Tag: fiction

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch, 8.14.25


Blue Jeans, And Chromosomes, And Boobies…Oh My!

Oh, help us, Sweet Baby Jesus, Taylor Swift is dropping a new album. Now, she believes she is a Las Vegas Showgirl instead of a tortured poet like poor Sylvia Plath, who met a tragic end. Makes one wonder if the swift one knew about her demise? More cartoon music for the young girl masses that follow her blindly into the abyss of pop-less music. One day, they will awaken and grow up to be mothers and productive citizens, just maybe. I guess it’s better than standing atop someone’s Tesla and twerking their asses to the public.

The former first son and all-around good American criminal fellow says the first lady met her husband through Jeffrey Epstein. She calls it a lie and slander, demanding a public apology; otherwise, she will sue the Hunted one into oblivion for a billion bucks. The petulant former boy wonder artist and meth aficionado says F…that and is refusing to apologize. I don’t think Daddy-o will be able to save him this one last time. The Trumps have more money than Bubba Gump, and he has zero. Dr. Jill needs to drug test her boy. What a moronic man.

I am a cancer survivor, so the latest news from the Cowboys camp bothers me. After fifteen years, Smiley Jones, their Arkansas hillbilly owner, comes out with news that he beat cancer via experimental drugs. Why wait so long to tell the world? Let me guess, the Cowboys got their butt’s handed to them in pre-season, the team’s star players are threatening to move on for more money, they haven’t been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy in 30 years, and Jones is playing the “pity” card on his fans, who are deserting in mass. Poor Jerry, poor Cowboys, show me some love and keep buying those high-priced tickets, absurdly priced memorabilia, and $ 15.00 beers at his giant stadium that needs curtains to block the sun to keep the teams and the fans from melting. I know, I’ve been to many a game there, and my son, unfortunately, owns two seats that he can’t unload.

Thanks to a young actress, Sydney Sweeney, white girls are back! I’m talking really back. Sororities are going crazy, girls are buying American Eagle jeans again. All American blonde, brunette, and redheaded young women are once again strolling the streets, driving their cars to the mall, going to the beach, attending public functions, and making a spectacle of themselves in public—all thanks to a cute little gal with ginormous boobs and an All American girl spirit.

Putin and Zelensky, who’s going to win? Who you gonna call? Not Ghostbusters, but The President, and he should enlist Dana White to host a pay-per-view event at Madison Square Garden, pitting Putin against Zelensky in a UFC-style cage fight. Whoever wins will get the land, either Ukraine, Russia, or both. My money is on Zelensky. He’s younger, and there are reports that Pooty-Poot wears a Depends.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch, August 10, 2025


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.

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Ask A Texan: A Life Without Fireworks? Not In My Lifetime


Unfiltered and Unfettered Advice From A Texan For Folks That For Some Reason Just Can’t Seem To Make It Here. Bless Their Hearts.

The Texan

The Texan: Recently, I’ve received numerous inquiries regarding my infatuation with Pyrotechnics, Fireworks, and things that explode. I won’t beat around the Prickly Cactus; the letters are talking about my love for that classic American invention: Cherry Bombs, the firework of my childhood. Inexpensive, well-made in the USA, it packed a powerful punch and was too dangerous for children. Sure, my cousins and I had Black Cats, Lady Fingers, Doodle Bugs, and other puny munitions that could barely destroy an Ant hill or a Dixie Cup, but nothing could top the vaporizing, nuclear power of a well-placed Cherry Bomb. My sister and her cousins and friends played with Sparklers: a stick of iron wire coated with magnesium nitrate and potassium chlorate that reaches 3000 degrees. What fun, and what could go wrong letting small children wave around a welding torch? This was well before parents found out that those things could disfigure or kill their child, and cigarettes gave you lung cancer. I’ve told many of my readers that dangerous fireworks and the 1950s go together like Forest and Jenny, and peas and carrots.

My fondest and fuzziest memories of 1950s summers involve fireworks. My cousin, Jok, and I always had a supply of them thanks to his older brothers and my neighbor, Mr. Mister. Jok’s youngest-older brother, Michael, our main supplier of fireworks, purchased an MG sports car, a beautiful piece of English engineering. There it sat, parked under a large Oak tree to protect its delicate paint job from the brutal Texas sun. We had just completed blowing up my father’s Aunt’s mailbox with a Cherry Bomb, and the lure of illicit excitement overrode our common sense. Jok placed the munition on top of the left front tire. He lit it, and, giddy with excitement, we dove under their covered porch, awaiting the blast. The fender muffled the initial explosion, but a cloud of smoke told us the test was successful. Creeping closer to the injured auto, we could see the fender had an upward pooch about six inches high, and the top of the tire was shredded. We knew instantly that retribution would be swift and painful, likely lasting for days, if not weeks. It was. First, there were the multiple butt whooping’s from Aunt Berel and Uncle Orem, followed by one or two from his brother, a few from my mother, and then one each from the other Aunts, culminating in the final one from my grandmother and grandfather. They never found our stash of Cherry Bombs.

This explains my fondness for gifting a box of Cherry Bombs to almost all my readers who write in for advice. Nothing relieves anxiety and tension like blowing something up with fireworks.

God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.

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Ask A Texan: The Quest For Big Rock Candy Mountain And The Bates Motel


Sort of Professional Texas Advice For Folks That Can’t Afford The Real Thing.

The Texan

This Texan received a postcard from The Walmart in Tom Joad, Oklahoma. It seems that Mr. Junior Steinbeck’s wife, Rose of Sharon, thinks she is real sick and wants a vacation bucket list trip, which he can’t afford.

Mr. Steinbeck: Mr. Texan, I’ve never written a request for advice, so please consider this my first and bear with me if I make any mistakes. Two weeks ago, Rose of Sharon, my wife of forty-five years, said she was near the end. This is nothing new; she and her four sisters are all world-class hypochondriacs and have so many fatal diseases that it’s a miracle any of them are still walking around and breathing. The woman has been on death’s door since the honeymoon, but has been as healthy as a town dog for all these years. Rose of Sharon comes to me and says that, since she is pretty sure this malady is the fatal one, she wants to take one last trip and go see the Big Rock Candy Mountain in South Dakota. I say, “There ain’t no Big Rock Candy Mountain, that’s a dang song.” She says, “No, Junior, it’s that big candy rock with those faces carved in it.” I say, ” No, Rose, that’s Mount Rushmore and those faces are the past great presidents, are you a moron?” Well, I gave in since she was ill and all.

We load up the truck and head out. About midnight, Rose says she needs a bed to sleep in, and our Ford Ranger pickup ain’t no Simmons Beauty Rest. I remember that guy on the radio always saying We’ll leave the light on for you, so I started looking for that motel. We drive into a town, and there it is: Motel 3, with its sign all lit up. I walk into the office, and there’s this guy behind the desk dressed like one of those Beatles boys, and he has a red dot on his forehead. The place is all smoky and smells like perfume burning, and I hear a goat from somewhere in the back office. I say we need a room. He says it’s okay, it will cost $25.00. I’m thinking that’s awfully cheap, but I’ll take it. Rose is moaning and groaning and thrashing about in the front seat. Once in the room, Rose decides she needs a shower. She comes out of the bathroom and says, “Junior, there ain’t no towels, toilet paper, or soap, what the hell?” So, I go to the office and tell Mr. Abdul something or another, we need the bare necessities. He says, “towels, $5.00 each, soap is $2.00, toilet paper is $ 3.00. I’m thinking this is a rip-off, but I pay anyway. I get back to the room and Rose says there ain’t no pillows or sheets on the bed. By this time, I’m a little hot. Same response: Pillows $4.00 each, sheets $10.00, and if you want to watch TV, the cord is $5.00. Again, I pay. Rose needs her rest and some clean sheets.

I go to put on the sheets and there is a big, old, huge blood stain on the mattress, so I flip it over and the blood stain is even bigger. Rose of Sharon freaks out and screams, ” Junior, this is the Bates Motel. I ain’t taking no shower and get stabbed by a lunatic granny.” We pack it up and leave, drive all night to Mount Rushmore. Rose thinks it’s no big deal, a big rock with faces. All she ever wanted was to see Big Rock Candy Mountain. Any ideas how I can fix this mess with the Motel 3 and a disappointed wife?

The Texan: Well, dang it, Junior, I’m almost, but not quite, a loss for words on this one. I have a couple of aunts who have been living with fatal diseases for about sixty years, and not one of them has expired yet. My grandpappy says it’s the water in Texas, stuff keeps you alive for a little too long past your shelf life. Motels aren’t what they used to be. I suspect you were looking for that Tom Bodett Motel 6: that’s the one that leaves the light on for you. You stumbled into one of those foreign-run places that charge for everything, even the cock roaches. You can sue the grifter, but it’s likely to cost more than the bill, so let it lie. Take Rose of Sharon to Enchanted Rock in Fredericksburg, Texas: it looks like a big old slab of rock candy, and she probably won’t know the difference. Keep in touch, and I’m sending Rose a box of Big Rock Candy and a copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

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Ask A Texan: Mrs. Gentry’s Dilemma: Boat Motors vs. False Teeth


Down Home Advice For Folks That Are Out Of Options

The Texan

I received a letter from Mrs. Gentry of Tallahatchie, Mississippi, stating that her husband, Catfish John, had taken the money she gave him for a set of new false teeth and spent it on a new boat motor. She’s as mad as a cottonmouth.

Mrs. Gentry: Mr. Texan, I’m surprised I’m having to ask a stranger for help. I saw your articles in the Farm and Ranch magazine, and you seem to know your groceries. My husband, Catfish John, is what the locals call him because he spends a lot of time on the Tallahatchie River running trotlines. He had three teeth left in his fat head, so I gave him some cash I had hidden away in a coffee can and told him to go to town and get some new teeth cause I was sick of looking at his toothless face. His hound dog, Little Bob Barker, has the same problem, so I told him to get the dog some choppers, too. He comes with what I thought was new teeth. I looked at him and said, “Wait a darn minute here, Catfish, those don’t look like real teeth; they’re too big and are all the same size. ” Well, he admitted that he needed a new boat motor, so he bought a couple of boxes of Chiclets, those lovely little white candies, and super glued them into the holes where his teeth used to be: he did the same for his hound dog. They look like a couple of smiling great white sharks, and I’m out all the hidey money I was saving for our daughter’s upcoming wedding to Billy Joe MacAllister. She’s not around much these days cause Catfish sees her and the boyfriend throwing stuff off the bridge, which worries me; I’m missing a bunch of laying hens and some piglets. I’m as mad as a pissed-off cottonmouth and ready to send him to live with his baby brother, Perch. Any ideas on fixing this mess? I sent you a picture of him and the hound.

The Texan: Wee Doggies, now that’s a problem. Southern men take their fishing real seriously, and a good boat motor is essential. My grandpappy had the same problem, so Granny fed him soft biscuits and white gravy and mashed up his meat, and he got along just fine. Teeth are expensive these days, so he was just trying to save money. I love those little Chiclets candies; they are a true American institution. I wouldn’t worry too much if one falls out, he can replace it, they’re really cheap. As far as the wedding, have your daughter go to the justice of the peace. At least Catfish will always have nice-smelling breath, and if you’re at a social gathering and you need a breath mint, just jerk out one of his teeth. Keep in touch, and I’m sending him a big box of assorted-colored Chiclets so he can change his teeth to suit the holiday festivities. Let me know what your daughter was throwing off that bridge.

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Ask A Texan: Every Southern Man Needs A New Pickup


Free And Clear Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Are Trying To Get Here As Fast As They Can…

Mr. Boufrone Boudreaux of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, writes that his son thinks he’s a girl, and his wife and daughter are all in on it because they can all swap their clothes and shop together at The Walmart.

Mr. Boudreaux: Mr. Texan, us Cajuns Coon-Asses don’t like to ask for advice from anybody outside of the bayou, but I’m backed into a corner by a pack of gators on this one. About six months ago, my son, Edouard, a high school junior at Chigger Bayou Slow Learning Center and High School, decided he was a girl, despite being over six feet tall and possessing all the typical male physical characteristics. He grew his hair out long, painted his fingernails, and started wearing his sister’s dresses. After he dyed his hair blonde, like my wife, Vionette, he made an almost passable but somewhat unfortunate-looking girl. He now calls himself Edouardine, which is an old Cajun family name. I had three aunts, all named Vionette 1, 2, and 3. He was a darn good hardball pitcher on the boy’s high school baseball team, The Fighting Chiggers, but has now joined the girl’s softball team, and they are about to win the state championship. A large university in California wants to offer him a full-ride scholarship to pitch for their women’s team, and to sweeten the deal, they will also provide me with a new Ford F-150 pickup truck with a leather interior and all the fancy features. My wife and daughter are all excited about Edouard changing because now they can swap clothes, do girls’ night out crap, and go shopping for girly stuff at The Walmart. I’m real torn up on this one because I need a new truck and won’t have to fork out a fortune on tuition. Looking forward to being saved down here in the bayou.

The Texan: I’m truly sorry for your anguish, but I understand, as we share similar predicaments here in Cow Country. Many universities give the athletes and their parents under-the-table gifts to entice them. SMU, Baylor, and UT come to mind. Sports cars, cash, whores, and pickups are all considered legal bribes. UT is exceptional in this category; they attract their foreign students by offering parents Camels, televisions, and Air Conditioners, as well as portable tiny homes to replace their mud huts in the African desert. Sounds like Eduardo is confused, and it’s nothing that a hefty dose of bayou minga-minga from a gal outside of the immediate family could smack him right out of it. I’d go for it; every man needs a new truck, and take the tuition money and buy yourself a nice swamp-certified flat-bottom airboat with a gator winch. I’m sending your son a box of cherry bombs to remind him that he’s a boy and boys like to blow things up.

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Ask A Texan: Finding Joe Bee’s Father


Pretty Stable Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas And Can’t Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Miss Sparkle, a business owner in Chattooga, Georgia. She runs the Papa Gus River Rafting and Fish Camp, which was made famous in the movie Deliverance.

My little boy, Joe Bee before he grew up into a man

Mr. Texan: I can’t get no help around here from nobody: it’s just a bunch toothless hillbillies sitting around drinking moonshine, so maybe you can shine a light on my predicament. I enclosed an old picture of my boy, he’s real shy and won’t let me take a picture now that he’s older.

Back in 1972, a group of Hollywood boys filmed a movie here on the river. It was all fun, and my family got to be in the movie. I enjoyed many an evening drinking shine with some of the actors and got to know one of them really well. Bless his heart, he’s passed on now, but I’ll always remember his funny laugh and how good he was with that bow and arrows. Now, in 1984, a bunch of rich big-shots from Washington, DC came down to ride the Chattooga like in that famous movie that was filmed here. They were nice men and treated me with respect, even though I was just a river rat. Daddy hadn’t been gone long, and I was really sad, so it was nice to have some company at the camp. One night, the bunch of us were sitting around the campfire drinking daddy’s famous shine, and this one fellow they called Joe B started sniffing my hair. I didn’t mind cause I had just washed it with lye soap, and it smelled pretty good. He was a nice man, in a creepy sort of way. Too much shine always gets you in trouble, and I’ve had plenty of it since then. Well, about a year later, the old stork shows up with this bundle of joy. I call him Joe Bee. He ain’t no kid no more and doesn’t want to do anything but sit in his porch swing all day long playing the same song on his damn-ole’ banjo. I’ll tell ya, it’s driving us all to drink more than we normally do, and that’s a bunch. We tried hiding it, but he always finds the darn thing. Little Joe Bee just wants to know who his daddy is. My two other boys, the twins, Smokey and Bandit, their daddy never comes to see them either, but that’s cause he’s dead as a shot squirrel. I’ll give him a pat on the back; at least he gave them each a black Pontiac Trans Am for their sixteenth birthday. At least Joe Bee’s daddy could send him a monster truck or something. He just wants to meet his daddy and have something with big wheels to drive.

The Texan: Miss Sparkle, I’m sorry to hear of your problem and Joe Bee’s fatherless miserable life. Like you, I couldn’t stand to hear a banjo picking all day long. At least you have some good moonshine to knock the edge off. Looks like your boy’s Pop might be found in Washington, DC, and shouldn’t be too hard to track down; the family resemblance to a former big-shot should help find his daddy. We folks down here in Texas believe that every boy deserves a big truck to drive. Keep in touch, and tell your son I’m sending him a DVD of the Smokey And The Bandit movie along with a month’s supply of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Tries to Sing Like Willie Nelson


Pretty Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wishing They Did

The Texan

Mr. ET ( Ernest Tom ) Home from Roswell New Mexico sent this Texan a long letter written on a McDonald’s takeout food bag. His wife is attempting to become a country singer and has gone to extremes, and he’s hoping I can help.

ET Home: Mr. Texan, about a month ago, the wife, Willowmina, decided she was going to become a country songstress. Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but the poor gal, bless her heart, sounds like Phyllis Diller when she sings. Both cats have left home and the neighbors are knocking on our door, a lot. She see’s old Willy Nelson on the View and he’s bragging about how he gave Beyonce some of his strongest weed and it turned her into a country singer. Well, that’s all it took. Next day, we drive to Ruidoso and visit the Miss Dolly’s Weed Emporium and Desert Shop. The wife asked the young lady manager what is the best and strongest stuff she has from old Willy. She leads us into a back room, then into a closet and down some secret stairs into another little room. She hands her a small box and says this is the best stuff on planet earth: Willy’s “Hide And Watch” secret stuff. I hear it can be a life changer, and not always in a good way. Well, we take the stuff and go back to Alien city.

She’s been puffing away on that stuff for a while now, and I hear her singing in the shower, and will admit, she is getting better. Then about a week ago, she put her long gray hair in braids, put a bandanna on her head and starts playing songs on our granddaughters Taylor Swift plastic Ukulele. She’s starting to look like old Willy, face stubble and all, and I think I must be losing my marbles. So’s, I calls the daughter, Little Tator, and she drives down from Raton Pass, walks in the house looks at her mother and says, “You ain’t crazy Daddy, that’s Willy Nelson in a Pioneer Woman house robe and Pokemon slippers.” Looking for an answer here.

The Texan: Well, Mr. ET I was at a loss on this one so I called a friend of mine, Dr. Scaramouche at the Fred Mercury Hospital For The Deranged in Queens, NY. He says this derangement is new and becoming more common thanks to entertainers like Taylor Swift and the Kardashian clan. Folks think that by eating, drinking, ingesting things, or dressing like their idols, they can glam off their talent and become a version of them. Willy was right, Beyonce is about as country as Martha Stewart. I would start out by taking away the weed. If that doesn’t change things, you might consider buying a used tour bus and going “On The Road Again.” I hear it can be a lot of fun. Keep in touch, and I am sending her a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

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Finding My Voice Through Tall Tales and Truths


Over the years, I’ve spotlighted the storytelling skills of my two late Uncles, Jay and Bill. They remain in good standing and are the best liars and yarn spinners I have met. Each could have been as popular as Will Rogers, but they chose the farmhouse porch as their stage, shunning the spotlight and life as a celebrity.

Around the age of nine, I was convinced that the spirit of Mark Twain had somehow entered my body, and my destiny was one he had lived. My teacher, an older woman of little patience, was convinced that I was dropped on my head during infancy, which led to my outlandish literary behavior. She couldn’t see that I was destined to be a writer of some importance. Mathematics was a mystery I loathed, but I perked up when the curriculum came around to History and English. To me, everything became a story and originated from my grandparents’ farm, my extended street-rat crazy family, or neighborhood antics, and included made-up tales of ridiculous origins. Mrs. Badger, ever the suffering teacher, labeled me an insufferable pathological liar and called my mother in for the dreaded parental meeting, which included my school’s principal, who sat with a wicked wooden paddle in his lap, poised to administer punishment. Mother handled it well until we reached home. There was no butt whooping, but she did corner me in the kitchen, put her face nose to nose with mine and in a seething saliva spewing accusation said,

“You are one of them..my loathsome, worthless brothers have ruined you: I forbid you to associate with them, ever again.” She was right, they had, and I wore that tawdry badge proudly. All those nights sitting on the farmhouse front porch listening to their beer-infused tall tales, yarns, and lies formed me. I was spoiled, but happy goods. My family lacked the foresight needed to distinguish a liar from written fiction. My Aunt Norma, a tarnished angel, is the gal who taught me to read, write, and imagine. She understood my affliction.

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


Johnny Strawn, around 1948, Fort Worth, Texas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 17. Back Home In Texas: Looking For That Marble Angel