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The Boy Who Became Sweet Baby Jesus

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments


The year was 1955, and at six years old, by my grandmother’s observation, I was a heathen child, almost feral. Being raised in the big city of Fort Worth on a steady diet of television featuring Popeye, Bugs Bunny, and the Three Stooges, I was living in a religious void. I saw the “good book” as a large decoration on the dining room table and read it at Christmas, Easter, and family funerals. Recently, I had been attending a few services at the Poly First Baptist Church with my parents. Still, the preacher, with his over-animated, stage-stomping Hell-and-Damnation rants, scared me more than The Mummy and Frankenstein combined. I was wishing for a fatal disease to strike so I would be bedridden and couldn’t attend.


I had been visiting the farm for six weeks, from June into July, and it was my first time away from my parents. The farmhouse had no television, only a radio. By the third day of no cartoons, I had the shakes and a low-grade fever. I did bring my Red Ryder BB gun and enough ammo for a summer’s worth of popping some of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens: the BBs bounced off their thick feathers, so none were harmed. Other than throwing dirt clods at Rattle Snakes, it was all the entertainment I could muster. Granny was a wise Cherokee, medical Shaman, and self-proclaimed Texas Biblical scholar, and she felt a week at the Baptist Church Vacation Bible School would fix me up and assure my acceptance into Heaven. I had no idea where Heaven was or when I would be required to visit, so I trusted my Granny would make my reservations.


Miss Ida Belle Mae and her younger sister, Rita Rose Mae, are the self-appointed teachers of our Bible school class of 25 children, ages 6 to 10.
Homely as a sack of poultry feed, the two are old maids and prolific spinsters rumored to survive on a tidy income from a single pumping oil well on their farm. It has been a long-standing gambling bet at the Domino Parlor that that gasping little well will give it up. To date, no one has won the wager.
When the holidays come around, the two sisters are rumored to donate a substantial sum to the church. To appease the ladies and keep the money flowing, the kind but timid preacher is forced to let them do what they please. Their pleasure this summer will be teaching Bible school. The preacher will regret this decision.


On the first day of Bible School, our class cut, pasted, and signed 270 prayer cards for the sick and unfortunate children in Africa; quite a feat for 25 kids. Most of us were injured and bleeding from paper cuts and glue poisoning from licking the envelopes. My tongue swelled up the size of a buttery biscuit. The kid beside me glued his lips shut, and Miss Ida had to pry them open with a spoon and a douse of grape Kool-Aid.


Miss Ida sent us outside to lounge under the trees and recover from our stint on her assembly line. There is no recovery; it’s 96 degrees and not a rustle of a breeze, but it’s better than forced child labor.


A black Cadillac sedan stops in front of the church, and an older lady escorts a boy of maybe nine or ten into the main building. The kid wears a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. We assume he is here for a funeral or a baptism, but don’t care because it’s too hot to move or think. Miss Ida rings the lunch bell. Yummy peanut butter, grape jelly sandwiches, and lukewarm Kool-Aid await—the usual menu for Bible school attendees.
After we are seated, Miss Ida brings the suited boy to the front of the class. She is beaming like a schoolgirl attending her first prom In a giddy voice, she addresses us,


” Children, I would like to introduce Master Stewart Sweet. His daddy is the famous tent-preaching evangelist and faith healer from San Angelo, the Right and Honorable Doctor I.M. Sweet. Master Stewart will attend our Bible school and lead the children’s Bible study on Sundays for a few weeks. I can assure you that he is quite capable since he has read the Bible three times, all before he was six years of age, and preaches at his father’s tent revivals.” Miss Ida doesn’t know this kid’s back story, nor do we, but it will soon come to light.


As a class, in childish camaraderie, we are unimpressed and instantly dislike this brat. Will this kid, dressed as a department store dummy, preach to us about sin and saving our little souls? At our young age, the worst thing we could have done is tell a few small lies, steal a cookie, or shoot a chicken with a BB Gun. Hell and Damnation are years away for most of us.


Young Master Stewart steps from behind Miss Ida’s table and slams his ten-pound Bible down on the floor so hard it sounds like a firecracker. A few girls in front are shaken and begin to whimper.
The young preacher Stewart raises his hands to the Heavens and launches into a tirade that can only be considered appropriate for adults designated to luncheon with Beelzebub within the hour.


After ten minutes of our first fiery sermon, we are ready to wrap this kid in scotch tape and send him to Africa with the prayer card. Suddenly, he stops and begins to bless our food. He bows his head and, in a reverent whisper, says,


” Dear Lord, these children, wretched little hayseeds that they are, cannot survive on the butter of the Peter Pan and the mush of Welches. They need a substantial amount sustenance so they may be healthy to accept your holy spirit. Starting tomorrow, a glorious feast of grilled sausages wrapped in soft buns, the salad of the potato and the ruby-red fruit of the melon will be their manna from Heaven. Amen.”


Miss Ida is speechless. The little preacher kid has called her food “garbage,” and she has to sit there and take it. The class is now a bit impressed. This kid is good.
The sisters, rattled by Young Sweets’ blessing, need time to recover and devise a plan to send this kid back to San Angelo as soon as possible. So they send the class outside to suffer in the heat again.


Miss Rita delivers the ice cream freezer and instructs two larger boys to start churning for the afternoon dessert. Allowing us to have ice cream may be the only kindness these two witches grant us.


Twenty-five minutes into the churning, the ice cream remains a pitiful mush. Now impatient for their treat, the class gathers around the freezer, demanding an explanation. We are kids and know nothing about how these machines work. You add ice, salt, liquid, and chur. That’s all we know.


Young Stewart parts the crowd and approaches the ice cream freezer. He kneels and places both hands on the contraption. In a soft, almost inaudible voice, he says a small prayer and violently shakes the machine a few times. He rises and declares, “There shall be delectable ice cream in five minutes.” He is right. This ice cream might be the best we have tasted in our young lives. Little Master Stewart fixed the ice cream machine. A girl calls it a miracle.


After ice cream, Miss Ida calls the class for Bible study and a story. Her stories are known to last too long, and kids tend to lose interest and fall asleep. Her voice is that of an older man who smokes two packs of Camels daily — raspy and accentuated by the occasional hack.


Bitsy, the smallest and youngest girl in class, is seated at the front table and is in distress. The new kids in the class are unaware that she has an immobilizing speech defect. She stutters, and her vocabulary is limited to a simple yes or no. The little girl is wide-eyed and squirming in her chair.
Miss Ida knows her problem, and when Bitsy politely raises her hand to request a bathroom visit, Miss Ida insists that she must stand and ask aloud in front of the class. Of course, Bitsy, immobilized with fear and embarrassment, wets her pants. Miss Ida snickers and calls her a little baby child. We all knew these two sisters were mean, but now we know they are darn right evil.


Master Stewart comes from the rear of the class and stops in front of Bits. He turns and gives the two sisters a “stink-eye” that makes them fall back into their chairs, white with fear.
He bends down, takes Bitsy’s head in his tiny hands, and declares,

” Take this affliction from this small child. Purvey upon her the diction of William Shakespeare and the wisdom of Mark Twain. Let her words flow forth like the singing of Doves on the south wind. She will never again stammer or grasp for words and will someday speak to massive gatherings of people who will clamor to hear her message. Amen.”


The class sits in stunned silence. Healing the ice cream machine was a warm-up compared to this. A girl from the back of the room yells, “Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus.” And there it is: Young Stewart will now be known as Sweet Baby Jesus, or just Sweet Baby for short.


Miss Ida and Miss Rita sit rigidly in their chairs, eyes glazed and staring into nothing. The amount of “stink eye” Stewart, now known as Sweet Baby Jesus, put on them must be compelling.
He approaches the two women, lays his small, soft hands on their wrinkled, sweating foreheads, and mumbles a few words. His back is to the class, so we have no idea what is said. The two evil sisters shiver a few times and awaken from their “stink eye” trance. They stand, gather themselves, and tell the class they are going home. Master Stewart will teach for the duration of the Bible school. They depart the church as if in a zombie trance.


Sweet Baby Jesus takes his Bible, sits on the edge of Miss Idas’ desk, smiles, and says, “Now, let’s hear some real Bible stories straight from the source.” It was a beautiful afternoon full of unexpected laughter and acceptance. For once, we kids found that listening to the word of God from another kid made us feel good, sort of like hot oatmeal on Christmas morning.


The following day, the preacher greets us with the news that young Stewart is back in San Angelo and will teach the class for the remainder of Bible school. Of course, we were sad to see our new Sweet Baby Jesus depart our Bible school. Bitsy, in between constant talking, sniffles, and wishes him the best.
The class wrote a letter to Sweet Baby, thanking him for his kindness to Bitsy and for putting the evil sisters in their place.


I attended the vacation Bible school for a few more summers, but it wasn’t the same without Sweet Baby, and I attended my last one at eight years old.
A few decades later, I read that the Right and Honorable Reverend Stewart Sweet, with assistance from his wife, Bitsy, had established an enormous ministry in Africa and healed everything from Beri-Beri to auto engines.
It looks like Sweet Baby Jesus is still doing a great job.

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A Day In The Life Of An Old Retired Rat Hunter

/ Phil Strawn / 22 Comments

As some of you know, I had, and now, still have a Rodent, Rat, Mouse, or something more vile living within the depths of my wife, Momo’s, favorite thing: her hot tub.

We’ve removed most of the foam from inside, found the tubes the little critter chewed to obtain water, and have a friend who is a plumber who plans to replace the damaged parts in a week or so.

Now the Hantavirus, or the Black Plague, is going around, Good Lord Almighty, another pandemic? Mouse poop is going to wipe out the country?

Those folks on that tour ship must have ingested some in their Ceaser salad while gorging at the buffet. There is a substantial amount of Rat poop inside the hot tub, so there must be more than one, possibly a family with relatives.

I did the inhumane, unthinkable, and poisoned the little Rat with some guaranteed tasty and effective bait. Yesterday, he was lying down, breathing hard, and in a spot I could reach with my wife’s Martha Stewart Cooking Tongs. I figured he was about to go to Ratland, so I would wait out the expiration, but this morning, he or she has vanished. It’s unlikely a Rat Rapture happened, so he is either deeper in the tub or has crawled away to croak in a more natural and serene setting in the woods that surround my home.

My cousin and I used to sit in my grandparents’ barn and shoot the Rats with our Daisy BB Guns, killing a few now and then, but developing a keen eye for shooting fast-moving targets. Now I’m back to square one: find the Rat, dig more foam, put on a Hazmat suit, and finish vacuuming up the foam pieces and the Rat poop. I’m seriously considering having someone haul the tub away, Rat and all, or purchasing a 410 Shotgun and gettin er’ done.

I

Wills Journey

/ Phil Strawn / 15 Comments

My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a Dichos, a storyteller, a bearer of folklore, and a master weaver of tales who could grip the heart of any listener. By the time I came to appreciate his art, he had become an old man, his form hunched and weary from years of living, yet his spirit gave his narratives power. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, close beside his rocking chair, absorbed in the stories that spilled from his lips, losing myself in the world he painted with words. Ever so often, he would pause, lift his fiddle from its case next to the rocker, and play a few licks to accentuate his tales. Folks like him didn’t bother to write; they told their stories around a campfire or in front of a fireplace on a cold winter day. Those were the days I cherished most. When he told me this story, he was in his last days, suffering from cancer caused by getting gassed in World War 1. He passed away a month or so later, but he did manage to leave me with some of the best parts of his life to write about.

A small group of cowhands is sitting on the porch of a bunkhouse on a night without a breeze. The coal oil lamp was placed out in the front dirt yard of the shack to draw the bugs away. The ranch they worked was west of Mineral Wells, Texas, way out yonder in the low mountains of the Palo Pinto rough country.

The white-haired visitor sitting to Rufus’ left had been quiet throughout Del’s story; staring at his boots and showing no emotion. So, Rufus, trying to be hospitable, asked him if he had something to say.


The way he wore his hat, all cockeyed and sweat-stained, was sad. He was in dirty clothes, worn-out boots, and no woman miserable. Del, had just finished his story about fighting a gang of Mexican outlaws down on the Rio, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about anything this old codger had to say, but he is a guest, so he gets to speak.


The visitor opened a Pearl, drank it all in one swig, gathered himself for a minute, and said, “My name’s William; my friends call me Will. I grew up around Kennedale and fought in the Great War back in 1917 over there in France. I ain’t never told anyone about this, but I’m getting old, and the angels are coming to visit me in my dreams at night, so I figure it’s about time to let this out.” A few of the men moved closer to the visitor.


“I joined up in the Army over in Fort Worth in 1917. Then I got sent to Kansas for training and was then shipped over to France on a boat. When I got there, my Captain, knowing I was from Texas, put me in charge of the caissons and the mules that pulled them. He figured if I was from Texas, I was a cowboy. I never told him differently. At least I was stationed back from the worst of the fighting, taking care of the stock. I was okay with that. It saved my sorry ass. I got pretty fond of those mules, and it hurt me a lot when one of them got killed. I always fed them more than needed. They were happy, critters. I liked my job; I loved being alive.


One cold miserable muddy morning these three German boys come walking across the battlefield holding a white hanky. They were giving up. Some of the boys wanted to shoot them, but our Captain said that wouldn’t be right to kill an unarmed man. Captain was funny that way. He was a preacher back in Oklahoma, so he tried to live by the word. Even in war.


Those Kraut boys were pitiful. No coats, dirty and scared, they were a mess. We fed them some grub and gave each a blanket and a tin of hot coffee with a bit of brandy. They were grateful. One boy sobbed a bit, and then, in pretty good English, thanked us for not killing them. His name was Frank. I liked that young fella.


After a week with us, the men didn’t bother watching them anymore. Those boys helped with chores and even did KP for us. They were nice boys who didn’t want any part of this war, but like us, they were doing their duty. They were our prisoners, but we treated them like they were one of us.


I asked Frank if he wanted to help me with the stock, and he was happy to oblige. He said that back in Bavaria, his family raised farm horses for a living, so he knew horses. I was glad to have him help. I never imagined I would become friends with a German soldier, in a damned old war, but that’s what happened. Frank and I became best of buddies. We exchanged addresses and such, so when the war was over, we could keep in touch.


After a while, he and the other two got moved to a town in France and turned back over to the Germans when the war was over. I didn’t know if I would ever hear from him, but I hoped I would. I never had many friends, except for a couple of dogs and my horse.


A year after I got home to Waco, my Momma brought me a letter from Germany. Frank, in his best English, wrote to me about him coming home, getting the horse ranch and farm going again, and marrying his girl. A baby was coming soon. He closed his letter asking me to sail over to Bavaria and work with him on his farm. He wanted to make me a partner. I didn’t have anything going on in Texas, so I told my Momma that I was moving to Germany. I wrote him back and said I would come to Bavaria and be his pard. We exchanged a few more letters, and he writes that a boat ticket has been purchased for me to sail from New York next April. He also said that he has a cute cousin that might be interested in meeting me. Hot dog! I was going to live in Germany and marry a little alpine princess. Whooooo-weeee.


I got my affairs in order. Sold my horse and saddle, found a home for my dogs and such, and was counting the days until I rode the train to New York City. It was never meant to be.
In early March, I received a letter from Frank’s wife, Liese. She told me Frank had died in a farm accident a month or so back. She said I could still come, and she could sure use the help running the place.

I couldn’t do it, not with Frank being dead and all. I sent her a telegram saying I wouldn’t be making the trip and I was sorry about Franks passing.


I was devastated. It changed my life, and not for the better.
I had a second chance to do something other than being a dirty cowhand, and it was jerked right out from under me. I was a real, bitter man for a long time. I drank too much whiskey and did some bad things to people. I was a horrible person at times. I didn’t know myself anymore, but I did know enough that if I didn’t change, the good Lord was not going to be calling my name on judgment day.


I sometimes did odd jobs for an old Mexican fellow named Pepe. He saw the demons on my back and talked me into coming to his church to worship with him and his family. I never was a church person, but I went just to shut him up. I never saw any of what happened until it hit me. When I walked into that little Mexican church, the demons lifted off my back. I accepted the Lord into my sorry life, and he led me to salvation. Imagine that.


I went around and apologized to everyone if I ever did any wrong. I wrote to Franks’s widow and apologized for not coming over to help her.
I enclosed a separate letter for her to put on Frank’s grave.
There it is. I’ve said it all. Feels good to get that off my chest after all these years.”

The two of us sat in silence for a while; grandfather finished his warm beer, and I my Coke. He rose from his chair, put his beer and my Coke bottle in the trash can, and gave me a goodnight hug. It was only after I got in bed and awoke in the night that I realized that the man in his story had been himself.

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Fort Worth Christmas Stories: A Journey Back to Santa

/ Phil Strawn / 7 Comments

Photo by: Head Elf No. 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Nostalgic Christmas Memories from Fort Worth

/ Phil Strawn / 5 Comments

A recount of my childhood Christmas memories in Fort Worth, Texas.

Photo by: Leonard’s Museum and Ansel Adams
Photo by: Elf -O-Mat Studios

Riding a ceiling-mounted “Rocket Train” to nowhere around the basement of a department store doesn’t seem like a Christmas activity, but that’s what thousands of other Texas kids and I did every year in the 1950s.

Leonard Brothers Department Store occupied two square blocks of downtown Fort Worth real estate and was known as the Southwest’s Macy’s. They offered everything the big shot stores in the East carried and hundreds of items no retailer in their right mind would consider.

If you had a mind to, one could purchase a full-length mink coat with optional mink mittens, the latest women’s high-fashion clothing line from Paris, France, an Italian cut-crystal vile of Elizabeth Taylors spit, James Dean’s signature hair cream, Rock Hudson’s autographed wedding photos, a housebroken Llama, an aluminum fishing boat and motor, a new car, a pole barn, a lovely two-story craftsman home “build it yourself kit” delivered to your lot, chickens, barb wire, hay, horses and cows, a 30-30 Winchester rifle, a 40 caliber autographed General George Custer Colt pistol, a bottle of good hootch and a Ford tractor. That’s about as Texas as it gets.

The Christmas season in downtown Fort Worth was internationally recognized for its innovative and incredible decorations. The righteous and self absorbed city fathers figured the best way to outdo Dallas, a full-time effort, was to line every building with white lights from top to bottom and install large glowing decorations on every lamp pole, street light, and building façade available. If that didn’t make you “ooooh and ahhhh,” then you needed to take a BC Powder and head for the house.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my parents would take my sister and me downtown to see the decorations and visit the Leonard Brothers Department Store. Santa just happened to be in their basement, taking advanced verbal orders from every crumb cruncher who could climb the stairs and climb into his lap.

My sister always asked for the latest doll between screams and crying fits. She was scared senseless of “HO-HO,” but somehow managed to spit out her order. Like clockwork, every year, I asked for a Daisy BB Gun with a year’s supply of stainless silver ammo ( for killing werewolves), a full-size Elliot Ness operable Thompson Sub Machine Gun, or an Army surplus Bazooka with real rockets and a long, razor-sharp Bowie knife encased in a fringed leather holster. It was a 1950s boy thing; weapons were what we longed for. How else could we defeat Santa Anna at the Alamo or win World War II, again? Our neighborhood may have sported the best-supplied “kid army” on the planet, and jolly old Santa was our secret arms dealer; parents non-the wiser. I finally got the BB Gun, but Santa was wise enough to not bring the other request.

Walking down the stairs to the store’s basement was the thrill I had waited for all year. There, hanging above my head, was the beautiful red and silver tinseled sign, “Toy Land,” kid nirvana, and the Holy Grail all in one room. The smell of burned popcorn and stale chocolate candy wafted up the stairs, and I could hear the cheesy Christmas choir music and the sound the Rocket Train made as it glided along the ceiling-mounted rails. I almost wet my jeans.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of parents jostled down isles of toys, pushing, grabbing, and snarling like a pack of wild dogs fighting for that last toy; the holiday spirit and common courtesy were alive and well. The queue of kids for the Rocket Train snaked through the basement like a soup line.

Sitting on his mini-mountain top perch, sat old red-suited Santa Claus and his elfin apprentices, herding kids to his lap at break-neck speed. Each child got about fifteen seconds, a black and white photograph, and then it was off the lap and down the steps. Kids were fast in those days; we memorized and practiced our list weeks before our visit for maximum impact. “Ho-Ho” had better be writing this stuff down. Kids, don’t forget squat.

After two Santa visits, four Rocket Train rides, and three popcorn bags later, our family unit departed Leonard’s for the new and improved “Leonard’s Christmas Tree Land,” located across the street from the main building. Thanks to the demolition of several wino-infested abandoned buildings, the new lot was now the size of Rhode Island and held enough trees for every person and their dog in the state of Texas.

Thousands of fresh-cut trees awaited our choosing. Father, always the cheapskate, chose a sensible tree; not too big, not too small, yet full and fluffy with a lovely piney aroma. My sister and I pointed and danced like fools for the “pink flocked” tree in the tent, which cost the equivalent of a week’s salary. My parents enjoyed our cute antics. The sensible tree was secured to the top of our Nash Rambler station wagon, and we were homeward bound.

Pulling into our driveway, it was impossible to miss our neighbor’s extravagant holiday display. We had been away from home for 6 hours and returned to a full-blown holiday extravaganza that made our modest home look like a tobacco road sharecropper shack.

Our next-door neighbors, Mr. Mister and his lovely wife, Mrs. Mister, were the neighborhood gossip fodder. The couple moved from Southern California for his job. He, an aircraft design engineer, and she, a former gopher girl at Paramount Studios. The Misters reeked new-found money and didn’t mind flaunting it. They drove tiny Italian sports cars and hired a guy to mow their lawn. His wife, Mrs. Mister, always had a Pall Mall ciggie and a frosty cocktail in one hand. Father said she looked like a pretty Hollywood lady named Jane Mansfield, but Mother said she resembled a “gimlet-assed dime-store chippy.” I got the impression that the Misters were quite popular in the neighborhood.

Mrs. Mister on her fancy sofa
Mr. Mister contemplating his next invention

Their Christmas display was pure Cecil B. DeMille. A life-size plywood sleigh, with Santa and his reindeer, covered the Mister’s roof, and 20 or more automated Elves and various holiday characters greeted passersby. Twinkling lights covered every bush and plant in the yard, and a large machine spat out thousands of bubbles that floated through the neighborhood. This was far more than Fort Worth was ready for.

The kill shot was their enormous picture window that showcased a ceiling-high blue flocked tree bathed in color-changing lights. There, framed in the glow of their yuletide decor, sat Mr. and Mrs. Mister with their two poodles, Fred and Ginger, perched on their expensive modern sofa, sipping vermouth martinis like Hollywood royalty. This display of pompacious decadence didn’t go unnoticed by my parents.

Father hauled our puny tree into the living room and began unpacking lights for tomorrow evening’s decorating. Mother hurried my sister and me off to bed. Visions of spying Elves, sugar plum pudding, and dangerous weapons danced in my head; Christmas was upon us like an itchy fungus.

Sometime after 10 PM, Father got hungry. Searching for sandwich fixings in the kitchen, he found a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Then he found a fresh half gallon of Eggnog, which he enjoyed with the bourbon. While searching for bread to make a ham sandwich, he found two boxes of “Lux Laundry Soap Flake” with a dish towel in each. Then, by chance, he discovered the food coloring. This gave him an idea for our sad little tree.

I awoke with a start. The sun was shining on my face, which meant I was late for school. I ran into the living room and was stopped in my tracks.

Our formally green tree was now flocked in thick pink snow, as were the curtains, the fireplace mantel, two chairs, the coffee table, and my father, who lay on the couch, passed out, with a half-eaten ham sandwich on his chest. My Mother sat a few feet away, sipping her coffee and smoking a Winston; my Louisville slugger lay on her lap. I was reluctant to approach her, but I had to know.

I timidly put my hand on her shoulder and asked, “Mom, is Dad going to be alright?” She took a sip of coffee and a drag from her ciggie and said, “Well, for right now, he will be, but after he wakes up, who knows.”

Halloween Candy Haul: A Grandpa’s Last Trick-or-Treat Adventure

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments

I wrote this in 2019, but thought it appropriate to bring it out again for Halloween.

I’m sad to say, that my wife did not believe me when I announced this would be my last “trick-or-treat” before my coming demise. There are three things left on my bucket list, and this will reduce it by one.

Walking out of the front door in my black jacket, black shirt, black jeans and Texas Rangers baseball cap, the look on her face says that she didn’t believe I would really do it. I reminded her to “hide and watch” as I departed down the sidewalk carrying my Trader Joes paper bag.

A few blocks down, I joined a group of children in search of sweets. It was cold, so most had on heavy jackets that hid their fancy costumes. The kids assumed I was someone’s grandfather and welcomed my presence as a chaperone and comrade. A few of the mothers gave me the stink eye, but being a kindly older fellow went a long way in easing their fears.

A few dozen houses behind us, the group was thinning down to a dedicated few. The hour was late and the school bell rings early, so the younger ones retreated for home to sort their spoils. I noticed that my bag was getting heavy, so I told the group I would do one last stop, then split for home.

Our last stop was a retirement apartment complex. One kid said ” it’s the best because old people miss their grandchildren and really pile on the goodies.” I can identify with that, and I would do the same if I was wielding the candy bowl.

As predicted, the octogenarians loaded our bags to the bursting point. They didn’t mess around with the bite size candy bars, everyone received full size bars, like the ones you see in grocery stores. My bag, one handle ripped, was maxed out.

Unable to carry my booty, I summoned my wife to drive me home. She was excited over the amount of candy I collected because she loves chocolate as much as any six-year-old, and I had enough to last for months.

At home, we turned on “The Bride of Frankenstein” and dumped my bag of goodies onto the den rug. We were, for a moment, children again. A treasure trove of candy lay piled before us. It was the largest haul of my life. I gave my spouse a smug “told you so” smile, as she clapped with glee and sorted out the best chocolate bars for her consumption. It was then things took a weird turn.

From the pile of sweet treasure I pulled a plastic bag of No. 2 Male Catheters. I’m thinking someone at that retirement home must be missing these by now. Digging further, I exhumed a new tube of hemorrhoid cream, two tubes of denture paste, a bottle of stool softener, handwipes, a pair of reading glasses, an adult diaper rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon and three 50% off coupons from Luby’s Cafeteria. I was mortified. My wife laughed so hard she barely made it to the bathroom. Well, at least I gave it a shot.

Ask A Texan: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments

Words of Wisdom From A Wise-Assed Old Texan Taken At Your Own Risk

The Texan

A Mr. Rowdy Yates from Rawhide, Wyoming, writes that his wife is a fan of some young actress named Emma Stone and is convinced she has to emulate everything she does.

Mr. Yates: Mr. Texan, my wife Miss Dale was a champion barrel racer on the rodeo circuit up here in Wyoming for twenty years or so. She saw this young actress who looks a lot like her when she was a young’un in a movie called “The Help,” a story about a young southern girl who writes books about black maids and rich white plantation folks. Well, Miss Dale sort of looked like that young actress girl when she was younger, and she is in her fifties now. She has some identity issues, and I won’t fib, so do I. I’m losing my once Clint Eastwood-looking hair, and my teeth are falling out. I’m looking scary, but that’s another matter. Miss Dale still looks good in her Rocky Mountain jeans and Justin boots, and can still ride her old horse, Buttermilk. About a week ago, she read in a magazine that the Stone girls’ new movie is coming to town, and you could get in for a free screening if you shaved your head like the actress in the movie did. Bald women don’t look good. Miss Dale had the most beautiful head of grey hair in town. Long flowing tresses that any movie star would kill for. It was naturally piled high on her head, and she looked like a young Dolly Parton, but without the added additions. She went to the feed store, bought some horse shears, and shaved her head for a free ticket to that stupid movie. Now she looks like Yule Brenner and is going around thinking she is a female Pharaoh or something. I didn’t notice this for the forty years we’ve been married, because she had a lot of hair, but her head is shaped like a cone, and her left ear is about an inch lower than her right one, and two tiny horns are growing out of the top of her scalp. She’s gotten really testy and told me to buy her a new Dodge truck Chariot model to drive to the movie premiere. She says crap like ” So it shall be written, so it shall be done.” I wish she would go out and buy a Dolly Parton wig or something. Do you have any ideas for helping an old cowpoke out?

Miss Dale

The Texan: Boy, Mr. Yates, I feel your pain, all the way down here in Fort Worth. I can’t relate to your hair problem; I still have all of my teeth except for the alien implant in one of my molars, and my snow-white follicles are flowing like Robert Redford’s, although ole Sundance is a corpse now. Sounds like Miss Dale has been on TikTok too much; that’s where all this crap usually starts. My late aunt Beulah lost all her hair from bleaching it too much, so she had the Ten Commandments tattooed on her bald head; she was very religious and wound up in a bunch of B or C movies playing a nut-job nun. I checked up on this Emma Stone girl used AI in the movie; she didn’t really shave her head, so all these women going hairless like a Chihuahua just to get free tickets to a bad movie are morons. Go ahead and buy her the truck, but if she won’t put on a Dolly Parton wig, and go wander in the desert for forty days and nights, until her hair grows back out. Moses had a good time walking around in the wilderness. Who knows, you might find some stone tablets out there in the sand. I’m sending Miss Dale some new hair-growing gel and for you, a box of cherry bombs to blow things up in the desert. Send me a picture of Miss Dale.

Ask A Texan: Yearning To Be Sydney Sweeney…

/ Phil Strawn / 21 Comments

Questionable But Believable Advice For Folks That Dream About Living In The Land Where They Can Be An Urban Cowboy And Date Debra Winger

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Whipple Charmin of Lawton Oklahoma. It was written on the back of a Walmart grocery list, and after reading what the poor man is being fed, I’m amazed he’s still alive. It seems his wife, Luanna Rosanna Cash, is going through a midlife change and is searching for her “inner self.”

Mr. Charmin: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Popular Chicken Magazine at Tractor Supply and figured you might be able to help a brother out. The Missus, Luanna Rosanna Cash( her mama named her that after her favorite singer), is going through the change of life, at least that’s what her Chiropractor and her hairdresser tell her. She recently saw that Sydney Sweeney girl on TV wearing those tight jeans and looking pretty fine, so she thinks she wants to be like her. The problem is, Luanna has a butt the size of a 1957 Buick and the only jeans she can fit in is those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans at The Walmart. I come home from work at the chicken-killing plant, and she’s all laid out on the sofa with a cold bottle of Ripple Wine, wearing those stretchy jeans, and a Dolly Parton wig and a Urban Cowboy western shirt open to the waist. Her little Poodle dog, Tidbit, is sitting on her butt, with his leg up licking his own little butt, which killed the mood. I know her hormones are all messed up and she’s going through one of those identity crises and all, so I tell her she looks real fine. Well, she asked me if those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans make her look like Sydney Sweeney? That dog sitting on her butt kinda threw me off my nut, and I said, No, honey, you look just like that nice waitress down at the Waffle House. The doctor at the ER stitched up my forehead and said the scar should go away in a few years, but the imprint of the Lodge frying pan logo might be permanent. I need to make things right with Luanna cause I’m tired of living at the Motel 6 cause they keep that damn light on all night, and I can’t sleep.

The Texan: Whipple, you Okie moron, didn’t your Daddy teach you anything? It doesn’t matter if her butt looks like the Goodyear Blimp floating over Cowboy Stadium; you lie like a two-dollar garage sale rug. I, too, once was in a similar situation. The wife, squeezed into her 1980s Madonna, Like A Virgin outfit, she was wearing to our class reunion. She looked at me with those big, old, fake eyelashes eyes and that teased-up hair, and asked me if the dress made her butt look too big. I was working on my fourth or fifth Jack and Coke, so I told her the tushie looked just like that Led Zeppelin album cover. The prom was a little icy, and a few days later, I came home from the Sons of the Alamo Lodge meeting, and she had donated my bass boat to the Goodwill store. So, Whipple, you’d better learn to lie like a Democrat. I’m sending you a copy of ” Liars for Dummies” and my usual box of Cherry Bombs just to make you feel better.

Three Strikes Doesn’t Mean You’re Out Of Life’s Game

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments

How many chances are we allowed when we screw up? As a child, I was, at times, allowed three strikes and then I was out. The first one was the warning, the second was a more stern warning with parental icing, and the third was the one that always resulted in the butt busting and exile to my room with no cartoons or Ovaltine. I remember them well. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one who didn’t remember the first two chances as being severe enough to deter me from the dreaded third. Most kids have been there, my two boys included.

This past Saturday, Momo and I volunteered through our church, Generations Of Granbury, to help feed the homeless in our hometown of Granbury, Texas. It’s known, and touted as the number one celebration town in the country, as well as being the number one small historical town in the USA, it also has homeless folks. How is that possible? Look past the beautiful square, the lake, the historical charm, and all that razzle-dazzle hype. You find that yes, it’s like any other small town or city in Texas: we have homeless people living on our streets, or in cheap motels, paying by the week, or day for a bed and a bathroom. Good people who were dealt a bad hand found themselves without their castle, their home, their pride. It may not have been more than a few bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, but those walls and a roof held so many family memories of past Christmases, children’s birthday celebrations, graduations, and Thanksgivings past. The laughter and joy are gone in an instant because they couldn’t make the mortgage payments, or perhaps a divorce, loss of a job, or alcohol and drugs were to blame for their misfortune. Our society does not guarantee everyone a safe, warm home; that is up to ourselves to make that happen. What our government and NGOs do guarantee is that people from third-world countries come here illegally and freely partake in the American dream, and then some for breaking our laws and contributing nothing for what they receive. Just be sure to vote as we tell you, or the freebies stop. How about the poor American citizens and veterans who need a hand? Do they receive the same red-carpet treatment? Hell no.

We arrived at the Classic Inn, set up the tables, laid out the hot food and sack lunches, and waited for people to stop by for a meal. On our way from the church, I had noticed a young couple with backpacks sitting under a stand of oak trees by the highway. I told my wife, Maureen, that if they are still there, I would like to take them a sack lunch and some water. Everyone thought that was a good idea. I found them lying under a stand of trees in the front yard of a bank building. The young man was flat out and not moving; the young lady, his wife, was lying by their belongings, which consisted of a backpack and a grocery sack with grapes and an orange drink. I handed her the lunches, and she was grateful. I asked her where they were headed. She looked up, bottom lip quivering and tears in her eyes, and said she didn’t know where they were going or what to do. I saw the look of despair, hopelessness, fear, and defeat in her young eyes. She was mortified to be accepting food from a strange old man and to be in her situation. Here she sat, guarding the few things they owned, no home, no money, no nothing except her husband, who was going through his fourth day of agonizing detox from Fentanyl addiction. She had been clean and sober for over a month. Drugs knocked them to their knees, robbed them of their possessions, their pride, and then brought them to this shady patch of grass in Granbury. Whether I liked it or not, it brought them to me. I told her I would be right back and ran for backup, which was my wife, Maureen. She’s a nurse and a strong Christian warrior, and these situations are what she is made for.

We returned with hot food and more water. Maureen sat on the grass talking to the young lady while I purchased two bottles of Poweraid from the grocery store next door. When I returned, she asked me to go to the Classic Inn and pay for them a room for the night. Her nurse mode had kicked in, and she knew the young man needed out of the heat and a bed. The demons of detox had hold of him in the worst way. I procured a room and returned. We helped the young man, who could barely walk, to our truck and took the two of them to the motel. The Classic Inn is no Motel 6, but more like a Motel 4: no frills, just air conditioning, a bed, and a bathroom. We decided they needed another night, which we arranged, considering the condition of the man.

When we left them in the motel room, Maureen prayed with the young girl and was told they have a four-year-old son who is being cared for by the man’s mother. This made their situation even more dire, as a child is involved and away from his mother. Evidently, they had been given the three strikes you’re out from their families, and had failed: kicked out, and banished.

Maureen embraced the young mother, and she clung to her. It was not the easy embrace of friends, but one of desperation, and thanks for understanding and helping without judgment. We went back to the food table and helped load up, but as we finished, a car with a lady and three children pulled up and asked if there was still food left. They left with boxes of food for their supper that night.

Maureen and I went home, shaken by what we had dealt with for the last two hours, praying for God to heal and help these two young parents. They may have used that third strike and were considered out, but sometimes, folks deserve a fourth or fifth strike to get it right.

Dispatches From The Cactus Patch, August 10, 2025

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

Keep Those Teeth In Your Mouth….

One of my recent “Ask A Texan” write-ups included a blurb where a large dog ate a man’s lower false teeth. It fit the story well, and it actually occurred about 67 years ago, and I was around when it happened.

My late, late, late uncle wore choppers, as he called them, and had a love-hate relationship with his false teeth. This was back in the days when the technology was archaic at best, and folks suffered greatly when wearing the prosthetics. They weren’t quite George Washington’s wooden teeth, but not much better. I’ll tell the story as best I remember it, as it was told to me by my uncle, then my Sainted Mother.

My two late uncles were the best liars and yarn spinners I have known. My Mother says I am possessed with their restless spirit, wisdom, and imagination: I’ll gladly accept that. Uncle Jay was the best of the two. Uncle Bill was close and at times could out-lie and rip a great yarn better than his brother, but only after Jay drank too much Pearl Beer. I would sit in awe as the two of them went at it on the front porch of the farmhouse on hot summer nights. Of course, cold Pearl Beer always made everything better. One night, the two of them may have had a bit too much beer and retired early. Uncle Jay had lower false teeth, a result of an injury in World War II. He collided with his anti-aircraft gun, or that’s the story he told. My Mother, his sister, said he got them knocked out in a barroom brawl, which sounded about right; he was a mighty scrapper. He also had a large Chow dog named Mr. Pooch. As dogs go, he was friendly, but only if you didn’t get too close, look at him, or try to pet his big head; then he would rip your arm off. So, we cousins stayed the hell away from Mr. Pooch.

Upon turning in for the night, Uncle Jay removed his lower teeth and set them on a chair by his bed. Mr. Pooch, ever the faithful dog, slept by the bed on a pallet of Granny’s quilts. The dog needed something to chew on, so during the night, he helped himself to Jay’s lower false teeth. In the morning, Jay, seeing a tooth and some gum material on Pooch’s pallet, realized the dog had eaten his teeth. Country folks didn’t use vets back in the 1950s, so he figured Pooch would pass the teeth in a day or two. Granny gave Mr. Pooch a dose of salts and some fiber to speed up the process.

The cousins, including me, were doing our usual daytime activities: shooting chickens with our BB Guns, roaming around the Mesquite Tree woods looking for Rattlesnakes, the usual kid stuff. My cousin, Beverly, headed back to the farmhouse by herself, probably to get some ice tea. We heard her scream and took off running. We found her plastered against the wooden plank wall of the smokehouse, crying and snow white; she was having a minor breakdown. We checked her for a snake bite and found none. She then pointed to a large pile of dog poop about ten feet away and wailed louder. Jerry and I walked over to the unusually large pile, and there, alone, was one of the most enormous dog turds we had ever seen. Looking closer, we saw that it had human teeth and was smiling. It scared the hell out of us, and we ran to join Beverly. We didn’t know that Mr. Pooch had eaten our uncle’s lower false teeth, so we thought it was a demon turd from hell or something worse. After Granny told us the story and inspected the poop, we all had a great laugh. Uncle Jay and Mr. Pooch never lived that one down. We never let him forget it.