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Wills Story


The following is a short story I wrote a while back. The character Will is based on a story from my Grandfather, John Henry Strawn who served in the United States Army and fought in the trenches in France during World War I. My memory of this particular story is vivid because of the way he told it. His voice would fill with a mild rage and then sink to a whisper that bordered on tears. I was young and never heard him speak this way. I knew enough to keep quiet and give the man his space. A good yarn teller needs room to spin.

Chili Pete and Nicotine were his friends during this time. They could have been from anywhere, but it wasn’t important.

The visitor, wounded twice and gassed, came home, Chile and Nicotine did not. In honor of D-Day, I feel it is appropriate to share some of his stories; and if he would have lived longer, there may have been enough for a book. I was happy to know the few he did tell.

The white-haired visitor sitting to Rufus’ left had been quiet throughout Del’s story; staring at his boots and showing no emotion. So, Rufus, trying to be hospitable, asked him if he had something to say.
The way he wore his hat, all cockeyed and sweat-stained, was sad. He was in dirty clothes, worn-out boots, and no woman miserable. Chili wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about anything this old codger had to say, but he is a guest, so he gets to speak.
The visitor opened a Pearl, drank it all in one swig, gathered himself for a minute, and says, “my names William; my friends call me Will. I grew up around Kennedale and fought in the Great War back in 1917 over there in France. I ain’t never told anyone about this, but I’m getting old, and the angels are coming to visit at night, so I figure it’s about time to let this out.” Chili moved closer to the visitor.
“I joined up in the Army over in Fort Worth in 1917. Then I got sent to Kansas for training and was then shipped over to France on a boat. When I got to there, my Captain, knowing I was from Texas, put me in charge of the caissons and the mules that pulled them. He figured if I was from Texas, I was a cowboy. I never told him differently. At least I was stationed back from the worst of the fighting, taking care of the stock. I was okay with that. I saved my sorry ass. I got pretty fond of those mules, and it hurt me a lot when one of them got killed. I always fed them more than needed. They were happy, critters. I liked my job; I loved being alive.


One cold miserable muddy morning these three German boys come walking across the battlefield holding a white hanky. They were giving up. Some of the boys wanted to shoot them, but our Captain said that wouldn’t be right to kill an unarmed man. Captain was funny that way. He was a preacher back in Kansas, so he tried to live by the word. Even in war.
Those kraut boys were pitiful. No coats, dirty and scared, they were a mess. We fed them some grub and gave each a blanket and a tin of hot coffee with some brandy. They were grateful. One boy sobbed a bit, and then in pretty good English, thanked us for not killing them. His name was Frank. I liked that young fella.
After a week with us, the men didn’t bother watching them anymore. Those boys helped with chores and even did KP for us. They were nice boys that didn’t want any part of this war, but like us, they were doing their duty. They were our prisoners, but we treated them like they were one of us.
I asked Frank if he wanted to help me with the stock, and he was happy to oblige. He said that back in Bavaria, his family raised farm horses for a living, so he knew horses. I was glad to have him help. I never imagined I would become friends with a German soldier, in a damned old war, but that’s what happened. Frank and I became best of buddies. I exchanged addresses and such so when the war was over, we could keep in touch.
After a while, he and the other two got moved to a town in France and turned back over to the Germans when the war was over. I didn’t know if I would ever hear from him but hoped I would. I never had many friends, except for a couple of dogs and my horse.
A year after I got home to Waco, my Momma brought me a letter from Germany.
Frank, in his best English, wrote to me about him coming home, getting the horse ranch and farm going again, and marrying his girl. A baby was coming soon. He closed his letter asking me to sail over to Bavaria and work with him on his farm. He wanted to make me a partner. I didn’t have anything going on in Texas, so I told my Momma that I was moving to Germany.
I wrote him back and said I would come to Bavaria and be his pard. We exchanged a few more letters, and he writes that a boat ticket has been purchased for me to sail from New York next April. He also said that he has a cute cousin that might be interested in meeting me. Hot dog! I was going to live in Germany and marry a little alpine princess. Whooooo-weeee.
I got my affairs in order. Sold my horse and saddle, found a home for my dogs and such, and was counting the days until I rode the train to New York City. It was never meant to be.
In early March, I received a letter from Frank’s wife, Liese. She told me Frank had died in a farm accident a month or so back. She said I could still come, and she could sure use the help running the place.

I couldn’t do it, not with Frank being dead and all. I sent her a telegram saying I wouldn’t be making the trip and I was sorry about Franks passing.
I was devastated. It changed my life, and not for the better.
I had a second chance to do something other than being a dirty cowhand, and it was jerked right out from under me. I was a real, bitter man for a long time. I drank too much whiskey and did some bad things to people. I was a horrible person at times. I didn’t know myself anymore, but I did know enough that if I didn’t change, the good Lord was not going to be calling my name on judgment day.
I sometimes did odd jobs for an old Mexican fellow named Pepe. He saw the demons on my back and talked me into coming to his church to worship with him and his family. I never was a church person, but I went just to shut him up. I never saw any of what happened until it hit me. When I walked into that little Mexican church, the demons lifted off my back. I accepted the Lord into my sorry life, and he led me to salvation. Imagine that.
I went around and apologized to everyone if I ever did any wrong. I wrote to Franks’s wife and apologized for not coming over to help her.
I enclosed a separate letter for her to put on Frank’s grave.
There it is. I’ve said it all. Feels good to get that off my chest after all these years.”

The two of us sat in silence for a while; grandfather drinking his Jax Beer and me my Coke. He rose from his chair, put his beer glass in the sink and my coke bottle in the trash can, and gave me a goodnight hug. Then I realized that the man in his story had been himself.

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Happy Trails Till We Meet Again, But Only For A Little While


Photo by; Gabby Hayes

Tomorrow morning at approximately 7:15 AM, one of the two surgeons assigned to my medical predicament will be slicing into my stomach on his way to my spinal column. This has been a while coming, and alas, the highly anticipated moment has arrived. I have total faith in both surgeons since they are from foreign countries, attended multiple the bet medical schools, and are highly rated in their field.

The first surgeon, (the general surgeon,) and the stomach expert showed me a beautiful 4K video of the actual operation. Stunning color with sharp close-up photography of what one’s insides actually look like. They don’t use scalpels nowadays, but tiny light sabers similar to the ones used in Star Wars. Funny that his nurse is named Leia and the examination room I was in was labeled Exam R2.

Cutting through the viscera and old muscles, the soft pliable pinkish and rose-tinted innards, pulling back guts, tendons, and vital organs, blood veins pulsing with every beat of my 72-year-old heart, tons of escaping blood, and then driving a stainless steel wedge in between my L5 and S1 disk, that is no longer functional and are bone on bone and constantly fighting about who gets to cause me the most pain. He did mention, in passing, that if a blood vessel or artery burst he would be there to repair it, if possible. But, if I do pass on to the “other side” I wouldn’t feel a thing since I will already be halfway there. I told him “I would rather not wake up dead.” He thought that was witty, and giggled a bit.

He assured me the hardware and the tools are made by Craftsman and have a lifetime warranty from Lowes. I exhaled in comfort knowing that bit of information. He also adores Craftsman tools, so we talked a bit about home improvement. Seems he is remodeling his ranch house in Weatherford and forgot to support the main beam which allowed the den to collapse, resulting in the home being razed. Oops!

He congratulated me for not fainting since 99 percent of his patients do when viewing the film. I gave the presentation a 4 popcorn box rating and continued on to the next surgeon’s office.

My second surgeon, the spinal expert is rated so highly in his field, that he is considered a revered legend. The medical people don’t use his real name, but in the circle of surgeons, he’s called “The Spine Man.” It’s all rather James Bondish.

He’s repaired numerous high-profile and talented sports figures including Dac and Tony. It’s said that the first surgeon in his family tree corrected Qusimoto’s condition after the famous Notre Dame debacle, but that’s part of the legend I assume.

He also uses Craftsman tools and parts and showed me a brief presentation on how he will slice me in three or more places and install stainless plates, screws, rods, and spacers into my spinal column around the spacer wedge assisted by the spinal surgeon. They don’t use real bone for splicing anymore, but bone pieces are taken from recent and highly rated cadavers. He assured me not to worry, the cadaver looked a bit like me and didn’t object to the donation. That’s a good thing, I don’t want to wake up to ” It’s alive!” screaming in the operating room.

The question of years of practice came up and he told me he got his start at ten years old repairing mopeds and motors so he gained expertise early on with repositioning wiring harness, to accommodate nuts, bolts, and screws. Another good thing to know.

I will likely not be able to write on my blog since I will be as doped up as a San Francisco street person for a few days, then in excruciating pain which will require more drugs. I will not be in any state of mind to write about subjects that will surely offend every one of my readers and friends. My wife says I cannot have my laptop until I am reasonably sane again.

All kidding aside, I have complete faith in my surgeon’s skill and the care of the nurses and staff at Medical City Fort Worth. After all, it’s God’s gifted hands working through these two blessed surgeons.

Let’s hope all ends well and I’ll see you on down the trail in a short while. Happy Trails until we meet again.

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When Artist Interpretation Takes Over Real Life Events


Odd, yet typical, our sacred F.B.I., now fodder for the news sites, escorted one of their own out of their Washington Headquarters. The poor man is knee-deep in the cover-up of the Hunter laptop and thinks that by resigning, he will be above prosecution. He may be, but the agency and the D.O.J. are so marginalized they have to start leading people to the gallows, and he is a good one to begin the scheduled executions.

That darling little black, Lesbian, immigrant moron press reader, spouting from her prepared book of B.S., says Americans that support Trump, Christianity, Conservatism, or common sense, are Facisest? So the leftist has a new ” call to arms” just before the mid-term elections. ” Fires and Facisist and Riots. Oh My!” I doubt president Poopy-Pants remembers saying the same thing a few days ago. It’s her job to remind us.

A crazed, shaved head, hoodie-wearing mentally-addled radical is leading Dr. Oz in the polls? How can this be? Oz, a highly educated physician, and a conservative man, is the clear choice of reasonable voters, yet this freak of nature is likely to win. He is almost as bad as Biden in putting together two sentences that make sense.

Have we heard enough about J-Lo and her new husband Affleck yet? They are stealing the spotlight from the Kardashians. So look for an uptick in subversive sluttish behavior from the “Clan of Kardashian soon.” Young women all over the country are having withdrawal symptoms.

N.A.S.A. spends billions on a one-time use rocket, precisely as we did in 1968, to send an orbiter around the moon. I assume to see if it’s safe to land there again. The Aliens that the rock group “The Byrds” warned us of many decades ago actually told us not to come back. More than a few astronauts have attested to this confrontation at a campfire, along with some Vodka-laced Tang. The problem is that we must file the paperwork and close on the property before the Chinese beat us to the title company. The C.C.P. has a few robotic surveyors staking and subdividing the property. So why are Space X and its better quality reusable rockets not being used? N.A.S.A. has good friends in congress, and to Washington, Elon Musk is the most intelligent and dangerous man on the planet; what’s a few trillion here and a few more there? Soon, we’re talking “real money.”

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The Mullet Man Is Back


Mooch

I was shopping in H.E.B. grocery a few days back and ran into my old pal, Mooch. I was cruising over to the wine department via the frozen pizza aisle, Mooch’s favorite cuisine. There he was, pushing a basket full of Paul Newmans and Red Barron pies. The other half of the basket was full of Mountain Dew, Little Debbie snacks, and the family-size container of Metamucil.

I didn’t recognize him right off, the face seemed the same, the overalls, the black tee-shirt, and the white Rockports, but something was severely amiss. Then it hit me; Mooch had a mullet haircut. He looked like the grandfather of Joe Dirt. Where did all of this hair come from? Mooch has the condition that most men his age suffer from; thinning to no hair. I gotta admit, he looked pretty darn redneck, but in a cool way. His hair on top and the sides was stylish and curly, but the back flowed past his shoulders, giving a little flippy doo thing at the end. He looked like a shampoo ad.

” How ya like the haircut buddy” was the first thing out of his mouth. The only thing I could reply was ” you look like Joe Dirt, in that movie about the moron that drives a Dodge Hemi.”

” Yep, that’s me, little buddy,” he says. “Got a 1970 Charger out there in the parking lot. The bitch has a full-blown 440 Hemi, positive traction rear end, cheater slicks, Goodyear Red line tires, glass-pack mufflers, and a Hurst four speed stick shift with a skull shift knob; got a big box of 8-track tapes sitting in the back seat for tuneage. I got her up to 140 mph yesterday on the Chisolm Parkway over in Fort Worth. A fuzz tried to catch me but gave up.”

I wished him luck in his new lifestyle and continued on with my shopping. He exited the store in front of me and I watched him as he loaded his booty into the trunk of his bright red Dodge Hemi. As he bent over, his mullet wig fell off. He put it back on and burned rubber as he exited the parking lot.

The good old 70s. I don’t miss them as I got into my 2008 Honda CRV.

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John Steinbeck and His Eden


As a ten-year-old, I had no business reading “The Grapes of Wrath,” but my Aunt Norma thought I should discover more than Mark Twain. Her foresight gave me a vision beyond my years.

I learned to read at the age of five. I started school later because my birthday fell beyond the cut-off date. So my Mother and aunt ensured I would be ahead of my class when I entered first grade. I was at least two stages ahead in reading and writing but woefully ignorant of math, my most hated subject. Fun With Dick and Jane were books written for childish idiots. I yearned for more. My young brain was afire.

I’ve read all of John Steinbeck’s books except for ” East of Eden,” which I have almost completed. It’s supposedly autobiographical about his family, the Hamiltons, who were farmers outside of Salinas, California. There was a movie of the book made in the 1950s starring James Dean. It was a disastrous attempt, and Steinbeck deplored the film. I could hardly watch it.

I am a rabid reader and follower of Larry McMurtry, Truman Capote, William Faulkner, and Thomas Wolfe, but good Lord, this book, this blessed and talented man, John Steinbeck, may have written the best novel I have read to date. Its time is old and takes place in the late 1800s into the first world war, and if you know nothing of history, this book will teach you enough to not sound stupid at a cocktail party, which is now called a wine tasting or some other hip gathering. Most young folks nowadays don’t read, so you may be considered a god or a fumbling old fool. The young are not impressed easily.

If you have time, a rainy day brings boredom, or you may simply want to improve your life, read this book and learn from a master of American literature.

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Rocky Mountain High In Colorado Springs


Heading to the Market! Photo by Ken Kesey

This past Saturday, while visiting my wife’s lovely Daughter, husband, and her young family in Colorado Springs, we visited the Old Town Colorado Farmers Market in the original 1800s village of Colorado Springs. It is the happening place to be if you are an aficionado or an original member of the 1960s. My wife and I are both, so we were looking forward to taking a time machine back to the days of innocence and peace.

A beautiful day; the weather was in the low 70s, sunny and bright, and the scents of fresh organic produce, fragrant honey, extravagant lemonade, and Rocky Mountain High pot floated through the park. Sunshine was on our shoulders and flowers in our hair. I thought I spied John Denver strumming his Martin guitar, but then, remembered he has been dead for a while now, thanks to not checking his fuel gauge on his plane.

Young families with passels of little kids, every breed of dog imaginable, and I believe that every old hippie that came to Colorado Springs in the 60s never left. Grandmas with dreadlocks, granny dresses, and boobs hanging south to their knees were escorted by their husbands that resembled Rip Van Winkle more than a modern-era man. I thought we were at a “reproduction” of Woodstock. One cool guy may be the twin of the late Joe Cocker, down to the cowboy boots and the tye-dye tee shirt, while another was a ringer for Arlo Guthrie. It was a fantastic trip; my wife and I were stone-cold sober, so that made it even more surreal.

Tents with vendors selling “Colorado Eco Hip Friendly Bee Honey,” “Homemade and Cosmic Blessed Hemp Jelly,” “Granny Sunshines Fresh Baked Love Buns,” ” Hip Harry’s Secret Tomatoes,” and so on. A few booths were original and had quite a queue: “Madam Gina’s Personal Physcriatic Help-$20 for ten minutes.” Another was “Personal Weed Advice.” With all the different varieties, one could, if not careful, might choose a lousy bag and wake up in hell.

The only thing that did worry me was the number of young folks wearing backpacks. Men and women seemed to be carrying all their belongings in a variety of fashionable packs; maybe in case, they were called on a long-distance personal quest at the last minute.

What did those bags include? I am guessing they would be some “smart water,” “an Apple Laptop and iPhone ( required of the hipsters),” some high-quality weed, an extra pair of Doc Martin sandals, maybe a few organic pieces of fruit, and a flash drive containing the soundtrack from Woodstock or Dave Mathews. Of course, I could be wrong.

After the market, we went to the exquisite “Broadmoor Hotel.” This place has gardens equal to those of biblical Eden. Beautiful trees, flowers, and bushes that would never be found in Texas, and enough grounds staff to ensure it all stayed in perfect cosmic alignment.

Beautiful people strolling the sacred grounds with their Gucci sweaters tied around their shoulders and their Tacova boots shined to perfection. The reflection from their Rolex watches would have blinded me if not for my $10.00 pair of gas station sunglasses. This is how the other half of the country lives at a grand a night for a bed and bathroom. If I had a tin cup and a sign, I would have begged for enough money to pay for the trip.

The lobby reminded me of Fort Worth’s Amon Carter Museum. Fredrick Remmington’s famous oil paintings hung on every wall. There were easily ten million bucks in original western art in that lobby. I was in a trance.

It was a great trip to see the family, with good food, and perfect weather. We look forward to going back and having to wear a jacket.

It will be 104 degrees in Granbury today. I think God has a sense of humor and may have chosen Texas for his new “weather Hell” because of all the Californians moving here. Nothing looks funnier than a toasted Wokie.

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A Friday Rant From The Cactus Patch That is Visiting in Colorado for a few days !


Well oil my musket, wipe my ass and call me Davey Crockett. Things in the Cactus Patch are so off-kilter I can’t walk straight without a good shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Now the whales are pissed off and jumping onto boats. The boat was owned by a Democrat Greenpeace Pot Smoking Transgendered Fishing Captain attempting to coax a throng of weekend mariners to join his cause. The whale was obviously a conservative and was enraged by the rainbow flag flown aftward and the “Little Mermaid” sticker on the hull. Let’s hope the Great White Sharks off Lon-gilend don’t catch on.

If Martha Stewert went to prison for insider trading, why isn’t Pelosi, her husband, and most of the congress receiving the same treatment? The only reason she is still alive is that she has enough money to buy black market spare organs to keep her going. If she farted, her face would explode.

Merrick Garland is going to prosecute Trump? WTF? How about he starts with Hunter Biden, his wife, his father, his hookers, and then all the Antifa and BLM trash that ruined Seattle, Portland, Minneapolis, and other smaller cities? Garland is a worthless human unit that uses Dippity Do on his hair and hasn’t had a good bowel movement in years.

Biden releases another 20 million barrels of oil from our national reserve. Who is he selling it to this time? He will try and take a victory lap, but will likely be held up by Jill and the Secret Service. The corpse doesn’t know what planet he is on. This is the result of putting an old man that has shit for brains in office. Although Scarlett O’Hara wore her dress made from her curtains better than Jill does.

Biden’s machine is in full swing. The cute little Barbie black lesbian is now a historian. She and her lemmings now tout that he is the new Winston Churchill. At 79 years old, Mr. Churchhill knew his time was up. Health and mental issues had rendered him a shell of the ferocious lion-hearted warrior he was in the 1940s. Biden is only an 80-year-old feeble man with a small quadrant of his brain that occasionally functions. Don’t insult the world by comparing Biden to Churchill. It’s sacrilege.

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When Larry McMurtry Had Texas In His Back Pocket


Over the past few years, I’ve harbored two “bucket-list” items to fulfill before I reach room temperature. One was to visit Marfa, Texas, the self-proclaimed and pompous art nouveau hub of Texas and the holy ground where the movie “Giant” was filmed. I envisioned a hip desert town with fine food, good booze, and every inhabitant wearing Justin boots. I got a dusty, dirty, ugly little town with two nice hotels and no decent food.

My Marfa bubble was busted within thirty minutes of entering the town. I would have suffered a breakdown or a medical event, but my wife held me together until we made it back to Alpine, packed our gear, and headed back to Granbury.

The second and most anticipated bucket item was a visit to Archer City, Texas, the hometown of our revered Texas Nobel Laureate, Larry McMurtry. The small town boy knocked William Travis and Stephen F. Austin of the “favorite son” list.

Mo and I were headed to Colorado Springs to visit her daughter and family, so stopping in Archer City to visit McMurtry’s hallowed book store ” Booked Up” would make the trip an event to remember. This bubble was more significant than the one I had for Marfa. If not for Hemingway and Steinbeck, there would have been no McMurtry. If not for McMurtry, there would not be other great writers that learned from him.

The website said the store is open for business. It wasn’t and had not been for a while. I peeked through the dusty glass front door, and some autographed books were displayed on a table, where they once had been for sale. I was about as hang-dog as a man can get.

A fellow pushing his garbage bin to the street was helpful and filled us in on the particulars. It’s a good yarn but could also be a steaming pile. Small towns run on gossip, rumors, and legends.

The old man leaned on his trash bin, got close to the window where my wife sat, and let her rip.

When McMurtry passed on, he left his two town bookstores, his typewriter, and 30,000 rare books to the lady that ran them for years; Khristal Collins. His wife Norma Fay and his writing partner Diana Ossana got the cash. His estate hired a hot-shot New York book bow-tie-wearing appraiser to give the books a value. It seems the fellow opened a few books and some stock certificates fell out, then some more books and more certificates hit the floor. Now, he had to go through every book in both stores. It may take years. Let’s hope his wife checked their mattress.

In the literary world, the man is not a mere mortal, except that he did pass away at home a while back, so I was disappointed that a writer of his Homeric wizardry could actually expire.

I can imagine Larry sitting on his front veranda in the late afternoon, enjoying a good glass of scotch while contemplating his next book about the fictitious town of Thalia, Texas, and he fades with the setting sun.

When and If the Booked Up store re-opens, I will make the trip back to Archer City. I’m still hoping to meet Sonny, Duane, and Jacy.

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Larry McMurtry Made Me Crazy


This coming Wednesday, July 27th, my wife and I are driving to Colorado Springs to visit her daughter and family. New transplants from Fort Worth, Texas to the liberal and hip state of legal pot and “mile-high-hipsters.” We are making a bucket list stop along the way to the small Texas town of Archer City.

My wife Mo, is accomodating, but she thinks the head injury I suffered two years ago has effected my mental priorities. “What the hell is an Archer City?” she asked. I can’t explain without choking up. How can a writer explain the reverance of visiting the holy grail of litature. I get so excited, I piss my pants a bit, but that’s because I am 73 years old and cancer did a whammy on me.

For the illiterate non-book readers who are followers of my blog, Archer City is the hometown, and for 70 years, the home to one of the greatest authors in American literature; Larry McMurtry.

Born, raised, and recently died there, he is the fair-haired favorite son that put this one red-light town on the map. A true son of Texas that accepted his many awards in jeans and Justin boots. He may have lived in New York City for a spell, but he got back to Texas as soon as he could. He won the Pulitzer Prize for his book “Lonesome Dove” in 1986. A good ole boy from hicksville Texas writing about the famous cattle drive inspired by Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving, both legendary and larger than life figures in the old west; bet it pissed those Swedes off but good.

Like many great novelist, he was an educater at North Texas State and Rice University; but I don’t hold that against him. He wrote on a portable typewriter and didn’t own a computer or a cell phone. He could play the rube with the toothpick in his teeth then write an essay that would bring tears to a grown mans eye. He also kept a rebelious streak in his back pocket as he was one of the Merry Pranksters along with Ken Kesey and his Acid Test for a few days when the circus stopped at his home in Houston. He said the LSD made him a tad anxious and preferred whiskey. For reasons unknown, in his last years, he married Ken Keseys widow and moved her to Archer City.

One of his novels, “The Last Picture Show” was a Peter Bogdonovich movie that raised a public ruckus in 1971 for the nudity and taboo liason between a high school football player an the coaches wife. A young Cybil Shepard even showed her little titties in a swimming pool scene. Good Lord.

The cast of characters in his books was drawn from the townspeople he grew up with and even with the slightest of name changes, they were easily recognized and plenty pissed until the movie and books put their one horse town on the tourist map. The movie was shot in black and white and filmed in a ramshackle Archer City which took on the 1950 look and name of “Thalia, Texas.”

As in many of his books, the places folks spent their time was at the Pool Hall, The Kwik Shack, The Movie Theater and the Dairy Queen. I plan to visit his book store, “Booked Up,” and of course have a burger and a shake at the famous Dairy Queen. One more thing striked off my bucket list. Who knows; I might see Jacy and Duane eating a chicken fried.