Back in 1985, my father’s band, The Light Crust Doughboys, recorded an album that was meant to focus on Texas music, some present, mostly passed. Country music wasn’t invented in Fort Worth, Texas, but Western Swing was. Bob Wills started as a Light Crust Doughboy, as did most of the great talent from the 1930s onward. I was fortunate to have known every man on this record for my entire life. The members on this album were: Jim Boyd, vocals and rhythm guitar; Jerry Elliot, vocals and electric guitar; my father, Johnny Strawn, fiddle, electric mandolin, and vocals; Bill Simmons- keyboard; Elden Graham, stand-up bass; Marc Jaco, electric bass; Maurice Anderson, pedal steel guitar; Dale Cook-drums; Phil Strawn, five-string banjo; and Gary Murray, announcer. The album was recorded at Sumet-Burnet Sound Studios in Dallas, Texas, in April of 1985. Recording engineers were Bob Sullivan and Bobby Dennis. It was produced by Marvin Montgomery.
Songs on the album, in order, are: Side One 1. The Light Crust Doughboy Theme Song. 2. The Yellow Rose of Texas, 3. When The Bloom Is On The Sage, 4. Texas In My Soul, 5. Beautiful Texas, 6. Waiting For A Train, 7. Old Joe Clark with myself on five string banjo and my father on fiddle, 8.Tumbling Tumble Weeds, 9. You’re from Texas, composed by the legendary Cindy Walker. Side 2, 1. If You’re Gonna Play In Texas You Gotta Have A Fiddle In The Band, 2. Amarillo By Morning, 3. Across The Alley From The Alamo, 4. In The Mood, done the Texas western swing way, 5. Does Fort Worth Evdr Cross Your Mind, 6. Sure ‘Nuf Texan, 7. Texas When I Die, 8. Closing radio them, the song the band has always used since their inception in the early 1930s.
They are inductees into the Western Swing Hall of Fame and the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, and are part of the Country And Western Hall of Fame ( Chet Atkins always decided who would be inducted )
I traveled with these men for many miles, driving their van, loading and setting up their equipment, and playing bass, guitar, and banjo when one of them was ill and couldn’t make the show. Smokey Montgomery made me an official member of the band in 1984, which was the greatest honor any musician could dream of. The one cut from the album included in this post features my father (fiddle) and me (five-string banjo) playing the old 1800s standard, “Old Joe Clark,” with the rest of the Light Crust Doughboy band. We may grow old and die, but our music lives on forever.
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.
I’m turning 77 in a few months, and the only object made from fine wood that I want is a Gibson F5 G Mandolin. Banjo Ben in Mo. has a used one for 4900. bucks. I’ve contacted The Southwestern Medical Center about selling a kidney ( I only need one to pee), maybe a pinky toe, and both testicles, but no response just yet. My son is checking into a clinic in Martamoras, Mexico, that is willing to give me a nice sum for all usable parts, so I can purchase the instrument. I don’t need balls, a pinky toe, or two kidneys to play, so it may work out. I’ll keep you all informed on the negotiations, though my Spanish is limited to “more chips and salsa.” Pronto. How many testicles does a man really need?
Unsolicited, Unfiltered, Demented Advice That Will Likely Offend Everyone That Still Remembers How to Read And Comprehend Directions On Putting Together a Piece Of Cheap Assed Made In China Furniture. Momo And I Did It A Few Days Ago And Likely Had a TIA or A Brain Hemorrhage….
The Texan
Straight up, I never cared for Springsteen, the little punk-assed in his jeans and white tee shirt touting ” Born in the USA. Well, he may have been hatched here, but he ain’t an American, at least not by Texas standards. The guy looks like an 85-year-old Lesbian Megan Rapinoe, holding a Fender Telecaster with The Roy Clark beginner stickers on the fretboard so he can remember the chords to Born To Run. Likely craps his diaper too. When I was a smart-mouthed kid, I would tell my mother, “You ain’t the boss of me.” Well, yes, she was, and that Tupperware cake pan would leave an imprint on my butt for a week or so. So, exactly is Brucie the boss of? His wife Pattie? Little Stevie? The roadies or the dudes that carry him on stage and operate the auto-tune machine loop?
His latest concert was a three-hour Bidenesque Rant about Trump, which highlighted that talent, which was always minimal, has taken the off-ramp to the nursing home in South Jersey. For those of you who care to contribute, let me know who the guy bosses around.
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.
The Texan on his first typewriter that took two adults and a child to lift….Note the resemblance to Earnest Hemingway
Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.
After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.
Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.
World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?
Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “
There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”
I’ve received a few emails asking where I’ve been. The reports in the papers and internet news are false, I am not deceased in any way: not having reached room temperature, still able to walk upright, not being carried or anything similar, and I didn’t wake up dead. I have been blogging for over twelve years without much of a break, so I have been on a break.
I recently became reinvolved with my second-favorite instrument, the mandolin. I learned it as a child, walked away from it for rock n roll guitar, but have not reconnected with the tiny instrument and needed some time to re-familiarize myself with it. I had no idea how hard that would be. Four strings doubled to eight, tuned like a violin, EADG, nothing like a guitar, of which I have played since age 12. How hard could it be, right? Well, for a 76-year-old man, it’s damn hard and then some, but I have played twice with my church band and report that the little wee beast is now my friend again, and all is well. I will resume my ridicule and poking the bear, as well as tall tales from Texas, in a few days. The second big thing in my life is that Rats and Mice took up residence in Momo’s hot tub and did some considerable damage to the water lines. I have set traps and poison to ensure their demise, but a few defenders remain to be dealt with. I think the term Rat Wars is a good description. My son is sending me a nice 12-gauge shotgun to help in the battle, but I fear the shot will do more damage to the tub than the rodents. Momo is afraid I will shoot my one good foot off, then I will be pulled around in a Western Flyer wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin, and she will be the one doing the pulling. I’ll keep you all posted on the epic battle.
“Do not forsake me, oh my Darlin,” on this our wedding day,” who didn’t know the first verse of that song from the radio? A massive hit from the 1952 movie “High Noon,” performed by everybody’s favorite singing cowboy, Tex Ritter.
In 1957, I was eight years old, and on some Saturday nights, I got to tag along with my father to the “Cowtown Hoedown,” a popular live country music show performed at the Majestic Theater in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. My father was the fiddle player in the house stage band, so I was somewhat musical royalty, at least for a kid.
Most of the major and minor country stars played Fort Worth and Dallas as much as they did Nashville, and I was fortunate to have seen many of them at this show. One, in particular, made a lasting impression on my young self.
I was sitting on a stool backstage before the show, talking to a few kids; who, like me, got to attend the show with their fathers.
My father came over and asked me to follow him. We walked behind the back curtain and stopped at a stage-level dressing room. There in the doorway stood a big fellow in a sequined cowboy suit and a 30 gallon Stetson. I knew who he was; that is Tex Ritter, the movie star and cowboy singer. My father introduced me, and I shook hands with Tex. I was floored, shocked, and couldn’t speak for a few minutes. What kid gets to meet a singing cowboy movie star in Fort Worth, Texas? I guess that would be me.
Tex asked my name and then told me he had a son the same age as me. We talked baseball and cowboy movies for a bit, then he handed me a one-dollar bill and asked if I would go to the concession stand and buy him a package of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. So I took the buck and took off down the service hallway to the front of the theater. I knew all the shortcuts and hidey holes from my vast exploration of the old theater during the shows.
I knew nothing of the brands and flavors, not being a gum chewer, but the words Juicy Fruit made my mouth water. Not having much money, what change I did get from selling pop bottles went to Bubble Gum Baseball Cards, not fancy chewing gums.
I purchased the pack of gum for five cents. Then, gripping the change tightly in my sweating little hand, I skedaddled back to Tex’s dressing room. He was signing autographs but stopped and thanked me for the favor. He then gave me two quarters for my services and disappeared into his dressing room for a moment. He handed me an autographed 8×10 photograph of him playing the guitar and singing to the doggies when he returned. I was in country and western music heaven. He also gave me a piece of Juicy Fruit, which I popped into my mouth and began chewing, just like Tex.
Juicy Fruit became my favorite gum, and now, whenever I see a pack or smell that distinct aroma as someone is unwrapping a piece, I remember the night I shared a chew with Tex Ritter.
Contemplative And Often Serious Advice For Non-Texans
The Texan
This Texan recieved a letter from a Mr. George Baily of Bedford Falls New York. It seems his oldest son, Tommy has become a Performitive Male.
Mr. Baily: Mr. Texan, I read your advice column in my uncle Billy’s copy of the Police Gazette, so you, being a wise old fellow, might be able to help me out.
My oldest son, Tommy, has been away at college in New York City. Mary and I haven’t seen him in about 6 months, or so. He came home a few days ago, and we almost lost our breakfast right there in the foyer when he walked in the door. He was dressed in checkered pajama pants, a see-through black tee-shirt, and a pink fuzzy sweater. He was carrying a tote bag from Macy’s, had a Nikon camera hanging from his neck, and was wearing some pink Phyllis Diller-looking glasses. And to make it even worse, he also had one of those man buns on his head. His younger sister Zuzu took one look at him and called him a little sissy-man.
Mary spent three hours in the kitchen making him his favorite supper of Pork Tenderloin, mashed potatoes, and steamed Broccoli-Tomato medley. When he came downstairs to eat, he threw a fit and said he no longer eats meat or nightshade vegetables because his sensitive digestive system makes him moody and melancholy if he eats the wrong food. He only eats Kale salad, Tibetan rice cakes, and drinks a Mocha Latte from Starbucks. Just looking at the supper made him whimper and cry. He told us he has embraced his sensitive feminine side, doing away with his male toxicity. He is now what is known as a Performative Male.
Zuzu, our stout, no-nonsense daughter, lost it and punched him out with a haymaker to the face, right there in the dining room. She then threw a handful of rose petals on him as he lay there on the rug with a dislocated jaw and bleeding from his nose. Mary is so upset, she pleaded with me to call my Angel buddy Clarence to see if he could talk some sense into our little Performative sissy man. Got any suggestions on how we can handle this predicament?
The Texan: Boy howdy, George, I can see that your life ain’t so wonderful right now. We don’t have many of those feminine men here in Fort Worth, Texas, they all stay in Dallas and Austin. Down here, men are real men. We wear manly footwear, Stetson hats, and Wrangler jeans from Cavender’s. If your son took a stroll in the Stock Yard district, he wouldn’t last five minutes before some cowboy put a large can of whoop-ass on him. Your daughter Zuzu sounds like a keeper. Let her handle her brother; a few more butt-whippings might do him good. There’s something about getting your butt kicked by a girl that gets the old male hormones going. I’m sending him a CD of George Strait’s greatest hits, a pair of Justin cowboy boots, some Wrangler jeans, and a box of Cherry Bombs so Zuzu can blow up all his girly stuff. Tell Clarence howdy for me, and stay away from bridges.
Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”
Notes From The Cactus Patch 