Category: Religion

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The Boy Who Became Sweet Baby Jesus



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.

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Religion, Family, and a Baptism Gone Wacky


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


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?


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


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


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


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!

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Wills Journey


My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a Dichos, a storyteller, a bearer of folklore, and a master weaver of tales who could grip the heart of any listener. By the time I came to appreciate his art, he had become an old man, his form hunched and weary from years of living, yet his spirit gave his narratives power. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, close beside his rocking chair, absorbed in the stories that spilled from his lips, losing myself in the world he painted with words. Ever so often, he would pause, lift his fiddle from its case next to the rocker, and play a few licks to accentuate his tales. Folks like him didn’t bother to write; they told their stories around a campfire or in front of a fireplace on a cold winter day. Those were the days I cherished most. When he told me this story, he was in his last days, suffering from cancer caused by getting gassed in World War 1. He passed away a month or so later, but he did manage to leave me with some of the best parts of his life to write about.

A small group of cowhands is sitting on the porch of a bunkhouse on a night without a breeze. The coal oil lamp was placed out in the front dirt yard of the shack to draw the bugs away. The ranch they worked was west of Mineral Wells, Texas, way out yonder in the low mountains of the Palo Pinto rough country.

The white-haired visitor sitting to Rufus’ left had been quiet throughout Del’s story; staring at his boots and showing no emotion. So, Rufus, trying to be hospitable, asked him if he had something to say.


The way he wore his hat, all cockeyed and sweat-stained, was sad. He was in dirty clothes, worn-out boots, and no woman miserable. Del, had just finished his story about fighting a gang of Mexican outlaws down on the Rio, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about anything this old codger had to say, but he is a guest, so he gets to speak.


The visitor opened a Pearl, drank it all in one swig, gathered himself for a minute, and said, “My name’s William; my friends call me Will. I grew up around Kennedale and fought in the Great War back in 1917 over there in France. I ain’t never told anyone about this, but I’m getting old, and the angels are coming to visit me in my dreams at night, so I figure it’s about time to let this out.” A few of the men moved closer to the visitor.


“I joined up in the Army over in Fort Worth in 1917. Then I got sent to Kansas for training and was then shipped over to France on a boat. When I got there, my Captain, knowing I was from Texas, put me in charge of the caissons and the mules that pulled them. He figured if I was from Texas, I was a cowboy. I never told him differently. At least I was stationed back from the worst of the fighting, taking care of the stock. I was okay with that. It saved my sorry ass. I got pretty fond of those mules, and it hurt me a lot when one of them got killed. I always fed them more than needed. They were happy, critters. I liked my job; I loved being alive.


One cold miserable muddy morning these three German boys come walking across the battlefield holding a white hanky. They were giving up. Some of the boys wanted to shoot them, but our Captain said that wouldn’t be right to kill an unarmed man. Captain was funny that way. He was a preacher back in Oklahoma, so he tried to live by the word. Even in war.


Those Kraut boys were pitiful. No coats, dirty and scared, they were a mess. We fed them some grub and gave each a blanket and a tin of hot coffee with a bit of brandy. They were grateful. One boy sobbed a bit, and then, in pretty good English, thanked us for not killing them. His name was Frank. I liked that young fella.


After a week with us, the men didn’t bother watching them anymore. Those boys helped with chores and even did KP for us. They were nice boys who didn’t want any part of this war, but like us, they were doing their duty. They were our prisoners, but we treated them like they were one of us.


I asked Frank if he wanted to help me with the stock, and he was happy to oblige. He said that back in Bavaria, his family raised farm horses for a living, so he knew horses. I was glad to have him help. I never imagined I would become friends with a German soldier, in a damned old war, but that’s what happened. Frank and I became best of buddies. We exchanged addresses and such, so when the war was over, we could keep in touch.


After a while, he and the other two got moved to a town in France and turned back over to the Germans when the war was over. I didn’t know if I would ever hear from him, but I hoped I would. I never had many friends, except for a couple of dogs and my horse.


A year after I got home to Waco, my Momma brought me a letter from Germany. Frank, in his best English, wrote to me about him coming home, getting the horse ranch and farm going again, and marrying his girl. A baby was coming soon. He closed his letter asking me to sail over to Bavaria and work with him on his farm. He wanted to make me a partner. I didn’t have anything going on in Texas, so I told my Momma that I was moving to Germany. I wrote him back and said I would come to Bavaria and be his pard. We exchanged a few more letters, and he writes that a boat ticket has been purchased for me to sail from New York next April. He also said that he has a cute cousin that might be interested in meeting me. Hot dog! I was going to live in Germany and marry a little alpine princess. Whooooo-weeee.


I got my affairs in order. Sold my horse and saddle, found a home for my dogs and such, and was counting the days until I rode the train to New York City. It was never meant to be.
In early March, I received a letter from Frank’s wife, Liese. She told me Frank had died in a farm accident a month or so back. She said I could still come, and she could sure use the help running the place.

I couldn’t do it, not with Frank being dead and all. I sent her a telegram saying I wouldn’t be making the trip and I was sorry about Franks passing.


I was devastated. It changed my life, and not for the better.
I had a second chance to do something other than being a dirty cowhand, and it was jerked right out from under me. I was a real, bitter man for a long time. I drank too much whiskey and did some bad things to people. I was a horrible person at times. I didn’t know myself anymore, but I did know enough that if I didn’t change, the good Lord was not going to be calling my name on judgment day.


I sometimes did odd jobs for an old Mexican fellow named Pepe. He saw the demons on my back and talked me into coming to his church to worship with him and his family. I never was a church person, but I went just to shut him up. I never saw any of what happened until it hit me. When I walked into that little Mexican church, the demons lifted off my back. I accepted the Lord into my sorry life, and he led me to salvation. Imagine that.


I went around and apologized to everyone if I ever did any wrong. I wrote to Franks’s widow and apologized for not coming over to help her.
I enclosed a separate letter for her to put on Frank’s grave.
There it is. I’ve said it all. Feels good to get that off my chest after all these years.”

The two of us sat in silence for a while; grandfather finished his warm beer, and I my Coke. He rose from his chair, put his beer and my Coke bottle in the trash can, and gave me a goodnight hug. It was only after I got in bed and awoke in the night that I realized that the man in his story had been himself.

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Looking At 2025 In My Rear View Mirror


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.

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Henry’s Journey: Cattle, Family, A Cow Dog, and the Brazos River


The Brazos River winds its way through the stoic rock cliffs a mile east of the small village of Glenrose, Texas, its waters glinting like scattered stars as the sun throws its golden light upon the white limestone bedrock beneath the water. In the tranquil shallows and deeper pools, hues of emerald and azure spiral together, mirroring the darting fish that traverse the hidden world below. Eagles and Hawks prowl the sky above, capturing the fish that swim too close to the surface. Towering Oak, Pecan, and Elm trees stand as steadfast guardians along the banks, their roots deep in the fertile soil, while just beyond, the land erupts in a profusion of wildflowers, a testament to the beauty and resilience of this little patch of earth. This is the land that Henry’s family chose as their homestead.

In the shadows of the towering hills, wide stretches of grasslands unfold, a realm where cattle and deer roam free, finding solace in the abundance that the land offers. Here, the grass is plentiful, and competition is not considered. The earth yields enough to sustain all who seek its bounty. Mesquite trees stand in tight groves, their gnarled limbs ready to provide the firewood for warmth and light for the ranch house. Henry thanks God every day that his family chose this little slice of Heaven so many decades ago, when Texas was newly freed from Mexico and formed into a Republic. His family and the Comanches made friends early on, sharing the bounty of the land and feeding the tribe with a beef or two when needed. It was a choice of peace over bloodshed and battle.

Henry’s two boys left the ranch years ago. His youngest works as a deputy in Fort Worth, an honorable but dangerous profession. His oldest boy is a gambler and a scoundrel, and haunts the saloons and gambling halls of New Orleans and Houston, making a shady wage and living an abhorrent lifestyle. Abigail, his wife, pines for a reunion with her boys, but they have been without her loving touch for many years. She is old, sick, and frail, and Henry fears each day might be her last, so he doesn’t travel far from the house and checks on her often during the workday. Henry is older than her, and he’s no spring chicken. His days of ranching and sitting in a saddle will be ending soon.

Cattle are made for roaming; it’s their inherent nature. Cowboys are made for finding and securing the unruly bovines; it’s a circle game played out daily. Henry is missing twelve, maybe thirteen, and two calves, all Longhorns. He knows they are drawn to the river; they smell the wetness and know that the grass is sweetest near the banks, and the spreading Oaks offer a safe respite when night comes. He sent his ranch hand West to search, but he knew they likely headed East to the river.

Henry picks up the cattle tracks in the soft sandy soil, heading to the river. He follows for a few miles to the West bank of the Brazos. There, they crossed in water no more than a foot deep, but swift enough to take a man off his feet. Across the river, maybe thirty yards, he sees their exit up a steep incline next to a sharp cliff that drops off to the right, large rocks scattered along the bank below, and trapped broken tree trunks and limbs reside there among the stones. The trees are thick on the left, so there is no option but the one the cattle took. Henry gives them credit for being smart enough to figure it out. They cross with no effort. Witherspoon, his old horse, knows about as much as a ranch horse could learn. Henry considers him smarter than many of the men he knows. They start up the incline, which is steeper than it appeared from the other bank. Witherspoon struggles, slipping on the soft earth and gravel, and rolls to the right. Henry knows they are falling, and it won’t be a soft one. He grabs the saddle horn and braces for the impact as they fall backwards off the cliff.

When Henry opens his eyes, the sky looks a color of blue he is not familiar with. Deep Azure, not the familiar soft blue. He is flat on his back, lying atop stones. He doesn’t feel pain and figures he escaped injury. Witherspoon, his horse, grazes near the face of the cliff they fell from; he appears uninjured as well. He raises himself up on his elbows. From the left side, a dog approaches, tail wagging. Henry is shocked; it’s his cow dog, Buster, gone for three months now. Henry was sure a pack of coyotes got him, but here he is, now licking his face in between joyful whines. Abigail will be pleased as punch to see Buster back home. She mourned for weeks, assuming he had passed.

Witherspoon is in good shape, not a scratch on him, so he mounts, and Buster leads the way up the incline. This time, it’s an easy climb, and they continue down the path, Buster following the tracks and stopping ever so often to look back and bark to let Henry know the way.

The three come upon a man leaning on a broken gate. The wood of the gate is in poor shape. The man is dressed in city clothes, sharp and clean, boots shined and a snazzy derby perched on his head. Henry has been in these parts many times and doesn’t remember this place.

The man motions his hand and says, ” Howdy neighbor, what brings you to these parts?

” Looking for some strays that crossed the river maybe yesterday or the day before, you seen them” Henry says. Buster sits on his bollocks, ears low, hair on his back up: it’s clear this is not a nice fellow. Henry trusts his dog’s instincts, which are always right.

” Had some strays here a few days ago, just walked right in the gate and up to the main house, you’re welcome to come and see if they are yours. I’ve got some good corn liquor if you’d like a jolt, but the dog has to stay at the gate, no dogs allowed on this spread, they cause too much trouble,” says the man with a broad, fake smile. Buster lowers his body and snarls, emitting a low growl.

Henry looks at the entrance, the tracks must be at least a few weeks old, and the rain has almost vanished them. He says,” No thanks, my dog has picked up their scent and tracks, and they lead on up the road, so we’ll be moseying along.”

” Suit yourself, neighbor, if you don’t find them, you can come to the main house, but the dog isn’t welcome.” The man turns and leaves as Henry moves Witherspoon along the tracks that Buster has picked up.

A few miles down the road, Henry comes upon another gate. A young woman is replacing the hinges. She has a toolbox and has clearly been working hard. Her clothes are a bit dirty, her boots are worn, and her straw hat has seen better days. Without hesitation, Buster goes to her and she bends down and gives him a hug, he whines and licks her face.

She puts down her tool and says, ” Bet you’re looking for those Longhorns that came by this morning, twelve of them, with two calves. They walked right in the gate and up to the barn. I put them in a holding pen. I figured someone would come looking. Why don’t you and your cow dog follow me up to the barn, and I’ll give ya’ll a cool drink of water, and Cookie might have a biscuit or two left from breakfast if you’re hungry. Why don’t you dismount and walk with me up to the main house?”

Henry and Buster walk beside her, Witherspoon in tow. The road is well kept, the trees lining the road are healthy and green, and some are bursting with fruit, Apples, Pears, Peaches, Mulberries, and the wild flowers are as abundant and colorful as he has ever seen. In the distance he sees the main house. It’s a sprawling place, maybe three or four stories, painted white and trimmed in gold. There are dozens of folks sitting in chairs under the covered porch. Dogs and children play on the lawn. Buster takes off down the road to join in with them.

The young woman takes off her leather gloves, offers a hand to Henry, and says, ” Howdy, my name is Angela. This ain’t my place, it belongs to my Father. You must be Henry and your cow dog must be Buster, right?”

Henry shakes her hand. Her face is beaming, glowing in the afternoon light. Bright blue eyes, silky brown hair, and the whitest teeth he’s ever seen on a person. He says, ” Angela, how do you know my name? I don’t recall telling you yet. I can’t stay long. I’ll collect my strays and need to head back. My wife is sickly, and I’ve been gone too long as it is. I worry about her, and she doesn’t need the misery of thinking something happened to me.”

Angela moves closer to Henry and takes his hand in hers as they stroll down the road. She says, ” Henry, we’ve been expecting you, Witherspoon, and Buster for a while now, and don’t worry too much about Abigail, she’ll be along shortly. Ain’t this place just a slice of Heaven.”