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End Times in Texas: Snow Chaos at H-E-B


Backyard Bird Cafe at Casa de Strawn

According to the news gals on TV, the end of the world is upon Texas: snow is coming on Thursday and Friday, maybe a foot or more of the lovely puffy winter blanket. The problem is that the folks in this part of Texas don’t know anything about snow or how to deal with it. Schools are closing, businesses are having “End of Times” sales and liquor stores are running out of stock. This is as serious as the chicken flu.

Like every other fool in town, I went to the H-E-B for a few supplies: pork rinds, wine, beer, Cheeto’s, Wolf Brand Chili, A2 milk, and Ovaltine. I live in a hilly area, and if Momo and I get snowed or iced in, we cannot get out. Exceptions would be made for the hospital or the liquor store for hootch supplies.

I walked into an “End Times” scenario. The H-E-B, that pure Texas grocer, was in full pandemonium mode. The local police were arresting a mother for stealing food from an old woman’s shopping cart, her two young baby childs holding onto their mother’s legs as she was dragged out of the store. The store manager tased an old guy for ramming other shoppers with the store’s personal scooter.

Women were fighting, pulling hair, punching, kicking, and biting each other over toilet paper. Children ran wild down the aisles, grabbing cookies and any sugary treat. One kid stood atop the frozen food kiosk, throwing Red Baron pizzas at the snarling crowd below. It was like a scene from The Walking Dead.

I ran into my old pal Mooch. He had a garbage bag full of Pork Rinds and five cases of Pabst Beer, enough to see him through the apocalypse.

I found what I needed and went to the cashier; she said,

“take it, no charge, the machines have cratered.”

Arriving home, I found Momo cleaning our pistols and checking our ammo supply. She’s a crack shot, so I pity the fool who comes onto our property with intentions to steal. She’s excited about the Snowmeggdon and wants to make snow angels in our backyard. I told her the only thing we could make would be old people’s angels when we fall down and can’t get up and have to crawl back to the patio.

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Reflecting on the Luanne Platter at Luby’s…It’s A Texas Thing, Ya’ll


Miss Luanne Platter

Maureen and I visited Luby’s Cafeteria last week for lunch. The smell of the food brought back memories from my childhood.

Back in the 1950s, in Fort Worth, there were Wyatt’s and Luby’s cafeterias. It was always a hard choice for the family. Luby’s had the best deserts, while Wyatt’s always served larger portions. My Dad usually chose Wyatt’s—more bang for the buck. It was the Eisenhower years, and things were tight. That’s back when he was still a Democrat. I was just a hungry kid.

We took our place in line, trays aligned on the metal rail. I scanned the extra-large menu board for my favorite dish but couldn’t find it. I panicked. The platter I came for and have always ordered for decades is “The Luanne Platter,” and they damn well better have it. My blood sugar was low, and I could feel a rant coming on. Maureen rubbed a few drops of “Peace of Mind” lotion under my nose to calm me. Then, in the lower corner of the board, I spotted it. ” The Luann Platter, half portions with a roll – $8.99.” What the hell! It used to be $4.99 with a roll, a drink, and a slice of pie? Retired folk can’t afford those prices.

I approached the smiling lady server and, using my best old man-controlled voice, said,

” I’m not paying $8.99 for a half portion that was $4.99 with a piece of pie the last time I ate at Luby’s,” and I slammed my fist on my tray for effect.

Still smiling, she replied,

” Well,, sir, then you can choose the children’s plate if you are over 65 and/or acting like a child, as of which you appear to be. You have a choice of chicken strips, a hot dog, or spaghetti with 2% milk and a fruit cup. That will set you back $4.99 plus tax. And by the way, The Luanne Platter has been $8.99 since 2001.”

Oh man, the little Pop-Tart was really messing with me now. Her smile had turned to a slight sneer, and her eyes got beady. I leaned over the glass barrier.

” Do you know who Luann Platter is, young lady?” I demanded.

” No, sir. Was she a famous cook or employee of the month or something?” she said. Good Lord, this girl is clueless.

By this point, two other line servers had flanked the young miss in case I went postal. I faced them and, with conviction, said,

” Luanne Platter is the most famous character on the television show, ” King of the Hill.” An animated series set in Garland, Texas, and this dish you serve is named for her. Don’t you know who Hank, Bobby, and Peggy Hill are?”

The three servers’ young faces showed social ignorance. It was useless to explain. I collected my platter, and we proceeded to the checkout.

We sat in our booth, eating our lunch in silence. The food wasn’t as good as it used to be. The good old days are gone for good. My turnip greens were Kale, the most evil weed ever cooked. Maureen’s chicken was rubber faux, and my corn muffin was doughy and awful. We can scratch this one off of our list.

Leaving the cafeteria, a fortyish blond woman in the Luby’s uniform held the door open for us. In a girlish voice, she said,

” Ya’ll come back now.” I noticed her name tag read “Luanne.”

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Growing Up With Mexican Food in 1950s Fort Worth,Texas..My First Visit To Trashy Juanita’s



Childhood memories are like teeth; we all have good and rotten ones. If you grew up in Texas in the 1950s, you will identify with some of mine, or maybe not.

I was nine years old before I dined in a Mexican restaurant. I knew they existed because my father and mother enjoyed them, bringing home little mints and matchbooks touting the restaurant’s name. I got the mints, and my parents put the matchbooks in a jar in the kitchen. I dreamed that one day, I might visit one.

In Texas, Mexican food is part of life. It’s one of the major food groups; a boy cannot grow into a man of substance without it. Not having real Mexican food at that young age affected my evolution into a healthy young specimen. I harbored a nervous tick, stuttered sometimes, and had one leg shorter than the other. All those maladies were cured once I ate the real stuff. The medicinal qualities of Mexican food are exceptional.

For many years, I had eaten tacos at my cousin’s house, believing them to be authentic Mexican food. Sadly, they were nowhere near the real deal. Several times over the summer, my cousin Jok’s mother, Berel, would cook tacos and invite the families for a feast. Cold Beer and tongue-scorching Tacos. Pure Texas.

Berel would stand at her massive gas range, a large pot of ground beef, and a cauldron of boiling Crisco, heating the room to cooking temperature. She would drop a tortilla stuffed with meat into the witch’s cauldron, pull it out, and toss it to the pack of wild African dogs sitting around her kitchen table. The dogs, of course, were my cousins and me. My poor mother would leave the room. She could not bear to see her son eat like a feral child: growling, biting, snarling as we consumed the tacos like they were a cooked Wildebeest. That is what I consider Mexican food and proper behavior when consuming it.

Driving Northwest of downtown Fort Worth on Jacksboro Highway, right before you come to the first honkey tonk, you would find “Trashy Juanita’s” Mexican restaurant. Legendary for its tacos, frijoles, and cold Pearl Beer. It was also legendary for things my father would not mention until I was older. Gambling, shooting dice, and generally questionable behavior were part of the after-hours entertainment. It wasn’t on Jacksboro Highway for the view.

The owner of Juanita Batista, Carlita Rosanna Esposito, was not a trashy woman but a middle-aged Latin beauty with a bawdy laugh and sharp wit. The restaurant’s front yard adornments earned the name. Offended at first, she finally accepted her crown and wore it proudly.

Two rust-eaten pick-up trucks, one painted blue and the other yellow, sat abandoned in the front yard behind a cyclone fence. Pots of flowers decorated the fenders while the beds overflowed with vines and small flowering trees. Fifty or more chickens strutted and pecked around the yard, giving the place a barnyard atmosphere. Some saw a work of art, while others called it a junkyard that happened to serve great food.
In an interview in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Juanita claimed to be related to General Santa Anna, Pancho Villa, and the Cisco Kid, making her royalty in Mexico. The people of Fort Worth loved her, and she was considered a local character of some importance. She often dined with Ben Hogan and the Leonard brothers at Colonial Country Club.

Trashy Juanita’s was my first introduction to authentic Mexican food and all that comes with it.

My father sold one of his many fiddles to a buddy, and with the profit, he took the whole family to dine at Trashy Juanita’s on the Fourth of July, 1958.

Juanita had gone “whole hog” on this holiday. American flags hung from the front porch and draped the cyclone fence. Two small children sat in the front yard shooting bottle rockets at the cars driving on Jacksboro Highway, and the chickens were wrapped in red-white-and-blue crepe paper streamers. Very patriotic and also very redneck Texas.

A jovial Juanita escorted us to a large table beside the kitchen doorway. A waiter delivered tortillas, chips, salsa, and two Pearl beers for my father and grandfather along with large, frosty glasses of sweet iced tea for the rest of us. There was no menu; it was Tacos or nothing at all.

The unfamiliar aroma of exotic food floated on a misty cloud from the kitchen, filling my young nostrils and activating my developing saliva glands. A torrent of spit dripped from my mouth onto the front of my new sear-sucker shirt. My mother cleaned me up and wrapped a napkin around my neck. I was ready: I had my eating clothes on.
We decided the family would dine on a medley of beef and chicken Tacos, frijoles and rice, and guacamole ala Juanita. The waiter rushed our order to the kitchen.

The evening was turning out great. My father was telling jokes, the cold beer flowed, and a waiter walked past our table into the kitchen. Under each arm was one of the patriotically wrapped chickens from the front yard. My grandfather must have forgotten that two young children were at the table and remarked, “There goes our Tacos, can’t get any fresher than that.”

His remark went unnoticed until I asked my father, ” Dad, are we going to eat the pet chickens from the front yard?” He didn’t offer an answer.
I got a big lump in my throat, and my eyes got misty. My sister whimpered and cried like a baby, and my grandmother, seeing her grandchildren in such distress, shed tears in support. Mother gave the two adult men the worst evil eye ever. The mood at the table went from happy to crappy in a minute or less. So much for a joyous family celebration. We might as well be eating Old Yeller for supper.

There was a ruckus in the kitchen, yelling, pots and pans clashing, and the two chickens, still wearing their streamers, half-flew, and half-ran through the dining room and out the front door. The cook was right behind them but tripped over a man’s foot, knocking himself out as he hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the dining room, Juanita announced that there would only be beef Tacos tonight. The two doomed birds had escaped the pan, and my sister and I were happy again. My father breathed a sigh of relief that the night was saved, and my grandfather bent down and polished the new scuff on his size 10 wingtip.

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Everybody Gets A Medal


“Awww, come on man.”

I’m excited for the first time in almost four years: I might receive a Medal of Freedom. I got so worked up that Momo, my wife and a retired RN, had to put me on a Valium drip.

I penned a letter using my Parker fountain pen and had it delivered to the White House via FedEx special D. This morning, I received an email from someone who didn’t use spell-check or Grammarly: What is it with the youngsters working for the old guy? No one can spell.

The young lady, a staffer named Maya Sharona, said someone might consider my request and somebody might be circling back to me. Wow, there is a chance?

I thought my correspondence was professional and heartfelt. It went something like this:

Dear Mr. President Demento,

Since the once sacred Medal of Freedom is now nothing more than a Holiday Inn key-chain hung around one’s neck: the traitor who left behind our patriots in Benghazi receives the medal from the traitor who left behind our patriots in Afghanistan, a Nazi collaborator demonic Hell-Hound, a few half-assed actors, the grumpy old fashion designer, a fake science guy, the monkey whisperer, filthy-rich insider stock trader, backstabbing traitor warmonger, retired basketball player that gave women aids, talk show host, chef, fry cook, and Marty McFly get one, then I should too. Give my best regards to the babysitter.

Patiently waiting for your response,

I’m all jazzed up.

Phil

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Tupperware and Anxiety: A Personal Story About Fear of Food Storage Containers


Not my mother, but the Tupperware and the fridge look about right. Ain’t AI fun!

It takes guts to admit to a phobia. I have more than one, but this one will do for now. I can’t stand to touch plastic ware, mainly Tupperware or any brand that resembles that sturdy piece of American culture from the 1950s.

My mother, rest her sainted soul and bless her heart, was a Tupperware lady. During those years, she hosted numerous parties in our and her friends’ homes.

It wasn’t until years later I learned the truth about these parties. They were a front for gossip and cocktails. In her old age, she admitted it was a sham, and the girls used it as a front to get away from us kids and husbands for a few hours and get sloshed on Manhattans and Gin and Tonics. It was the perfect set-up. She made a small amount of money, had some good hi-balls, and caught up on the neighborhood gossip. They were the forerunner to ” girls night out,” which started in the 90s. I sometimes wandered into the room hoping to find a little finger sandwich or a Vienna sausage on a toothpick. Instead, I found a pack of “big-haired” gals holding a cocktail glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My mother was a world champion smoker and would have a ciggie in hand and one perched in her ashtray. Mothers back then were tough gals.

Our kitchen was stuffed to the point of bursting with the plastic-ware. It filled every drawer and cabinet and was neatly stacked to the ceiling on top of the ice-box. We ate on paper plates and drank from aluminum glasses. There was no room for real dishes or glassware; It was all Tupperware everywhere. The ice box was neatly arranged, with meals sealed in Tupperware. We didn’t call them “leftovers” in our home; they were called “future pre-prepared dinners.” Some of those dinners were on-call for a year or more. That’s the beauty of Tupperware: if properly sealed per the manufacturer’s instructions, the food will last for years.

Now, the explanation of the phobia. It’s complex and involves many layers of childhood anxiety. My therapist said it started with an incident when I was five years old. I don’t remember what I did, but it was severe enough for a butt-whooping from my mother. While trying to escape, she grabbed one arm, a classic move that only mothers use, and wielded the nearest object she could find, which was an 8×10 Tupperware slimline cake storage container. I had no idea plastic ware could hurt so damn much. The impression of the insignia on the bottom of the container lingered on my butt for days. Of course, I showed it to all my buddies, and they were pretty impressed and worried because their mothers owned the same Tupperware containers.

After that incident, I couldn’t bring myself to touch plastic ware in any form. That brought more punishment because when helping with the dishes, I would retreat from the kitchen sink when a dirty piece of Tupperware was to be washed. There was nothing that could make me touch that vile object. That plastic dish scared me as much as the monster under my bed. My father realized that his only son was becoming a child neurotic and stepped in to help my mother with the dishes, thus allowing me to enjoy a somewhat normal childhood.

Not much has changed in 65 years; I can’t touch the stuff. My wife, Momo, loves her some Tupperware. She has a beautiful assortment of colored containers that, when soiled, she puts in the dishwasher. That is another layer of my anxiety. I cannot take them from the rack. I use a set of tongues to grab the cursed piece and then lay it on the counter for her to put away. I don’t care to know where she hides this stuff as long as I don’t come into contact with it.

My therapist is a cheeky fellow. He told me that being spanked with a Tupperware dish and all the problems it caused me could have been worse. My mother could have grabbed a PYREX dish.

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Addressing Border Issues: Boy Scouts Armed with Daisy Air Rifles


Troop of Texas Boy Scouts marching to the El Paso border.

There has got to be a better way to secure our border. Our illustrious governor of Texas sent the state National Guard to help the border patrol, but they were issued only one bullet, which is to be carried in their shirt pocket, like Officer Barney Fife. Now we have Venuswealean gangs attacking our officers and guards with knives, broken bottles, and tire irons, and our boys can’t shoot back to protect themselves.

Problem solved: send in a troop of Texas Boy Scouts armed with Daisy pellet rifles. Those pellets may not kill the invaders, but damn, they hurt, and those Boy Scouts always save the day. Be Prepared!

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Elvis Presley Meets the Afterlife: A Southern Tale


Two Kings In A Caddie

The high desert at night is solitude. The velvet blackness holds wondrous things.

The “57” Caddie pulled away from the gas station, spewing gravel. The old man who had filled it up a few minutes ago watched until the tail lights disappeared down the highway. Two twenty-dollar bills for ten dollars of gas, go figure. A two-dollar bill was mixed in the bills; TCB was printed on the front. What did that mean?

The most comfortable place in the world for the aged singer was sitting behind the wheel of his beloved white Cadillac.  

He was not the sleek crooner in size thirty-six sport coats anymore; he didn’t care to be. He was comfortable in his own skin.  After decades of dieting, he surrendered to the siren’s call of biscuits, gravy, and his beloved peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Everybody gets a little heavy as they age, he told himself, and after seeing an old girlfriend in a supermarket trash magazine, he felt better about his expanding looks. The once sleek red-headed dancer was now as portly as himself. It’s a shame he couldn’t call her up. But then again, she loved the man he used to be, and he loved the girl she once was.

The decision to disappear in the late 70s was his way of escaping the hell he had created for himself. Drugs, alcohol, guns, crazy-ass women, and an army of hangers-on. The whole scene was sucking what life he had left from him. Realizing that if he was going live incognito, Las Vegas, Nevada, was ground zero. Every casino on the strip had Elvis impersonators. He could hide in plain sight.

To stave off boredom, he worked at one of the cheesy late-night wedding chapels for a while, imitating himself. He loved the irony of it all: having the wedding party cry and gagging with laughter, telling stories only the real Elvis would know. The patrons appreciated his stories and one-man karaoke performance, and he could still make a few young brides swoon.

At times, he became bone-weary and yearned to go home, but he knew that could never happen except in dreams. These long rides in the desert calmed him and allowed sleep without prescription drugs. He was clean now and was damn – straight going to stay that way.

The Caddies headlights illuminated the figure of a man standing by the roadside, thumb in the air. Elvis never picked up a hitcher, but a tingling feeling in his scalp told him he should stop for this one. Pulling over, he waited for the stranger to approach the car. The door opened, and a figure slid into the seat beside him. He turned to introduce himself.

An old man sat in the glow of the dash lights. His long gray hair was tied into a ponytail, and a neatly trimmed gray beard filled his face. He wore a loose-fitting red running jacket with matching sweatpants. His gold lame running shoes shined like bars of gold.

Elvis studied him briefly and then asked the old man, “I know you, mister, I’ve seen you on TV, aren’t you, Willie Nelson? What are you doing out in this desert this time of night?”

The old man turned and said, “No, I’m not Willie Nelson, and that’s a fine compliment, to be sure. I’m not going far, and it’s nice to meet you, Elvis.”

Speaking his first name as if he had known him forever, and his voice made him squirm. He hadn’t introduced himself.

In a slightly scolding, fatherly tone, the old man addressed Elvis,

“Young man, I’m shocked that a Christian boy like yourself from a first-class Baptist church in Tunica, Mississippi, would not recognize me. Don’t you find it strange that I know who you are? In fact, my boy, I know everything about you from the day you were born. I’m a little hungry, can I have one of those peanut butter and banana sandwiches hiding in your glove box?”

Elvis told the old man he was welcome to one, and there’s an ice-cold Pepsi in the cooler sitting on the back seat.

The old man pulled a soda from the cooler and then pushed the caddie’s glove box button. The door dropped down with a clunk. From inside came an angelic light that illuminated his face in a soft glow.  Elvis stared into the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen. Endless in depth, filled with kindness and forgiving, but tinged with a bit of sadness. The old fellow looked as old as dirt, but in that light, his features were as soft as a pastel portrait.

The old man sighed and, in between bites, said, “I appreciate the snack. It seems like I’ve been working for an eternity and have missed a lot of meals. All I do is go from one place to another, convincing folks to follow Dad and granting miracles. I was out here last week waiting for you, but that case of heartburn brought on by that Red Baron pizza laid you up for the night. You really shouldn’t eat that junk. Look at me, trim and healthy, all because of the Mediterranean diet. Can you imagine all those gals shooting themselves up with that Ozempic stuff just to stay thin?”

The old man smiled, reached over, touched Elvis’s shoulder, and said,

“ I’ve got someplace to be, and I want you to go with me. We can have a little visit along the way, a counseling session of sorts, no charge, it’s on the house. And by the way, when I’m down here, in this realm, I prefer to be called just plain old Sonny; it’s less frightening…puts people at ease.”

After driving for a while, Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “You know son, I play in a band when I’m home, and your name comes up often, the guys are always asking me when you’re coming up to join them.”

Elvis said, “That’s nice, sir; who might your band members be?” and where, exactly, is home?”

“Well, home is where my Father is; Heaven. You know, the pearly gates and such, sitting on clouds, the weathers good all the time, all of that stuff you read about.”

“You mean streets of gold and everyone lives in their own temple type of Heaven?” asked Elvis.

Sonny replied, “Well not exactly, the streets of gold were a real maintenance nightmare, so we went back to Jordanian river – rock. The temples were a little small, so we made some major changes right after Frank Lloyd Wright came up. Everyone now has a nice little place with a view of the garden…everyone’s equal in Dad’s eyes you know. Your Mamma and Daddy’s place is an exact copy of Graceland. Bet you didn’t know that!”

Elvis swallowed hard and said, “You’ve seen my Mommy and Daddy?”

“Well of course I have you nimrod. Didn’t I just tell you who I am and where I live. Don’t you listen!” replied Sonny.

Sonny clapped his hands on his knees and said, “Now, back to my band for a minute. It’s made up of the best musicians that ever lived.  Your old buddies Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash just recently joined up, and I’ve got Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and George Harrison on guitars, and Gene Kruppa and Keith Moon on drums, and I’m looking forward to Ringo joining up pretty soon. There’s Count Basie and Mozart on keyboards, Roy Orbison, Bobby Darin, Buddy Holly, and Old Blue Eyes on vocals. Man, that Orbison can hit those high notes…really ticks Sinatra off. Frank has a bad attitude about everything, always wanting to get the Rat Pack up and running again. Dad always sends him “down below” for a few days to keep him in line.”

Elvis struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. He knew all those dudes when they were alive, and Bobby Darin was a running buddy back in the day.

On a bit of a roll, Sonny continued, “Myself, I play a little bass sometimes if Noel Redding is busy greeting the British arrivals down at the gate.  John Lennon still claims it wasn’t Yoko that broke up the band; he swears it was McCartney’s doings, and old Ed Sullivan already has a Beatles reunion show planned, just waiting for the other two to show up. I told him it wouldn’t be too much longer, but it wasn’t a deal if he had that stupid little mouse puppet Popo Gigio on the bill.  I just wanted to squeeze him until his little eyes popped out. Puppets make me uncomfortable.”

Looking at the road ahead, Elvis was sweating like a lawn sprinkler. His mouth was dry as cotton, and he couldn’t catch a good breath. This was too much for him to digest at one time. Here he is, giving a ride to the Son of God. “Is this the way it’s supposed to be?” he thought, “Aren’t you supposed to see a white light and your loved ones coming to meet you?” Not the Lord telling you he plays in a rock band full of dead musicians and hates mouse puppets. Maybe he was having an LSD flashback.

Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “No, Elvis, you’re not having a flashback, and you don’t always see the light…and yes, I can read your thoughts.  Really, this is pretty much the way it happens. I make special provisions for people as needed, and you are a special provision type of fellow, so enjoy the evening.  I’m not saying it’s your time to come home to “my place,” but who knows. Take the next right up here; you’re going to like where we are going.”

Elvis turned the caddie down the dirt road and, after a mile or so, came to a ramshackle tin building. The exterior looked like an old military barrack, and over the door was a cheesy neon sign that read “Sonny’s Place.” No cars parked in the lot or tire tracks in the sand. This joint was really out of the way.

Sonny escorted Elvis through the front door, greeted by a kindly lady sitting behind a counter. Elvis noticed her name tag read “Patsy C.” When she saw Sonny, she said, “My Savior, how good to see you again; everyone’s been asking if you were going to come by tonight, who’s your pal?”

Sonny replied, “This is the famous Elvis Presley darling, but he’s not here officially yet, he’s just visiting for a spell, slap one of those silver wrist bands on him please.”

Elvis interrupted, “Excuse me sir, what’s the silver band mean?”

Smiling, Sonny said, “Oh, it means you can’t have the top-shelf drinks, can’t use the nice restrooms, and most of all it means you’re not dead yet…dig.”

Elvis understood all right, and that was okay with him. As long as he had not assumed room temperature.

When they walked into the main room, thunderous applause greeted them. Sonny humbly waved and nodded, and Elvis, slack-jawed and gob-smacked, stared at all the dead musicians and singers he had known.

On stage, Bobby Darin was kicking off “Mack The Knife,” accompanied by an all-star band of Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Mozart, Charlie Bird, Gene Krupa, Glen Miller, Harry James, and an entire horn section. Bobby saw Elvis and gave him a big smile and a thumbs up.

When the song ended, Bobby directed a spotlight to the small table occupied by Sonny and Elvis, and in that “oh so cool voice,” he announced, “Ladies and Gents, in the crowd tonight we have the one and only, my good friend, Mr. Elvis Presley, stand up and take a bow, E.”

The crowd went wild. Everyone was on their feet, applauding, and from the back of the room, a chant was growing, “Elvis..Elvis..Elvis.” A shaking, teary-eyed Elvis stood as best he could and acknowledged his peers….his dead peers.

Sonny touched his arm and said, “Go on up there, my boy, give it all you got.”

When Elvis walked onstage, the band came over and gave him a hug. His old friend Bobby held him the longest. Elvis grabbed the microphone, turned to the band, and yelled, “Viva Las Vegas in the key of G.”

Strutting, gyrating, not missing a note, the crowd dancing in the aisles, and Elvis was putting on the show of his life. His heart was so full of joy that he felt it would burst, and then it did.

As he floated backward, he felt hands engulfing his body, lowering him to the stage. He was aware of people standing around him, and then he saw a beautiful bright light, and from that light emerged his parents, who were leading him through a heavenly garden to a lovely copy of his beloved Graceland.

The musicians formed a circle around his body, heads bowed, quietly praying.

They parted when Sonny came on stage, and he knelt next to Elvis’s body. With his hand on Elvis’s forehead, he said, “Wake up Elvis, you’re home now.”

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Scooter Adventures: Not Your Grandma’s Ride


The day after Thanksgiving, I made my usual trip to the grocery in search of any food item that didn’t resemble a turkey. I came away with ice cream sandwiches, Corsicana Fruitcake, and Kinky Friedman Salsa.

As I was leaving H-E-B, I noticed a gathering at the far end of the parking lot, so I wandered over to see what the gathering was about. Being close to Sun City, a throng of seniors usually means a medical condition or someone got mashed by a car. 

There, gathered under a brightly displayed “Scooter Town” sign, was a throng of senior citizens, milling about a display of personal electric scooters, or as I call them, ” fancy wheelchairs.”

I squeezed into the mob to have a better view and was surprised at how beautiful this “new generation” of personal scooters were. The throng was “oohing and ahhing” as if they were witnessing the unveiling of the new Cadillac at the State Fair car show. One old-timer commented to his wife that “these new scooters made his one at home look like a Model T.” I had to agree; they were light-years better than the one my Aunt Beulah used to ride around Santa Anna, Texas.

One scooter caught my eye, so I shuffled over to check it out. As I was bent down, admiring the tires, the salesman, standing behind me, said, “go ahead, sit in her, crank her up and take a test drive.”

” Aren’t these supposed to be for use in the house and grocery stores?” I asked.

The salesman, in his best excitable voice says, “Heck no, these aren’t your Grandma’s scooter boy, these are the new generation of senior transportation. You can drive these babies anywhere. Take them to the store, the post office, the gym,  Luby’s, the doctor- where ever. They are 100 percent street legal, and the best part is you don’t need a license. So…when the kids think you’re a vegetated pabulum sucker and take away the car, you can get one of these beauties and keep on trucking.

He was in full salesman mode now, and continued to explain in further detail, “Take this model you’re looking at here, this is our newest one, The 1967 Summer Of Love Retro. Notice the authentic tie-dye seat, the leather fringe appointments, and the custom paint job, that is an exact copy of Janis Joplin’s psychedelic Porsche Roadster. Upfront here, we have the hand-tooled-Tibetan copper bull horn, and in the back, there is a 2500 lb wench with a carbonized cut-proof chain. The tires are reproductions of the legendary Goodyear Redline radials wrapped around these special little Cragar Mags. To finish the package, we’ve included a Lear-8 track tape player with Bluetooth, a leather stash bag, if you’re so inclined for that scene, and that cute little bird sitting on the guitar decal”.

“Why would you need a bullhorn and wench?” I asked.

He exclaimed, ” The Bullhorn,is for yelling at people that get in your way, such as punk-ass kids or anyone disrespectful to old folks, and,  if you’re still feeling frisky like back in the day, it can be used to voice your opinion when protesting at Walmart or the Social Security Office. The wench and chain have come standard on our California and Oregon Protest models for years are for attaching you and your scooter to tree, gate, power plant, or structure of your choice. That cut-proof chain makes it tough for the police to get you unhooked. How about taking her out for a little test drive?

I agreed and eased onto the cushy seat.

After a few minutes of instruction, I was ready to roll. I turned the ignition key and felt the hard bump of the powerful transmission lighting up.

” Go ahead, gun the throttle, listen to those pipes,” said the salesman.

I gunned the throttle, and the digitally-reproduced sound of a Harley Davidson chopper roared out of the side pipes. He was right, this was not my Aunt Beulah’s  scooter.

The salesman warned me to take it easy because the controls were extremely touchy, and don’t touch that red button below the seat. With that warning clearly ignored, I pulled the sleek little scooter onto the parking lot and accelerated down to the exit. This baby was smooth and fast. I racked the pipes a bit and folks stared at me like I was an old Hell’s Angel that escaped from the nursing home.

The salesman didn’t say anything about “not” driving in traffic, so I figured it would be alright to at least cruise down the street and take a spin around the Dairy Queen.

While waiting at the exit to merge onto the street,  I thought some tunes would be cool, so I reached down and pushed the button on the Lear 8 Track, and Steppenwolf blared from the two Bose side-mounted speakers. I also mashed a small button next to the sound system labeled “Turbo.” The one the salesman told me to avoid.

“What the hell! Let’s see what this baby can do,” I yelled into the wind.

With “Born to Be Wild” blaring at 250 DB’s I gunned the throttle.

I figured the scooter would react like an old-folks ride. I didn’t expect that sucker to raise straight up on its rear wheels and do a “high-ho Silver” wheelie across Highway 377.

With zero control of the beast,  I shot down the busy street like an NRA dragster, narrowly missing a bread truck, an eighteen-wheeler, and three Cadillac’s by mere inches.

I roared by a Black Cadillac, and the lady behind the wheel crossed herself and showed me her rosary. With that sign, I figured “What the hell, I’m going to die.”

Pinned to the back of the seat by the G-Force, hand frozen on the throttle, I somehow made a hard right turn into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen, spewing gravel onto the cars waiting in the order-line, as I did a rubber-burning 360 and came to a stop.

The “little beast” expelled a  tiny raspy -cough from the shiny side pipes, shuddered a few times and died.

Stunned, disoriented, and shaking like a dog passing a peach pit, I dismounted the scooter, and on shaky legs, walked back to H-E-B to retrieve my car, leaving the little beast where it died.

Driving home, I decided that I ever need one of those scooters, I’ll buy something safer, like a Harley.

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A Garden of Memories: My Time with Mr. Cohen


I met Mr. Cohen in the fall of 1958.

After spending two hours rummaging through a vacant lot along Morningside Drive, I’m dragging my rusted and barely operable Western Auto wagon full of discarded soda pop bottles home for counting. Redeemable for 2 cents each, the glass containers will yield the change I need for a few Moon Pies and perhaps an RC Cola, readily available at our neighborhood grocer.

Unfortunately, money for me is scarce. When I asked for a dime or even a few pennies, my parent’s stock answer was, “money? kids don’t need money. What in the world will you do with money? Go out and play.” As a result, I am habitually broke and maybe the only kid I know with an empty piggy bank and lint-filled pockets.

Three houses away from home, a stout man in white tee-shirt plants himself in front of my wagon, blocking the sidewalk and my path home. He is not a large man, and his manner is more friendly than intimidating.

I’ve seen him a few times before, mowing his grass, trimming a bush, or sweeping the sidewalk in front of his tidy home, which happens to be the envy of our block.

A black Buick sits in his driveway. A banker or a young doctor’s car if they can’t afford the required Caddie. Professional folks drive Buicks; the rest of the peons must drive Fords or Chevrolets, or in the worst case, a Plymouth or Studebaker. My family owns a Chevy, and my grandfather a Plymouth. One of my cousins drives a Corvette with factory air conditioning, but he is single and spends money like a sailor on shore leave.

The man extends his arm with a large hand attached. I lack proper adult protocol and stare at his appendage like a moron. It takes a moment to realize his intention, and then I reluctantly put my small hand in his. We shake hands, and he introduces himself.

Milo Cohen is the first adult male to shake my hand.

Unfortunately, my father or grandfather hasn’t found the time to educate me on the social requirements of impending manhood, so I am young and culturally ignorant. Until this time, my contact with the adult world has been limited to a few of my parent’s friends, my baseball coach, teachers, and relatives who view me as a noisy nuisance to be constantly reprimanded. At that moment, I grow up a little.

Mr. Cohen makes pleasant talk about the neighborhood. He and Mrs. Cohen have lived here for the past 8 years since they came to Texas from the old country. He speaks with an accent I’ve not heard, so I imagine he is not from Texas.

My collection of throw-away bottles catches his attention. I tell him it’s my way of making a bit of change for Saturday movies or a Moon Pie. He nods as if he understands my predicament, then excuses himself and walks to his garage, returning with a wheelbarrow full of empty soda pop bottles. There must be a hundred bottles stacked in rows upon rows. Coke, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Grapette, RC Cola, and Frosty root beer; all the best brands. Mr. Cohen says he has been saving them for years, and I could make better use of them. He graciously gifts me his collection of classic bottles.

Dumbfounded and grateful, I struggle to find my voice and finally manage to spit out a squeaky “thank you.” He accepts my awkward attempt, and we are immediate friends for life.

The following Saturday, I notice Mr. Cohen trimming the bushes in front of his house. I walk down for a visit, assuming that we are now friends and I can come onto his property uninvited to pester him. Instead, he welcomes my presence and appears to enjoy my childish questions. ” Why do you cut some of the roses off and leave the others?” I ask.

He explains, ” I cut the spent and almost spent blooms off to make room for the new ones. Always break apart the old blooms and throw the spent petals onto the ground because they become fertilizer for the plant.” This bantering about pruning goes on for a while, then we are on to other botanical mysteries. For example, I had no idea that the angle a stem is pruned reflects rainwater and deters rot, and cut correctly, it will coax the branch to grow in a specific direction. Finally, he asked me if I would care to learn more about plants? I accept his offer. Lifes education comes in different forms, at the most unusual times.

Mr. Cohen’s landscape is a picturesque postcard of beauty, and not by accident. His story is, as a boy, back in the old country, he learned the care of plants and all things botanical from his mother and father. But, unfortunately, he doesn’t say where the old country might be, and I am too polite to inquire.

My Saturdays and some Sunday afternoons find me at Mr. Cohens, assisting him with his gardening. But, unfortunately, I feel that I am more a hindrance than a botanical apprentice.

After a few weeks of instruction, he gives me an older pair of rusted pruning shears, warning that they are sharp and will lop off my finger if not used properly. Under his guidance, I prune my first bush, an Autumn Rose Salvia that has become unruly and obstinate. An hour goes by, and I finish the task. Mr. Cohen tells me it’s one of the better pruning jobs he has seen in a while. I know it’s a little better than a hot mess, but I smile like a drooling fool. “Next week,” he says, ” we will tackle a pithy Pitisporum.” He assigns human traits to his plants. Odd, but I like it.

A week before Halloween, my grandfather passes away. It was expected to happen sooner than later. Mustard Gas from the First World War is the likely reason for his cancer, says the doctor at the VA Hospital. No cure; his days were numbered from the moment he inhaled the gas. The trenches of France offered no retreat.

It’s my first funeral, and I don’t know how to grieve as expected. My grandmother and relatives are professionals; they should be paid for their performance, wailing and thrashing about sporting contorted faces for days. I feel the loss of his presence, but I can’t find a tear to shed.

Mr. Cohen, with my assistance, plants a Gardenia bush in our front yard in memory of grandfather. Then, Mrs. Cohen delivers a large basket of comfort food and a bottle of wine to our household. She tells me it’s what is done in the old country. Food for the comfort of the soul and wine for soothing the spirit. Her accent echos Mr. Cohens. She is a kind lady with sad brown eyes and unruly hair.

While digging the hole for the Gardenia bush, I notice a series of crude black numbers on the inside of Mr. Cohens’ left forearm. I’ve seen him with dirt to his elbows and never noticed the numbers before. It looks to be a tattoo. So, I ask him what they mean. He pauses momentarily, then says, ” those numbers are my phone number, so in case I am run down by a bus, the authorities will know to call Mrs. Cohen.” Makes perfect sense to me; everyone should be so considerate.

A few days later, I mentioned Mr. Cohens’ tattoo and his explanation to my father. He laughed, then took a moment and sat with me on the back porch steps, something he rarely does.

“Mr. Cohen,” he says,” is, from what I hear around the neighborhood, is of the Jewish faith. Before, and during the war, the one that I fought in, the Nazi’s incarcirated many millions of men, women and children in camps across Europe. They were treated horribly. Most died, but a few managed to survive and come to America to start a new life. I believe the tattoo on his arm might be his identification number. It will always be with him as a reminder.”

I know nothing of the Jewish faith, or the Nazi’s or of camps. However, public schooling teaches us about the Alamo and the Revolutionary War and not much about recent history. I know just enough to embarrass myself now, so I pledge not to question Mr. Cohen further. I am sad to know my friend endured that treatment. The adult world is a cruel one. I wonder if there is a way I can remain at this age forever?

Thanksgiving arrives with bitter cold and sleet. The trees drop what leaves remain, and Mr. Cohens’ landscape, within a few days, turns from green to hues of gold and brown. Winter is early this year, and my botanical apprenticeship is paused until next spring. He gives me a binder of handwritten gardening instructions to study. His book is much more challenging than any from school. I vow to be ready when March arrives.

Ten days before Christmas, and I have not seen Mr. Cohen. His car has not moved from its usual spot in his driveway. At night, there is one light burning in the kitchen. The rest of the house is dark and lonely.

One afternoon, after school, I knocked on their door. Although it is bitter cold, Mr. Cohen answers but doesn’t invite me inside. He says Mrs. Cohen is ill and needs her rest. I ask if there are any chores I can help with? He says removing and hauling the remaining leaves to the backyard compost pile would greatly help. He pays me a new quarter, knowing I am suitable for the work. I notice his eyes are rimmed with dark blue circles, and the pallor of his skin reminds me of my grandfather’s last days.

Christmas Eve arrives, and there are snow flurries in the air. Father stands on our front porch, smoking a cigarette and checking the weather. He finds a small wrapped package leaning against the front door jamb. It’s for me.

The Cohens gave me a shiny pair of pruning shears and leather yard gloves. I feel bad because I slipped a rather childish Christmas card that I made into their mailbox, being all I could afford. Crayons and construction paper only go so far. From what I am told, it’s the thought that counts. I need more soda pop bottles.

New Year has passed, and I have still not seen Mr. Cohen. School is back in session, and I am distracted by my studies and homework. But then my mother told me there was an obituary in the newspaper for Mrs. Cohen, and her funeral service was a few days ago. Why did I not know this? I am crushed.

I take my pruning shears and gloves and retreat to the front porch steps. It’s a bitter day, and my jeans do little to protect my rear from the cold concrete. But I am already numb, so it doesn’t matter.

The tears that couldn’t be found for my grandfather now flow for Mrs. Cohen and then for other things as well.

I cry for my sweet dog that my parents gave away when we moved without telling me. I call for my dead puppy. I yearn for my old neighborhood and my friends and home that was taken from me without explanation because my parents planted me in this hell hole of a neighborhood. I cry angry tears for my treatment from the snotty rich kids at my new school who called me white trash because I have patches on my jeans and an old winter coat. It all comes out at once. Finally, my final tears flow for my friend Mr. Cohen, who I know is suffering from a broken heart, and there is nothing I can do to help him.

At the end of February, I visit Mr. Cohen. He asks if I have studied my notebook and am I ready for spring gardening? Of course, I reply yes on all counts. It’s good to have him back, and I am happy to resume my newfound craft.

The weather is still cold, but there are woody shrubs to prune, flower beds to turn, mulch and compost to spread, and bulbs to plant; it’s an overwhelming task, but I enjoy every minute. My mentor noticed my happiness, and in return, it made him proud. He is back to his old self as much as he can be. March is a week away, and spring will not wait for dawdlers. Green blades of grass are poking up through his brown lawn; we had best hurry up.

April comes, and spring explodes. Mr. Cohen’s landscape, with my help, will have an award-winning year if he chooses to seek recognition from the Botanical Society of Fort Worth, but he is a shy man and doesn’t require accolades for his passion and craft. So, I, too, now share that passion.

In June, my parents announced that we were again moving. This time to Wichita Falls, Texas, not quite the end of the world, but almost halfway there. My father is starting a new career building homes and will no longer be a professional musician. Once again, within a few years, my life will be uprooted and thrown to the wind. I have no say, so I offer no resistance. It will be good to be away from that hateful school and this part of Fort Worth. I spend as much time with Mr. Cohen as possible, helping him with chores and tending his landscape before we leave.

Moving day arrives, the truck is loaded, the doors locked, and we follow the moving truck out of town. I said goodbye to Mr. Cohen that morning. He gives me additional pages for my notebook, his address if I find time to drop him a line, and his phone number if I ever get in a jamb. We shake hands, and I am gone.

A decade passes in what seems like a matter of months. I have graduated high school and live in Plano, Texas. My father is a successful home builder, and those miserable days in Fort Worth seemed a lifetime back. There is a family gathering in Fort Worth, and I take my own car, so I might leave early and visit Mr. Cohen. There were a few Christmas cards over the years, and then correspondence dwindled. I got older, and so did he.

When I pulled up in front of his home, I knew Mr. Cohen didn’t live there. A Volkswagen Bug and a station wagon are in the driveway—no black Buick. The landscape still looks cared for but is many steps below Mr. Cohen’s standards. The house trim is a different color. The large Sycamore tree in the yard is gone. But it was bound to happen.

A woman answers the door. She looks to be in her early thirties; I hear children from somewhere in the house. Her husband joins her. I introduce myself, explaining that I lived a few houses down for four years and was a good friend of Mr. Cohen, the original owner. The couple has lived in the house for five years and purchased it from Mr. Cohen’s estate. That explains the cease in correspondence. Unfortunately, Mr. Cohen is no longer alive.

The woman leaves and returns with a binder full of notes. A book much like the one I have. It seems Mr. Cohen left specific written instructions, with notes, letters, and sketches, for whoever buys his home. The new owners will care for the landscape for a minimum of five years, following his instructions in the book to the letter. The man says my name is mentioned many times in the book and that I was Mr. Cohens’ only apprentice. I felt they were fishing for a compliment, so I stretched the truth a bit and said, ” the landscape looks beautiful; I’m sure Mr. Cohen would approve.” It was a little more than a hot mess. The both of them smiled like drooling fools.

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Christmas Memories: Santa Claus and My Childhood Beliefs


Photo by: Head Elf No. 1

Keeping with the spirit of Christmas, I am posting a few tales of personal Holiday experiences growing up in the 1950s in Fort Worth, Texas.

The hundreds of hours I wasted thinking about Santa Claus, where he lived, and whether he was happy. Did Mrs. Claus make him hot cocoa and cookies? Does his reindeer live in a lovely barn? How do they fly? Is Rudolph the leader of the pack? Did he get my letters? Was I on the nice or naughty list? Is his spying Elves watching me? These were questions that required an answer. My parents were no help, they would smile and pat my little flat top haircut head.

Santa consumed my life from 4 years old until I turned 9. I was a true believer, a young pilgrim to the point of becoming a child Santa Evangelist. Anyone said something terrible about Santa; it was put up your dukes time or a come to Santa prayer meeting. My younger sister was also a firm believer, but then, she was brainwashed by me, and I was programmed by my parents, grandparents, and the rest of the family.

On Thanksgiving Day, the trickery commenced around our household. First, my mother, the master of deceit, would warn us about the naughty list and what would happen if we were on it. Then it was, ” The Elves are watching you through the windows to see if you’re good.” That’s the one that got to me the most. I had a plan to catch them.

After lights out, I slinked out of bed under the cover of my darkened room. Crawling on my belly like a soldier, I made my way to the nearest window. Back against the wall, I slid up and moved the blinds in a flash, hoping to catch the little guys. Failing to catch one spying on me didn’t deter my mission: I knew they were there and faster on the draw. Santa and his gang were tricky ones.

The annual Christmas visit to Leonard Brothers Department Store in downtown Fort Worth was the ultimate Santa experience. Toyland was akin to holiday Nirvana for us kids. A rocket ship monorail glided around the basement ceiling, kids packed in like sardines on a rocket train to nowhere. Parents rush to purchase presents while the kids are busy, hiding them under their coats or in bags and lying to their innocent children with straight faces.

Santa held his court in the middle of Toyland. His throne was 10 ft. off the ground, with stairs leading up and down. A majestic sight if there ever was one. Sitting in a velvet chair fit for a king while his Elfin helpers lifted the crumb crunchers on and off his lap, it was pure excellence. A line of snot-nosed kids snaked around the room, waiting for their chance to place their order, up the stairs, on the lap for 15 seconds, then off the lap, and down the stairs. The visit was over before you knew what had happened. It was the same routine for years, and I loved it. I could spit out my order in under 10 seconds. Santa and his helpers were impressed.

I asked Santa for a bicycle when I was 9 years old. A red and white machine with side mirrors, streamers, a headlight, and white-side-wall balloon tires. I also asked for a new BB Gun, a larger Cub Scout knife, and a Fanner 50 cap pistol with green stick-um caps. My sister asked him for a doll that was larger than she was and a dollhouse.

Christmas Eve arrived, bedtime rolled around, and we hit the sack. Hot Ovaltine and cookies put me out like a light. Then, sometime after midnight or later, I had to pee. I didn’t want to get up, but the Ovaltine was causing me some discomfort. Half asleep, shuffling down the hallway, I looked into the living room as I passed the doorway. With a Schlitz beer in his hand, my father sat by the tree, assembling a red bike like the one I expected from Santa. My mother was working on a cardboard dollhouse, and the giant doll my sister wanted was standing under the tree, looking creepy.

I convinced myself that Santa must have run out of time and had recruited my parents to complete his work. The reality of the sight escaped me.

My father looked up and saw me standing there; our eyes met, and he smiled like a raccoon caught in a trash can. The jig was up. The big lie was exposed, and my childhood imploded right there in the hallway. Daddy was Santa, and Mom was Mrs. Claus. I peed and made my way back to bed, not comprehending what I had witnessed.

I awakened at daybreak, our usual Christmas morning routine. I was thankful to be awake and away from the nightmare that had gripped me most of the night. I was relieved that it was all caused by the Ovaltine. The gifts were under the tree, and life was good. I loved the bike and the BB Gun, but my sister feared the enormous lifelike doll.

After breakfast, I was lying under the Christmas tree, building an army fort with my plastic soldiers. That’s when I found a Schlitz beer bottle, assembly instructions for a bike, and a few tools.