Tag: 1950s

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The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

Preacher Little, to the left, addresses his small congregation with a firm reminder that the sky is not a-falling and that it’s high time they get a grip on the wild ride we call life. An hour later, a raucous band of Fire Ants laid siege to the squishy Peeps, and thus, the service came to an untimely end. My wise old Grandfather, or maybe it was an old-man neighbor, once opined, “Son, you can’t go traipsing about with your head aimed at the clouds, waiting for a disaster to drop from the sky. Best keep your eyes peeled to the ground, lest you unwittingly find yourself knee-deep in a nest of Fire Ants.”

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch..Showing Some Love For Marfa, Texas


Momo and I are gearing up for our yearly trip to the Texas Bermuda Triangle: Marfa, Fort Davis, and Alpine. Strange lights, strange people, and a weird town full of characters out of a 1950s sci-fi western movie. We love the place. So in honor of our love for this quirky village, I’m revisiting a post about our last journey into the Chihuahuan Desert, the twilight zone of Big Bend, Texas.

In the days of COVID-19, when darkness, despair, and lemming-like stupidity seemed to envelop the world, every soul, human and animal alike, found themselves confined to their homes, forbidden to roam: even the wandering Buffalo was home-bound. It was then that Momo and I made a pact to evade the restrictions and set out on a clandestine journey to the remote Chihuahuan Desert, with our sights set on the enigmatic and quirky town of Marfa, nestled in the vast expanses of big sky West Texas. We had no idea that a small blurb of a village in the middle of the desert would be so ghosted. It was eerie in an Alfred Hitchcock movie way. We did find a small burrito hut, grabbed a few, and returned to Granbury. The trip was an utterly bummerited loss.

I wrote an unkind, snarky post about our Marfa visit in my hour of exasperated, irritated, and agitated gloom. The older I get, the more the little things in life send me into a combat zone of petulant whining and unforgiveness. So we were both surprised that, having a cocktail on our patio one evening, we decided to give little ole’ Marfa a second chance. We plotted a trip that would take us into the Chihuahuan Triangle, which, from what I have read, is a dry land version of the one-off of Bermuda. Marfa, Alpine, and Fort Davis make up the Texas twilight zone. Ghostly lights in the mountains, shooting stars that stop and change directions, and strange-looking young people wearing Keep Austin Weird tee-shirts that wander the streets at night searching for live music: it’s all there.

Hotel Piasano

Being a fan of the great Texas movie “Giant,” the Hotel Piasano, where the cast stayed during the 1955-56 filming, was our only historical option. Arriving in the afternoon, the lady at the check-in desk was gracious and friendly. She gave us the “classic” room, which in the hotel language means one that had not been renovated since the 1930s. That’s fine with us; we are interested in the historical value and feel of the place. I noticed some of the rooms were the star suites, so I asked about those. The concierge told us that the Rock Hudson room is available for around half a grand a night and includes a lighted display cabinet featuring the original book of wedding photos from his make-believe marriage. We passed. The Liz Taylor suite was priced the same and included a small lighted curio cabinet showcasing a dainty Italian crystal decanter filled with her spit. Momo said no. The James Dean suite showcased his favorite toiletry in a glass cabinet, his comb, and a half-used tube of Brylcream. No, on that one, too. The concierge did say that our room is rumored to have been the one that Chill Wills occupied, so we gave it a go. She added that the entire hotel is extremely haunted, so beware of ghostly appearances and personal items being relocated.

Liz, Rock, and Houston in Marfa 1955

Considering all the warnings about ectoplasmic phenomena, we unpacked in our classic room, which includes a 1930s-style bathroom with a corner shower and a drain in the sloped tile floor. I know damn well that Chill Wills could not have got his big ole Texas boy butt into this shower. French doors opened to a private walled patio with an outside stucco fireplace. How nice is that? I could picture Chill and Dennis Hopper sharing a whiskey by the fire. We enjoyed a cocktail while observing a thunderstorm roll over the mysterious mountains.

Our dinner at Jett’s Grill was nothing to text back home: My pork chop was too pink, and Momo’s chicken surprise lived up to its name; she was surprised it tasted like cardboard and cost thirty dollars. I enjoyed a Jameson Irish Whiskey on the rocks for almost twenty dollars, and Momo had a whiskey with ginger ale for twenty-one dollars; they charged her for the ginger ale. After paying the check, we felt a bit violated. We spent the rest of our evening in the classic room, waiting for another distant thunderstorm from over the mysterious mountains.

Planet Marfa
Local Marfites at Planet Marfa enjoy a brew, and Sagebrush Sonny is seated far left.

Planet Marfa became our next foray into the Big Bend Twilight Zone. The place took up half a city block. Inside was a genuine transcendental Indian meditation TePee, a full-size school bus dedicated to dogs, a modest kitchen offering the renowned Red Barron Pizza, and a bar bustling with locals partaking in their afternoon meet-and-greet. I found myself at the bar’s edge, ready to place an order, when I noticed an elderly gentleman perched on a stool beside me. Out of a sense of camaraderie, I motioned to the bartender to pour the old man another beer, my treat. He acknowledged the gesture gratefully, and we exchanged pleasantries as we shook hands and introduced ourselves. Resembling a character straight out of a Gabby Hayes movie, he embodied the quintessential oddity one might encounter in Marfa. Sagebrush Sonny Toluse, as he called himself, had called Marfa home for nigh on sixty years, having relocated from Presidio, Texas, a town situated right on the Mexico border and reputed to be the hottest spot in Texas.

I noticed Sagebrush Sonny had a wooden peg leg where his right-side human leg would normally be. He noticed me staring and felt compelled to explain his missing appendage. He asked if we were planning to visit the desert and view the famous Marfa lights. I said yes, we intend to do that tonight. He said they were quite a sight, but he warned me not to get caught out there after midnight: bad things happen in the desert.

He said he got caught out there after midnight about thirty years ago after his truck broke down. He decided to walk to town since he was close enough to see the glow of town lights, and that’s when a large pack of mongrels set upon him. He asked me if I had ever wondered why the desert was called the Chihuahuan Desert. I had no idea, so he explained. After the atomic bomb was built, the Army needed a place to dump the nuclear waste, so they chose a spot way out there, stashed some drums of goop, and left them to the elements. Over in Mexico, a fella was breeding Chihuahua dogs, and two of them got lost in the desert; of course, they found the nuclear waste site and lapped up some of the contaminated oozes, which did some crazy things to their DNA. Doing what dogs do, they had some pups, and then the pups met up with some Coyotes and had some more pups. The dogs kept on breeding until there were three or four thousand of the critters, except they weren’t regular dogs. They were all muscled up with shark-like teeth, and some had a fifth leg that allowed them to run like a greyhound dog. The mutts were still small, like a Chihuahua, but they were mutants and mean as hell. That’s how I lost my leg. A pack of them set upon me out there in the dark. I was trying to run, dragging some of them that had hold of my dungeree’s and then they started chewing my right leg. Since they were small, they could only reach up to my knee, and that’s where they stopped eating on me. A highway patrol came along and shot a few of the stragglers and took me to the hospital over in Presidio, where the doctor amputated what was left. That’s why I have the peg leg, and they are the reason it’s called the Chihuahuan Desert. The story alone made the trip a success.

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Chapter 18. Fort Worth Legends: A Young Musician’s Rise Under Bob Wills


Johnny Strawn, around 1948, Fort Worth, Texas

My grandfather, John Henry, walked to his job at the furniture shop. Years ago, the same place had closed down, driven by the Depression, forcing him to move his family to California for work. Now, twelve years later, he has taken giant steps back, from a good job in Los Angeles to once more building furniture for an hour’s wage. Defeat weighs heavily in his heart. Middle age has come, and the future is murky. So, doing what men do, he keeps walking, counting his steps to nowhere. There are many to blame, but he alone bears the burden of his failures.

The iced ground crunches under his shoes. The cold goes to his bones. His jacket is no match for this weather. He favors the feel of the ground beneath his feet over the Ford sedan in the garage, which is idle most of the time and now a home for mice and other wandering critters.

After the upsetting homecoming with his father, Johnny walked a few blocks to the small neighborhood grocery store to call his best friend, Dick Hickman. His father remained firm in his decision about the telephone, vowing to never have one in the house. The old man viewed the contraption as a rattlesnake in a bag. Lousy news reached him in time enough; no reason to expedite misery.

Two sisters from Germany ran the store, always open, even when the ice storm howled outside. They preferred work to idleness; a dollar was worth more than knitting by the stove. They missed their homeland, but not the darkness that had settled under Hitler’s shadow. Johnny walked in and felt the warmth; they had known him since he was a boy. Following a few hearty hugs and cheek kisses, he was offered a mug of coffee, hot and strong with bourbon and a hint of cinnamon, a taste of what once was.

Dick and Johnny had forged a bond on the playground one morning; Dick was trapped by older boys, their intentions were dark, and Dick knew he was in for a ruckus. Johnny, a full head smaller than Dick, added his small fist for ammunition. A few busted lips and a bloody nose ended the altercation, and the boys would be bound for life by bloody noses and skint knuckles.

Dicks mother, a woman of stern Christian resolve, lived simply, her heart full of faith. Father Hickman was a ghost of a man, suddenly appearing from nowhere, then off again to somewhere. Mother Hickman, as she was called, gave what little extra money they had to Preacher J. Frank Norris, the charismatic leader of the First Baptist Church of Fort Worth.

Nice clothes were a luxury during the Depression, and most children at R. Vickery’s school wore hand-me-downs or worse. Dick wore the yellow welfare pants distributed by the Salvation Army, a sign that his folks were poor. Mother Hickman saw nice clothing as a sign of waste, except when it came to her Sunday fashions. Johnny had a pair of those detestable canvas pants but refused to wear them; the old dungarees with patches did just fine.

Both boys felt the weight of loss when the Strawn family left for the promised land. They exchanged a few postcards during the years in California. Nevertheless, they adhered to the unspoken rule that young men did not write to one another. This was a relic of manly notions of the time. A line or two every six months was enough. Both joined the Navy around the same time, meeting briefly in Pearl Harbor. Then came the seriousness of war. Young sailors, they carried on.

Dick arrived at the two sisters’ store to fetch Johnny. His transportation was a rattle-trap Cushman motor scooter. It refused to stop on the icy street. The scooter slid on its side into the curb and threw Dick off of the beast. The ride to Dick’s apartment was a jolt, far worse than the taxi. Johnny vowed to buy a car when the weather cleared, maybe one for his buddy, too. He held a tidy wad of cash from Hawaii.

A brotherly deal was struck. Johnny would share Dick’s large apartment on Galveston Street, splitting the rent and bills evenly. They were friends again, but now men, and they had different thoughts, dreams, and needs. Dick was courting a young woman from Oklahoma and doing a miserable job of it. Still, marriage lingered in the air, heavy like the rich aroma of brewing coffee, the kind they both drank too much of. Dick took his poison with cream and sugar; Johnny preferred his black and strong.

Johnny’s goal was to play music for a living, and this was the right city to make that happen. He joined the musicians’ union and sent a message to Bob Wills that he was back in Fort Worth.

Wills was now the celebrated band leader of the western swing band, The Texas Playboys. He remembered that meeting at the radio show in Bakersfield, California, long ago. The boy stood out. It was no small feat because Wills was the finest fiddle player in country music.

Bob Wills was not a man known for kindness. He could be brash and indifferent to fans and bandmates alike. Yet, for Johnny, he made an exception. Bob took the young man under his wing, becoming a mentor to my father. A few calls were made, and the boot was in the door. Johnny secured auditions at some of Fort Worth’s best clubs, and each went well. Bob invited him to rehearse with the Playboys. It was there he met men who would soon be legends in country music. A few years later, he would find himself in that circle.

Chapter 17. Back Home In Texas: Looking For That Marble Angel
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The Dreaded Report Card


by Phil Strawn, based on personal experience

There is a school system on the East Coast that is changing its grading system so every student can “feel better” about themselves. This smells suspicious, and is likely extracted from the same rotten education bag as  “everyone gets a trophy.” Every letter grade is now lowered by five points, promoting a grade of “C” to a “B” and so on. Who benefits from this PC madness?

From personal experience, I can tell you that bringing home a low grade on your report card does have negative consequences. The younger you are, the fewer repercussions from your Mother since you are still her baby. As you age, the fear factor increases.

There is nothing that scares a kid more than bringing home the dreaded “F” or even the slightly better “D.”

You slow-walk your way home, looking for every excuse to prolong the firestorm that the small piece of cardboard will create. You’re begging God to intervene and miraculously change that red “F” to an acceptable, blue “C.” Nothing changes, and you accept your fate. God is likely a teacher on the side. With the end nearing, I take a moment to notice the blue sky, the chill of autumn in the air, and the singing of the birds. Even the neighborhood dog that always gives chase sits with sad eyes as I pass. Little things that may be my last moments of life.

With a cheesy fake smile on my face, I hand the report card to my mother, hoping for leniency.

Everything is fine until she sees that miserable sixth letter of the alphabet. Her happy smile fades, and her squinty-eyed mom’s stare paralyzes me.

My young life flashes before my eyes; I’m a goner. In desperation, I blame everything except my own stupidity. I fall to my knees, crawling across the kitchen floor, squeezing out fake tears, begging for forgiveness. She has none of it. The mom court is adjourned. I await my sentence.

Short of having my butt whipped with a Tupperware cake holder, or being sent to the “Dope Farm,” my mother’s go-to threat, I get off well and alive. I cannot watch cartoons for two weeks, play outside for a week, have Hostess cupcakes and Ovaltine, or play Saturday baseball for a month, which is alright; it’s winter, and I am in hibernation mode.

My next report card showed a vast improvement—not one failing grade. The specter of personal failure and my mother’s watchful eyes loomed large, shaping my educational journey. It’s a curious thing, our human desire for high marks—some students hustle and toil beneath the weight of those lofty expectations. But if we lower those standards, those who might shine will find themselves unfairly penalized, while those who merely coast by will come to view diligence as a nuisance.

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The Green Legacy of Mr. Greenjeans


If you were a kid in the 1950s, then you knew who Captain Kangaroo and his sidekick Mr. Greenjeans were. Their television show was broadcast five days a week in glorious black and white and viewed by millions of kids on tiny television screens. ” Don’t sit too close to that TV, you’ll go blind.” That was the stern warning from every mother, and here we are today, all wearing glasses or blind. How did you expect us to see the Captain and Greenjeans on an 8-inch screen?

The burning question we all had was, did Mr. Greenjeans wear “green jeans?” We were kids, with no color sets, it made us crazy. Was this man green?

A few months ago, I took a shortcut through a Fort Worth neighborhood to avoid road construction and noticed a weirdly dressed man using a hand pump sprayer to paint his yard a deep shade of Kelly green. I stopped and watched him walk from the curb to the house. Long, even strokes coat the brown grass to imitate spring’s favorite color. It was then I noticed his house was green, the cars in the driveway were green, his clothes and skin were green, and a small dog sitting on the porch was also green. What the hell? The man saw me staring and motioned me over.

I parked my car and walked up to the fellow, feeling a bit foolish for interrupting the work of a stranger. I introduced myself and complimented him on his handy work. He thanked me, extended his hand to shake, and said, “names Levi, Levi Greenjeans, nice to meet you.”

” That’s an unusual name, sir. The only time I’ve heard that last name was on Captain Kangaroo, and that was seventy years ago,” I said.

The green fellow laughed and said, ” That’s the family name. Mr. Greenjeans was my pop. My sister and I grew up in a green world, so this is pretty natural for us. Dad’s been fertilizer for a good many years now, so it’s up to me to carry on the family brand.” I agreed; he looked pretty good for an old green guy.

I didn’t want to pry or be too forward, but I asked, ” Sir, what might the family brand be?”

“Call me Levi,” he said. ” You know that song ” The Jolly Green Giant? I wrote it and collect mucho royalties. That Tom Jones song about the green-green grass of home wrote that one, too. The Green Giant food brand, that’s mine; also, copyright infringement made them pay up. Home Depot has a Green Jeans color named after Dad. I get change from that, and I get a shiny penny from YouTube for the Captain Kangaroo videos.” This dude has turned green into green cash.

I am impressed and honored to be in the presence of one of the famous Greenjeans family, but now is the chance to get the answers to my childhood questions. I am afraid of coming off like a six-year-old Duffus, but I asked, ” did your dad wear green jeans and did he have a green face, and was the captain a nice man, and why did he have a big mustache, and did your dad really have a farm? There, I spat it out, and I am an idiot.

Levi chuckled and said, “Dad wore green jeans, and his face was green from stage makeup. The captain, bless his dead heart, was not too friendly. He wore a mustache because, on the first live show, a little kid threw a Coke bottle at him and split his lip; the stash hid the scar, and that’s why he disliked kids. He carried a small cattle prod under his sleeve, and if the kids got too close, he would shock them. Pretty funny stuff to see them jump. And the final answer is yes, Dad had a farm and grew veggies and raised prize-winning Llamas. Recently, my sister Denim planted forty acres of butt-kicking pot that we will sell in our “Mr. Greenjeans Apothecary Co-op in Denver.”

I thanked Levi for his kindness and started to leave when he stopped me. Extracting a green Sharpie from his pocket, he signed his name on the front of my white Eddie Bauer Polo shirt. “Hang on to that shirt, brother. It’ll be worth some cash one day.”

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Hey Kids, It’s Fun Being Sick!


How Kids Beat The Pandemic In The 1950s

Kids are an intelligent species. They know far more about human interaction and theatrical interpretation than their parents suspect. I can’t put a date on when this anomaly was discovered, but people with fancy degrees and a goatee first noticed this behavior in the early 1950s. My neighborhood may have been ground zero for their study.

As a bunch, the kids in my neighborhood were healthy. We ate mouthfuls of dirt, sucked on pebbles, and ingested every foodstuff imaginable without washing our grimy hands. This was perfectly acceptable to our mothers. Our young immune system was that of a caveman: we scoffed at germs, ” away with you foul vermin.” Like Superman on the TV, we were indestructible.

The only malady that affected us, was the dreaded Monday morning tummy-throat-aching body-virus. This malady usually broke-out in after a thirty or forty day incubation period. It spread like wildfire through our four-block coterie and most of the second and third grades, mostly affecting boys, but the girls were losing their immunity at an alarming rate.

The second week in November, close to Thanksgiving, most of our second-grade class was infected and missing in action. The symptoms were: headache, stomach ache, sore throat, and body aches, sometimes we developed a limp and had to crawl from the bathroom to our bed. When our mothers asked how we felt, we would point at the affected areas and groan, eliciting additional sympathy.

The first morning was the worst, then by noon we recovered enough to watch cartoons and eat some ice-cream, then after supper, the symptoms worsened, and mom made the call for us to stay home another day. Sleeping in was mandatory, and if we were recovered by lunchtime, we could go outside for some fresh air. This bug was known to not last more than three days, tops.

A seven year old can’t grasp the enormity of a situation the way their parents can. As a group, we were unaware that our symptoms matched those of the dreaded Polio Virus. Our kindly school nurse, fearing the worse, calls the health department for back-up.

Two blocks away at George C. Clark Elementary, our diligent principal cancels all classes and has the entire building sanitized by a nuclear cleanup team from Carswell Air Force Base. The newspapers are on this like a duck on a June Bug.

Lounging in bed eating Jell-O, and watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, my cohorts and I are unaware of our neighborhood pandemic.

Tuesday, mid-morning, a contingent of doctors and nurses from the Fort Worth health department, arrive to access the outbreak. They plan to visit every affected home around our school and test every sick child for the dreaded Polio Virus. Large syringes and foot-long throat swabs are required. A dozen ambulances stood by to transport the poor ill children to the hospital. The local newspaper was there, as well as the television news folks.

Skipper, my stalwart best buddy, and the elected grand Poo-Bah of our gang, was the first to break. With two syringes sucking blood from his skinny little kid arms, he sobbed and said he was faking it, we all were faking it. He gave us up like Benedict Arnold. Roger Glen ran screaming from his house when he saw the size of the needles, and the smartest girl in our class, Annie, gave a signed confession. The epidemic was over.

Most of us couldn’t comfortably sit for a few days, but we were all healthy until the next school year. That’s when the Asian bird, chicken, rat, and cat flue got us all.

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Religion, Family, and a Baptism Gone Wrong


Swimming With Jesus In A Cement Pond

My first taste of religion came when I was six. A boy from Fort Worth, I was taken to the Polytechnic Baptist Church to witness the near-drowning of my young father. He was baptized by a man named Reverend Agustin Z Bergeron. The preacher was a legend, standing alongside only two others: Reverend J. Frank Norris and Billy Graham.

Someone in my family, an aunt or a cousin or all members thereof, thought that father’s soul needed saving to ensure his path to Heaven would be an honest one. I suspect it was his mother. She was a championship sinner with no way to redemption, so convincing her only son to Baptism might also gain her entry to God’s domain as a parental guest. I also suspect that the bottles of hooch and the 38 special in her traveling suitcase would also be overlooked as she accompanied him through the pearly gates. Looking back on my family history, I now realize that the entire bunch of my father’s family was street-Rat-crazy.

The Sunday of the Baptism was as hot as I can remember. The small church was surrounded by large shade trees, but there was not a whiff of a breeze inside the building. Religion and suffering are one and the same. July in Texas is considered a preview of the weather in Hell, and the good reverend used it well.

I sat beside my mother. My little sister was in her lap, not yet a year old. My clothes were soaked with sweat. I might have wet myself and not known it. The summer heat rose from the wooden floor beneath us. Hell lay just below, waiting for us to waver, to lose our faith. Satan would pull us down if we let go. It seemed so simple. I didn’t understand sin or what it meant to fall into Hell. Kids don’t think about such things.

Pacing the floor, Preacher Augustin moved from wall to wall. Behind him, the big-haired women added their Amen and Halleluiahs, their voices sharp and clear. The pulpit held the preacher’s Bible, unused, but not forgotten. He did not need its leather-bound wisdom. He knew all he needed to instill fear in the hearts of those gathered in that church. The stifling air was drenched in repentance.

The sermon concluded, and the Baptismal commenced. Father was the last on the list.

Mother had dressed him in a new white shirt and a black tie. With his new black horn-rim glasses, he looked like the television comedy star, Steve Allen. The shirt was stiff as cardboard, making it hard to move. One might expect that if someone were to be dunked in water, a swimsuit or at least a robe would be fitting. But no, Baptists preferred it genuine, fully dressed in their best clothes, shoes, watch, and wallet.

Father’s name was called. Entering the pulpit from behind a velvet curtain, he climbed into the Baptizing tank. I found it odd that a church would have a small swimming pool at the altar. A waist-deep concrete tub full of unpurified water. How would one know that the occupants hadn’t released a stream of urine into the sacred water in their moment of personal repentance and acceptance? It’s a natural response akin to peeing in a lake. Father stood in the holy waters awaiting his deliverance. He carried the look of a trapped man; no escape route was available, so his fate was sealed.

Preacher Augustin wasted no time. He asked Father if he was ready to accept Jesus and be bathed in the Holy waters. Father mumbled a few words, and the preacher pushed him back into the Holy water. Time passed, it seemed like minuets, and along with lovely words and passages, and still, Father was immersed under the Holy waters. A hand, then an arm reached up, flailing about. Finally, a leg broke the surface, and a shoe flew off. Still, Preacher Agustin continued the cleansing.

Looking back, it was common knowledge that father was a country musician and made his living playing in the beer joints along Jacksboro Highway. Preacher Augustin figured since my father was a fully certified sinner, an extra dose of saving was needed.

Father made it to the surface with seconds to spare. Sputtering and coughing, on the verge of death, he rolled over the side of the cement pond and lurched toward the side door of the church. Holding my baby sister, my mother grabbed me by my bony arm, and we made a hasty beeline to the car. Father was there waiting, dripping wet, looking like a bad meal on a china plate, but he was a saved man.

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From Nehi Soda to Napping Camps: A Journey of Texan Creativity


I read an article in my local paper a few days back. It was about a youngster from Louisiana who fed his pet earthworms small amounts of nuclear waste. This made them glow in the dark and grow to the size of a state-fair Corndog. 

He is now raking in cash and hawking them on his own late-night infomercials and online. Every fisherman in the South wants a giant wiggling glowing worm. Every bass needs one. It seems the folks below the Mason-Dixon line will fall for anything.

My family tree in the “old country” was chock full of these sorts. Dreamers, schemers, and medicine show hucksters. All died poor except one.

Take my Great-Great-Great Uncle Nehi, a puny Scott with a sweet tooth. He spent his spare time in search of sugary delights. One night, while experimenting with various potions of colored water, fruit, and healthy doses of sugar, he invented “Nehi Soda.” It wouldn’t be summer without a grape Nehi and a Moon Pie, would it? His tinkering resulted in the all-American soda. Soda pop made him wealthy. He died young from a roaring case of Diabetes. Still, he died prosperous and happy. 

I always preferred Dr. Pepper, but my parents made us drink Nehi every year on the anniversary of his passing.

If it wasn’t for dreamers and hucksters, a beloved section of our economy would not exist. There would be no infomercials on television and no online pop-ups. Drug stores would have fewer aisles for valuable little as seen on TV products. People would wonder how to make fresh juice. They would also wonder how to cover that bald spot. How would they puff their hair out to look like a jelly roll? How do they do this while roaming around town in a snuggie blanket with armholes? Hanging upside-down tomatoes would not exist. How would the astronauts write upside down without that nice ballpoint pen? I get a little scared thinking about what life would be like without these gadgets.

This past summer, my wife and I enjoyed lunch on a Saturday. We dined at a quaint restaurant alongside the Guadalupe River in Gruene, Texas. It was hot—a real sizzler—100 degrees in the shade. We sat outside on their covered deck. We enjoyed the river’s tranquility and were cooled by the misters. 

My wife, Momo, full of food and a cold beer, drowsily commented,

“A nap would be nice right now.” I agreed, but there was nowhere to have a nappy except the hot car, so that idea was out.

I summoned our bill and sat staring at the beautiful river. I watched the tubers drift by and listened to the lull of bubbling water. Nature’s respite entranced and hypnotized me.

 When my bill arrived, the server placed an ice-cold Nehi Grape Soda on the plate, bound for another’s enjoyment. I hadn’t seen a Nehi soda in decades. 

This boy and the girls slapped me hard. The Nehi, the river, the need for a nap, and nature hit me simultaneously. I couldn’t speak and only croak out, “Nap camp…Nehi…nappy.” 

Momo thought I was having a stroke. She whipped out her cell phone and started to dial 911. She stopped when I finally said,

“Uncle Nehi’s Nap Camp.”

She knows that stupid look. It was something akin to holding my beer and watching this. She waited for the spiel, which I was overly anxious to deliver.

Grabbing her reluctant hand, I dragged her down to the river bank. She was scared, but I was excited—invigorated and drunk on the elixir of my vision.

“Why didn’t I think of this years ago” I yelled,

“It’s like the boy and his nuclear fishing worms. It’s not too late, seize the minute, mark your territory, piss into the wind for a change. People need to sleep, they need a good nap, it’s our right!”

I was so excited that I waved my arms and spun around like a tent revival preacher. I was on a roll. 

I yelled with the excitement of a five-year-old on a sugar high,

“Over there, we can build cedar posts and metal roof pole barns by those trees along the river. We can add ceiling fans and misters. Let’s put up some comfy hammocks. We’ll have an outside bar selling Nehi sodas, cold Lone Star beer and baloney, and rat cheese sandwiches. There is a small barn with little hanging beds for the kids and dogs. Also, there should be a separate napping barn for in-laws and people you don’t care for. Imagine napping in a hammock beside the calm river, life doesn’t get any better. Right?”

A grizzled old fisherman was sitting by a tree with his cane pole, listening to this opera of fools. He said,

“That’s not a bad idea, sonny boy. But Old Blind Mable tried that back in 1959. She lost her butt, You can’t put a business in a flood plain. This river flooded pretty well every year back then, just as it does now. Old Blind Mable had a mess of hammocks and people sleeping in them. The river floods and washes everyone down to New Braunfels. This happens whether they want to go there or not. If you got some money to piss away, go ahead. I’ll have a nap here until it rains. Then I’m heading to high ground.”

Momo looked at me and said,

“let’s go home and have a nap, Einstein.”

I was crushed, a broken man. My vision was a pile of raccoon crap. A crusty old river rat shot it down. My wife agreed with him. No Nehi sodas, ice-cold Lone Star in a hammock, or nap camp. Another lost vision.

As we returned to the car, a large dog came strutting down the street, pulling a kid on a skateboard. I watched them cruise by and thought, a big skateboard for two. Add seats and get some big dogs. Rent them to pull people around town. Now, that’s a moneymaker.

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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.