Momo and I have been tossing around the idea of a camping trailer to pull behind our Honda Ridgeline Pickup Truck to see the sights of the United States. To hell with Europe, who needs that crap? There is plenty here to see without getting on a plane and risk getting blown up by terrorists. I told Momo I wanted a retro trailer with an interior like the one shown in this picture. She said,” Well, I think I have the dress, but I’m not sure I can get my hair to poof up like that.” She’s gonna give it a shot. Yeah..baby.
Some of my late relatives celebrated New Year’s in 1955
For me and my wife, Momo, New Year’s Eve wasn’t much different than the day before it. We had a nice supper, watched a bit of TV, and then we were in the sack by 9:30 CT. Texts from my son, grandchildren, and friends went off at about 11:45 PM, prompting me to get up and answer back. I’m getting better at texting once I found out how to use the voice-to-text part on my iPhone. That’s what us old folks do for special occasions: nothing, and we do it quite well.
The fireworks started about dark and continued until around 1 AM. Our neighborhood is a “no fireworks” area, so many of the residents got around the law by firing their automatic handguns and rifles into the air. The Sheriff will give them a ticket for a bottle rocket, but firing weapons at random is ok by them: It’s a Texas thing. Momo and I were tempted to take our automatic handguns into the backyard and fire off a magazine or two, but it was too cold, and we were already in our jammies and had slurped down hot Ovaltine and old folks meds. Maybe next year.
New Year’s Day will be the same as the day before. Nothing, with a bit more of nothing, except adding some of Momo’s Blackeyed Pea Soup with Jalapeno and Texas-style cornbread, will keep it gastronomically interesting for the rest of the day. She made a batch of homemade salsa and put a smidgen of my Vietnamese Death Pepper in the mix. It was pretty darn good once I got past the tearing eyes, the shortness of breath, and the muscle spasms that occurred when I leaned over the pot and dipped my Frito into the sauce. She also whipped up some homemade “Nanner-pudding” with Vanilla Waffers embedded in the luscious mix. I plan to eat myself into a mild desert-induced coma this evening.
I hope everyone who follows my blog and the ones I follow has a great 2024 year. Let’s be honest about it: things can’t get much worse than they were in 2023. Well, maybe they could, but I’ll address that in a few days. From the cactus patch, have a Happy New Year, folks.
Two days after Christmas, half past midnight, I just had my second cup of hot Ovaltine and am ready to pontificate.
It appears Taylor Swiftless is now the new “Yoko Ono,” having ruined the KC Chiefs chance at returning to the Superthang and cursing her Charlie Football for life. I always thought that poor Yoko got a bad rap when it was Paulie who pulled the plug on the Fabs. Not so with Person of the Year, Swifter Girl; she is toxic to human men. A football-inspired ex-boyfriend album and an NFL tour of all the stadiums will be coming soon. The games will be played at halftime.
Momo and I watched the Christmas movie, “Elf” on the 25th. I guess age has dulled my sense of humor since I find Will Farrel irritating. I enjoyed him in “Eurovision ( the elves went to far)” but Buddy the oversized Elf needs to go to LaLa Land. I thought James Caan got knocked off in The Godfather?
Momo made her infamous Greek Ribs today. Her daughter Tammera and the fam stopped by for an early supper and gift exchange; what a nice afternoon. I finished my first in the series of old-time circus sideshow posters yesterday; there are only seven more to go. I remember going into one of those freak or sideshows at the state fair. Lizard Woman, Alive! Cost me twenty-five cents. Turned out it was an ugly gal with a bad case of Dermatitis. The Lady With Five Legs was worth the change. Bonnie and Clydes Death Car was an old Ford that some moron drilled holes into the body and poured some red paint on the seats. PT Barnum was right, ” there’s a sucker born every minute.”
My Boy Scout grandson, Jett, his troop, and his Pop are doing another winter campout starting tomorrow. For Christmas, I gave him a family heirloom six-inch razor-sharp skinning knife in a leather scabbard, much like the one O.J. and Jim Bowie used. My grandfather said he carried it in WW1 and used it to open canned Pork N Beans and stab Germans when he ran out of ammo. I believed every word of it.
So Kwanza is here. A fictional, absurd holiday invented by a felonious black American male who needed a steady income after prison. So what about “Festivus?” George and Kramer deserve a day to celebrate, too. I always felt bad for the Seinfeld folks; what did they do on Christmas since the Soup Nazi was closed? I am working on inventing a holiday for senior citizens called ” Respect Your Elders Day.” Catchy slogans like “Get the hell off of my lawn” and “Do you think money grows on trees?” will go over well with our age group. All adult children, grandchildren, and neighbors will relate.
New Year is approaching. We live in a rural community outside the city limits, so the joyous and festive sounds of fireworks, 9mm pistols, and assault rifles fired into the air will be keeping us up all night. The problem is, those bullets have to come down, and they can kill you. Last year, it sounded like Santa was plodding around on our roof; turned out it was only bullets ruining our shingles. Insurance doesn’t cover that.
Now that Christmas is done and gone, I’m ready for the traditional Texas after-holiday meal of a Whataburger, large fires, and a Dr Pepper. Father Frank, our groovy-hip young priest at Our Lady Of Perpetual Repentance, is having a blessed by Willie service this coming Sunday. Governer Abbott has petitioned the Pope to make Willie Nelson a Patron Saint, at least here in Texas, so our good priest, getting the early ball a-rolling, will have a Willie Nelson approved impersonator give communion to any who wish to partake. A tiny bite of a Whataburger( no onions and extra pickles), a small toke of Willie’s popular Dripping Springs righteous weed, and a sip of rum-infused ice tea to wash urn down, and you can be ” on the road again” and feeling real good. Pretty sure the church will be at full capacity.
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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 