing but a few clothes and deep feelings of abandonment. It was a multi-act play that kept repeating itself.  He could have collapsed and withdrawn into himself, but the other teens in the family, the pastor, and his wife refused to let that happen.  They were not wealthy in money, but the wealth they held and offered was spiritual guidance, and that mattered more than dollars.

The boy’s parents were not citizens; neither of them was legal to live in this country.  They made poor decisions that adversely affected him and his siblings. He had no driver’s license, no car, no money, no job- just existence, the loving family that gave him refuge, and his church, which strengthened his soul. Dreams of someday were always there. He was an artist, blessed with a talent. One day, he might discover a way to put this blessing to use.

Many of the older congregants worried about the young man.  Some knew only snippets of his story; a few knew more, but the worry and the need to help him were always there. Odd jobs were offered that put cash in his pocket. It was while he worked with plants and the earth that he discovered his love for living things. His time with the Pastor and his family was nearing its end.  School was over, a new year was beginning, and it was time to move on and make a life for himself. He had often thought of the military as a way to kick-start his life; now it was a real option sitting flat on the table: pen in hand, papers to sign, many tests to take, and then on to serve his country. He made his decision and will soon be a United States Marine. His life will change forever, for the better, and he will never forget the people who gave him that encouragement and chance.

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Just So You Know…

/ Phil Strawn / 5 Comments

A Few Things I Did This Week That Make Sense To Me

The Texan before I gave up smoking

I deleted my Substack account. I found out that being contacted by people I don’t know with idiotic, maniacal rants from people on a keyboard that I would ever care to know outside of social media is not for me. It was supposed to be a site for serious writers to submit their short stories or articles, but it is really X, Bluesky, and Facebook hidden in a different format. Political hate, pure hate, impure hate, giddy hate, ignorant hate, and liberal white woman hate against us white guys who write are the worst kinds that I have found in my research. Socialism, communism, LGBTQ+ism, Muslimism, you name it, they are all there. So adios MF. Get a damn job and stop posting filtered or fake selfies of yourselves in fake places made with AI. No one under thirty years old has any real friends anymore; everyone they know is an AI-generated figure on their phone.

For now, I will keep my Notes From The Cactus Patch on Facebook because it publishes there automatically, and many of my old high school friends and the few family members who still speak to me follow it. I may or may not keep X; it does the same, but damn, people are flat-out Street Rat-crazy and evil on that platform. WordPress is where I will stay, even with all of its faults and liberal happiness engineers, who are a bunch of folks in India sitting at a keyboard figuring out a way to steal your identity and sell it to the Dark Web. I know, it happened to both Momo and me. We now have a service that watches and catches everything, and it is not Lifelock, but much better: meaner, with actual humans named Guido and Luiggi who will go to their home basement and break bones, or worse. The owner of the service is related to the lateTony Saprano.

Did anyone pay attention to the defeat of most of the Democratic Socialist Party candidates? Most of them got their pansy ignorant commie butts handed to them in a Red Mao grocery bag. And now, that smiling-Commie Rat Bastard Mayor in New York City wants his favorite goat, excuse me, I mean his wife, to have a security team the size of President Trumps when she visits her homeland of whatever the hell it is over there in Muslim land. They had better pack extra hay and oats for her meals. Within a few months, that demon has turned one of our great cities into a third-world shit-hole equal to Mexico or Somalia, and the entire state of Michigan is lost: might as well nuke the state and be done with it. There, now I feel better. Have a good day, and God Bless Texas and the Alamo. I wish Paul Harvey were still around.

The Texan

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What’s Going On

/ Phil Strawn / 20 Comments

Marvin Gaye had it right…

Here we are, nearly 60 years later, and the lyrics to his song, “What’s Going On,” have never rung truer. War, riots in the street, brother killing brother, mothers grieving over their dead sons and daughters, fathers and sons disagree over almost everything, and the socialists and foreign invaders are taking over our country. Karl Marx is celebrating in Hell along with Adolph and the rest of humanity’s demons.

I was a teenager graduating high school in the late sixties, and in that first Vietnam draft. I knew there was a good chance I would wind up in Asia, either killing to survive or being killed. I stayed in a 1-A, draft status through college, vowing that if I was drafted, I would join the Navy and follow in my father’s footsteps. Sure, it was a family thing: my great-grandfather was a Texas Ranger for a while, a deputy; my grandfather fought in the trenches of France in WWI; and my father served at Pearl Harbor in WWII. So was it expected of me to be part of what Vietnam had become? To this day, I am not sure, and age has made my memory of then cloudier than it should be. But I still remember the music that kept those young men and women over there sane. Some of it was harsh, mean, belligerent protest; much of it was peaceful, but forceful in its own way.

My wife, Momo, and I were the Woodstock generation. Me, a rock n roll guitarist, her a straight-laced, Catholic school girl, plaid skirts, fish sticks on Friday, and bruised knuckles, compliments of the nuns’ rulers: a jarringly intelligent girl with a protest gene that led her to speak her voice about the war. I wasn’t as forceful about it as she was. Now we have much of the same things Marvin Gaye sang about happening in our country. What goes around comes around, and it’s not always good.

Back then, it was us young folks against the establishment, our parents’ views, and our grandparents’ staunch loyalty to this Republic; don’t trust anyone over thirty. We didn’t see it; we were too busy being young, idealistic, and, most of the time, plain stupid about the reality of what was carrying us on top of the wave of discontent.We would give others the two-finger peace sign as we passed them by, not knowing that it meant “victory” and that Winston Churchill made it famous. Our parents had fought the evil that wanted to end America and knew, at best, it was a temporary fix. They tried to tell us, but we didn’t listen; the music and the evening news rewired our thinking, taking away our logic.

Will our grown, adult children teach their children well? Momo and I carry our own fears and insecurities from our upbringing and subliminally pass them on to our children, who will do the same with theirs. We have to ask ourselves: did we teach them well enough to overcome those moments? Will they see their parents’ hell slowly go by?

Do our children and grandchildren have the fortitude to stand up for this country and lay down their lives for the good of it? Ben Franklin was a genius when he told a woman, when asked, ” Do we have a monarchy or a Republic, he replied, “Madam, we have given you a Republic, if you can keep it.” Can we? Will we? Lord, put your divine hand on every citizen of this country and lead us to victory over the forces of evil that are real and coming for us.

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The Boy Who Became Sweet Baby Jesus

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments


The year was 1955, and at six years old, by my grandmother’s observation, I was a heathen child, almost feral. Being raised in the big city of Fort Worth on a steady diet of television featuring Popeye, Bugs Bunny, and the Three Stooges, I was living in a religious void. I saw the “good book” as a large decoration on the dining room table and read it at Christmas, Easter, and family funerals. Recently, I had been attending a few services at the Poly First Baptist Church with my parents. Still, the preacher, with his over-animated, stage-stomping Hell-and-Damnation rants, scared me more than The Mummy and Frankenstein combined. I was wishing for a fatal disease to strike so I would be bedridden and couldn’t attend.


I had been visiting the farm for six weeks, from June into July, and it was my first time away from my parents. The farmhouse had no television, only a radio. By the third day of no cartoons, I had the shakes and a low-grade fever. I did bring my Red Ryder BB gun and enough ammo for a summer’s worth of popping some of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens: the BBs bounced off their thick feathers, so none were harmed. Other than throwing dirt clods at Rattle Snakes, it was all the entertainment I could muster. Granny was a wise Cherokee, medical Shaman, and self-proclaimed Texas Biblical scholar, and she felt a week at the Baptist Church Vacation Bible School would fix me up and assure my acceptance into Heaven. I had no idea where Heaven was or when I would be required to visit, so I trusted my Granny would make my reservations.


Miss Ida Belle Mae and her younger sister, Rita Rose Mae, are the self-appointed teachers of our Bible school class of 25 children, ages 6 to 10.
Homely as a sack of poultry feed, the two are old maids and prolific spinsters rumored to survive on a tidy income from a single pumping oil well on their farm. It has been a long-standing gambling bet at the Domino Parlor that that gasping little well will give it up. To date, no one has won the wager.
When the holidays come around, the two sisters are rumored to donate a substantial sum to the church. To appease the ladies and keep the money flowing, the kind but timid preacher is forced to let them do what they please. Their pleasure this summer will be teaching Bible school. The preacher will regret this decision.


On the first day of Bible School, our class cut, pasted, and signed 270 prayer cards for the sick and unfortunate children in Africa; quite a feat for 25 kids. Most of us were injured and bleeding from paper cuts and glue poisoning from licking the envelopes. My tongue swelled up the size of a buttery biscuit. The kid beside me glued his lips shut, and Miss Ida had to pry them open with a spoon and a douse of grape Kool-Aid.


Miss Ida sent us outside to lounge under the trees and recover from our stint on her assembly line. There is no recovery; it’s 96 degrees and not a rustle of a breeze, but it’s better than forced child labor.


A black Cadillac sedan stops in front of the church, and an older lady escorts a boy of maybe nine or ten into the main building. The kid wears a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. We assume he is here for a funeral or a baptism, but don’t care because it’s too hot to move or think. Miss Ida rings the lunch bell. Yummy peanut butter, grape jelly sandwiches, and lukewarm Kool-Aid await—the usual menu for Bible school attendees.
After we are seated, Miss Ida brings the suited boy to the front of the class. She is beaming like a schoolgirl attending her first prom In a giddy voice, she addresses us,


” Children, I would like to introduce Master Stewart Sweet. His daddy is the famous tent-preaching evangelist and faith healer from San Angelo, the Right and Honorable Doctor I.M. Sweet. Master Stewart will attend our Bible school and lead the children’s Bible study on Sundays for a few weeks. I can assure you that he is quite capable since he has read the Bible three times, all before he was six years of age, and preaches at his father’s tent revivals.” Miss Ida doesn’t know this kid’s back story, nor do we, but it will soon come to light.


As a class, in childish camaraderie, we are unimpressed and instantly dislike this brat. Will this kid, dressed as a department store dummy, preach to us about sin and saving our little souls? At our young age, the worst thing we could have done is tell a few small lies, steal a cookie, or shoot a chicken with a BB Gun. Hell and Damnation are years away for most of us.


Young Master Stewart steps from behind Miss Ida’s table and slams his ten-pound Bible down on the floor so hard it sounds like a firecracker. A few girls in front are shaken and begin to whimper.
The young preacher Stewart raises his hands to the Heavens and launches into a tirade that can only be considered appropriate for adults designated to luncheon with Beelzebub within the hour.


After ten minutes of our first fiery sermon, we are ready to wrap this kid in scotch tape and send him to Africa with the prayer card. Suddenly, he stops and begins to bless our food. He bows his head and, in a reverent whisper, says,


” Dear Lord, these children, wretched little hayseeds that they are, cannot survive on the butter of the Peter Pan and the mush of Welches. They need a substantial amount sustenance so they may be healthy to accept your holy spirit. Starting tomorrow, a glorious feast of grilled sausages wrapped in soft buns, the salad of the potato and the ruby-red fruit of the melon will be their manna from Heaven. Amen.”


Miss Ida is speechless. The little preacher kid has called her food “garbage,” and she has to sit there and take it. The class is now a bit impressed. This kid is good.
The sisters, rattled by Young Sweets’ blessing, need time to recover and devise a plan to send this kid back to San Angelo as soon as possible. So they send the class outside to suffer in the heat again.


Miss Rita delivers the ice cream freezer and instructs two larger boys to start churning for the afternoon dessert. Allowing us to have ice cream may be the only kindness these two witches grant us.


Twenty-five minutes into the churning, the ice cream remains a pitiful mush. Now impatient for their treat, the class gathers around the freezer, demanding an explanation. We are kids and know nothing about how these machines work. You add ice, salt, liquid, and chur. That’s all we know.


Young Stewart parts the crowd and approaches the ice cream freezer. He kneels and places both hands on the contraption. In a soft, almost inaudible voice, he says a small prayer and violently shakes the machine a few times. He rises and declares, “There shall be delectable ice cream in five minutes.” He is right. This ice cream might be the best we have tasted in our young lives. Little Master Stewart fixed the ice cream machine. A girl calls it a miracle.


After ice cream, Miss Ida calls the class for Bible study and a story. Her stories are known to last too long, and kids tend to lose interest and fall asleep. Her voice is that of an older man who smokes two packs of Camels daily — raspy and accentuated by the occasional hack.


Bitsy, the smallest and youngest girl in class, is seated at the front table and is in distress. The new kids in the class are unaware that she has an immobilizing speech defect. She stutters, and her vocabulary is limited to a simple yes or no. The little girl is wide-eyed and squirming in her chair.
Miss Ida knows her problem, and when Bitsy politely raises her hand to request a bathroom visit, Miss Ida insists that she must stand and ask aloud in front of the class. Of course, Bitsy, immobilized with fear and embarrassment, wets her pants. Miss Ida snickers and calls her a little baby child. We all knew these two sisters were mean, but now we know they are darn right evil.


Master Stewart comes from the rear of the class and stops in front of Bits. He turns and gives the two sisters a “stink-eye” that makes them fall back into their chairs, white with fear.
He bends down, takes Bitsy’s head in his tiny hands, and declares,

” Take this affliction from this small child. Purvey upon her the diction of William Shakespeare and the wisdom of Mark Twain. Let her words flow forth like the singing of Doves on the south wind. She will never again stammer or grasp for words and will someday speak to massive gatherings of people who will clamor to hear her message. Amen.”


The class sits in stunned silence. Healing the ice cream machine was a warm-up compared to this. A girl from the back of the room yells, “Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus.” And there it is: Young Stewart will now be known as Sweet Baby Jesus, or just Sweet Baby for short.


Miss Ida and Miss Rita sit rigidly in their chairs, eyes glazed and staring into nothing. The amount of “stink eye” Stewart, now known as Sweet Baby Jesus, put on them must be compelling.
He approaches the two women, lays his small, soft hands on their wrinkled, sweating foreheads, and mumbles a few words. His back is to the class, so we have no idea what is said. The two evil sisters shiver a few times and awaken from their “stink eye” trance. They stand, gather themselves, and tell the class they are going home. Master Stewart will teach for the duration of the Bible school. They depart the church as if in a zombie trance.


Sweet Baby Jesus takes his Bible, sits on the edge of Miss Idas’ desk, smiles, and says, “Now, let’s hear some real Bible stories straight from the source.” It was a beautiful afternoon full of unexpected laughter and acceptance. For once, we kids found that listening to the word of God from another kid made us feel good, sort of like hot oatmeal on Christmas morning.


The following day, the preacher greets us with the news that young Stewart is back in San Angelo and will teach the class for the remainder of Bible school. Of course, we were sad to see our new Sweet Baby Jesus depart our Bible school. Bitsy, in between constant talking, sniffles, and wishes him the best.
The class wrote a letter to Sweet Baby, thanking him for his kindness to Bitsy and for putting the evil sisters in their place.


I attended the vacation Bible school for a few more summers, but it wasn’t the same without Sweet Baby, and I attended my last one at eight years old.
A few decades later, I read that the Right and Honorable Reverend Stewart Sweet, with assistance from his wife, Bitsy, had established an enormous ministry in Africa and healed everything from Beri-Beri to auto engines.
It looks like Sweet Baby Jesus is still doing a great job.

Religion, Family, and a Baptism Gone Wacky

/ Phil Strawn / 15 Comments

Swimming With Jesus In A Cement Pond

I wrote this story some time ago. It was water Baptismal day at our church today, so I figured, why not share this bit of family history with my readers?

My first taste of religion came when I was six. A boy from Fort Worth, I was taken to the Polytechnic Baptist Church to witness the near-drowning of my young father. He was baptized by a man named Reverend Agustin Z Bergeron. The preacher, a certified Cajun from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, was a legend, standing alongside only two others: Reverend J. Frank Norris and Billy Graham.

Someone in my family, an aunt or a cousin or all members thereof, thought that father’s soul needed saving to ensure his path to Heaven would be an honest one. I suspect it was his mother. She was a championship sinner with no apparent way to redemption, so convincing her only son to Baptism might also gain her entry to God’s domain as a parental guest. I also suspect that the bottles of hooch and the .38 Special in her traveling suitcase would be overlooked as she accompanied him through the pearly gates. Looking back on my family history, I now realize that the entire bunch of my father’s family was street rat crazy. They also loved alcohol and were world-class consumers of hooch. It didn’t faze them a bit that, back in prohibition, the entire bunch went temporarily blind from a bad batch of moonshine my grandmother’s brother brewed in the woods behind their house.

The Sunday of the Baptism was as hot as I can remember. The church was surrounded by large shade trees, but there was not a whiff of a breeze inside the building. Religion and suffering are one and the same. July in Texas is considered a preview of the weather in Hell, and the good reverend used it well.

I sat beside my mother. My little sister was in her lap, not yet a year old. My clothes were soaked with sweat. I might have wet myself and not known it. The summer heat rose from the wooden floor beneath us. Hell lay just below, waiting for us to waver, to lose our faith. Satan would pull us down through the cracks in the floorboards if we let go. It seemed so simple. I didn’t understand sin or what it meant to fall into Hell. Kids don’t think about such things.

Pacing the floor, Preacher Augustin moved from wall to wall. Behind him, the choir of big-haired women added their Amen and Hallelujahs, their voices sharp and clear. The pulpit held the preacher’s Bible, unused, but not forgotten. He did not need its leather-bound wisdom. He knew all he needed to instill fear in the hearts of those gathered in that church. The stifling air was drenched in repentance.

The sermon concluded, and the baptism commenced. Father was the last on the list.

Mother had dressed him in a new white shirt and a black tie. With his new black horn-rim glasses, he looked like the television comedy star, Steve Allen. The shirt was stiff as cardboard, making it hard to move. One might expect that if someone were dunked in water, a swimsuit or at least a robe would be appropriate. But no, Baptists preferred it genuine, fully dressed in their best clothes, shoes, watch, and wallet had to be saved.

Father’s name was called. Entering the pulpit from behind a velvet curtain, he climbed into the baptismal tank. I found it odd that a church would have a small swimming pool at the altar. A waist-deep concrete tub full of unpurified water from the Trinity River. How would one know that the occupants hadn’t released a stream of urine into the sacred water in their moment of personal repentance and acceptance? It’s a natural response akin to peeing in a lake. Father stood in the holy waters awaiting his deliverance. He carried the look of a trapped man; no escape route was available, so his fate was sealed. It’s not that he wasn’t ready to accept Jesus as his savior, but the whole scene felt off-kilter. The preacher smoked Camel cigarettes and drank iced tea while he preached, and the combination of the smell and his aftershave was awful.

Preacher Augustin wasted no time. He asked Father if he was ready to accept Jesus and be bathed in the Holy waters. Father mumbled a few words, and the preacher pushed him back into the Holy water. Time passed, it seemed like minutes, and along with lovely words and passages, Father was still immersed in the Holy waters. A hand, then an arm, reached up, flailing about. Finally, a leg broke the surface, and a shoe flew off. Still, Preacher Agustin continued the baptismal.

Looking back, it was common knowledge that father was a country musician and made his living playing in the beer joints along Jacksboro Highway. Preacher Augustin figured that since my father was a fully certified sinner, an extra dose of salvation was needed.

Father made it to the surface with seconds to spare. Sputtering and coughing, on the verge of death, he rolled over the side of the cement pond and lurched toward the side door of the church. Holding my baby sister, my mother grabbed me by my bony arm, and we made a hasty beeline to the car. Father was there waiting, dripping wet, looking like a bad meal on a china plate, but he was a saved man.

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Ask A Texan: The Lines In The Sand Are Drawn, And It’s 1933 And 1938 Again

/ Phil Strawn / 13 Comments

Advice From A Texan That Listens, Watches, And Learns From History

In 1931, as the sunlight cast long shadows across the Asian continent, Japan’s invasion of Manchuria marked the first stirring of trouble that would engulf the Pacific and all of Asia in the dark embrace of war. Seven years later, in 1938, the boots of German soldiers marched into Poland, igniting the fierce, relentless path toward war in Europe. With sinister determination, the Axis powers wove their tapestry of aggression, plotting to dominate and reshape their corners of the earth. At the same time, the unwary world stood on the precipice of chaos. The USA wanted no part of either party of aggression; It’s not because of neutrality or isolationism, we were in the midst of our own soup pot of misery, the Great Depression, which took America to its knees and shook the unshakeable into a fearful corner.

President Roosevelt had a vision, not one draped in golden accolades or celebrated with lavish banquets, but a steadfast resolve to steer the nation back to unity, offering hope and livelihoods to millions of hard-working citizens striving for a better life, or to bring back the comfort of the one that had vanished in the winds of the Dust Bowl.

Hitler drew a red line in the Atlantic down the west coast of the UK, and Japan drew the same line encompassing China and Manila, with Hawaii being the jewel that would put them closer to the United States.

Hawaii had thousands of Japanese who had immigrated, or were born on the island, who were fiercely loyal to their mother country and the Emperor, and the island was teeming with spies who reported back to Japan. We now call them sleeper cells. Germany had the same in most major cities in our country, mainly on the East Coast. We were in grave danger, just as we are today, but the countries are different, and harbor the same sinister ideology. Our homeland is infiltrated with insurgents that are loyal to Islam only, and their ideology is to take over our soil and put us on a prayer rug.

Jews were persecuted in Europe, but the United States had been doing the same for decades, only in a more evasive and gentler way. Iran and the Arab countries hold a mission to wipe Israel off the map of the world, and all the Jewish people that live there, and the United States, because of friendship and Christianity, is now included. Their goal is the same as the Nazis’, mass extermination of anyone who doesn’t bow to their ideology.

You can call me a racist, a hater, or anything you wish: I consider myself an American patriot, and can say with all confidence that the Muslim religion, like the Nazi movement in Europe and Japan in the 1930s, is not one of peace; it borders on being a radical, demonic ideology more than a religion, but it’s well-organized and sweeps entire countries into its bag of deception and hate.

We hard-working Christian Americans have allowed the demonic enemy to come to our shores and take over entire U.S cities, imposing their radical culture on our citizens. They are succeeding in changing our culture, as they have in France, England, Ireland, and most of Europe. Tribalism via empathetic immigration has taken the white Christian culture of these countries and turned them into Islamic strongholds. You will find more mosques than churches. This is the one thing that Hitler or Hirohito couldn’t accomplish because they had no willing Americans to support their plans.

Today, our country is full of enthusiastic, pliable, young, overeducated students and liberal professionals who are willing to aid Islam in dissolving our constitution that was declared in May, 250 years ago. America had better wake up and take up its call to arms. The lines are once again drawn, and now we have more enemies to see their task through.

We are staring the past in the face before us, and we damn well bond together and keep what our founding fathers so lovingly gave us.

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Ask A Texan: What Will Allah Have For The Terrorist When They Get To His Place?

/ Phil Strawn / 7 Comments

Sometimes correct but snarky advice for those who seek it.

This Iranian fellow sent me an email ranting and raving about what the US is doing to his country. I asked him why he was here in the US. He says he didn’t feel safe over there anymore, and besides, he can get almost everything for free over here. He also said he is considering wrapping himself in explosives and blowing up a Quick Trip gas station or a 7-11. He wants to go to Allah’s Heaven in the worst way so he can get his 72 or so virgins. I took him seriously, so I alerted the two businesses. I also sent him a picture of what to “really” expect when he gets there. I also sent him a Bible and a box of cherry bombs wrapped in melted chocolate.

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Easter Services In The Cactus Patch

/ Phil Strawn / 13 Comments

For the third year in a row, Reverend Little gave his annual Easter Service in the cactus Patch. Attendence was down this year because of a massive invasion of Fire Ants, and the local Crow flock has discovered they adore those sweet marshmallow Peeps, so it was a shorter service than the last two by an hour. The congregation was carried away within thirty minutes, and Reverend Little’s wind-up spring broke. The message was good: the sky is not falling, although in parts of the Middle East it appears to be so; here in Texas, only hail, which hasn’t turned to fire yet. There were no Baptisms this year because the Peeps dissolve at an alarming rate when exposed to liquid of any kind: water, Cokes, saliva, Kool Aid; it’s all “I’m melting to them.” May you all have a blessed Easter, and give a real heartfelt thought about why we celebrate this Holy Day. I’ve yet to see a real Rabbit delivering eggs, although I did see one eat a Reese’s peanut butter one a few years back.

The Rabbit right after he ate the Reese’s Egg

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Music, Worship And War: Ask A Texan

/ Phil Strawn / 16 Comments
The Texan on his first typewriter that took two adults and a child to lift….Note the resemblance to Earnest Hemingway

Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.

After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.

Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.

World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?

Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “

There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”

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Happy Trails From The Alamo and Demon Rats Visit The Ayatollah

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.

Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.

The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!