I ran into old buddy Mooch at H.E.B. on Christmas Eve. I stopped by to pick up a few things Momo forgot: Eggnog, Milk, Cedar Fever Elixer, and more birdseed. Our Avian friends have been a demanding lot as of late since the flock of Crows moved in. They sit on the fence and Caww-Caaww until I load the flat feeder with peanuts, their favorite. The poor Cardinals and the Dove have to wait until the big boys leave. The Crows like shiny trinkets, so I left a quarter in one flat feeder and a Crow took it. The next day, there was a dime in the feeder. I have no idea what the Crow spent the other fifteen cents on.
After fighting off the food sample ladies, I spotted Mooch staggering around in the frozen food aisle with a hand-carry basket full of Red Baron pizzas, his favorite. I eased up beside him and wished him a Merry Christmas, but no response. I tapped his shoulder, but no acknowledgment. I stepped in front of him and gave him a friendly stare, glazed eyes, and a stream of slobber on his chin. In desperation, I shook his shoulders, and he snapped back into the moment.
” Sorry old buddy, I’ve been drifting in and out of it for a few days,” he says.
I am worried, so I ask, ” Don’t you think a visit to Doc Bones is in order, I thought you might have stroked out on me pal?”
” He was apologetic and explained, ” Nawww…I went Deer hunting last week and shot me a big ole Buckster. We ate some Deer chicken fry steak yesterday, and now I think I’ve got the Deer Zombie disease. Mrs. Mooch is convinced I’m a Deer Zombie but without the ten-point rack of horns.”
Momo requested some Christmas music this morning so I dug around in my vinyl stash looking for my Elvis Christmas album; I couldn’t find it… must have given it away. I did run across a Perry Como and a Sing Along With Mitch Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to spin them, and I have no idea why they are in my collection. I streamed some Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, which did the trick.
Christmas is upon us; it will come and then be gone in a flash. A full year of hype and anticipation will be kaput in twenty-four hours. There will be the usual big letdown after the presents are unwrapped, the eggnog is gone, and Zuzu tells her Dad, “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings.” That darn movie makes me a blubbering idiot. With age, some of us lose our filters. I fear all of mine are long gone. I’m apt to say anything at any time and am completely politically incorrect. Just ask the folks at Home Depot; my picture is posted at all the service counters. Same thing at Lowes.
I was in H.E.B. with Momo a few days back, me pushing the cart and her shuffling along on her fancy walker with a seat, 4 wheels, and 2 handbrakes. Her new and improved bionic knee is almost healed and ready for butt-kicking action. We ambled down the pet food aisle to purchase bird seed, and I found myself tearing up, thinking about my little dog Winnie, who’s been gone for two years. I will likely sniffle and snuffle at anything these days, especially around Christmas. I blame it on a lack of old-guy testosterone or the lesser grade of Kentucky bourbon; I recently changed to a cheaper brand; times are tough in the cactus patch. Maybe Santa will bring me some George Dickell. Standing in the checkout line, this nice lady behind me taps my shoulder. ” I know you two,” she says. She is a fellow Plano Wildcat from the 1960s. Her father and my father were good friends back in the day. Good to see an old high school classmate since there aren’t that many of us left. The shopping trip was a shocker. Half a basket of foodstuff, a few household items, and some allergy pills, all for $230.00. It might be cheaper to eat all of our meals at McDonald’s; those dollar burgers aren’t that bad once you get past the first bite, and with an adult Happy Meal, I get a toy that might be a plastic Unicorn that farts glitter or one of those goofy big-eyed girls from Frozen. I would rather have a drink coupon for the brewery on the square.
We made a trip to Walmart to pick up meds. The parking lot was packed. Inside, there were people everywhere, snarling, pushing, grabbing, and yelling. A young girl speeds down the aisle on a stolen Barbie Bike and almost takes out an old guy riding a personal scooter. He dodged her at the last second but rammed an old lady and her cart from behind. The old gal takes a baguette of fresh, warm French bread from her cart and beats him about the head, cussing a blue streak between whacks. The poor man’s wife pulls out her iPhone and starts filming the assault. It will likely be on TikTok or YouTube by this evening and get ten thousand views, and they will make a load of cash, just in time for Christmas. Good to know the spirit of the season is alive and well. The Salvation Army red kettle was at the front door, and a teenage boy and girl, instead of an older adult, were ringing the bell. I’m a sucker, so I push some legal tender into the kettle. I hope they use it wisely. I saw half a dozen women in their pajamas and slippers. Last year, I saw only two. What’s up with that? Then I remembered I was wearing my $5.00 pair of Goodwill white painting pants covered with acrylic paint spots. Momo kept her distance. I should have put a bandage on my right ear to complete my outfit.
After many years of anguish and hand-wringing pain, the day came last Thursday; MoMo got her new carbon, Kryptonite, and stainless knee. Not just a few parts, but the entire show, socket and all. The surgeon sawed the leg bone in two places, glued in the replacement part stapled up the meat and muscle, and there ya go, she’ll be up and running in a few weeks. She is a miserable mess and whacked out on pain meds, but improving.
The old knee and tendon bones will be placed in a beautiful crystal jar and shipped to us before Christmas. A bottom-lit display with color-changing LED lights will make it the focal point of our Holiday decor and will delight our party guests for what few years we have left. Her surgeon said it’s the newest thing in replacement surgery, “it’s sick”, or so he says. I have the perfect place on our kitchen prep counter. Imagine when the grandchildren get to watch their grandmother’s old knee light up in 20 rotating colors. Wow. I haven’t told MoMo about this little gift, but will get around to it soon.
I’ve gone through three-quarters of my life not dwelling on or talking about medical conditions. Since I’ve become an old fart, well, it comes with the aging process. As a small child, I was perplexed when the older relatives sat around and compared ailments. My grandmother was the queen bee of that circle and the biggest hypochondriac that ever breathed. I’m not sure how she lived with all the terminal diseases and crippling conditions she harbored in that small body. So, here is her grandson, now 74 years old, taking the family medical Olympic torch from the old gal and not carrying it too well.
I comically wrote a few days ago about the injection procedure my spine surgeon booked for me in lieu of more surgery, which will be on down the road. Thursday night, I was wound up like a “Nickle Rat.” anticipating the 6:10 to Yuma at the surgery center. So I did what any modern male would do: I went for the drugs. 600 mg of Gabapentin, a big old Hydrocodone tablet, an 8 oz glass of Zquill, five cups of hot Ovaltine, and topped it all off with a Willie Nelson Sleep Gummy I picked up in New Mexico. Nothing…I lay in my Barcolounger and buzzed like a five-year-old after eating a full bag of Halloween candy; I was as crazed as an old Hippie at a Lynard Skynard concert and begging for merciful sleep. Any mortal human would have been in the emergency room after all that. I guess I’m more than mortal, possibly a Viking or Indian Spirit Animal.
MoMo found me in my lounger at 4 AM, slobbering and mumbling incoherently, eyes wide open. I Showered and dressed in sweats, no coffee, no water, no nothing; she slurped her delicious morning cup of Java while I had a bad case of the cotton mouth and eyes as bloodshot red as Dracula.
The kind and caring Pre-Op nurse at the surgery center got me in my hospital bed, gown on, shower cap, booties, and a warm fuzzy blanket, along with a nice little IV in my hand. I was ready. MoMo worked there for six years, so it was like the old home week for a while. Everyone was yakking and hugging and giving their secret “Nurse” handshake. I felt a bit left out, but I knew her friends would treat me better than well. Being married to a big-time Nurse has its perks.
My CRNA asked me if I had been through this procedure before, ” Nope, I’m a newbie here,” I replied.
“Well,” he says, ” these days, it’s all done by a doctor-guided robot, so there are fewer missed shots.” The term missed shots caught my attention.
” You mean the robot has made a few mistakes?” said I. I began looking for an exit door in case I needed to bolt.
” Only a few here and there, it’s no big deal; it’s usually caused by user error or a bad controller unit; the robot is very good at what he does.” The CRNA is sold on this bot.
Wide awake and scared, I’m rolled into the OR. There, standing beside the stainless table is a six-foot robot holding an enormous syringe full of white liquid in each metal hand. He is a spot-on copy of “Robby The Robot” from the 1950s movie ” The Forbidden Planet.” My doctor sits on a stool staring at a large LED screen, holding a Nintendo Game controller and drinking a Red Bull. I am rolled onto the table, face down. The CRNA says I will receive a little Propofol in my IV and will have a sweet little nap. I ask if that is the same stuff Michael Jackson took; he says yes. We all know how that turned out. The robot gives me a reassuring pat on my behind and makes a few bleeps and whirly sounds; the nurse says count to ten; I’m out by three. I see Michael Jackson riding on a golden cloud, waving at me to follow him. No way, dude. Then Elvis stops in a cherry 55 drop-top Caddie. In the backseat are Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Robert Johnson, Roy Orbison, and Ertha Kitt. Sitting next to Elvis is a radiant Ann Margret. I hop in and take shotgun. Ann winks at me and says, “I’m not really dead, you know, but I have a special arrangement to come and visit E a few times a month, don’t tell anyone you saw me here.” Nope, your secret is safe with me, darlin’. She hands me a bottled Coke and a peanut butter and nanna samwich.
I open my eyes, and there is MoMo, giving me her reassuring attention. My Post-Op nurse is making sure I wake up and don’t freak out. I ask her about Elvis and Ann Margret, and I want some of that sleepy stuff to take home with me. She laughs and says that’s one of the best dreams yet. I’m dressed, wheelchair to the car, MoMo helps me in the passenger side, and the nurse hands us a card from the staff and an 8×10 glossy photo of “Robert,” the medical robot. He’s standing in front of a Western building wearing a flat-brim black hat and a Mexican sarape. Two holsters hold a handful of large syringes instead of a 45 Colt. In a weird shaky signature, it reads, ” Come back and see me, pardner; I never miss a shot.”
Tis almost over, the night of ghouls, Ravens, and goblins, beggers of sweets, impersonators of the great, the terrible, and the incorrigible loose souls. I have made it through another Halloween and haven’t seen or heard anything about Taylor Swift. Thank the Lord she didn’t show up at the Rangers versus the Diamondbacks game.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
As usual, the town square here in Granbury is full of vendor tents selling their high-priced items to the tourists that invade our town every darn weekend. Labor Day is just another shopping day and another invasion. I guess they are doing their part, Laboring in the hot sun; it’s a balmy 103 today. There must be 10,000 pontoon, rocket boats, and personal crotch rocket jet skis tearing up the lake. I saw one pontoon boat full of senior folks in wheelchairs and personal scooters; I’m not sure they thought this out. No one had on a life vest, but they all had a frosty beer, so enjoy. The pontoon boat is the new ” let’s get the whole fam damnly on board and see if she sinks” type of vessel. I counted one boat at the marina with twenty-four bodies on board.
Ruut-Rooow, hold my beer and watch this!
Saturday afternoon, while eating at “Stumpy’s,” our local marina and lake food style restaurant, we were treated to the sounds of multiple fancy-assed cigarette boats with their 500 decibels ear-shattering 427 cubic inch stock car motors revving up. All this as we enjoyed our lake burger and a brew. Some of these boats can travel in excess of 200 mph, but if they hit a stump, of which there are plenty in Lake Granbury, it’s curtains. I thought these boats went out of style when Miami Vice ended? Guess not.
I got a haircut this morning and am considering mowing my lawn, but Laboring in the heat may cause my expiration date to go critical.
I think I’ll have a cold Oktoberfest German Beer and put off the Labor until tomorrow. Labor Day is for relaxing, and just pecking away at my laptop has already worn me out. Have a good one.
We have not seen a Squirrel in the four years we have lived on this rocky hill within throwing distance of Comanche Peak. I read that they don’t care for Cedar trees or rocks, which we have in abundance.
A few months ago, I was sitting in my recliner, gazing at the bird feeders and waiting for the mailman to pop something in our box, and “bam,” there’s a giant female Squirrel chomping down on our unique “good stuff” birdseed. I was shocked but excited to see her; I love Squirrels, even though they are destructive little critters. My friend, Mooch, lost most of his lawnchair cushions to a pack of them, and they chewed the railing on his deck like notches in a pistol handle. He plugged a few with his Daisy pellet gun, and the rest of the pack got the message and split the scene.
My wife tolerates Squirrels; she doesn’t share the love of them as I do. When we lived in DeCordova Estates, our home was surrounded by large Oak trees, their preferred dwelling. I had a semi-pet Squirrel named Daisy that I hand-fed peanuts to while sitting on my deck, drinking coffee or an adult beverage. If I was slow in feeding her, she barked and chattered. She bit me only once. My wife, MoMo, reminded me that the little darlings will wreak havoc around our property. I scoffed at her warning.
Now we have two older baby Squirrels visiting the bird feeders. Mama shows up, gives them proper directions, and points out which nuts are the best. It’s a cute scene, right out of a Disney movie, before they went wokie.
I sit in my recliner, transfixed, watching their antics, observing the table manners of the animal kingdom.
I checked the feeders this morning around daybreak and discovered widespread structural damage around the bird cafe. The Squirrels have chewed the plastic on one hanging feeder, chewed the wood sides on the other two, and are working on my nice horizontal fence, adding notches to the rails. MoMo was right; they are destructive little rats and are wreaking havoc at the “LaLa Seed Cafe.” I plan to buy some Planters Cashews and see if I can strike a truce.
The Devil’s oven has descended on our renowned small town of Granbury. It’s hot, so there is no reason to piss and moan. It’s July, so we get over it, mostly.
Every year, the 4th of July weekend brings thousands of folks to the square looking for something they don’t have in Fort Worth, Dallas, Waco, or somewhere in rural Texas. The lake itself is a big draw. It borders downtown, and at least two thousand overloaded pontoon boats and jerk kids on jet-powered crotch rockets, ripping up the water.
Throngs of folks in SUVs and expensive pickup trucks show up and wander around the square, drinking beer in clear plastic cups. A few of the restaurants sell it in pop-up minibars along the streets. Men with a cup of beer in each fist, and women with their cups of white wine, walking, stumbling into shops, buying up everything they can find; great for the merchants, tough on the locals who want to enjoy some of the festivities.
We have a square that is the epitome of the old west. White rock buildings were constructed in the 1800s, with narrow streets and quaint shops. The Paramount television series 1883 was filmed in our town square and the countryside around us. Being voted the best small historic town in the country for four years has much to do with the invasion. I am noticing more young folks now than in years past, and that’s a good thing. The old folks are too tired to walk around in the heat, and they don’t spend much money and tend to only drink one beer if that.
MoMo and I sat at our usual picnic table at the Brew Drinkery on Pearl Street, enjoying a craft beer, some chips, and people-watching. Young folks, and old folks dressed in red-white-and-blue attire, some with hardly any attire, some with too much attire, dogs with clothes, dogs with shoes, big dogs pulling small people around, folks with too many kids to corral, and everyone has a clear plastic cup of beer. Cheers and a happy Fourth of July from Granbury, Texas, and the Cactus Patch.
It will be around 106 to 109 degrees today in Granbury, Texas. MoMo and I are hunkered down in the house, shades closed, and fans running. I will go outside after dark to water my poor plants that are perishing from the heat, and a twenty-mile-per-hour wind, so it feels like a commercial hair dryer. The weather folks on the tube say it will be over one hundred all week. We are doomed.
When Armadillos start drinking iced cold beer, you know it’s hot. We have a house, Finch, nesting her eggs under our metal carport. MoMo is worried that she may get too hot or the eggs might cook, so she wants to buy the little bird a small air-conditioner or a misting machine. I’ll check with the bird tonight to see if she is interested.
In the 1950s, we had a heat wave that lasted all summer. Some folks say 1980 was the worst, but we had AC back in 1980, and in 1955, very few folks had AC; our family had an attic fan and a backyard water hose to spray ourselves with. One of our neighborhood girls put some biscuit dough on the sidewalk, and “boom,” she invented sidewalk biscuits. You couldn’t eat them without breaking a tooth, but they were great for chunking at kids you didn’t care for. Skipper, our resident wiz-kid, devised a weapon using sidewalk biscuits and cherry bombs, a kid’s hand grenade that we used in a battle against “the hard guys,” a group of punks from across the tracks tormented our gang of well-behaved heathen children. We couldn’t go to the Forest Park public pool because our mothers said it was a sure bet that all of us would contract the dreaded Polio virus and our neighborhood would be wiped out, so we were stuck with lawn sprinklers to beat the heat.
My neighbor, and mad scientist, Mr. Mister, purchased an enormous blow-up kiddie pool, filled it with ice he stole home from his employer, Carswell Air Force Base, filled it with his water hose, and ran a tube from an air pump in his garage to the pool, and invented the first “Spa.” Us kids sometimes got to use it, but it was mainly for himself and Mrs. Mister, who lay in the contraption until midnight drinking frosty adult beverages and smoking ciggies. We had to do what we could to stay cool in those “good old days.”
As I approach age 74, realizations come to me at the oddest moments. Most are in dreams, but sometimes during meals, showering, plant pruning, or enjoying a sip of Irish Whiskey on my patio. My bum right foot won’t cooperate, thanks to botched back surgery, and sometimes it trips me up, which instantly reminds me that I need to use my walking stick and that at my age, any fall could be fatal or at least require a hospital visit, and that would bring relatives with grocery store flowers in hand to pay their condolences, and need my wife to sit by my bedside for days, or until I expire with tubes and machines hooked up to my bodily unit. It’s an unpleasant thought. Age tells you there are things you used to do that are not doable now.
I used to drive a trusty 2008 Honda CRV that has been a dependable ride since we purchased it new. But, back to the foot thing, I can’t drive a car now, even though I tell my wife MoMo that I can work the accelerator with my cane and break with my left foot. Nope, she won’t buy it, and I did try to drive a few weeks ago, and it was a disaster, so I have embraced her nurse-trained logic. It ain’t happening, dearhearts. So what to do with my small white buddy that’s been sitting in our driveway since last August of 2022?
My granddaughter, Maddie, lives in Tulsa and got her driver’s license this morning. So yesterday, MoMo drove our other Honda car, and my neighbor John and me ( John drove, of course) piloted the 2008 Honda to DFW airport to meet up with Maddy and her older sister Lillian and her wee-one at American Airlines Terminal D, so I could hand Maddy the keys and title to my Honda, which is now her Honda.
Sometimes it’s hard to accept, but old folks must do the right thing and hand the keys to the car and the future to the young ones.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 