Real Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Have Any Brain Cells left….
The Texan
This Texan received a request for help written on the back of a Walmart bag, the new ones made from paper. Mr. Weemus Weesley of Sore Rabbit Foot, South Dakota, says his wife is abusing Ozempic in the worst way possible.
Mr. Weesley: Mr. Texan, there ain’t nobody in our town that knows nothing about nothing. My wife, Luella, is a bit overweight. Well, some folks say she just has big bones, but she is honestly just a bit overweight, as are most women her age during menopause. Most of the weight is in her buttocks. I had to butter up the door jambs to the bathroom just so she could get in there for a shower. Her Doctor gave her a script for this new weight loss stuff, Ozempic, but she is deathly afraid of needles and passes out after I give her the first jab.
Some influencer on social media said she could inject this stuff into a blueberry and put it up her behind like a suppository. So she tried it. It was working for a while, and she wasn’t eating two gallons of Blue Bunny ice cream a day, but then she stopped losing weight everywhere except in her buttocks and her hands and her feet, and now the rest of her is still a bit heavy, but her ass, feet, and hands are the size of a little kid’s. She’s going through two or three pounds of Blueberries a week, and now I don’t have any to put in my yogurt, and she has this little gimlet ass, hands, and feet about the size of our six-year-old granddaughters, who refuses to come visit because Luella looks like some weird alien from those 1950s scary shows. She’s so freaky looking, I can’t even take her to Walmart at midnight when no one is there except folks in their jammies. Any ideas on this one?
The Texan: Well, Mr. Weesley, I’m almost out of words on this one. I’ve seen the pictures of the Hollywood crowd, and they all look like “The Night of the Living Dead,” staggering around with folks helping them to walk. This might be a good movie for her to watch. I believe it’s on Amazon. Take those Ozempic pens and squish all the juice out, then fill them with liquid Miralax, and change her ice cream to Bluebell. She might still be a bit overweight, but she’ll be regular and happy. This is just a phase these women are going through. Oprah will look like her old, chubby self once she stops the Ozempic. I’m sending you a case of liquid Miralax and some cherry bombs just to cheer you up.
Johnny Strawn on the left and Bob Will on the right. The Sunset Ballroom, early 1950s
I was born into music the way some children are born into weather—something that surrounds them before they have words for it. Long before my hands were big enough to hold a wooden neck or find a note on a steel string, the sound was already there, drifting through the rooms like a ghostly wind. A man doesn’t choose a life like that; he’s shaped by it, the way wind shapes a tree on an open plain. Our home pulsed with music, not a 78 RPM record on a Victrola but real instruments played by men, some would become mentors, lifelong friends, and a few I would help carry to their final rest, my hand supporting their coffin. It seemed they were always there, a few feet away or on the front porch and around the kitchen table, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and playing music. My younger sister and I thought it all to be quite normal, but it was so far from that.
My father carried his fiddle the way working men carry their tools—worn smooth by sweat and nights on the road, tuned by the laughter and sorrow of dance halls from Fort Worth to Nashville, Springfield, Tulsa, and to Abilene and then on to California. He played with the great ones, the ones whose names still hang in the air like smoke: Bob Wills And The Texas Playboys, Willie Nelson and Paul English, Milton Brown, Cliff Bruner, Adolph Hoffner, Bill and Jim Boyd, Smokey Dacus, Jake Ghoul, Artie Glenn, Ray Chaney, Smokey Montgomery, Jerry Elliot, Bill Hudson, Red Foley, Grady Martin, Roger Miller, Ted Daffan, Lefty Frizzell, Hank Garland, and the Light Crust Doughboys. Those bands were more than music; they were a kind of moving tribe, stitching the country together one dusty town at a time. And my father stood among them, bow in hand, drawing out the heartbeat of the West. He wasn’t a big man in stature, but when he drew that bow across those strings, he stood as tall as Iowa corn.
But the story didn’t start with him. It ran back through my grandfather, John Henry Strawn, and further still to my great-grandfather, Marion Strawn—men who bent their backs to the land by day and lifted their spirits with a fiddle by night. In those days, a tune wasn’t entertainment; it was survival. A way to keep the darkness from settling too heavily on a man’s shoulders. My grandfather, in his younger days, was a cowboy, but was always that campfire fiddler with a tune poised on his fingertips, as was his father.
So, of course, I was born into it. The first instrument wasn’t wood or wire but a small blue baby rattler, the kind a child shakes without knowing he’s keeping time with the world. I still have it tucked away in a box, along with those tiny shoes from The Little Texan shop in Fort Worth, 1945—leather soft as memory, soles barely scuffed by the earth. My Aunt Norma told me my feet didn’t touch solid ground until I was three or so. Proof that even then, before you could walk, the rhythm was already in your hands.
Some families pass down land, or money, a name carved into a building cornerstone, or a legacy that follows them through generations. Mine is passed down as a sound—a long, unbroken line of strings vibrating against fine old wood.
And so the question was never how I became a musician. The real wonder is how I could not become anything else.
The Great Depression settled on the land, especially the Midwest, from the Dakotas to the bottom of Texas. Misery was in every mouthful of whatever families could scrape together for a meal.
My grandparents loaded their dilapidated car with whatever scraps of a life could be carried, tucking them into corners already crowded with worry. They pulled away from Fort Worth in the hard years of the early 1930s, when work had vanished like water in a dry creek bed, and the dust from the Panhandle settled over the city in a fine, punishing veil. Folks walked with their shoulders bent, not from age but from the heaviness of days that offered little and took much. In those times, every family felt the pinch of hunger and the quiet shame of wanting more than the land and the cities could give. So they turned their eyes westward, toward a place they’d only heard about in stories — a place where the air was said to be softer, and smelled of blossoms, the work steadier, and opportunity flowed like milk and honey for anyone brave enough to chase it. Like the frivolous dancing girls in the unrealistic movies echoed, “We’re In The Money.” Come to California, and all will be healed, my brother, and happiness will be here again. For many, it was their salvation, for even more, it was their Waterloo.
The journey was a gritty trial; more than once, my grandparents’ aspirations lay shattered within the confines of the bloated car. Harsh words, blame, and unforgiveness forced the old Ford to veer back Eastward, yet practicality prevailed, and the road West stretched ahead once more. Route 66 transformed at times into a mere gravel-and-dirt dog track, its ruts so profound they could swallow a child, never to be seen again. Just beyond the Border Patrol in Needles, California, my grandfather—clad now in the worn label of an “Okie”—picked up an elderly blind bluesman and his tiny Chihuahua, supposedly his seeing eye dog. Still, the dog possessed one good eye, so his loyalty only went so far. They were fleeing from the shadows of Deep Ellum in Dallas, Texas, where the blind bluesman, in a pay dispute, had shot six folks in a bar at the aimining direction of the small dog, all the patrons were wounded, and the wrongdoer escaped unharmed. That chance encounter would shape the souls of all within that car, threading their lives together in an unbreakable bond forged by hardship and hope.
After depositing the old blues singer, Blind Jelly Roll Jackson, at Sister Amiee McPherson’s downtown Los Angeles Mission Church, my grandfather encountered a couple who sensed the need and subtle transformation within him. I have always believed that angels walk among us most days, though they sometimes take a leave of absence for their own reasons. In that moment of serendipity, my grandfather’s guardian angel appeared in the passenger seat beside him, illuminating the path with a chance encounter that offered help and guidance from above. He forged a friendship, secured an unimaginable job, found a modest home to rent, and within weeks, he bestowed upon his family the very gifts of life he had only dared to dream. God is awesome, but he sometimes requires his Angels to carry that extra pat of butter in their rucksack for special times.
Around the age of ten or eleven, my father, Johnny, expressed interest in learning the instrument. My grandfather showed him the basics, then handed him off to a retired high school music teacher on their block, who gave him violin lessons in exchange for mowing, weeding, and odd jobs. A $5 pawn-shop violin was purchased, and tutelage began. Within a few weeks, he could read music, had learned the notes on the fretboard, and could play a few simple tunes. Most nights, grandfather would sit on their front porch and play his father’s old 1812 German-made fiddle while spinning yarns to anyone who would listen. He was a master of Texas Dichos, and with each jig he played, there would be a life’s lesson or a tall tale to accompany the tune. Many nights would find a dozen folks sitting on the front lawn listening to his fiddle and his tall tales. All of it seemed to fit in life’s complex package. Every fiddle carried the tales of heartache and hope: real or imagined.
Around the age of thirteen, my father found himself among a group of schoolboys who, in their youthful exuberance, formed a string band that echoed the sounds of their dreams: they wanted to be country musicians like the ones they listened to on KUZZ, the famous country radio station out of Bakersfield, California. My father wielded the fiddle, the others accompanied with a stand-up bass, a tenor banjo, and a guitar perpetually missing a string, creating an element of embarrassment and laughter.
None of the young lads had the gift of a soothing voice to uplift their spirits, so my grandfather, with the wisdom of a man with a good musical ear, recalled the old black blues man he had once deposited at Sister Aimee’s Mission in downtown L.A.
A few calls were made, a meeting set, and the boys were graced by the presence of Blind Jelly Roll Jackson, accompanied by his loyal Chihuahua, Giblet, whose single keen eye began to see beyond the darkness. Blind Jelly, with the patience and kindness of a seasoned mentor, accepted their earnest offer to perform, insisting that a young Cajun girl from the church choir that he had grown fond of join them, a girl whose voice could lift the very rafters off their hinges. Le’ Petite Fromage, though barely five feet tall, could sing with a strength that belied her tiny stature. As they gathered on the Strawn’s front porch for their first rehearsal, the band realized they needed a name. “Le’ Petite proposed ‘Blind Faith,’ inspired by Blind Jelly’s newfound devotion to Jesus and the church, and his obvious disability.” Sister Aimee, her spirit both stern and forgiving, had an off-kilter sense of humor and deemed the name tinged with a slight touch of blasphemy, yet offered her blessing, recognizing the earnestness in their hearts. The band was born. A new type of country, Texas-style Cajun-infused Jesus music had arrived, without an organ or big hair, an edgy choir, and it hit Los Angeles like a Super Chief express train from Fort Worth.
Word of their talent reached every corner of the church community, a bustling hive of activity every weekend, filled with the laughter of children at birthday parties, the fierce spirit of chicken fights, the tender moments of school dances, and the somber gatherings of a few funerals; on lazy Sunday afternoons, they would often spill out onto the sun-warmed corner outside the church, entertaining any who would stop for a listen.
Le’ Petite’s father, Baby Boy Fromage, a nickname given to him because of his stature, brought his band “The Chigger Bayou Boys,” to Los Angeles, driven by an urgent need to escape the depression drought of paying jobs in Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma; he hoped that the burgeoning migration to Bakersfield might present a new opportunity. His unique blend of Cajun country, alligator tunes, skeeter-swatting antics, and the camaraderie of beer drinking seemed to resonate with the Californian spirit, and for a time, it flourished. Meanwhile, Le’ Petite found her own path, joining Sister Aimee’s church choir, which divinely led to a deepening friendship with Blind Jelly Roll. This bond blossomed into the formation of their band, Blind Faith, as if fate itself had conspired to align their destinies just right.
Bob Wills, a spirited and legendary member of The Light Crust Doughboys from Fort Worth, Texas, traversed the country in a bus, on a well-financed quest to promote the finest flour known to man, Light Crust Flour, milled in Fort Worth, Texas. It was Baby Boy Fromage, father of’Le’ Petite, who journeyed with his band from the marshy Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, to Bakersfield, where the heart of California’s country music pulsed with life. He orchestrated a thirty-minute live radio broadcast for this budding ensemble, cleverly pocketing the majority of the earnings. It was during this very broadcast that my young teenage father encountered the legendary Bob Wills, whose band had just wrapped up their own live radio performance. United by their Texas roots, they met and ignited a bond, with Bob assuring my father that, upon his return to Fort Worth, he could count on him to swing open the doors to the world of music. Johnny cherished that promise, as did Bob, both forever marked by the fleeting good grace of opportunity. A life-long mentorship had been formed.
When the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, every high school boy in the country wanted to enlist to fight them and Hitler. Three of Blind Faith joined up, then Johnny, with my grandfather’s consent, because he was seventeen, enlisted in the Navy. That left Blind Jelly Roll, Giblet, and Le’Peetite, who was sweeter by the day, on a sax player in the church orchestra. In a hurried wedding performed by Sister Amiee, the two returned to Chigger Bayou to start their family of ten children.
In 1954, my father, in a sweating fit of entrepreneurship, purchased a club on Jacksboro Highway, the Sunset Ballroom. Between the fights, the Fort Worth mob, making it their newest hangout, and the payoffs, he soon sold it and went back to playing the circuit.
After serving in the Navy in World War 2 and returning from Hawaii to Fort Worth, drawn by the unrelenting trysts of his alcoholic mother, attempting and failing to be in the nightclub business, Johnny was desperate but hesitant to bother Bob. After marrying my mother, he did contact him. As good as his word, Bob put his size-12 cowboy boot in many doors that led to the beginning of my father’s father’s, one of the best country fiddle players in the nation.
The fiddle he played was the very same his father had procured from a pawnbroker’s in Los Angeles; though it possessed a certain charm, it lacked the warmth and volume of a fine-made instrument. In a generous gesture, Bob often invited Johnny to perform with the Playboys and, in turn, gifted him a fiddle crafted by an esteemed Luthier from Fort Worth, Joseph H. Stamps, in November of 1947. Bob, ever the pragmatist, rarely ventured without two or three backups, ever mindful of the fragility of strings. His hands, though skilled, bore testament to a life of rough play, leaving this instrument with its fair share of scars—gouges and scrapes that contributed an unrefined but slightly brutal beauty to its sound. One gouge near the bridge was never repaired because it may have affected the tone, which, to a fiddle, is its purpose. I have preserved a few sepia-toned photographs of him and Bob weaving harmonies on twin fiddles, and that particular instrument, worn yet noble and soaked in history, remains in my care; I am now, even at the old age of seventy-seven, revisiting its strings, having been sidetracked by the allure of guitar since I was twelve and discovered rock n’ roll music. I was like most boys, wanting to be Elvis Presley or Carl Perkins, and neither of them played a fiddle. Young men make foolish decisions, yet my father let my folly continue.
Eventually, Bob approached my father, inviting him to join the Texas Playboys as his second twin fiddle. Without a moment’s hesitation, he accepted this incredible offer, much like a weary traveler might grasp at the hope of a warm meal or a sidewalk found wad of cash rolled in a rubber band.
My mother, embodying the spirit of countless wives of musicians, shared whispers with the other wives, and the tales spun on the circuit painted Bob and his crew as a band of unfettered ruffians and rapscallions ahead of their time. Yet, reality was far from those fabrications; Bob placed strict boundaries on his band, allowing only a few swigs of hooch on the bus after a show, to ease their restless hearts during long nights of travel. It was mere gossip, yet it fueled a storm within her; she planted her feet firmly, unleashing a tempest of emotion, declaring that if he chose that path, she and I would be far away when he returned. My father, grappling with the weight of his choice, made his decision, and there were tears in both men’s eyes as he told him that he must prioritize family, even though such a venture would have freed us from the clutches of borderline poverty by giving him fame and fortune. Bob chose another young fiddle player from Tyler, Texas, Johnny Gimble, who was eventually inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame posthumously in 2018. In later years, as adults, Father and I would share a scotch while he told me stories from his life on the road as a musician. I sensed that deep within him, he never quite forgave my mother for forcing an imagined and selfish decision on him. I believe that her having to deal with his addicted mother was the only reason for her reluctance.
Through the late forties and fifties, the old fiddle led the way, weaving melodies through the life of a musician. There were evenings filled with the long hours of playing for a thousand dancers with Ted Daffan’s band at Ted Daffan’s Crystal Springs Ballroom on Lake Worth, the beer joints on Jacksboro and Belknap Highway, and the Big D Jamboree in Dallas. where the laughter of dancing feet accompanied the day’s tunes. Western swing was more popular than Benny Goodman.
The stork left me on the front porch in September of 1949, so time was of the essence for a young man of talent to mark his spot in life’s grass.
Then came a call from an old friend in Nashville, the renowned guitarist Grady Martin, who rang in with an invitation to join Red Foley’s national television show, The Ozark Jubilee, cast in the heart of Springfield, Missouri, on ABC every Saturday night. Those were the transformative years for country music in the mid-1950s. We packed our lives into the car and found ourselves in Springfield in less than twenty-four hours, eager and wide-eyed, ready to embrace the unknown that awaited us. Grady and my father became fast friends, as did their wives. On the days they didn’t rehearse for the weekend show, Grady and he would drive to Nashville and do studio work for the top recording stars of the day. Grady brought my father into the tight fold of the A-Team, the country music version of The Wrecking Crew in L.A. He was not a full-time member yet, but since he and Grady were tight friends and his musicianship carried him, he was accepted. The old fiddle sensed the importance and, as always, pulled through. Grady worked on all of Marty Robbins’ records, as well as Patsy Cline’s, Loretta Lynn’s, Johnny Cash’s, The Browns, Hank Snow, Eddy Arnold’s, and almost every popular artist in Nashville. Chet Atkins ran the show like a drill sergeant, with no tolerance for unprofessionalism. I was a child and met most of these famous musicians and singers, but my memory is worn out. I can’t recall who or when, though I do recall the famous country singer Wanda Jackson cleaning my ears with a napkin and her spit, and standing in the wings of the Grand Ole Opry stage, watching the performers of the day weave their magic.
In no time, the sporadic phone calls and daily letters from my grandmother reached Springfield. She had ensnared my father in this manner throughout his existence; he was her chosen instrument of enablement, and escape was merely a mirage. The dosing of the popular medicines had now changed to hard-core hooch, and her demons were back livelier than ever. His older sister had flown the frazzled nest by marriage early on, but was now a raging hypochondriac who harbored every fatal disease known to humanity. I knew little of the contents of those missives, yet I recall their power, enough to unravel his career through mental grief and dismantle his bond with Grady.
An alcoholic parent can lay waste to a child, wielding either fists or cruel words, leaving scars that echo in the silence. The line of love and hate is often melded into one, and there is no choosing which to cross.
I awoke in the back seat of our worn car, under the gaze of the night sky, the hum of tires on asphalt a constant reminder of our hurried retreat from Springfield, leaving behind Grady, Red Foley, and even the unpaid milkman without a proper farewell. The weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, a testament to the unbearable tension that had twisted my father’s heart. Once again, his spirit was broken by his mother and her addictions. My mother knew this brutal betrayal was the worst yet, and it permanently dissolved the artificial, fragile peace with her mother-in-law into a hatred that would never be repaired.
Upon returning to Texas, the Light Crust Doughboys arrived with a proposition that seemed even more enticing than that of Bob Wills and his esteemed band. They would travel, but only for a few days each week, keeping most of their appearances local in the heart of Texas. My father, with his fiddle and mandolin, joined and played with them until 1994, when the cruel hand of brain cancer compelled him to step away from the music he so loved. Whenever the opportunity arose, I would accompany them, driving the band van, assisting with equipment, and playing bass or my five-string banjo. In the mid-1980s, Smokey Montgomery honored me as a member of the Light Crust Doughboys. He gave my father and me a chance to record a cut of Old Joe Clark on the album, “One Hundred Fifty Years of Texas Music.” This recognition, to this day, still leaves me breathless, profoundly aware of the historical gift bestowed upon me. That old fiddle, now repaired, sits in the warmth of its case, waiting for me to catch some of the magic my father left me.
Momo acompanied me to my primary doc today for the results of my physical a few weeks back: it’s best she drives, but I’ll explain all that later on.
I like my doc; he’s a young fellow who dresses nice, wears stylish shoes, and wears colorful socks, sort of like a younger version of myself. He immediately started in on the blood work results, which were amazing since I’m on the cusp of 77 years old. I had a few age-related glitches, and he wasn’t worried just yet. I asked him, “When is yet a problem?” He said he would let me know later. I told him my heart doctor said I had a real good chance of a major malfunction, but couldn’t tell me when that might happen. He said not to worry, it would be quick and painless. I also said I needed to lose 25 pounds, and could he put me on that Wegovy pill or the Ozempic shot all the movie folks are killing themselves with? He sidestepped that question. I said, “Jeeze, doc, I don’t want to look like Demi Moore or Oprah, I just need to lose a few pounds.” He said just stop eating and work out. ” That’s all fine, but I can’t work out; I’m disabled from a bad back surgery, and my body won’t cooperate, and Momo just bought a yummy French Vanilla Pound Cake with some Blue Bell Ice Cream: get the picture?
The young nurse was a bit too perky when she handed me the little notebook for the cognitive test. She said the instructions are a bit tricky. She was right, they were Ayatollah gibberish. I did the best I could, but failed with flying colors. All those numbers, words, little pictures of monkeys and fish and ice cream cones. Old folks don’t give one shit about any of that crap, so I was a miserable failure. I told him I re-learned to play the mandolin in six weeks and will be taking on the fiddle next week, so my brain can’t be that blocked up. He gave me a cute little Dr. Marcus Welby laugh and said he wants more blood and another cognitive test to see if I should be in some sort of home, or at home with Momo pulling me around in a wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin. I asked him if I was smart enough to be president, and he said, “No, we’ve already been down that road.” As of yet, I haven’t left the truck keys in the freezer, burned down the shed, or dug up a natural gas line with my spade, so there is still hope. Old folks remember what they want to and screw the rest of it.
The Texan on his first typewriter that took two adults and a child to lift….Note the resemblance to Earnest Hemingway
Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.
After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.
Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.
World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?
Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “
There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”
My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.
Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.
The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!
When I was young and started to read books, real books, not the comics my friends read, and I had no interest in, I discovered Mark Twain. I thank my late aunt Norma, my father’s older sister, for that. She gently guided me into a world of imagination through a masterful author. She taught me to read and write at the age of five. She was an avid reader of great literature: Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer were her favorites, as was any trashy romance novel available. Armed with a book-smart, salty vocabulary, I was king of the neighborhood, and it didn’t take long for the mothers to come knocking on our door. My mother threw a world-class hissy fit and demanded Aunt Norma change my reading material. That’s how I discovered Mark Twain.
After reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was going to be Mark Twain. It didn’t matter to me that almost a hundred years earlier, he had already been Mark Twain; I was set on becoming him, me, a six-year-old with limited writing ability. However, I did have a colorful imagination, so that was a good start.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t write; by the age of eight, I wrote exceptionally well for my age, but I didn’t possess the mind of Mr. Twain. I hadn’t known Tom Sawyer, or Jim, or Huckleberry, or lived on the banks of the mighty Mississippi River. I was a landlocked kid stuck in Fort Worth, Texas, with a dozen Big Chief Tablets and a handful of No. 2 pencils.
I read other authors as well, but they weren’t Mr. Twain. Jack London was a bit scary, and there were too many wild animals that I imagined living under my bed. John Steinbeck was a masterful storyteller, and I did make it through most of The Grapes of Wrath, which mirrored what my grandparents and father had lived through. I continued to write on my tablet. I didn’t knowingly plagiarize any author, but they did give me good ideas and taught me to group words into a story.
I busied myself writing childish exploits of myself and my neighborhood gang of friends. I was certain that the Fort Worth Press would give me a column and perhaps a few bucks for my stories. I churned them out at a fevered pace, sending one a week to the publisher. A year passed, and I gave up. I still wrote, and my editor, my mother, filed them away in a drawer.
The day my class let out for Christmas vacation, my teacher asked the class to share what we wanted to be when we grew up. It wasn’t a serious exercise, only one to kill the last 30 minutes of the school day.
The usual vocations for our age group were doctors, firemen, policemen, and some girls who wanted to be teachers or nurses. When my turn came, I stood up and announced, with all seriousness, that I was Mark Twain. Mrs. Badger, my teacher, promptly informed me that there was already a Mark Twain, and that he had been dead for a while now.
I answered, “Yes, I know, but his spirit requires that I continue on with his writings and wit. So I am the reincarnation of Mark Twain.” I was in the principal’s office within a few minutes. The principal, a kindly old fellow, understood my affliction, and because I was earnest about it, he backed off a bit when administering the paddle. My teacher, bless her old-maid heart, never cared for me after that and treated me like a leper. To make myself feel better, I blew up her mailbox with a cherry bomb.
My aunt Norma was overjoyed when I told her of my plans and my new affliction. She went so far as to make me a tailored white linen suit and gave me one of my uncle’s large cigars to complete the ensemble. My parents weren’t thrilled; my mother blamed my father since his extended family was street rat crazy from drinking homemade hooch, and she was certain I inherited this malady from him. She seemed to have forgotten that her two brothers had turned me into a habitual liar and teller of tall tales. There were some whispered discussions about doctors and bad family genetics, but I paid no attention to that adult chatter.
After a few months, I discovered Earnest Hemingway. I never became Mark Twain, except in my daydreams or nightmares, but I did learn to appreciate good writing and stories.
Sometimes Questionable And Often Brilliant Advice For Folks That Want To Be A Texan, But Can’t Afford To Get Here
The Texan
This Texan received a dispatch from a Mr. Hardy Wood Guthrie of Okemah, Oklahoma, written on the back of a Walmart sales receipt. It seems his wife, Little White Dove, is dead set on going to Minneapolis to join in all the fun the protestors are having.
Mr. Guthrie: Mr. Texan, please excuse my bad manners for writing on a Walmart receipt. Just so you know, my wife bought all that useless stuff, except for the Chili Pork Rinds, which are my favorite snack, and of course the carton of Marlborough’s and the Natural Light Beer. Little White Dove, my Cherokee Indian wife, has lost her arrows. She’s watching the news and seeing all these protesters up in Minneapolis playing in the snow, throwing snowballs, and making snow angels with the help of those nice ICE boys. Now they’ve taken over Target Stores and are getting all that free stuff plus $200 a day for protesting. She’s real fond of that Pioneer Woman stuff and is hoping to get a new set of cookware and a bathrobe for free. I told her it’s about to get really serious because the Army boys are coming to town, but she got really smartie-pants with me and said, “I’ll do what I want to, this land is your land, this land is my land.” She said not to worry, she has a friend named Alice, and she has a restaurant where she can get anything she wants, over in Edina, where all the rich folks live. She is a big fan of that schmuck Garrison Keillor, Mister Handsy Man that lives over in Lake Wobegon, and is going to look him up and have a Lutefisk sandwich with him. She thinks it’s all a big party, sort of like Woodstock on ice, and won’t listen to me. I’m so frazzled, I’m thinking about writing a protest song about all this mess. Got any advice for me?
Little White Dove
The Texan: Well, Mr. Guthrie, sounds like Little White Dove needs a visit from the medicine man. I have a little experience with protest and such, as I went to the University of Texas in Austin, with all those hippie folks, and most of them are still there, riding around on their handicap scooters and smacking visitors with their walking canes. Back then, they weren’t collecting a paycheck for protesting, rioting, and burning things up; they got hopped up on those funny cigarettes and just did it for the fun of it. Not trying to name drop here, but I also spent some time with old Bob Dylan and his squeeze, Joan B. I think Bob is a poet and didn’t know it. and you can tell Little White Dove to be careful, because after all, the times, they are a-changing. I’m sending her a nice bouquet of big sunflowers to stick in the barrels of those Army boys’ guns, a Garrison Keillor VHS tape of Prairie Home Companion, and you a box of cherry bombs to relieve your anxiety. I’ll be watching the news to see how she does.
The Brazos River winds its way through the stoic rock cliffs a mile east of the small village of Glenrose, Texas, its waters glinting like scattered stars as the sun throws its golden light upon the white limestone bedrock beneath the water. In the tranquil shallows and deeper pools, hues of emerald and azure spiral together, mirroring the darting fish that traverse the hidden world below. Eagles and Hawks prowl the sky above, capturing the fish that swim too close to the surface. Towering Oak, Pecan, and Elm trees stand as steadfast guardians along the banks, their roots deep in the fertile soil, while just beyond, the land erupts in a profusion of wildflowers, a testament to the beauty and resilience of this little patch of earth. This is the land that Henry’s family chose as their homestead.
In the shadows of the towering hills, wide stretches of grasslands unfold, a realm where cattle and deer roam free, finding solace in the abundance that the land offers. Here, the grass is plentiful, and competition is not considered. The earth yields enough to sustain all who seek its bounty. Mesquite trees stand in tight groves, their gnarled limbs ready to provide the firewood for warmth and light for the ranch house. Henry thanks God every day that his family chose this little slice of Heaven so many decades ago, when Texas was newly freed from Mexico and formed into a Republic. His family and the Comanches made friends early on, sharing the bounty of the land and feeding the tribe with a beef or two when needed. It was a choice of peace over bloodshed and battle.
Henry’s two boys left the ranch years ago. His youngest works as a deputy in Fort Worth, an honorable but dangerous profession. His oldest boy is a gambler and a scoundrel, and haunts the saloons and gambling halls of New Orleans and Houston, making a shady wage and living an abhorrent lifestyle. Abigail, his wife, pines for a reunion with her boys, but they have been without her loving touch for many years. She is old, sick, and frail, and Henry fears each day might be her last, so he doesn’t travel far from the house and checks on her often during the workday. Henry is older than her, and he’s no spring chicken. His days of ranching and sitting in a saddle will be ending soon.
Cattle are made for roaming; it’s their inherent nature. Cowboys are made for finding and securing the unruly bovines; it’s a circle game played out daily. Henry is missing twelve, maybe thirteen, and two calves, all Longhorns. He knows they are drawn to the river; they smell the wetness and know that the grass is sweetest near the banks, and the spreading Oaks offer a safe respite when night comes. He sent his ranch hand West to search, but he knew they likely headed East to the river.
Henry picks up the cattle tracks in the soft sandy soil, heading to the river. He follows for a few miles to the West bank of the Brazos. There, they crossed in water no more than a foot deep, but swift enough to take a man off his feet. Across the river, maybe thirty yards, he sees their exit up a steep incline next to a sharp cliff that drops off to the right, large rocks scattered along the bank below, and trapped broken tree trunks and limbs reside there among the stones. The trees are thick on the left, so there is no option but the one the cattle took. Henry gives them credit for being smart enough to figure it out. They cross with no effort. Witherspoon, his old horse, knows about as much as a ranch horse could learn. Henry considers him smarter than many of the men he knows. They start up the incline, which is steeper than it appeared from the other bank. Witherspoon struggles, slipping on the soft earth and gravel, and rolls to the right. Henry knows they are falling, and it won’t be a soft one. He grabs the saddle horn and braces for the impact as they fall backwards off the cliff.
When Henry opens his eyes, the sky looks a color of blue he is not familiar with. Deep Azure, not the familiar soft blue. He is flat on his back, lying atop stones. He doesn’t feel pain and figures he escaped injury. Witherspoon, his horse, grazes near the face of the cliff they fell from; he appears uninjured as well. He raises himself up on his elbows. From the left side, a dog approaches, tail wagging. Henry is shocked; it’s his cow dog, Buster, gone for three months now. Henry was sure a pack of coyotes got him, but here he is, now licking his face in between joyful whines. Abigail will be pleased as punch to see Buster back home. She mourned for weeks, assuming he had passed.
Witherspoon is in good shape, not a scratch on him, so he mounts, and Buster leads the way up the incline. This time, it’s an easy climb, and they continue down the path, Buster following the tracks and stopping ever so often to look back and bark to let Henry know the way.
The three come upon a man leaning on a broken gate. The wood of the gate is in poor shape. The man is dressed in city clothes, sharp and clean, boots shined and a snazzy derby perched on his head. Henry has been in these parts many times and doesn’t remember this place.
The man motions his hand and says, ” Howdy neighbor, what brings you to these parts?
” Looking for some strays that crossed the river maybe yesterday or the day before, you seen them” Henry says. Buster sits on his bollocks, ears low, hair on his back up: it’s clear this is not a nice fellow. Henry trusts his dog’s instincts, which are always right.
” Had some strays here a few days ago, just walked right in the gate and up to the main house, you’re welcome to come and see if they are yours. I’ve got some good corn liquor if you’d like a jolt, but the dog has to stay at the gate, no dogs allowed on this spread, they cause too much trouble,” says the man with a broad, fake smile. Buster lowers his body and snarls, emitting a low growl.
Henry looks at the entrance, the tracks must be at least a few weeks old, and the rain has almost vanished them. He says,” No thanks, my dog has picked up their scent and tracks, and they lead on up the road, so we’ll be moseying along.”
” Suit yourself, neighbor, if you don’t find them, you can come to the main house, but the dog isn’t welcome.” The man turns and leaves as Henry moves Witherspoon along the tracks that Buster has picked up.
A few miles down the road, Henry comes upon another gate. A young woman is replacing the hinges. She has a toolbox and has clearly been working hard. Her clothes are a bit dirty, her boots are worn, and her straw hat has seen better days. Without hesitation, Buster goes to her and she bends down and gives him a hug, he whines and licks her face.
She puts down her tool and says, ” Bet you’re looking for those Longhorns that came by this morning, twelve of them, with two calves. They walked right in the gate and up to the barn. I put them in a holding pen. I figured someone would come looking. Why don’t you and your cow dog follow me up to the barn, and I’ll give ya’ll a cool drink of water, and Cookie might have a biscuit or two left from breakfast if you’re hungry. Why don’t you dismount and walk with me up to the main house?”
Henry and Buster walk beside her, Witherspoon in tow. The road is well kept, the trees lining the road are healthy and green, and some are bursting with fruit, Apples, Pears, Peaches, Mulberries, and the wild flowers are as abundant and colorful as he has ever seen. In the distance he sees the main house. It’s a sprawling place, maybe three or four stories, painted white and trimmed in gold. There are dozens of folks sitting in chairs under the covered porch. Dogs and children play on the lawn. Buster takes off down the road to join in with them.
The young woman takes off her leather gloves, offers a hand to Henry, and says, ” Howdy, my name is Angela. This ain’t my place, it belongs to my Father. You must be Henry and your cow dog must be Buster, right?”
Henry shakes her hand. Her face is beaming, glowing in the afternoon light. Bright blue eyes, silky brown hair, and the whitest teeth he’s ever seen on a person. He says, ” Angela, how do you know my name? I don’t recall telling you yet. I can’t stay long. I’ll collect my strays and need to head back. My wife is sickly, and I’ve been gone too long as it is. I worry about her, and she doesn’t need the misery of thinking something happened to me.”
Angela moves closer to Henry and takes his hand in hers as they stroll down the road. She says, ” Henry, we’ve been expecting you, Witherspoon, and Buster for a while now, and don’t worry too much about Abigail, she’ll be along shortly. Ain’t this place just a slice of Heaven.”
Good Downhome And Often Practical Advice For Those Folks That Think They Know Everything..
The Texan
This Texan received a letter written on the back of a Braum’s paper grocery bag. Braums has the second-best ice cream ( Bluebell is the top dog) and A2 milk in Texas, and a lot of folks shop there just to collect the sturdy, no-nonsense retro brown paper bags with sturdy handles, me included. It seems that a Mr. Oliver Douglas of Waco, Texas, has a problem with his new neighbors, who moved from California after purchasing the ranchette next to his farm, Green Acres.
Mr. Douglas: I saw your advice column advertised at the local H.E.B. in the grilling section next to the charcoal bags. The full-size cardboard cutout of you looked really nice, and I thought if you use and endorse that brand of local charcoal nuggets, then I’ll try them too. Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing to you. My new neighbors, Chip and Brie Romero, moved in next door about two months ago. Chip, the husband, is the great-grandson of Ceaser Romero, the famous dead actor. They, like thousands of others, fled that third-world commie country of California and came to our blessed state of Texas to start a new life, and who could blame them? I mean, that governor with the Clint Eastwood hair and the Robert Redford smile has ruined what was once a pretty good place to take a vacation and stare at the movie stars. My wife, Lisa, and her friend Lisa Ziffel spent a week of vacation out there in L.A. a few years back, trying to see Paul Newman and get his autograph. She was plum bummed out when she found out he had been dead for quite a while. But she did get to see two of those big butted Kardashian women on Rodeo Drive. She asked the most famous Kardashian woman how much she paid for those big butt cheek implants, and the bodyguard sprayed her with paparazzi pepper spray. Anyway, enough of that small talk.
Our neighbors want to be Texans in the worst way, but they are annoying Californians and will never be able to assimilate into our Texas culture. They drive a Tesla Cyber truck instead of a King Ranch pickup and have a fancy electric tractor for mowing their lawn.
They asked us over for supper: they called it a dinner party, but I call it supper. They served us white wine, some sushi(which is really catfish bait to me), some ugly, undercooked organic vegetables, tofu meatless patties, and almond milk ice cream on top of a gluten-free rice and kale shortcake. I tried to feed most of it to Verdell, their little weird-looking designer dog that hung out under their custom-made Himalayan wormwood outdoor kitchen table, but he took a few bites and puked it up on my new Justin boots. I gave the little pecker-wood a little kick with my boot for doing that, and Chip lost his crap and threw his glass of expensive white wine on my new Lucase pearl snap button shirt and was shrieking like a little girl, accusing me of trying to kill Verdell. His wife, Cheese Girl, is filming it all on her iPhone and calling their attorney back in La La land. My wife, Alma, doesn’t take crap from anybody, so she grabs Cheese Girl and throws her into their fancy Tibetan Monk-inspired meditation pond full of these big-assed Japanese meat-eating goldfish, and the fish start chewing on Cheese Girl. Eb, our farm hand, hears her screaming and comes to the rescue, throwing her a rope and pulling her out of the pond with his John Deere tractor. He had to drive it through their fancy bamboo fence to save her, and that sent Chip over the top. The meat-eating gold fish were still hanging onto her legs and torso and chomping on her, so Eb shoots them to pieces with his Colt pistol, and she’s screaming that those darn fish cost ten grand each and now he’s gonna have to pay for them, even though they were eating her like a rack of pork ribs. Things got worse. With the big hole in the bamboo fence, their herd of midget horses got out and took off into the woods, and haven’t been found yet. Arnold Ziffel, our intelligent farm pig, picked up their scent and tried to find them, but no luck yet. They have some of these exotic little Watusi Cows from Africa, and when they get scared or excited, they stand on their hind legs and dance the Watusi, which they did and danced right into the fancy meditation pond. The meat-eating goldfish got hold of them and left nothing but some bones and horns. Now we’re being sued by their fancy lawyer for replacing the cows, the horses, and the goldfish. Mr. Haney, our friend, is acting as our lawyer. Got any suggestions on how to handle these two morons?
The Texan: Well, Mr. Douglas, it appears that Green Acres is the place to be, and those Californians with all their valley speak and weird ways couldn’t resist moving to Texas and bringing their genetic baggage with them. A good friend of mine lived in a little town called Petticoat Junction, not too far from where you live. A family of Californians moved in by him, and the lecherous husband kept trying to get my cousins’ three gorgeous daughters out of that water tank and into his hot tub for some bubbly California fun fun fun. His cousin, Jethro Bodine, finally had to shoot the sucker, and the rest of the family got the hint and moved back to Beverley Hills. Californians are akin to folks from the Middle East: they just can’t assimilate and don’t get how we Texans live and the code of the West. I’ll send you Jethro’s cell phone number, and he might be able to help you out. I’m also sending you a CD of one of my favorite movies, ” High Noon,” and two large boxes of cherry bombs so you can use them to make those Californians scat back to La La Land. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.
At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last, Texas legend. The best storytellers and liars I ever knew were my two uncles on my mother’s side of the family, Uncles Bill and Jay Manley. They are the ones who told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.” My mother believed the two ruined me and turned me into a liar and teller of tall tales, which is not such a bad thing.
The Mountain Boomers were giant lizards that ran on two legs and came down from their lair on Santa Anna Mountain in search of food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, wild pigs, small cows, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. We, kids, were scared shitless of even going out of the farmhouse after dark. Now we had giant lizards and the dreaded Woolly Boogers to deal with.
With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”
Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparents’ covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the faraway howls of an occasional Coyote pack running the creek that passed through the pastures.
The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.
Already that June, my cousin Jerry and I had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens and had learned of the dreaded Woolly Boogers. Hence, we needed a new adventure: our summer was losing air like a punctured tire: we were tiring of shooting chickens with our Daisy BB Guns, then getting our butts switched by Granny.
“Did you kids see that over there in the trees across the road? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says Uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then, a few moments later, “There it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a wild pig in its teeth.”
He had us firmly hooked and reeled in. Then he starts in on the story. Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and said,
” Right down this road here, about twenty years ago, a family’s car broke down, ran out of gas, I think. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned with some gas. The little boy got out of the car to pee alongside the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry: a 7-foot-tall Mountain Boomer was standing there with the little kid in its mouth. The poor boy was already almost chewed in half. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them, Boomers, was hiding in the scrub brush and got her, too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had gotten them because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” My other cousins and I were almost pissing our pants.
When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe any of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my uncles swore the legend and the story were true. I still dream of them.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 