Santa Anna Texas

Childhood Memories of Texas Drought and Farm Life

/ Phil Strawn / 30 Comments

I’m old enough to remember the drought in Texas during the 1950s; it cost my grandfather and every farmer in his township their crops until a small shower dumped almost 8 inches of rain one night. The town of Santa Anna, Texas, had prayed for a miracle, and it came. Just enough to save some of the crops, but many had already lost their farms to the banks, sold their cattle, and given up, moving to Fort Worth to work menial jobs.

My Grandfather was too much of an old hard-ass to do that. He figured Johnson grass was good for something, so he cut it and sold it for hay, at a discount to his friends. Cotton, grain, corn, maize, nothing would grow. No rain, no plants. It wasn’t the 1930s, but it was too close, and they survived those years as well.

Days of playing on the farm, 100-degree-plus temperatures, it was so hot the Rattlesnakes wouldn’t come out, or for us to shoot them with our BB Guns. The chickens weren’t laying, Granny wasn’t making money on eggs, and my grandfather, Papa, had crops that shriveled away like a neglected plant on a hot windowsill. The cows were constantly thirsty, which kept the windmill pumping the well full-time whenever there was a breeze. The stock tanks were dry and cracked; there wasn’t even enough mud for a crawdad to survive.

The farmhouse had no air conditioning; no one had that in those times. It was windows open, pray for a breeze to dampen the sheets at night, and hope to wake up the next morning without the Mountain Boomers stealing you from your sweat-soaked bed. It was a slice of hell on earth, but my cousins and I were young kids, and it didn’t affect us the same as it did our families. I didn’t notice the worry and desperation in my grandparents’ eyes as they went about their chores. I happily shot chickens and snakes with my BB Gun. Children are often clueless about adult misery.

To me, my grandparents were old. They were in their early sixties at that time, so that was ancient. They both looked twenty years older than their actual age: wrinkled, sun-baked, and worked to the bone. A hard life produces a hard exterior

I was six, on the forefront of my life’s journey. A city boy raised by a country mother and city father, playing country kid in the summer. It wasn’t Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, but it came close. They both worked from daylight to dark hoeing weeds, trying to keep what they could alive, suffered monetary problems that would drive a man to drink, and would count change to buy food at the small local grocery store that was less than any convenience store we have today. Whatever food they could grow was immediately canned for the winter or eaten that day. Those good old days, the 1950s, weren’t all that good, looking back now. At the edge of Seventy-Seven years old, I’ve outlived my grandfather by more than a decade. But he thought he was healthy until he wasn’t. Years of cooking everything in lard and saved Bacon grease took its toll on his system, and he died young from a long list of medical issues. Clogged this, hardened that, bad heart, diabetes, you name it, he had it. I personally thought it was all the chicken. All of their children were on their own with families, so no one wanted the farm. Granny sold it for a pittance, moved into a small public housing unit in town, and finished out her life there. The days of the farm and the misery of the drought years of the 1950s are all behind us now.

This relentless heat and drought in Texas give me pause to remember my childhood summers. I’m old now and remember the good times, but this heat and drought bring it all home. The good old days.

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Working In Heaven

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

Knocking On Heaven’s Door, Who Will Answer?

When I was ten, the world of writing came to me. I had been reading for years, thanks to my persistent Aunt Norma, my father’s older sister, who got her hands on some Fun With Dick And Jane books. Dick and Jane soon took the back seat to Mickey Spillane, Mark Twain, and John Steinbeck. I was more than smug, quite the little dandy, reading at five years old, while my neighborhood gang of idiots couldn’t spell their name.

Around that time, my mentor, Mr. Cohen, a master gardener, the man who passed on his love of horticulture to a young boy, lost his wife to cancer, then my grandfather, the tough old World War 1 vet, caught a case of it and was wasting away before my eyes. I didn’t know what devastation meant, but it had grabbed me by the collar and shook me good.

Before my grandfather left for the hospital for the last time, he spent a few hours alone with me in his sickroom. Still able to speak and make sense. He told me of his experiences in the war, the trenches in France, the gas attacks, the men he killed in hand-to-hand combat, and the ones he killed from afar with a bullet that had no consciousness. I listened intently, absorbing every detail. War was not like it was presented on television or in the movies; it was raw, cruel, unforgiving, and mentally destroyed many men, including him. He knew it was his last roundup and accepted it with dignity. I didn’t.

The mind of a ten-year-old is wired backward from that of an adult. So, without thinking of what I asked, I said,

“Grandad, when you get to Heaven, what will you do. Are there jobs there? Will you have friends?”

He thought for a while, then answered,

” There might be work, something to keep us busy, but the main thing I want to do is apologize and ask forgiveness for the young Germans I killed in the war. I didn’t want to kill them, but it was my job, and it was theirs to do the same to me. That’s if I get to Heaven, which is a mystery to me, cause I have done some bad things in life, asked for forgiveness, but who knows how much the good Lord is willing to forgive.”

I partially understood: I was a Baptist, but a fearful one, not one of faith, but feared the outcome if I didn’t toe the line. He passed a week later, lying in a bed, reliving the hell of war that he carried till the end.

Not long after that, I was at my other grandparents’ farm in Santa Anna, Texas. My grandfather, a nice man but not particularly fond of the other cousins or me, was working on his tractor and stopped for a rest. I was nearby and sat beside him. He was aloof from us children, seeing us as farmhands, not children to be nurtured or molded, but only as labor, expected to keep our mouths shut and our eyes downcast. He made me nervous; I feared him in a way I shouldn’t have. I did mention that the brain of a ten-year-old is wired backward, so that being said, this is what I asked.

” Grandpa, when you get to Heaven, will you still have to work on the farm?” I said.

He looked at me like there was a third eye in my forehead.

” He sat for a moment and then said,

” The good book says many times that everyone has to work. If you don’t have a trade or labor for your fruits, you don’t eat, you don’t survive, and your family suffers and perishes. God is forgiving, but I think he has a limit to that forgiveness. I expect to be a farmer in Heaven, just as I am here on this God-awful piece of land, and I will do what is required of me. The Angels can’t do everything. I’ve repented for my wagon load of sin, and I think the good Lord has forgiven me, but I won’t know until I get there.” This was a few years after the small miracle that had saved his crops and brought him back to church. He was a different man religiously, but still didn’t have much use for children. He passed away a year later from Diabetes and other illnesses related to my grandmother cooking everything in bacon grease for fifty years.

Two different men, ones that I admired, two individuals that molded me, had given me advice that is with me to this day. We all must repent our sins, ask forgiveness, live with our shortcomings, and we all must work for a living, eke out what we can: dig a ditch, plant a seed, pick cotton, do what we must to survive and give our family and ourselves sustenance and a roof over our head. All these years later, those two bits of advice still make me what I am.

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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.

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Tall Tales From Texas: The Legend of The Mountain Boomers of The Santa Anna Mountain

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last, Texas legend. The best storytellers and liars I ever knew were my two uncles on my mother’s side of the family, Uncles Bill and Jay Manley. They are the ones who told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.” My mother believed the two ruined me and turned me into a liar and teller of tall tales, which is not such a bad thing.

The Mountain Boomers were giant lizards that ran on two legs and came down from their lair on Santa Anna Mountain in search of food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, wild pigs, small cows, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. We, kids, were scared shitless of even going out of the farmhouse after dark. Now we had giant lizards and the dreaded Woolly Boogers to deal with.

With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”

Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparents’ covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the faraway howls of an occasional Coyote pack running the creek that passed through the pastures.

The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.

Already that June, my cousin Jerry and I had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens and had learned of the dreaded Woolly Boogers. Hence, we needed a new adventure: our summer was losing air like a punctured tire: we were tiring of shooting chickens with our Daisy BB Guns, then getting our butts switched by Granny.

“Did you kids see that over there in the trees across the road? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says Uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then, a few moments later, “There it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a wild pig in its teeth.”

He had us firmly hooked and reeled in. Then he starts in on the story. Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and said,

” Right down this road here, about twenty years ago, a family’s car broke down, ran out of gas, I think. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned with some gas. The little boy got out of the car to pee alongside the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry: a 7-foot-tall Mountain Boomer was standing there with the little kid in its mouth. The poor boy was already almost chewed in half. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them, Boomers, was hiding in the scrub brush and got her, too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had gotten them because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” My other cousins and I were almost pissing our pants.

When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe any of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my uncles swore the legend and the story were true. I still dream of them.

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The Journey to Fort Worth: A Story of Hope and Sacrifice

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments
The continuing story of Jesus Got A Mainline
the Manley Family: Front from left, Jasper, Marcy, Lavelle. Standing, from left, Mozelle, Jay, and Catharine

Leaving home to forge a new life can be an exhilarating journey or a regretful mistake, depending on the circumstances of the departure. My mother, Mozelle, saw it as a journey that must be made; there would be no regret or sadness. The days of laboring in the fields and chopping cotton were behind her now. She would never again grip the wooden handle of a hoe.

Her mother’s parting tears left a permanent stain on the shoulder of her best dress. Her father’s apathy and refusal to hold her pierced her heart.

The bus ride to Fort Worth stretched into the night, giving her time to reflect and to shed her tears in the dark.

Sharing an apartment with her sister, Lavelle, she found work at Consolidated Aircraft Corporation, where she built B-24 bombers as part of the war effort. She was now the girl on the famous poster, with her sleeve rolled up and a polka dot headscarf. Her life was all work with little time for a social life.

In a letter from home, her father demanded that she and her sister send him a percentage of their paychecks, as their departure from the farm had forced him to hire labor and change crops that yielded less money. They complied, albeit unwillingly, for the sake of their mother. They learned that the Preacher and his family had come one last time, and with no cotton to pick, returned to San Angelo, where he passed a few months later. His sons carried on the church. She never forgot Preacher and his mainline to Jesus.

Her brother, Jay, wrote frequently to his sisters from his ship in the Pacific theater. He was a gunner on a destroyer and participated in the invasion of Iwo Jima. He was one of my two uncles who were the best liars and spinners of yarns and tall tales, and he passed that treasure on to me.

The front porch of the family farm house was his stage, and I would sit for hours absorbing his tales, some true, some as tall as the oak tree growing in the front yard. Give the man a few Pearl Beers and he could orate as well as Will Rogers. I felt he missed his calling to be a writer or a stage personality. In later years, the stories had darker undertones, and he became a world-class alcoholic who, after two stays in a state hospital, beat the demon and lived a sober life until his passing in a car accident in 1968, a head-on collision caused by, of all things, a drunk driver. She believed the war affected him deeply and led to his drinking problem. Today, we call it PTSD. My mother loved him dearly, and she was the force that convinced and aided him to seek help. His death affected her deeply, and I believe she grieved him for the rest of her life.

As a young girl, my mother wrote poetry and was quite good; she won an award in grade school. Her handwriting was exquisite. She and a fountain pen became one, and a sheet of lined school paper became her canvas.

Reading the great poets of her time and writing her own poems was her idea of a proper education, and she dreamed of one day publishing her own book. There were hundreds of pages of poems, squirreled away in a drawer, for someday. The poems were lost, and so was the day with them.

After the war ended, she and her sister worked on drawing maps. There was more time for a social life, and the two enjoyed dancing, so that led them to nightclubs at Crystal Springs on Lake Worth, Belknap Street, and Jacksboro Highway. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a husband, but was swept off her feet by a good-looking, dynamic young fiddle player in one of the bands. The attraction was immediate and intense, and both of their backs were chock-full of Cupid’s arrows. That nice young man, a native of Fort Worth, a veteran, and recently relocated from Hawaii, would become my father.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Moves To New York City To Be A Social Worker

/ Phil Strawn / 26 Comments

Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.

Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.

The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.

Jesus Got A Mainline..Tell Him What You Want

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

Southwest Texas in the 1930s was its own special kind of hell. It wasn’t better or worse off than most of the state, but it was way out yonder and then some. Most Texas folks never ventured that far.

You could find a hundred preachers and ask them if God was punishing Texas farmers, and they would all praise the Lord and tell you times are hard, but we are blessed. Preachers back then were good at blowing smoke up folks’ backside, and then blessing them after the plate was passed.

One main highway, US 377 from Fort Worth, led to Stephenville, Dublin, Brownwood, Coleman, Santa Anna, and on to San Angelo, then farther out to desolate West Texas and the Chihuahuan Desert Big Bend. Small crop and cattle farms along the route, made up of God-fearing, gun-toting, worn-down, and dirt-poor families, faded into heat waves and obscurity as the fence post clicked by. The WPA was new to road and highway repair. Craftsmen and skilled labor were scarce, and what was available was assigned to building and repairing buildings, schools, bridges, and parks. The last place our government wanted to send its money was to the South to make living conditions better for poor southern white folk. Not much has changed in Washington, but we folks in Texas figured it out.

My grandparents, during those years, were cotton farmers in Santa Anna, Texas. A good crop of anything was a dream, a decent one, a miracle. Johnson Grass and Thistle Weed ruled the rows, and if a family could keep them at bay, a sellable crop of cotton might be picked: that’s if rain fell, and like miracles, there wasn’t much of either available.

My mother, Mozelle Manley, one of four children, lived on her parents’ farm and suffered through those hard-scrabble times. These are her recollections as told to me over many years. Sometimes over a glass of wine, or a late-night conversation, or just a visit while she prepared dinner. She didn’t keep a diary or put her thoughts to paper, but she was exceptional in her oral history, and I, if nothing else, was a devoted son and an apt listener.

Around late September, the cotton was getting ripe for picking. My grandfather, a miserly old goat, used his children as unpaid farm labor, which was the custom back then: the more kids you had, the less labor you paid. My mother, a delicate young girl, wanted to write poetry and stories, but her pen was the wooden end of a hoe, chopping weeds in the cotton rows. I learned this after I was an adult in my forties, and she finally gathered the courage to tell me about her childhood years. I played the part of the good son, listener, and historian.

Pickers would come to their area around harvest time to pick the cotton for the families they knew needed the help. They mainly were black folk from around San Angelo, or farther west. They had their own farms, but could make a good buck picking sacks of white gold, enough to hold them over for the winter months and beyond.

One family would come to Santa Anna every year: a large black family from San Angelo. The patriarch was an old snow white haired man folks called “Preacher.” He was an actual certified man of God with his own small country church, but had a passel of kids that worked to keep the family afloat. My grandfather never knew much about the man, or the brood, but always paid them in cash money, and trusted him enough as to not quibble over the weight or his sacks of cotton weighed at the gin at the end of each day. Preacher always said he had a “mainline to God.” No one doubted that, ever. You could see it in his eyes, his face, his demeanor, and his spirit that traveled with him like a treasured handbag. Men of God have a discerning spirit and a glow about them, even in the dark of night.

Every summer, my mother and her siblings would chop weeds in the cotton rows. Pesky little growths that kept the poor soil’s nutrients from feeding the precious cotton bolls. By harvest time, the entire group of children was worn down to a nubbin and ready to catch the first hobo freight out of town for Fort Worth or Dallas. My grandfather was a hard-assed father who used his children as day labor and often treated them the same way. In his later years, he found Jesus and softened a bit, but only enough that you could spread his soul like hard butter on a two-day-old biscuit.

Preacher and his family would show up about the time grandfather was pacing the wood off of the back porch floor. They would pitch a few tarp tents, sleep in his barn and eat a few of granny’s five-hundred or so Chickens. The cotton was picked, weighed, and the Preacher and his clan got their cash and went home to San Angelo and their church. This went on for years, maybe a decade or more.

As my mother and her siblings aged and graduated high school, they knew what they must do: leave the farm to forge a life for themselves. My uncle joined the Navy, fighting in the Pacific theater against the Japs. My mother and her two sisters caught the train to Fort Worth and built bombers and fighters in the aircraft plants for World War II. The days of free labor were over, and grandfather switched from cotton to maze, corn, and Johnson grass for hay. Preacher came back once, but seeing that the end was there, never returned. He knew the things that could kill a family’s spirit, and he didn’t care to see this one end. He truly had a mainline to God. I found it amazing and yet amusing what a few glasses of wine and a few hours with my mother taught me about her family.

Having a mainline to God is a special gift. My mother knew this and always kept Preacher in her prayers and thoughts.

The Comedic Side of Childhood Baptisms: Learning To Swim In The Holy Waters

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments

I was a Southern Baptist kid, not by choice of my own, but by my mother and father’s doing. I was a feral six-year-old, and my sister was a swaddled titty baby along for the ride. My father had not yet been dunked, but my mother had been many times at the First Baptist Church in Santa Anna, Texas. I was a captive, unable to escape, so I had no choice but to enter the holy tub of East Fort Worth’s unfluoridated river water.

The good Reverend Augustin Z. Bergeron, our illustrious chain-smoking, iced-tea-drinking preacher from the bayou of Louisiana, was a world champion baptizer. He could hold a body under the water for a good minute while orating the word of God to the congregation on why this sinner had found their way to his tub of holy water. I was a kid, I didn’t know sin, or lying, or anything, I was just a dumb little fart that was dragged to church every Sunday and fell asleep in my own sweat-covered pants sitting on oak wooden pews, holding my feet high so I wouldn’t be dragged to the depths of Hell through the hot wooden floor of the church. My sainted mother thought it was time for me to take the dunking, which marked the start of a once-a-year ritual that would last for half a decade. I was baptized so many times that’s how I learned to swim. It was that or drown. My skin was permanently wrinkled, my scalp was free of Brylcream and dandruff, my skin was soft, and I smelled of Trinity River holy water most of the school week after my Sunday dunking. I may have been the cleanest and holiest kid in school. My teacher, Mrs. Edwards, a strong Christian lady of faith, always knew on Monday morning that I had been cleansed; she treated me better than the other little heathens in our class. I got two towels to lie on at nap time. I rather liked my status.

I remember my first baptism. I was barely six years old. My mother cornered the good reverend and demanded I be cleansed. My cousins, all a few years older, were considered world-class professionals, having been dunked every Sunday for two years. Mother, not wanting to be outdone by her sister, needed me to catch up. Reverend Z was hesitant because I had not been a regular attendee at Sunday School, but that didn’t deter my mother; she was determined to pursue her mission. He finally agreed over a glass of iced tea while my mother smoked three Camel cigarettes while nursing my sister and making her point.

The big-haired church ladies sang the usual hymns, a few of the overly faithful fainted and were carried out of the church. Reverend Z preached his usual knock-down-drag-out sermon, complete with rolling on the floor, smoking a half-pack of Lucky Strikes, and drinking a gallon of iced sweet tea. Not a hair on his coiffed head was out of place, and his suit was creaseless. He was a holy mannequin of God, in a good way, of course. The good Lord appreciates a snappy dresser.

After the two-hour sermon with four or five cigarette breaks, the line of folks to be baptized was down to me. Dressed in my best pants and a starched white shirt, Snap-On tie, and my new Timex kids’ watch, I was somewhat stylish for a boy my age. The young girls in the congregation gave me their toothless grin of approval. I had no idea what awaited me when the good reverend called my name to approach the pulpit and the holy tub. It was a quick affair. Reverend Z lifted me into the water, shoes, watch and all, said a few words, held me under until my legs kicked, and then raised me up, gasping for air. I was terrified. If the holy ghost had entered my body or wrapped their arms around me, I was unaware. I gagged and couldn’t catch my breath. The good reverend, seeing I was in holy distress, slapped me on the back, causing my breakfast to hurl into the holy water, which in turn made the congregation gasp in horror. This dumb-assed kid puked into the baptismal water, blaspheming and ruining the whole experience. I had eaten biscuits and gravy that morning, so the volume and solidity of the puke were rather disgusting. Reverend Z literally threw me out of the tank, lit a cigarette, took a swig of tea, and continued with a remarkable recovery sermon, saying I had rebuked the devil. The mess in the tub was the demon I expelled. It was a brilliant recovery, a saving grace for both of us. I went on to participate in many more Baptisms over the years and improved with each one, learning to hold my breath and refrain from eating before church.

The Old Time Revival Inspired by Charlie Kirk’s Memorial: A Soliloquy For Young Believers

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments

It’s been a few weeks since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and a few days since his memorial, which was a landmark television event in itself. Yes, many folks of high standards and lofty ideals spoke in eloquent tones, delivered soaring soliloquies on the life of a young patriot taken too soon. It was somber for the most part, but like any television production, it utilized technology to connect with the audience.

My wife, Momo, and I shed a few tears, moved by the words spoken by government officials that professed their Christianity to the world, and didn’t hold back. Near the end, when Charlie’s widow, Erika Kirk, spoke with humility and eloquence, I knew she had been chosen to lead a new revival of young men and women to Christianity and conservatism. She will lead them to reclaim our country as envisioned by the founding fathers.

Then, in a flashback, uninvited moments I often have as I grow older, I envisioned it as something entirely different. In crystal-clear black and white, it evoked the memory of an old-time 1950s Texas Christian revival I attended as a young child, held in a weathered circus tent in a field of drought-stricken grass near Santa Anna High School. Unlike the sturdy Baptist Church in town, there were no pews or wooden floors; only hard wooden folding chairs and a foot-trampled, grassy floor, harboring insects that crawled up my legs and delivered vicious bites. I yelped, and my mother smacked me on the back of my tiny, crew-cut-wearing head. “Be respectful,” she sternly whispered, “God is using the preacher as his lightning bolt.” No matter how hot the weather and the misery caused by pestilence, I obeyed. Pretending to listen to the droning sermon, half asleep from the heat and boredom, I would rather have been anywhere but that tent. My grandparents sat behind us, their hands holding heavy black Bibles that would leave a mark when connected to an insulant child’s behind. I could feel the searing stare of my grandmother’s laser eyes on the back of my neck. I looked straight ahead in fear, knowing that if my chin dipped half an inch or I wavered sideways, a bump from the good book would remind me why I was there. I was six years old and a reluctant, ignorant, bordering on a Christian at best. I yearned in silence to follow my older cousins; they were washed in the blood of the Lamb, bathed in the Holy Spirit, and had been dipped like spring sheep in a trough of holy water. I was just a young kid with no spiritual compass to guide me. It took some time, too slow to my mother’s liking, but I eventually came to Jesus in my own terms. Making me kiss the casketed, heavily perfumed body of my dead great-grandmother set me back a few years, from trauma alone. But God did find me, and I found him. It wasn’t the lightning bolt jolt from above, but a slow and gentle process that fitted my preciousness.

The memorial service in Arizona was similar, but in a larger way. Thousands gathered in air-conditioned comfort, with cold drinks and hot dogs served to feed the masses. Clean restrooms, paved parking, and ushers were on hand to help you find your seat. Believers and those seeking to become believers gathered to pay respects to a young man who will likely become the unofficially appointed sainted leader of the next Jesus Revolution, similar to the one started by Pastor Greg Laurie in the early 1970s in California. Take away the stadium, put the masses in a tent with no air conditioning, a grass floor, a rural setting, and a grieving, electrifying widow instead of a hellfire and brimstone preacher delivering the word of God, and you have today’s equivalent of an old-time tent revival. And, it’s about time.

Dispatches From The Cactus Patch, August 10, 2025

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

Keep Those Teeth In Your Mouth….

One of my recent “Ask A Texan” write-ups included a blurb where a large dog ate a man’s lower false teeth. It fit the story well, and it actually occurred about 67 years ago, and I was around when it happened.

My late, late, late uncle wore choppers, as he called them, and had a love-hate relationship with his false teeth. This was back in the days when the technology was archaic at best, and folks suffered greatly when wearing the prosthetics. They weren’t quite George Washington’s wooden teeth, but not much better. I’ll tell the story as best I remember it, as it was told to me by my uncle, then my Sainted Mother.

My two late uncles were the best liars and yarn spinners I have known. My Mother says I am possessed with their restless spirit, wisdom, and imagination: I’ll gladly accept that. Uncle Jay was the best of the two. Uncle Bill was close and at times could out-lie and rip a great yarn better than his brother, but only after Jay drank too much Pearl Beer. I would sit in awe as the two of them went at it on the front porch of the farmhouse on hot summer nights. Of course, cold Pearl Beer always made everything better. One night, the two of them may have had a bit too much beer and retired early. Uncle Jay had lower false teeth, a result of an injury in World War II. He collided with his anti-aircraft gun, or that’s the story he told. My Mother, his sister, said he got them knocked out in a barroom brawl, which sounded about right; he was a mighty scrapper. He also had a large Chow dog named Mr. Pooch. As dogs go, he was friendly, but only if you didn’t get too close, look at him, or try to pet his big head; then he would rip your arm off. So, we cousins stayed the hell away from Mr. Pooch.

Upon turning in for the night, Uncle Jay removed his lower teeth and set them on a chair by his bed. Mr. Pooch, ever the faithful dog, slept by the bed on a pallet of Granny’s quilts. The dog needed something to chew on, so during the night, he helped himself to Jay’s lower false teeth. In the morning, Jay, seeing a tooth and some gum material on Pooch’s pallet, realized the dog had eaten his teeth. Country folks didn’t use vets back in the 1950s, so he figured Pooch would pass the teeth in a day or two. Granny gave Mr. Pooch a dose of salts and some fiber to speed up the process.

The cousins, including me, were doing our usual daytime activities: shooting chickens with our BB Guns, roaming around the Mesquite Tree woods looking for Rattlesnakes, the usual kid stuff. My cousin, Beverly, headed back to the farmhouse by herself, probably to get some ice tea. We heard her scream and took off running. We found her plastered against the wooden plank wall of the smokehouse, crying and snow white; she was having a minor breakdown. We checked her for a snake bite and found none. She then pointed to a large pile of dog poop about ten feet away and wailed louder. Jerry and I walked over to the unusually large pile, and there, alone, was one of the most enormous dog turds we had ever seen. Looking closer, we saw that it had human teeth and was smiling. It scared the hell out of us, and we ran to join Beverly. We didn’t know that Mr. Pooch had eaten our uncle’s lower false teeth, so we thought it was a demon turd from hell or something worse. After Granny told us the story and inspected the poop, we all had a great laugh. Uncle Jay and Mr. Pooch never lived that one down. We never let him forget it.