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.
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!
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.
A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I know that Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote would likely not agree with her observation.
Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.
I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?
My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.
My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.
My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.
At 76 years old, I consider myself a writer; with over 200 short stories and interviews to my name, they attest to my efforts.
I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.
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.
Advice For Non-Texas Folks That Need It, Whether They Know It Or Not
The Texan
I received an email from Mrs. Lillian Munster of Winston, Massachusetts. It seems her husband is determined to have one last Halloween, and she is fearing the worst.
Mrs. Munster: Mr. Texan, I read about your advice in a magazine I got at the Goodwill Store last week. My husband, Boris, is 92 years old and recently had an episode from being electrocuted while working in his shop ( he calls it his lab ). Still, it’s really just a shop in our garage, which is full of crazy stuff he has been building for decades: lots of glass tubes, electronic machines, tables with straps, and things like that. He was installing a large Ham Radio tower and lightning struck it, knocking him out from the jolt. Our oldest son, Eddie, just happened to drop by and found him on the garage floor mumbling nonsense. The doctor at the ER said the lightning jolt and the fall likely affected his brain. Now he is insisting that he go trick-or-treating because he thinks this will be his last Halloween, and it may well be. The jolt and the fall gave him a cut on his forehead, but Eddie used a staple gun to close the injury, and it did disfigure his face a bit, giving him a limp, and he now drags one leg behind him, and it’s hard for him to walk because he is 7 feet 6 inches tall. It also affected his speech, and he now only talks gibberish and is afraid of fire. He wants to go trick-or-treating with the kids in the neighborhood, but I’m afraid for his safety. We have folk in our rural area that own guns, pitchforks and torches, and they might get the wrong idea when he mumbles for some candy. He does look a bit scary. Do you have any suggestions on how I can prevent him from going through with this? I’m sending you a recent photo of him so you’ll see what I’m talking about.
My husband, Boris, after his morning coffee
The Texan: Mrs. Munster, I can see why you are concerned. He looks pretty scary, and if I answered the door and he was standing there with his plastic pumpkin candy holder mumbling gibberish, I might well grab my 12-gauge or a garden pitchfork too. Try to persuade him to visit a haunted house, or at least attend a Halloween carnival at the local school or church; he would likely be a big hit with the kids there. My late uncle Zevon developed a facial condition, and long brown hair grew and covered his entire face, which made him resemble the Wolf Man from the old 1930s movies. He became increasingly self-conscious and stopped going out in public; instead, he began to make a living by writing hit songs. I’m sending you a CD of Halloween songs, which includes the Monster Mash, the tune my uncle wrote. I’m also sending your husband a box of Cherry Bombs to keep him occupied in his lab. Keep in touch.
I wrote this story in 2012 when Momo and I lived in Berry Creek, a golfing community in Georgetown Texas. I played golf with a large group of men that are mentioned, and this account, although written from an animals perspective, is true. Another Texas Tale, but not too tall of one.
Shorty J. Squirrel
On a sultry Texas afternoon, a group of men gather around a small, flag decorated concrete pedestal just a few paces from the 18th tee box.
They stand in a loose semi-circle, reverent, staring at a small metal figurine of a Squirrel.
From a box, one of the men produces a metal plaque and passes it around to the others for their approval. It makes the rounds, one by one, each man taking a moment to read the inscription, and nod his approval.
This will be their final tribute to one of God’s small creatures that had touched each of their lives.
In the woods of Berry Creek, life for the animals is good. The Deer are safe from hunters, the Ducks are well fed and sassy, and the wily Squirrels rule the forest. The occasional Bobcat and Coyote might pay a visit, but they don’t fancy the closeness of the humans, so they quickly move back to the wooded outskirts. The Skunks are courteous and know their place.
Most mornings, as dawn creeps over the tree tops, life on Lanny’s Pond is already in full swing.
The Ducks congregate to plan their day of begging, and who will get the prime mooching spots. The Mallards usually win the best locations based on their good looks and surly attitude. The other Ducks resort to the equivalent of standing by the cart path with a cardboard sign.
The Squirrels, not ones to socialize with the lowly Ducks, meet at the base of a gnarled oak tree behind the 13th tee box to discuss the previous days events.
Who’s still around, and who’s not? Who stole somthing from the giants little cars yesterday? It’s always a vibrant discussion, and the main topic usually involves their encounters with the “giants”. In Squirrel language, there is no word for humans, so they simply refer to humans as “giants”.
The Squirrels consider themselves the self-appointed royalty of Berry Creek, and take no lip or beak from the other critters. They view the Ducks as stupid and clueless, the Deer, beautiful but dangerous, and the Skunks a foul annoyance. The remaining animals are categorized as flagrant opportunist. But not the Squirrels. They always have a plan. They don’t beg, they just take what they need.
In Texas, legends are part of the culture. Every patch of woods in the state has at least one critter or human that falls into the legend category.
We have Ol’e Rip the Horned Toad, Bob the Bobcat, the Chupacabra, Big Foot, the Jack-a-lope, Pecos Pete, Davy Crockett, William Travis, Ol’e Blue, Ol’e Yeller and Pasquale the horned toad that started the battle of the Alamo. There’s no shortage of legends in Texas, and it’s folks like it that way.
But the woods of Berry Creek, there is but one uncontested legend, Shorty J. Squirrel.
The oppressive Texas heat is tough on all the critters, but Shorty knew how to keep cool. He would find a bare spot beneath a tree, stretch out on his belly, and let the damp earth cool him down.
On one of these cooling off sessions, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t hear the large black dog creeping up from behind.
Jolted awake by the sense of being flung violently through the air, Shorty realized something large and vicious had a firm grip on his tail and was swinging him around like a stuffed toy.
After several violent roundhouse swings, the dog lost its prize, when a large piece Shorty’s tail broke off in its teeth.
Escaping to a nearby tree, bloodied, and missing more than half of his familiar rear plumage, Shorty glared down at the slobbering mongrel standing there with a substantial piece of his former beautiful tail protruding from it’s muzzle.
“Stupid inbred animal” he barked.
Shorty knew he was lucky, and thankful to be alive. Many of his extended family had been whisked away by the dog killers.
Squirrels, because they all look-alike, are not prone to personal vanity, but they do have a bit of a rude streak and tend to take notice when one of their own looks a little different.
The few days after the dog incident, Shorty made his morning appearance at the meeting tree, and was greeted not with concern for his brush with death, but by laughter and ridicule focused on his damaged tail.
He explained the attack in animated and vivid detail, wanting the others to know how close he came to death at the jaws of the large dog killer, but the other Squirrels could only point at his damaged appendage and laugh all the louder.
Disgusted and dejected, Shorty made his way over to the sand bunker on the 17th green, sat down and had a good sulk.
While sulking in that sand bunker, Shorty noticed a group of the “little cars” stopped nearby, and being the breakfast hour, he hopped over to see if there were any hidden morsels worth taking. Creeping ever so quietly, he raised himself into the little car.
Smelling something fragrant and nutty, he climbed into the glove box, finding a nice piece of a half eaten granola bar.
Hidden in the glove box and munching away on his prize, Shorty didn’t notice the little car moving forward. It was too late, he was trapped in the little car.
Shorty, hunkered down in the glove box, frozen in fear, and no way to escape, could only stare up at the faces of the two giants riding in the little car.
When it stopped and the giants exited, Shorty escaped back to the safety of the sand bunker. He told himself that was a little risky, but well worth the meal, and he would likely try it again.
The next morning, the same group of little cars came again.
Shorty saw one of the giants throw a handful of nuts onto the ground next to the car.
When the giants were on the mound swinging their long sticks, Shorty stole a few of the nuts and scampered back to the sand bunker.
The giants smiled in amusement as they drove away.
A few days later, the little cars came again, and Shorty bounded over to see what was to be offered.
One of the kind giants sitting in the car, held a nut in his paw and offered it to Shorty. Cautiously, he approached the large paw and took the nut from its grasp. He devoured it, and the large paw produced another nut, then another, and another, until Shorty could hold no more.
After a rousing round of nuts, Shorty was uncomfortably full, and waddled back to the sand bunker. Not having to look for food that day, he relaxed in the sand. ‘This is the life” he told himself.
The other Squirrels, having watched this scenario for a good while, approached Shorty, begging to learn his technique of training the giants to give him food.
Shorty, being pretty full of himself at this point, and seeing an opportunity to raise his status in the clan, explained that only “he” was able to train the giants.
His newly deformed tail had bestowed upon him, special powers that allowed magical interaction between himself and the giants.
The other Squirrels, being somewhat ignorant, and naturally superstitious by nature, accepted his explanation without question.
As the days progressed, Shorty, intent on milking this to the end, and starting to believe his own story, would put on his daily show for the clan.
Shorty would approach the little cars, raise up on his hind legs, and staring intensely at the giants, would wave his small paws in a circle, bark a few commands, and the giants would extend a nut bearing paw. The Squirrel clan, watching from the trees would bark in wonderment and approval of their new guru.
The giants enjoyed the unusual antics of the little Squirrel, and noticing his shortened tail, appropriately named him “Shorty”. They thought he was the friendliest Squirrel they had ever encountered.
As the months progressed, Shorty warmed to the giants and would trustingly climb into the little car and take nuts from an ever-present bag. The giants would speak to him, using his new name and he would respond as best he could with a chatter and the flip of his small tail.
When the little cars would approach the 17th green, the friendliest giant would sometimes yell out Shorty’s name, and he would scamper over to receive his handout.
The other Squirrels in the clan, noticing how completely Shorty had trained the giants, unanimously elevated him to “deity status”.
Shorty’s name was now sacred in the woods of Berry Creek.
As Shorty’s legend grew in the woods, it equally grew in the community of giants.
Giants in their little cars would yell for Shorty and throw nuts on the ground as they drove by.
But Shorty was confused. These giants were not “his giants”, and some threw objects at him when he tried to retrieve the nuts. He was always happy to see “his giants”, and they were always happy to be in his company.
One afternoon, Shorty was retrieving a nut that had been thrown from a little car. Dashing across the cement path, he failed to see the little car as it sped toward him, and
Shorty was crushed beneath the wheels of the little car.
His last thought was of his circle of “giant friends”, and who would now train them?
Who would be their friend?
The driver of the little car, thinking it was just a lowly Squirrel, continued on his way. Not caring, not knowing that he had ended the life of a “small legend”.
The life of Shorty J. Squirrel.
One of the kindly friends of the giants found Shorty on the path, took his small broken body home and called Shorty’s “favorite giant” to inform him of his death.
The group of giants were grief-stricken at the passing of their small friend, and vowed to give Shorty a proper tribute to honor their friendship.
As the sun sinks low, one of the men places the small metal plaque on the monument and they silently walk away into the Texas afternoon.
Their tribute, now complete.
After Shorty died, the group of about 30 men, which grew to around a hundred, established a memorial golf tournament held every year in August. It was called The Shorty and was quite popular. I wrote the original story and painted the first poster for the event. As far as I know, it’s still going strong, from what I hear from my friends who live there. We take our critters seriously here in Texas.
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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 