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Wagons Ho To California: Grandmother Is Healed By Sister Aimee McPherson And Carman Miranda Stops By….Chapter 10


Sister Aimee McPherson

As the months stretched into years, the Strawn family flourished financially, finding their footing in the golden land of California. The prospect of permanence hung in the air, and the pull of Texas grew less each year. Johnny’s elder sister, Norma, had begged to remain with one of her aunts to complete her schooling, but destiny had other plans. Completing her education in Fort Worth, she succumbed to the barrage of pleading letters from her mother, who was convinced that her death was only weeks or hours away, but she would try and hold on until her daughter made it to California. Knowing Bertha’s love for dramatics, her aunts consoled Norma and thought it best that she traveled to California and could return if needed. With a small amount of currency in her purse, she embarked on a westward journey with a family bound for Los Angeles, paying for a seat in their car.

After two years of absence from the fold, Norma returned to find her family ensnared in a web of not-so-well-hidden disillusionment. The initial euphoria of their reunion faded, exposing the harsh light of reality. Her father, now a manager, toiled away long hours with little time left for living, while Johnny when not in school, devoted all his time to the members of his string band, Blind Faith. Her mother’s dependence on medicinal elixirs was the worst of it.

Bertha, a dedicated aficionado of her restorative elixirs, consumed multiple weekly bottles. She has a friendly rapport with the local pharmacist, who considers her his best customer and gives her a discount. She would often be found at the kitchen table for most of the day, dosing her tonics and composing lengthy, nonsensical letters to her sisters. By this time, her siblings had come to understand that the words emanated from the pen of a medicinal lunatic. Norma and Johnny acknowledged the necessity of professional intervention for their mother, and, with assistance from Le Petite Fromage and Blind Jelly Roll, they formulated a plan for Bertha to undergo a holistic religious cure under the guidance of Sister Aimee McPherson.

On that Sunday, a vibrant sermon accompanied by half a dozen show tunes with a dazzling chorus line stirred the congregation as Sister Aimee made her return to the pulpit for three thunderous ovations. Following the service, Le Petite Fromage and Johnny, the fiddler, as he is now called, escorted Bertha to the orchestra dressing room, believing her holiness sought to personally meet her and perhaps bestow a signed copy of her latest literary work, “You Can’t Take It With You When You Go So Give It To Me.” Embracing Bertha warmly, Sister Aimee presented her with a signed book before guiding her to a crimson velvet settee that had previously served as Blind Jelly’s salvation vehicle. With hands upon Bertha’s head, she prayed for deliverance from the grip of elixirs and zealous missives to her siblings. Understanding she had been played by her blood kin, Bertha, teeth-gnashing and fist-squeezed white, surrendered and embraced the moment. The healing transpired in a mere ten minutes as Sister Aimee proudly proclaimed the departure of the demons, assuring that all would be splendid by supper time. As she departed the dressing room, a divine fragrance lingered in the air. Blind Jelly Roll spoke up, ” I smells me some Channel No. 1. ” Leave it to a blind bluesman with the senses of nine cats to figure it out.

With the spoke mended in the family wheel, taut and ready for the road, John Henry indulged the family, comprising of Le Petite and Blind Jelly Roll, to a Sunday supper at a restaurant. Their choice fell upon Treasure Island, a pseudo-swanky seafood establishment under the ownership of the actor Wallace Beery. The best restaurants were on the Sunset Boulevard, known as the Strip. The entrance was the front hull of a sailing schooner, complete with a mast and sail. Johnny noticed the address above the door: 77 Sunset Strip: that address would come up again a bit later. Bertha and Le Petite were giddy, anticipating the prospect of encountering Hollywood movie stars savoring fish and chips washed down with a dirty Martini.

While awaiting their meal, James Cagney and his raucous family were seated a few tables away. Clark Gable and Carman Miranda snuggled in a cozy booth, where they indulged in sips of Martini and beer. Le Petite and Bertha were in a state of apoplexy. Carman Miranda made her way to the lady’s room, passing their table. Pancho Villa sat upon Blind Jelly’s lap, nibbling on a saltine. As the movie star strolled by, she took notice of Pancho and remarked on the adorable little doggie. When she reached out to pet Pancho, she received a vicious bite that tore off the long middle fingernail from her left hand’s digit. Stunned by the sudden attack, she yelled, “Get that little demon dog out of here!” Pancho and Blind Jelly concluded their meal in the comfort of Strawn’s car.

If you missed Chapter 9, click the link below for more amusement.

The Journey to Bakersfield: A Lively Tale of Struggle and Triumph, Chapter 9

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California And The Magical Elixers… Chapter 7


My grandmother hailed from a sizable brood: four sisters and a solitary brother. Their formative years were spent in the sun-drenched fields of south Texas, toiling on the family produce farm. The patriarch, Grandfather Duncan, regarded his children as mere hired hands and didn’t pay them a dime. Every child born saved him from hiring a lazy field hand to pick his watermelons and oranges.

Upon the completion of their high school years, one by one, the siblings, usually in the dead of night and with assistance from the others, embarked on a journey, whether by bus, train, hitchhiking, or on foot, seeking their own version of freedom from the farm. Miraculously, within a few years, they and their new spouses found themselves settling in Fort Worth, Texas, mere blocks apart.

The transition from Texas to California proved to be arduous. My grandfather, possessing the toughness of weathered leather and an insensitivity to female emotions, saw the move as a blessing and a chance for a new beginning. However, for Bertha, it felt more like a forced abduction. John Henry appeared oblivious to her distress, or perhaps he believed it would pass in due time. Yet her sorrow lingered until she stumbled upon a seeming panacea: alcohol, fashioned into the magical healing elixirs hawked on the radio and in the newspapers. From anemia to tremors, from insomnia to weight loss, from night sweats to antisocial behavior, there existed a bottled pharmaceutical remedy for every affliction, no doctor’s visit required. Countless bottles of happy juice lined the shelves of the local drugstore, catering to the myriad conditions that afflicted my grandmother, a certified hypochondriac.

When not self-diagnosing herself that she harbored every disease known to man and convinced that her death was mere hours away, Bertha was quite the letter writer. Every day, seated at her kitchen table, her fountain pen full of blue ink, she’d churn out missives to her sisters in Texas. Fueled by her newfound self-assurance courtesy of those magic elixirs, she didn’t see any harm in embellishing the truth a bit about her new life out in California: alone in a strange land, who could blame her? It’s not as if her family would ever drop by for a visit. As time went by, her letters became creative works of fiction, painting the picture of a grand Beverly Hills home in place of her modest stucco house and a swanky Duesenberg convertible instead of their old Ford. According to Bertha, even the legendary Clark Gable was a neighbor, and Sister Aimee McPherson, the radio firebrand preacher gal, became a dear friend, and the two of them often enjoyed lunch at Musso and Franks Grill, mingling with the movie stars. Bertha was dead set on landing an audition with MGM or writing a grandiose screenplay, all thanks to that magical elixir of hers. Not thinking of how she would explain her fabricated world when they returned to Texas, she continued, and the more she wrote, the more she believed her own stories.

When Johnny turned thirteen, he approached his father with a request to pursue a professional career in music. John Henry, harboring doubts about the practicality of such a proposal, pondered the unlikelihood of anyone hiring a boy for such a venture, much less paying him with real money. Nonetheless, three of Johnny’s older schoolmates had extended an invitation to join their string band, which often performed at birthday parties and school events for a small fee, which was usually a coke and a plate of food. Their need for a fiddle player in the Bakersfield-style hillbilly tunes they favored aligned perfectly with Johnny’s musical talents. That evening, seated on the front porch after supper, Johnny revealed his decision to his father — he had embarked on a professional journey with his newfound band. Despite his initial surprise, John Henry offered his warm congratulations to the young boy venturing into this new vocation.

Their first official rehearsal was an epic disaster. The guitar player knew four, maybe five chords on his out-of-tune instrument, the bass player, using a beat-up dog house bass fiddle, couldn’t get the beast anywhere near in-tune, and the tenor banjo picker was worse than the other two. After massacering a dozen or so tunes, Johnny floated an option. He knows of a genuine black blues singer who burns up a guitar when he plays. The other three were wagging their tails like a hungry dog and voted to bring this fellow into the fold. Now, Johnny had to convince Blind Jelly Roll Jackson to play with a bunch of borderline musicians.

Church on Sunday was a rousing spectacle. Sister Aimee, after singing a handful of beautiful songs and just enough preaching to make sure the offering plates were full, called for souls that needed saving to approach the altar and receive Jesus. This was part of every service; a few folks would come down to be blessed and saved. With the orchestra playing, the choir singing, and a contingent of Hollywood-style dancers on stage, a hundred folks rushed the front in need of salvation. Sister Aimee, not knowing how to handle a worked-up mob that scared her out of her witts, retreated stage right and hid in her dressing room. Her assistant preacher and a few ushers administered to the flock while Sister Aimee gulped a handful of Carter’s nerve pills, washing them down with “Father Flannigans Holy Healing Tonic,” which was around 80% alcohol and claimed to be brewed from the holy waters of the River Jordan.

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Chapter 3- Wagons Ho, and Settling In California


Being in the right place at the right time can lead to life-changing events. A bit of prayer added to the mix produces wonderful things.

From what I was told, my grandfather was willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed one. He was kind to a fault and was often taken advantage of by family members and close friends. I can’t use them in this chapter because their families are still alive, they know where I live, and everyone is so touchy. I was ten when my grandfather passed on. He made sure I learned numerous lessons from his mistakes. Being the great poohbah recounter in the family, he left me with enough oral history to fill a book. I remember most of it from his stories and yarns, of which he could spin some tall ones. No one thought to write anything down, so for now, I’ve been blessed with a good memory, but only for a while.

John Henry helps the man carry the heavy piece of furniture into the house and places it in a small bedroom that appears to be that of a girl. Pink ruffles and stuffed animals is a sure sign.

With the furniture all squared away, the two men stood on the front porch, taking a break to enjoy a smoke. John Henry offered one of his Lucky Strikes to the other fellow, and they both lit up with a flick of the Zippo John Henry still carried from the war. The man introduced himself as Sargent James, said that was his real name, and he never rose higher than corporal in the Army. That got a good laugh out of them both. He told John Henry about his wife, Sunny, and their daughter Cloudy, away at school in Sacramento on some kind of scholarship, studying’ to be a doctor no less.

  After lunch, the two men traded stories and discovered they served in France at about the same time, 1917-1918, in the big war against the Germans.

Veterans become fast, tight friends; the probability of dying from a bullet or an exploding shell bonds them in a way only they understand. It’s a brotherhood for life, formed on the battlefield.

     They had both been wounded in battle; John Henry having but half a left buttock, compliments of shrapnel and had been gassed twice while fighting in the muddy trenches. His new friend was shot in the leg and the arm but recovered enough to continue fighting until some shrapnel sent him to a hospital in England and then home for good. Both showed their scars like kids on a school playground trying to outdo the other.

     John Henry is no saint; he will own up to killing men in battle, some with his rifle, a few with a bayonet, one with a large rock to the head, and one stabbed through the heart with his side knife. He regrets them all, especially the young German boy, no more than a teenager he stabbed during hand-to-hand fighting before the soldier got the better of him with his sidearm. His face is the one in his worst dreams. The boy’s face looks as if he knows he is a dead man, as he is within seconds. It took years for the brutality to catch up to him, and now, late at night, when the ticking clock is the only sound in the house, his demons come for him.  

      Both men dance around the worst battle stories but share memories of their friends, living and dead. It’s easier that way. John Henry’s half-a-buttock won the competition. The prize was a large slice of apple pie with melted cheese topping.   He feels comfortable enough to ask his host if he might know of any work a man could find. Sargent mulls the question a few moments, then says,

“I’ve got a cousin that works at the docks building shipping crates, I’ll give him a call and see if he can get you an interview. Swing by here in the morning around seven and I’ll have you an answer. I can’t promise anything, but he has the ear of the owner. ”

Good on his word, Sargent had John Henry an answer, and it was the one he had hoped for, an interview for a job. He thanked Sargent and gladly took the biscuit sandwich that Sunny insisted he eat before his interview.

Six-thirty finds John Henry standing on the sidewalk in front of the business, 808 Shipping Row. The docks are half-block away, and the noise of men and equipment moving heavy crates onto ships carries in the cool morning breeze.

Two doors are marked “Entry,” so he takes the one on the left. Down a short hallway into a large office, he finds a man sitting at a desk drinking coffee and writing in a journal. The man invites him to sit and have a cup. John Henry thinks this must be the shop foreman or the interview man. After drinking coffee for a few minutes, the man asked him about family, church, drinking, accountability, and his time in the service. After a thirty-minute visit, with a few laughs, the fellow stands, shakes John Henry’s hand, and tells him to start tomorrow morning at seven am sharp, and by the way, he is the company’s owner. Augustus Petrillo, and welcome aboard.

More to come in Chapter 4.

Chapter 4, Wagons-Ho, Leaving Texas Far Behind

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Wagons Ho-To California ! Chapter 1


June arrived with a dreaded heat wave forming in the southwestern desert and creeping into Texas. The Mexican province, formally known as the state of California, is experiencing the hottest weather in history, and that adds to the folks getting out of Los Angeles and Sacramento and moving to my state, which has done nothing to stop the influx of unwanted refugees. U haul and Ryder are out of trucks, so folks are building their own trailers or tying furniture to the tops of their cars. Yesterday, I saw a Tesla with luggage and home decor tied to the roof of the poor EV. Of course, the car had California plates, and the occupants were likely looking for a home to buy in my little town. All that was missing was Granny and Eli Mae sitting on the roof.

My grandparents, my father, and my aunt migrated from Texas to California in 1934 because there were no jobs available in Fort Worth or Dallas. When reaching the desert town of Needles, CA, they were immediately labeled “Okie’s” by the border guards. My grandfather, a man of few but choice words, mostly curse ones, did his best to convince the guards that he was a Texan and had visited Oklahoma once for a funeral, which made the situation worse because the guards then labeled them Texas Okie’s, which was a double insult, and to boot, they weren’t welcome in the land of pleasant weather and movie stars. Grandfather turned himself into a poor man’s Will Rogers, with plenty of aw-shucks, dirt-kicking, and head-scratching, which made the guards laugh, so the family was admitted. He forgot to mention the three pistols, the sawed-off shotgun, and his pet Rattle Snake, Bubba, stashed under the front seat of his Ford.

Click the link below for Chapter 2

https://notesfromthecactuspatch.com/?author=0

Chapter 2- Wagons Ho to California !

The Arrival

Ten or so miles past the Needles California border station, my grandfather, John Henry Strawn, encountered a stooped, raggedy-dressed black man and a small dog walking along the side of the road. The man’s attire resembled that of a poorly dressed scarecrow. Without hesitation, he slowed the Ford, performed a swift turnaround, and approached the traveler. After stopping the car, he offered the old fellow a ride. Without hesitation, the traveler gratefully accepted, ensuring that his dog was settled in first, followed by his knapsack, a guitar case, and then himself.

A few miles down the road, the man broke the silence, introducing himself as *Blind Jelly Roll Jackson from the Deep Ellum Dallas, Texas, and his seeing-eye dog, a Chihuahua named Pancho Villa, who is blinded in one eye. The result of a dog fight with a Coyote, so he wears tiny sunshades because the bright sunlight hurts his good eyeball. Jelly says he is a blues man and is headed to Los Angeles to stay with a cousin and find work in a juke joint, and he, by accident, shot a fella in Dallas four times over a pay dispute. He said it was all Pancho’s fault because the dog said the man had a knife, so what else is a body to do. He pulled a leather Bolla from his knapsack, took a jolt, poured a little liquid into his palm, and let Pancho Villa lick it up. John Henry was sure it was whiskey, and after the dog drank it, he fell over and started snoring. Jelly’s chin found his chest, and he slept the sleep of the weary.

On the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, they saw the first billboard, “No Jobs in California, Keep Out.” John Henry paid no attention to the sign; he was certain he could find a job on the docks in Long Beach. He was an artisan, not an Okie fruit picker. The next sign was for a migrant campground, $.25 per day, running water, showers, and clean grounds; John Henry took the turn off Route 66, drove a few miles, took two more turns, and found himself at a tidy campground guard shack. Unlike the border boys, the guard wore a clean, crisp uniform and was pleasant. The three-day fee was paid with small change from the small stash in grandmother’s purse. Their assigned camping slot was shaded by a tall Eucalyptus tree. This would do until a job was found. Jelly and Pancho Villa wandered down the main lane, stopping to let the children pet and scratch Pancho, who immediately bit a couple of them.

Travel to the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, past the city limit sign. This is where a well-manufactured fantasy meets reality. Families living in tents or shanties of plywood and canvas. The city fathers, embarrassed to call them shanty towns, label them “migrant campgrounds.” Men walk the roadways for miles into the city looking for day labor or something better. These are hard-working, proud people who have been dealt the cards of misfortune. Los Angeles is becoming a city of “haves and have-nots.”

The Los Angeles of 1934 is a city like no other in this country.  The motion picture industry paints it as larger than life.  Hollywood, where dreams are made and shattered, is the engine that powers this city.  Oil and shipping will defend their role, but Hollywood fuels the beast.

At first glance, commerce appears untouched by the depression.  Polished cars parade on Santa Monica Boulevard.  People fill the sidewalks as if on holiday, smiles on their faces, knowing they are fortunate to live in this unique land of opportunity.  The manufactured facade so completely obscures the reality that, in fact, California suffers, but not quite as much as the rest of the country.  It’s hidden so well that thousands of hopeful migrants genuinely believe this is the “Promised Land.”
   
At dawn, John Henry, with Blind Jellyroll, drove into Los Angeles to search for work. He and a few thousand others had the same idea. A long line of men and women walked in unison as if Moses were leading the Jews from Egypt along the dusty highway.      
Men wearing patched overalls, sewn-up khaki pants, and shirts as white as a wash tub could get them. A few wore a dirty Fedora or a worn sweat-stained Stetson. Some real Okies wore frayed straw hats and cracked work boots. Their clothes hadn’t seen a wash tub of water in months. It was an army made of misery. The cloud of roadside dust told the folks in town they were coming—”NO WORK HERE” signs went up in every window along their route.

John Henry drops Jellyroll and Pancho Villa at the downtown mission run by Sister Aimee McPherson, the celebrated firebrand radio preacher. Jelly’s cousin works for the preacher and has assured him that the good sister has a place for him. John Henry wonders how a blind man and a one-eyed dog made it from Texas to here. Perseverance and Moxy, some folks have it, but most don’t.

  Lost and asking directions to Long Beach every mile or so, John Henry made a wrong turn and found himself on a residential street. Tidy bungalows with mowed green yards and colorful landscaping lifted his spirits. Back in Fort Worth, you only saw streets like this where the rich folks lived. He could tell by the cars in the driveways and houses that needed paint that these folks were plain working people, getting by better than most.  

 Half a block up, he sees an older man and woman losing the battle to unload a large chifforobe from the back of a pickup truck that should have been in a scrap yard. The rear end of the old truck sat on the concrete, and both leaf springs shot to hell. They are struggling and on the verge of dropping the piece of furniture when John Henry stops and, without asking, jumps in and grabs the end the woman is about to lose. The man thanked him for his help as they carried the furniture into their house. The home smelled like the fragrant gardenias growing around the front porch.

More in Chapter 3. * Note; My father couldn’t remember the name of the fellow or his dog, so I used the name of a character from an earlier story. A dog named Pancho could be nothing else but a Chihuahua.

Open the link below for Chapter 3

Chapter 3- Wagons Ho, and Settling In California

July 23, 2024, 2:04 pm 0 boosts 0 favorites

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5.12.24 Dispatches From The Cactus Patch


Say It Ain’t So Willie…

Now, I know that the world is off its axis: Willie Nelson is moving his famous 4th of July Picnic from Texas to somewhere in the Northeast to beat the heat. Look, Willie, the brutal life ending heat, Lone Star longnecks beer, no restroom facilities, drugged crazed hippies and cowboys are what your picnic is about. If Waylon was here, he would kick your scrawny old butt for even considering a relocation to of all places…Yankee land. Kris is still around, so he might just step in and do it. I attended one of his picnics back in the late 70s at Palo Duro Canyon and damn near expired from the hellish heat, no water and very little food. I survived by crawling under a car for shade, which at that point, it didn’t matter, my skin was roasted, and my dark hair bleached white. Around dark, ole Willie steps up to the mic and belts out Whisky River. Trigger, his beat-up Martin guitar was out of tune, his singing was off meter and he was likely higher than a California Redwood, but it was Willie, our Patron Saint of Texas Country Music. We sat transfixed on the hard dirt and rock, fire ants chewing on our legs, Rattle Snakes crawling about begging for a beer, and hundreds of poor passed out folks missing the show they came for. Please, Willie, keep it in Texas. I have confirmation from a good and mostly reliable source that your Saint Hood is imminent. This might screw it up.

Jewish Students Revolt Against Federal Protected Students

There is now a movement on most of the elite university campuses to oust and delete the fake Palestinian protesters. Two groups calling themselves “Jews For Jesus” and “Frat Boys Revenge” are now in place at most of the major universities. Maya Sharona, field correspondent for NPR interviewed a protestor at MIT.

MS: Excuse me, are you a woman or a man, It’s hard to tell with all the scarfs wrapped around your head?

Student: I am neither of those words, call me a new servant of Allah, willing to die for whatever Allah and that woman with the megaphone tells me too. Please film my left side, that’s my best profile. Should I show my molitove cocktail for the camera?

MS: Sorry, there is no camera, this is radio. What exactly are you protesting?

Student: I am not really sure, wait a moment, I must check TikTok and Facebook, all of our information and instructions comes from them. Ahh yes, here we are, (screaming)” Death to Israel, Death to all Jews, and Death to America” we demand Starbucks Latte’s and vegan pizzas, student loan forgiveness, and a free diploma in the curriculum of our choice. That’s a bummer about the no camera, got all dressed up for nothing.

MS: There is a group of frat boys over there by that police car. They look menacing and most of them are twice the size of your comrades. I believe they may be about to kick your butts.

Student: Allah and Papa Biden will protect us, we are the chosen people of Palestine, or maybe it’s Gaza, or Syria. It doesn’t matter, we are protected by the Federal Government, like the tiny fish and the lady-boys with fake boobies.

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Slouching Away From Bethlehem


I am borrowing a piece of Joan Didion’s famous book title to make a point; I don’t think she would mind. I can’t ask permission because she expired in 2021, but I am a fan of her works.

After yelling and cursing the television screen for a few weeks now, thanks to the pampered and entitled Ivy League students and their new besties, the Palestinian agitators, I began to understand their imagined cause. They hate their parents, they hate their country, they hate you and me, and they hate themselves for hating everything and understanding nothing: the “everybody gets a participation trophy” generation has come of age. The soccer moms and helicopter parents created this pack of little Franken-Children, and us old folks have to suffer their folly.

I’m no Dr. Phil, (although the name affiliation is there) just an old guy that has seen a thing or three and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express a few times, although I prefer Drury Inns. This is my blog, and I can darn sure say what I please, no matter how much it offends, or not. Getting kicked off of Twitter numerous times, only makes me more insufferable.

I remember being a teenager in the turbulent sixties when protest against the Vietnam War and Lyndon Johnson were in full swing. Those were mostly students and a mix of outsiders singing songs and they carrying signs, that mostly say hooray for our side and all that Hippie Dippy Love Love Panda crap. Yes, they burned and bombed some buildings and would have lynched L.B.J. if they had gotten their THC-stained hands on him. Their purpose was to end the war, not end America. As misguided as they were, the strength in numbers and the news media’s coverage gave them a skewed and at times, misguided pulpit, and it did make a difference. Those little Hippie protesters, for the most part, grew up to be productive citizens and parents, although many of them became Devil-Dog politicians, radical teachers and Satanic university professors and they, Dear Hearts, are partially responsible for the turmoil of today. Once our boys in Washington took prayer, God and the Bible out of our schools, the Demon Brigades sallied forth, and the slow walk away from Christianity began. Thank God and Pastor Greg Laurie, it’s resurging with a vengeance never before seen in this country. Is it too little too late? Maybe for some, that are past the point of reason, their minds altered from tiny Demonic brain worms. (a cool phrase lifted from Bobby Kennedy).

Instead of carrying signs and singing songs of praise while marching toward Bethlehem, the misguided young’uns, wearing their backpack full of trophies, are slouching away towards evil.

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Stand By For News! And Other Commentary From Texas


I’m so nervous I started smoking again…

Warning! Dear Hearts, the following commentary on social issues is not politically correct in any way. If you are triggered by common words in the English language or by religion and free political speech in the form of comedy, then don’t read any further. I’m warning you one more time.

I attended Momo’s Melody Belle’s choir concert this evening at the Langdon Center in old town Granbury. For a bunch of old gals, they sang well, doing Broadway hits from the 40-50s. I was impressed.

When leaving, the pianist approached me on the front steps and asked me if she could ask a personal question. I said sure, shoot. She says, ” You look like such a free spirit. Are you a Democrat? I said no, and then she told me that she was the chairwoman for the Granbury Democratic Party and asked if I was voting for Trump. I answered yes, and then Momo showed up, and the lady asked her the same. Momo has become a nervous filly lately, and folks should know that the wrong questions are likely to get the wrong answer. I’m the same but with a touch more diplomacy. The encounter did not end well for the pianist.

Free Spirited Momo at The Opera House. She has a 380 Smith & Wesson in that purse

If you have read this far, it’s too late.

A free spirit..now, what does that mean? Maybe because my hair is pretty long, and the mustache makes me look like Wild Bill Cody, or perhaps The Dude, without the bathrobe. The Democrat lady assumed I was an old liberal, burned-out Hippie. Nope, only an old, weird-looking, slightly burned-out ex-rock n-roll musician, conservative. You can’t always go on looks alone: same thing my sixteen-year-old self used to tell my parents.

Old Free Spirit Me at the Opera House. That cane is really a sword and a flame thrower

On another subject dear to my heart: Biden awarded Nancy Pelosi the Medal of Freedom for her courageous behavior on Jan. 6. That’s sort of like making Hitler an honorary Rabbi for his outstanding management of Auschwitz. Old Sniffer has been awfully quiet the past few weeks. Those rioters and anarchists are his voting block, so he has to mollify the little everyone gets a trophy, darlings.

Kudos and salutations to the fraternity young men at UNC and a few other universities for taking it upon themselves to protect our flag. The little candy assed Hamas loving, mask-wearing, latte-drinking, vegan-eating, Birkenstock-wearing, head-scarf-wearing, trans-loving, tongue-pierced, devil-worshiping, police-hating, America-hating grifters were freaked out when young American males told them if they touched the flag, they were dead little Gazaians. We need more of that from the rest of the schools that have been hijacked by socialist teachers and students. A word to the tenured commie professors, ” Don’t mess with Gods chosen people, the Jews. He’s kind of touchy about that.”

The Obama/Biden bunch is trying to pass a sneaky law to allow over a million Gaza refugees into the US. I ask, “Now what in the hell could possibly go wrong with that scenario?” Little terrorist kids in our elementary schools wearing C4 explosive belts. Hamas gunmen rampaging through Walmart? Oh wait…we already know what can go wrong thanks to our open border. This may sound a little over the top, but if these folks come here, it’s likely to happen. But will they be able to vote? Of course, they will.

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Snack Time In New Guinea


” Yum Yum eatum up”

The old Chief Sniffer should have been a dime novel author.

“My uncle was eaten by cannibals on the island of New Guinea” is his latest contribution to his resume of fantastical yarns. That could have certainly happened; the tribes in New Guinea are renowned for their culinary skills. Now, come to find out, it’s a whopper of a lie. He was fact-checked in-depth and has told this one before. His poor uncle perished in a plane crash near New Guinea in WW2: And why would Sniffer tell a group of United Steel Workers this story? The fun begins when this guy goes off script or loses a notecard; that’s when he fancies himself to be good old Will Rogers from Scranton, PA.

Behavior like this is quite normal for folks with Dementia or drunk authors. I should know: my two late uncles were masterful spinners of incredible yarns and a few lies here and there. My cousins tell me I am afflicted with the same virus.

Hemmingway never wrote a line without the accompaniment of liquor, and Edger Poe didn’t draw a sober breath for decades: a serious conversation with a Raven made him famous.

President Sniffer is no Hemmingway or Poe, just a mentally ill old man that folks feel sorry for while he destroys our Republic. Maybe Jill should publish his yarns? You know it would be a New York Times bestseller.

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Grammarly Has Gone Full Woke!


I was writing about the attack on Israel, mentioning that the Biden administration told Netanyahu that the US would not have his back if they retaliated against the Ayatollah regime. The message below is what came up when I accidentally clicked on AI Assist. I have never used that feature, so I am shocked that a premium service I pay for will now attempt to control what I write. I admit that my view is sometimes controversial but not radical or offensive: only truthful and to the point. Political Correctness, Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion I consider a cancer in our society, and I will never take that path. Goodbye Grammarly.

From Grammarly AI ASSIST: I’m sorry, but I cannot provide a clear rewrite of the text you provided, as it contains political statements that could be considered controversial and inappropriate for me to comment on. As a helpful, fair, and safe AI-powered assistant, it is my duty to remain impartial and respectful towards all individuals and groups. I suggest refraining from using language that could be divisive or offensive towards others. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Make it persuasive

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X ( Twitter) Banned The Cactus Patch!


Do I Look Upset?

It finally happened; X formally suspended my account on their platform either for a week or until death, whichever comes first.

Why? Because I commented on a video from a conservative site. It showed a large, rather violent black woman assaulting an old white man in a jogging suit who clearly had trouble ambulating. Punching, kicking, and knocking the poor guy down, then kicking him like a football, and everyone around, instead of helping stop the attack, had their phones out, filming it. That’s what we do now; we think our little video might get us a thousand likes or a Pulitzer Prize. Lord help us if we should get involved, “Not my problem, man.” But, it is our problem if we allow this type of behavior. People on the street are out of control. Normal behavior no longer exists in our society. We have been replaced with violent Pod People.

My comment was neither rude nor profane like so many I’ve read. Just an honest comment about how Karma comes around and her’s will in time. Well, maybe it was a little snarky, but not too.

I’m not upset or mad but rather proud that the little green-haired, Birkenstock-wearing, pierced-face, hairy-legged, bottom-dwelling, Red Bull-drinking, tofu-eating, vegan, half-starved, woke-assed, pimple-popping, ass-picking, safe room-hiding, breast-nursing, skinny jean-wearing, gimlet-assed little morons at X think I am a danger to free speech.

I may be, since my blog and I make fun of everyone, including all politicians and sometimes folks like the Popester.