Category: Texas

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In Search Of My Family History; Didn’t My Mother Own A Pen and A Sheet Of Paper?


Left foreground: Terry The Terrier, Uncle Jack, My Grandmother, My Grandfather, and my Aunt Norma

I am dismayed that the numerous members of my father’s and mother’s families didn’t have the foresight to record their family history for future generations. So there we were, a passel of kids that would grow up to have our own passel of children, but not a paragraph or a sentence was penned for historical value. For all we knew, the entire gang of us were adopted from the Masonic Home.

A note in an old bible or a scribble on the back of an old picture. Who is the old farmwife holding a baby goat in front of a ramshackle barn in 1935? She may as well have been Ma Joad.

Ancestry has been no help, I know where my father’s family came from; England, Ireland, and Scotland; via ships with vast yards of sails, they made landfall in New York, kissed the Statue of Liberty, and then on to Pennsylvania, and points west these were men and women of Celtic origin, who could handle a sword and drank Jameson Irish Whiskey instead of water. They were the refugees of the potato famine and the Catholic-Protestant conflict that still rages today.

My mother’s family is vague, shrouded in indigenous Indian mythical mystery. Relatives who grew up on the Cherokee Indian Reservations, also known as The Indian Nation in Oklahoma and Arkansas.

These folks lived in Buffalo skin teepees and log cabins and hunted for their food, and there are rumors they killed more than a few white settlers. My grandmother had a large mass of human hair she claimed was a scalp her father took during a raiding party; she would bring it out at Christmas to add drama to the children’s holiday.

From what I’ve been told, my great-grandmother had a serious “thang” with the violent but educated Cherokee Chief Quannah Parker, and that “thang” is still a family mystery. Still, my grandmother looked like him, so the family story calls us relations. There may have been more than holding hands in the moonlight on the banks of the Canadian River.

Belle Starr, the infamous outlaw gal, is another relation on my mother’s side. My grandmother said she never intentionally shot anyone but did shoot her husband’s pinky toe off when he wouldn’t help dry the supper dishes Dime Novels made a fortune off of her antics.

Belle was a larger-than-life fixture residing in the old Fort Worth district known as “Hell’s Half Acre.” Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place were her drinking partners, and it’s rumored that she could out-shoot Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill, who also had a “thang” for Belle. The famous quick draw Sherriff Jim Coulter was puppy-love sick for her, but he knew she could likely out-draw him, so he loved her from afar.

A famous uncle also worked as a US Marshall out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and rode with the legendary black marshall, Bass Reeves. Bass handled a Colt 44 as gracefully as a forkful of steak and taters. Unfortunately, he had to replace the handles on his pistols twice after he ran out of room for the notches related to the count of bandits he had plugged. The uncle in question was likely the model for the character July Johnson in Larry McMurtry’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, “Lonesome Dove.” I’m waiting for confirmation that I may be related to Will Rogers, Sasquatch, Blue Duck, and Amelia Earhart.

I was a teenager when I heard one of the better stories from within the family. My mother’s brother’s wife shot and “more than killed” their only daughter’s mean-spirited husband during an “Old Crow” inspired confrontation of which there were many. The old gal shot her son-in-law three times in the chest with a 38 Police Special and then once more in the head, just to ensure he wouldn’t get up. She got off in self-defense. However, the thoroughly dead fellow was unarmed and stupid drunk.

The famous weapon hung on the wall in a framed case, still loaded with the two remaining bullets. Family badges of honor come in all forms.

For me, time is of the essence because it’s running out. I hope to complete some family history for my grandchildren by Christmas. It may not be pretty, but it will be a good read.

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A Special Rant From The Cactus Patch


Good Lord in Heaven, the news flashed a moment ago that Biden is sending the oil from our national reserves to China instead of using it to lower the cost at the pump.

“Just Go Buy That Electric Car,” I ask you, what kind of man, much less a president does something like this? Perhaps because he is secure in China’s back pocket because of his sons’ dirty dealings, from which he undoubtedly benefited? Maybe dementia has altered his state of reality and he is of the mind of a child? Doe’s the Democratic Party not have a clear-thinking member that opposes the ruination of this country? All valid questions, and I am but one of the millions with like thoughts.

” Silence Is Not Golden,” although the Tremeloes had a great hit with that term. Why has the Republican Party not offered answers to their constituents? Where are the press conferences and full-page newspaper ads? The gonads of McConnell, Medows and a dozen other so-called leaders are safe in a drawer in their bedroom credenza. Most likely next to their useless pricks, which renders them, useless Eunuchs. Our saving grace may be some of the firebrand female senators that pack a pistol on each hip and mean business.

How does the majority of America receive its news? Good old NBC Lester Holt, the metrosexual young man on ABC, and that green-eyed red-headed pronoun devil on CBS, an avowed conservative Christian hater, although her family all served in the military. She is a contradiction.

There is Fox and Newsmax for conservatives, then the rest of us peons watch the three-letter networks or Google, or Yahoo, or the hundreds of leftist sites that populate the net. It’s an orchestrated effort to feed the population a constant flow of misinformation. Biden’s almost cute little Nazi misinformation Frau didn’t last a full week. She was yet another of his appointments with no experience in anything except producing sing-song Tik Tok videos. To date, AOC is the only one to successfully pull it off, only because her voting base in her hood is as moronic as she is.

Who is the wizard behind the green curtain? Soros, Biden, Pelosi? The Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Man? More than likely it is a combination of Obama, Hillary, Eric Holder, and Susan Rice, all with direct lines to the Biden residence. Scoff if you may, but I might be right, based on what I have read in and between the lines. Of all the experts in written media, Victor Davis Hansen may be the most accurate. His assessments and predictions are spot on and should keep us awake at night.

” Come And Take It,” is the flag waved by the outnumbered Texans during the battle of Gonzolaz against the Mexican army. Our illustrious pontificating governor should learn a thing or two from our history, starting with that flag. So the DOJ is filing suit against Texas declaring our border an invasion from a foreign power. It is exactly that and more. Let Merrick Garland and his lackeys try and stop us. They are chickenshit at best. Mexico’s government shrugs their shoulders, “no english” they say. The hordes keep marching to the castle walls with no end in sight. Abbott had a good idea when he held up the trucks at the border, he should reinstate that law. A large chunk of Mexico’s economy is ” Western Union” money from illegals in our country. Halt that and see how fast President Pedro does the sideways shuffle and puts on the brakes. How about our National Guard with a shoot-to-kill order on anyone that resembles a Cartel or drug mule? Maybe some well-placed Texas militia in the scrub brush? That sounds drastic and cruel, but we are eons past the point of civility. This is a war against our country. As in Washington, under the current administration of our once proud state of Texas, the sons of the Alamo have been silenced. It’s heartbreaking.

“Are You A Boy Or Are You A Girl?” The sixties group “The Barbarians” had it right over 50 years ago. A tongue-in-cheek jab at our parent’s generation of intolerance. It was a catchy tune that if revived today, would likely become a breakthrough hit. If a boy wants to dress up and play Girlie-Girl and a girl wants to dress up and play Manley-Man, then do it. Don’t expect special treatment or rights from the rest of us, except maybe a butt whooping once in a while. We all played cowboys and Indians back in the 50s, and none of us grew up to be Roy Rogers or Tonto; well maybe a few of my friends did. My childhood friend Billy Roy grew up to be the Texas version of Pretty Boy Floyd and spent his entire life on the dope farm in West Fort Worth. I also had a cousin that dressed like a woman and robbed a Piggley Wiggley, but he got off after pleading insanity. The judge sent him to live in Dallas…nuff said.

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The Father’s Day Reel That Never Caught A Fish


A few nights ago, I thought about “Father’s Day.” I often wake in the wee hours, which is my most fruitful time to contemplate the state of the world. Things include forgetting to water my veggie garden or putting the trash bin out for collection. The small items require as much thought as the big ones.

The restaurants will be packed to the limit this coming Sunday, and Bass Pro Shop and Amazon will work overtime until Saturday night. But, of course, it wasn’t always this way.

Like Mother’s Day, it wasn’t an official government-sanctioned holiday until the 70s, although the American public has recognized the special day since 1910.

It gained ground during the Second World War because the retailers figured out how to make a few extra bucks by plucking our heartstrings with schmaltzy advertising. As a result, Hallmark has sold Billions of cards, and American retailers continue to milk this golden cash cow dry.

Around our house in the 1950s, “Father’s Day” wasn’t considered an extravaganza. My Dad mowed the yard or made repairs on our home, Mom made him a special meatloaf with cornbread, and my sister and I gave him our homemade construction paper cards. Sometimes, he received a gift, but not often. One year, Mom purchased a fancy fishing lure for us to give him. Large, shiny treble hooks and feathers would make any fish want a bite. Another year, a nice shirt and a pair of fishing sneakers. He never expected much because money was always tight, and folks of his generation weren’t wired like they are now.

I gave my Dad a Garcia saltwater fishing reel for ” Father’s Day.” 1969. Captain Rick Corn, who owned the Sports Center in Port Aransas, gave me a “poor boy’s” deal, or I could have never afforded such a gift. It was a beautiful bright red and chrome reel nestled into a padded black leather case. Unfortunately, it was too pretty to use. The saltwater would tarnish the colors and the shining chrome within a few weeks. Then, it would be like our other working reels.

For years to come, during our fishing trips into the Gulf, I noticed he never put the reel on a pole. He said it would be a shame to lose it overboard like we had a few others when a 40lb King Fish hits our bait at light speed, and the rod escapes the holder and goes flying into the water. He kept it locked in the storage closet of our family beach house. So, I forgot about the reel for many years.

My father passed away in 1996. So when my sister and I sold the beach house in 2001, I ran across the reel in the storage closet; it had never been on a pole. It was as shining and beautiful as the day I gave it to him.

Years ago, I passed the reel on to my youngest son, Wes. He knows the family story behind the reel.

He and his family live on South Padre Island, just a short drive from Port Aransas. His home is on a canal that leads to the Gulf. His Blue Wave fishing boat moored to the dock behind his house. I have not seen the reel on his rods yet, so I will assume he treasures the 52-year-old reel as my father did by not risking its loss in the Gulf. One day, he may pass it on to my grandson, and perhaps he will catch a record-breaking Kingfish with that reel.

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Thoughts From The Cactus Patch


“If a Republican Senator or lawmaker had attacked a liberal Justice like Sotomayor or Kagan or Jackson, declared without ambiguity that ‘they will pay the price,’ it is virtually guaranteed you would see wall-to-wall coverage if an attempt was made on their lives,” he said, referring to Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer’s, D-N.Y., comments in 2020 about conservative justices, including Kavanaugh.” Taken from the New York Post.

It’s disturbing that the national news media outlets gave zero coverage to the attempt on Supreme Court Judge Kavanaugh’s life. True, the young man did not fire a shot or get into the house, but it was an attempt. When did one political party assume total control of the information on television, newspapers, and the internet? A guess would be in the early 2000s. Peter Jennings and a few other tv talking heads from back in the 90s, although liberal, attempted to give us the facts and the truth. I had high hopes for Lester Holt, but he caved in record time and fell into step. Who can blame the man? The networks pay these teleprompter readers extravagant salaries that have no base in reality. It’s a job, and they don’t write their own script.

Our Supreme Court judges are our most sacred cows deserving to be protected no matter the party affiliation of the president that appointed them. Not a concerned or denounced word from President Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, or others of their ilk. So, does that make them complicit in the attempt? First, it would be a yes, but maybe they are afraid to speak out against their radical base. They could be next in line. Silence can be golden, but it can be deafening and damning in the newsroom.

I’ve seen much in my 73 years, but I must confess that 2021 and 2022 may win the golden calf or at least a plaster Saint for your garden. History denotes the effectiveness of presidents, starting with General George Washington. Up until Carter, Buchanan, and maybe Hoover was considered the losers of Washington. Jimmy and Rosiland Carter can rest easy now; our current president has taken the flaming torch and is leading a parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. He thinks he is going to light the Olympic flame. Please, Jill, take him home.

Maureen and I don’t take many trips nowadays. We did manage a family gathering in Fredricksburg, Texas, back in May for Maureen’s 70th, but that was before the gas prices went south. Galveston was on our agenda for July, but with the cost of fuel, hotels, and food, we will be sticking close to home. Maybe a short day trip and a good meal will suffice. The days of long hauls in our trusty Honda may be over for a while. I believe the Gulf of Mexico and Guido’s shrimp baskets will be there next year.

The tomato harvest is upon us. The backyard garden is fruitful this year. Small, medium and Godzilla-size orbs are ripening within a day. It’s either my taste buds or on the fritz, or the tomatoes this year lack flavor. The Squash bit the dust early on due to a disease or bugs. I blame it on the hot, dry spring and, of course, the economy.

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The Summer of Love and Joy Is Upon Us


Yes, Dear Hearts, another summer of “love and joy” is approaching. It usually starts the day after Memorial Day, but it’s early this year, of course, it is, and why wouldn’t it be? There is so much to do that it can’t wait another minute. I always loved the way our treasured southern comedian, Brother Dave Gardner addressed everyone with that old south greeting; “Dear Hearts.” It brings to mind fried chicken, tater salad, and the smell of cooking cornbread. Deadly sweet iced tea with a shot of Jim Beam to ward off the skeeters.

A deranged young white man goes into a supermarket in Buffalo, New York, and shoots ten shoppers dead. All black Americans there to buy groceries for their families. The local cops knew of this guy; he had been institutionalized for mental problems, yet his parents let him procure a firearm. It’s not known as of yet if it was legal or a “ghost gun.” He was on social media and is known as an avowed racist. There are plenty of them out there folks, and they come in all colors. You don’t have to be from Texas to be a lunatic, although we have more than our share and could ship you some if needed.

A church in California was shot up, members were wounded, and one died. The shooter is a 68-year-old Asian man, but the national news skipped over all that. Wrong race, not the correct narrative. I guess the Asian guy is also a racist? Here in Texas, I would say many worshipers in church congregations are packing a piece. If it’s a Cowboy Church, they all have a sidearm.

And now our cognitively destroyed president and his (not a doctor) wife will go to Buffalo to mend America. He will make a screaming demented speech against white people, racists, and Trump, and lecture us on who knows what vile crap will spew from his mouth. He will stand at a podium and scream at the imaginary demons that float in the sky above and follow him like a beloved pack of devil dogs. Jill will have to lead him away before he says something racially insensitive. He and his ilk will turn this tragedy into a George Floyd moment and use it as a summer blockbuster trailer for the upcoming mid-term elections. Never let a good disaster or a mass killing go to waste. Right?

Over last weekend, in the once-respected city of Chicago, 77 black Americans were shot; sixteen of them died from bullets. The shooters were all young, and black. So does that make them racist against their own citizens? Mayor Beetleguise says this summer will be the most celebrated “summer of joy” the city has ever known. Yet she is afraid to go to McDonald’s without bodyguards or an armored vehicle. On the national news broadcast, Old Lester, Metroman David, and that green-eyed devil, Norah won’t mention this on their newscast. Ukraine might be safer than Chicago.

I might be wrong, and more than a bit nostalgic, but we could sure use a good “1969 Woodstock” concert right now.

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The Transformation of Giblet


Photo by Diane Arbus

I ran into my old friend Mooch at Whataburger a few days back. Many a fine friendship is based on the breaking of bread, ours is no different.

Standing in line to order, from the corner of my left eye, there he was, sitting in his usual booth by the window; head down, hands splayed on the table, palms prostrate as if he has lost his best hog.

Something was off. His bucket hat, the overalls, and the ever-present mustard stains on his denim shirt rang Mooch. Then, I noticed the absence of his everywhere buddy, little Giblet, the crusty Chiuaua that usually rides in a front mount baby sling, drawn tightly to his chest. I feared the worst, old Giblet is no more.

I took the opposite seat, clearing my throat to alert Mooch of my presence. Without looking up, Mooch muttered through clenched teeth, “Those rotten little bastards down in Austin, they ruined my Giblet.”

” Man, I’m so sorry Mooch, I had no idea Giblet had entered the realm,” being as conciliatory as possible.

He looked up, ” Giblet ain’t dead you moron, he ain’t Giblet no more, he’s now, Gabrielle, thanks to those little woke shits at that animal psycho place.” I’m thinking this will be one of his best stories yet, I need more.

Mooch took a swig from his Dr Pepper and began a lengthy explanation.

” A month ago, Gib started acting weird; wouldn’t eat his Wolf Brand Chili or watch his shows on Animal Planet. He stared out the window all day and paced the floor all night. Doc Barker over at the vet says Giblet has suffered a nervous breakdown, so we take him to this fancy clinic down in Austin. This doctor lady with green hair and a fishing tackle face says he needs to stay a few weeks for therapy and convalesce. We can check in on him via a remote camera in his suite, or do a “face call.” The first time we log on, he is laying on his Sterns and Foster bed watching Animal Planet, that’s a good sign. the next day, there is a Calico cat snuggled up to him and they’re watching “The View.” By the end of the week, he is watching the Food Network, CNN, MSNBC and now has a bunny rabbit and the cat hanging out in his suite. Mrs. Mooch and I jump in our truck and hi-tail it to Austin. I demand that they cough up my dog. After paying the stupifying bill, they bring old Gib out. He is wearing a wig and has pink toenails and false eyelashes. The doc says that Giblet has always felt to be a girl and has transitioned over to Gabrielle. He still has his junk, but that can be removed when he is ready. Mrs. Mooch has to restrain me from killing that sum-bitch doctor until the doc says the Government will give Gabrielle a check for 3 grand every month to help with expenses. What could I do? I bought Gabrielle a new Ford Pick up so she can ride around town in style.”

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“The Cactus Patch Is On The Road Again”


Photo from Texas Monthly

Since last Sunday, we have been in the high-altitude lovely village of Ruidoso, New Mexico. If it weren’t for visiting Texans, like us, this town wouldn’t exist. Every business owner seems to be an expatriate.

As of April 1st, New Mexico allows recreational sales and use of Marijuana. The evil weed is now legal for anyone 21 years and older. Up until the 1st, it was by medical card only, which could be purchased online for a small price. I had no idea the folks in New Mexico were such potheads. Then I was reminded that everyone that comes to Ruidoso is from Texas, so I guess that makes us cowboys the potheads.

So MoMo, my wife, and I are thinking maybe a gummy or two to help us sleep. Why not? We’ve earned the right by being old and living with constant pain. We stop at one of the five Pot Stores in Ruidoso.

A nice period adobe building hidden among the pines is painted a garish Weed green. Nothing like curb appeal to draw customers in.

The perky little “Pot-arista” led us, through a secret triple bolted door into the main shop where all the goodies are displayed in well-lit sterile display cases. I feel better already knowing that all health regulations are met.

We are the oldest folks in the shop and feel out of place and on the verge of embarrassment. The employees are in their twenties and seem unusually happy. My wife asks our Potarista about a gummy specifically for sleep and relaxation.

“Oh, it all makes you chill and sleep like a baby” she replies. “I take a bit in the morning, then some at noon, then more in the evening, and then a toke around bedtime,” she says.

It’s obvious the girl is stoned all damn day and this is the only job that she can perform while high.

I tell her we are from Texas, we’re old as if she didn’t notice, and we want a gummy to help us with the pain and sleepy time. She brightens up and exclaims, “we have a new gummy, just in from Austin, it’s called Willie Nelsons Head, you’re gonna love it. Willie has the best stuff you know.”

She brings us a small box printed like the Texas flag. Inside are a dozen little gummies shaped like Willie Nelson’s head. The realism is uncanny. The skin tone on the wrinkly face, the pig-tails, and that scallywag glint in the tiny eyes. It’s also a bit creepy. It comes with a CD of his greatest hits, so I’m all in.

Once in the car, I pop in the cd, and ” On The Road Again” plays. We each eat a Willie gummy, put the car in gear, adjust our sunglasses, and head for who knows where.

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“Scatter Shooting from The Cactus Patch”


Today, Hollywood’s own little Fresh Prince Baby Jesus, Will Smith, resigned from the Acadamy. Did he give back his participation Oscar statue? Most likely not. A second, almost third-rate actor reaches the pinnacle of movie success and believes his own bull-shit. And folks, that is wrong with this shit-show country. We focus on the wrong.

Now that NBC, CBS, and ABC have been cornered and forced to say “Hunter Biden,” the other 85 million Americans can’t wait to see where they go from here. So Lester may be out of a gig.

Now that Biden is a sure bet to be put out to pasture, on or before 2024, Butterboy is next in line for the Demorectic nominee. Two men french kissing while standing at the presidential podium, taking turns nursing their twins on tits with no milk. Yep, that’s the sign of a strong America. Putin is laughing his KGB ass off. AOC is tweeting, ” Hey, I can do all of that and don’t even need a husband.”

Proof that God does indeed have a slick sense of humor. Sitting around the clouds one day, he looks at Archangel Michael and says, ” you know that ugly Cabbage Patch Doll from the 90s? How about I make someone have a real one down there on Earth? And now, we have Amy Schumer.

How hard can it be for Nancy Pelosi to not have a stroke? Please, someone in the medical community, figure this out. Spiked Vodka or ice cream is a good start. Ask a Russian; they are experts at this sort of thing.

How is it that a president of the United States lets invading hordes from South America invade our sovereign country with no challenge? Put a bunch of Texans, “since we are all hunters,” on the border wearing camouflage, hiding in the scrub brush, and give them high-powered rifles, and this shit would be over in about 45 minutes. Governor Abbott is an imbecile, and Cruz is no better.

So the people of Ukraine are fleeing their war-torn country for the United States. They show up on our southern border asking for asylum. Good, educated folks that pray to one day be American citizens. They have something to offer our country. Old Poopy Pants Joe says, “wait a minute here. We still have millions of uneducated, unskilled, American hating, gang member, murdering, blood-sucking illegals we have to let in first. ” Talk about a screwed-up government. All my friends who voted for this POS, you got what you deserve, and you still have to pay the same prices as I do.

This entire mess with Congress and the House, along with Biden’s apocalyptic attack on our country, would have been dead on arrival if the Republicans would have ran better-qualified candidates in Georgia for the last election. Instead, the guy, who knows his name, was a footnote with a slick haircut. The gal, Malibu Barbie, tossed her long hair around like a supermodel and looked really cute. This is a state that is mostly black Americans, and the Repubs run these two? How about Hershal Walker or any one of the other qualified candidates. McConnell needs to be tar, feathered, and dumped in the tidal basin for crab food.

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“Weather Days and Weather Nights”


A few nights back, I was awakened by bright static flashes against my eyelids. Lightening from afar brings a storm.

I lay in my bed, eyes now open for most of an hour, cataloging the most intense flashes through the window curtains, waiting for the following thunder to announce the wind and rain. The anticipation of a storm is pure dope for a weather nerd. I’ve been addicted for most of my life.

The television weather folk had been hawking this storm for days prior. Warnings, interviews with people on the street, getting every drop of drama out of their forecast. The cute weatherwomen and stern weathermen called for Apocalyptic conditions favorable for tornadoes and various end times hi-jinx. This would be no more than a typical spring supercell thunderstorm. Texans take their weather as seriously as the Alamo, Willie Nelson, and BBQ.

It’s a well-known semi-historical fact that Colonel William Barrett Travis predicted the cold and rainy weather during the siege of the Alamo. General Santa Anna, relying on his hungover weathermen, expected spring break conditions in San Antonio, and didn’t dress accordingly.

My first solid memory of bad weather happened when my grandmother carried me into her storm cellar as a vicious thunderstorm attacked the family farm; I was four years old. Every summer after that, there were numerous trips to the safety of that dank dirt storm cellar. Two cots, a pile of quilts, and a kerosene lamp were enough to see us through a siege. Shelves of canned fruit and vegetables lined the walls. Winters food pantry for when the land is at rest and for us to dine if the storm lasted more than a day.

If you are a farmer in Texas, the weather “is your life.” It will make or break your crop season with no warnings or apologies.

My Grandfather was a typical old-school pioneer farmer that possessed an active and painful weather bone in his left leg and a working man’s knowledge of the stratosphere. My grandmother was equally blessed with a pinky toe that swelled when a storm was brewing. Together, not much got past the two.

Grandmother would stare at a tiny cloud in a pure blue sky and remark, ” it’s gonna come up a cloud tonight.” She was rarely wrong.

During my summer visits to the farm, against my young will, I was dragged by my Grandfather to the domino parlor daily and subjected to hours of bullshit and weather talk from the old farmers in Santa Anna, Texas.

Old men in straw hats, bib overalls, and a cheek full of Redman tobacco ruled the world in those times. It was all about the weather and when will it come, how bad will it be, and how much rain could be expected? I usually fell asleep with drool running down my cheek after an hour. Then, it was back to the farm while my grandmother limped around the house because her weather toe was swollen. Good Lord. The family was a meteorological wreck.

Thank God, the family gene skipped my sister and me, so we depend on our local televisions weather personalities.

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Another Friday At The Grocery Store And Beach Boy Gas


My wife had a small grocery list of a few things we forgot last week. So I accompanied her to our local Texas H.E.B. superstore here in Granbury, Texas, the “Best Historic Small Town” in the United States for the third straight year. Hell yeah! We bad-ass.

1883 filmed here for a week, and then around the countryside along the beautiful Brazos River and close to my house at the base of Comanche Peak. I could hear the gunfire and Indians whooping it up from my patio. I will never forgive Taylor Sheridan for killing off Elsa and Shea. Who does that kind of shit? I may never recover or be the same.

The shopping excursion was fruitful. Twenty-minuets of checking the list and dropping items into our “small basket.” The prices were up from last week, no doubt because of the cost of diesel fuel. I notice a few older folks buying dog food and powdered milk. Tears ran down their cheeks as they passed up the favorite foods and the Shiner beer. A young woman dressed in workout clothes looking like a Kardashian breezed by with a cart full of expensive meats and a case or two of wine. She paused to take a selfie in front of the flower aisle.

We arrive at the checkout. I’m thinking the few items in the basket might add up to 30 bucks, maybe a few more. Nothing special, just some veggies, milk, bread, a piece of meat.

Our effervescent checker scans everything with a smile. She is a teenager in high school with no real grasp of the reality of our world. She works and makes $15.00 bucks an hour. Good for her; at least she is working instead of mooching and bitching. I watch the screen, blah..blah…blah… it all adds up. Total bill; $ 74.00. The booty fills two cloth bags. I ask her to please check again. She does. The same amount flashes on the screen.

My wife says this is a good deal. I think we are now living in the Twilight Zone. Thirty minutes earlier, I paid $ 4.09. ( Beach Boy gas ) for regular fuel, and now this. I know the poor folks in Ukraine have it worse than we can ever imagine, but shit-fire folks. Did we move into an alternate universe when I was sleeping? I could be experiencing a continuing 1960s L.S.D. Flashback.

A year ago, before the “thing from the swamp” was sworn in, a large basket full of groceries could be had for $125 smackers.

The hunched-over old lady behind us is digging through her small change purse, hoping she has enough to cover the few items she has purchased.

What went wrong?