Notes From The Cactus Patch

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The Texan Heads To South Dakota

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments
A rugged all-terrain vehicle (ATV) with a roll cage driving through an expansive South Dakota prairie landscape. The ATV has a GoPro action camera mounted on the front bumper. An older cowboy-hatted man drives the ATV, clearly visible in the driver's seat. The ATV drives alongside Dolly Parton who rides a fully visible golden palomino horse with a strong muscular body, flowing white mane and tail, and all four legs planted firmly on the ground mid-gallop. The ATV and Dolly's horse are side by side. Dolly wears a sparkling rhinestone western outfit and big voluminous blonde hair, joyfully playing an acoustic guitar and singing with her mouth open. Surrounding them is a massive herd of charging bison kicking up dust across the plains, with even more bison filling the background horizon. Several cowgirls on horseback in western attire are herding the bison, along with several Native American riders on horseback in traditional dress helping drive the herd. Roy Rogers in his iconic western outfit and cowboy hat rides his famous golden palomino horse Trigger. A loyal and energetic German Shepherd dog named Bullet runs alongside Trigger at full gallop, staying close to Roy Rogers. The scene is action-packed and cinematic, wide open sky, golden hour light, dramatic dust clouds, American West feel.
The girl on the left on the horse is Beth Dutton; Roy Rogers and his dog, Bullitt and Trigger; and Dolly Parton playing the guitar on her horse. That’s me in the ATV.

This Texan and his Mrs. Texan, Momo, are heading to South Dakota next week for the annual cowboy and cowgirl event of rounding up the 1,400-plus Buffalo (Bison) in Custer State Park. No, there will not be another reenactment of the Little Bighorn, and Custer won’t be there. No arrows will be flying through the air. It’s a three-day affair with about 20K folks wandering around drinking beer and eating BBQ.

Most of my readers know I have a dropped right foot and a gimped-up right leg from a botched back surgery, so I can’t run, and on most days I do my best to walk a semi-straight line, which is usually two or three feet either way, off straight.

I want to be part of the roundup; it’s a bucket-list thing, a Texas thing. I grew up herding cattle sitting on a mule on my grandfather’s ranch, so it’s nothing new to me. I contacted a man in Keystone, SD, who is outfitting an all-terrain vehicle with a fully encapsulated safety cage, high-powered operational cattle prods, and GoPro streaming Starlink cameras mounted to the vehicle so I can run and live stream, or in this case drive, with the Bison, sort of like Hemingway did with the bulls in Spain in the 1930s. He was trampled twice, either by the bulls themselves or the terrified Spaniards, but lived to write about it: he was likely inebriated both times. Momo, the Mrs. Texan, refuses to ride with me and may have me arrested for something she can dream up before the Round-Up begins. I know my brain ain’t right; she knows it too, but it’s something I’ve got to do. I’m driven to the point of knowing I will likely be trampled. What is a lightweight all-terrain vehicle to a 2500 pound Buffalo, nothing but a gum wrapper on the ground. They are a bit mean and honary, and pay no attention to stupid folks. They do respect the cowboys and cowgirls on horses, but that’s it: it must be out of tradition. Pretty darn sure they will enjoy the ghost of Dolly Parton singing to them, as well as Beth Dutton and Roy Rogers, Trigger and Bullitt the dog: Dale and Pat or Sky King couldn’t make it this year.

We plan to see all the sites: Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills, Devils Tower ( minus the spaceship), Prairie Dog City, Marshall Dillon’s grave, Custer’s scalp mounted in a glass case, and so on. But mainly we want to be cool, cold, and comfortable. Momo has her new boots, I got a new Cowboy hat, and we are ready if the drive doesn’t kill us.

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From 9/11 Honor to Political Shame: What Happened to New York?

/ Phil Strawn / 15 Comments

How much worse can it get? AOC, the little girl from the fake hood who was a bartender and the Islamist Mayor of New York, yucking it up at the 911 Memorial as the names of the dead were being read by relatives of the deceased. An avowed socialist, a sitting member of our Congress, and an avowed Islamist, socialist, communist, Jew hating, Christian-hating, American-hating, terrorist sympathizer demon serving as the mayor of America’s greatest city. It used to be; now it’s but a shell of itself. My heart goes out to the good people of New York who wished for none of this.

The young, hip, elite, overeducated, self-absorbed, narcissistic, worthless POS elected these two. American Jews voted for them; our young and privileged voted for them. Has their new BMW been delivered yet? How about those free grocery stores in every neighborhood? Wall Street is fleeing for its life, headed to Dallas, Texas, as fast as they can find a building.

Has our American Jewish community forgotten what happened to their families and relatives in Europe in the late 1930s through 1945, and in Israel on October 7th, 2023, when women, men, and children were murdered in the worst ways imaginable? And that smiling bastard approved of it all and would gladly pull the lever for it to happen again. What the hell has happened to the United States of America? I feel horrible for the good people in New York, but the rest of you deserve what you voted for, and it won’t be good. How dare that piece of Rat Shit show up and dishonor and celebrate what his peers did to our American citizens twenty-five years ago and are still doing today? I am disgusted.

Childhood Memories of Texas Drought and Farm Life

/ Phil Strawn / 30 Comments

I’m old enough to remember the drought in Texas during the 1950s; it cost my grandfather and every farmer in his township their crops until a small shower dumped almost 8 inches of rain one night. The town of Santa Anna, Texas, had prayed for a miracle, and it came. Just enough to save some of the crops, but many had already lost their farms to the banks, sold their cattle, and given up, moving to Fort Worth to work menial jobs.

My Grandfather was too much of an old hard-ass to do that. He figured Johnson grass was good for something, so he cut it and sold it for hay, at a discount to his friends. Cotton, grain, corn, maize, nothing would grow. No rain, no plants. It wasn’t the 1930s, but it was too close, and they survived those years as well.

Days of playing on the farm, 100-degree-plus temperatures, it was so hot the Rattlesnakes wouldn’t come out, or for us to shoot them with our BB Guns. The chickens weren’t laying, Granny wasn’t making money on eggs, and my grandfather, Papa, had crops that shriveled away like a neglected plant on a hot windowsill. The cows were constantly thirsty, which kept the windmill pumping the well full-time whenever there was a breeze. The stock tanks were dry and cracked; there wasn’t even enough mud for a crawdad to survive.

The farmhouse had no air conditioning; no one had that in those times. It was windows open, pray for a breeze to dampen the sheets at night, and hope to wake up the next morning without the Mountain Boomers stealing you from your sweat-soaked bed. It was a slice of hell on earth, but my cousins and I were young kids, and it didn’t affect us the same as it did our families. I didn’t notice the worry and desperation in my grandparents’ eyes as they went about their chores. I happily shot chickens and snakes with my BB Gun. Children are often clueless about adult misery.

To me, my grandparents were old. They were in their early sixties at that time, so that was ancient. They both looked twenty years older than their actual age: wrinkled, sun-baked, and worked to the bone. A hard life produces a hard exterior

I was six, on the forefront of my life’s journey. A city boy raised by a country mother and city father, playing country kid in the summer. It wasn’t Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, but it came close. They both worked from daylight to dark hoeing weeds, trying to keep what they could alive, suffered monetary problems that would drive a man to drink, and would count change to buy food at the small local grocery store that was less than any convenience store we have today. Whatever food they could grow was immediately canned for the winter or eaten that day. Those good old days, the 1950s, weren’t all that good, looking back now. At the edge of Seventy-Seven years old, I’ve outlived my grandfather by more than a decade. But he thought he was healthy until he wasn’t. Years of cooking everything in lard and saved Bacon grease took its toll on his system, and he died young from a long list of medical issues. Clogged this, hardened that, bad heart, diabetes, you name it, he had it. I personally thought it was all the chicken. All of their children were on their own with families, so no one wanted the farm. Granny sold it for a pittance, moved into a small public housing unit in town, and finished out her life there. The days of the farm and the misery of the drought years of the 1950s are all behind us now.

This relentless heat and drought in Texas give me pause to remember my childhood summers. I’m old now and remember the good times, but this heat and drought bring it all home. The good old days.

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Ask A Texan: The Summer of the Dog Days Is Upon Us

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments
The Texan

Is It Really This Damn Hot In Texas, Or Did I Accidentally Set Myself On Fire With A Cherry Bomb?

I recently read that only two of the original members of The Grateful Dead are still breathing, which is a feat in itself considering all the drugs and other things they ingested, not that they remember any of it. Now, are they ‘truly grateful they are not dead quite yet?’ Old musicians are the biggest whiners. Springsteen is now a competent politician and is glad to tell you about his breakdown, when he isn’t trying to remember which chords to play on his out-of-tune Telecaster, which doesn’t say much for him, since there are no competent politicians and he is no musician. He can’t sing anymore, not that he ever could; hell, even Bob Dylan sounded better than him, and at least Joanie could harmonize with Bob, and The Band did all the heavy lifting.

I was outside for a short while yesterday and came back in with brown, crusted skin akin to homemade bread left in the oven a few minutes too long. It was 106 degrees in the shade, and 138 degrees in the sun. My hair is at least two shades whiter thanks to the sun bleaching. Momo believes I suffered a mini-sun-stroke, or something similar, but it’s actually early onset Dementia, or Oldtimers, and my neurosciencetist comedian doctor gave me some cute little pills to take care of it, says in two months I’ll be 25 percent better as long as I continue to play my instruments, which stimulate my brain and keep me focused on something other than sitting by the window and waiting for the postwoman to deliver the junk mail. I asked him if, if I upped the dose, I would be 50 percent better in four months. He has a nice laugh and drives a Tesla. Momo is a retired RN, so she knows he’s full of shit.

Now I sit in my music room, play my mandolin all day, and write nonsense on my computer. Soon, I will embark on my podcast adventure using my Garrison Keillor whisper voice combined with the folksiness of Walter Brennan talking to Pepito about driving the tractor through the living room of the farmhouse. Of course, being a Texan, you won’t be able to understand my accent, so I’ll attach a scrolling screen of the words I speak for those of you who don’t speak Southern. How in the hell did Terry Southern, Larry McMurtry, and Truman Capote ever make it through life with their Southern affliction? I believe Taylor Sheridan would appreciate my unique vocabulary in one of his many TV shows that are filmed around our town.

My buddy, Mooch, is turning 80 next month, and wants he and I to get together for one last songfest on our guitars. He can’t remember the lyrics, I can’t remember the chords, and neither of us can carry the heavy equipment, and our drummer is reduced to playing Ricky Ricardo bongos (without Lucy), so it is bound to be entertaining. We had our rock days back in the sixties, so it deserves one final suck on the oxygen tank and a geriatric version of Inna Gadda Da Vidda, Wagon Wheel, and Blackbird.

Catch you on down the road. The Texan

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The Last Home. The End of The Line…

/ Phil Strawn / 23 Comments

Notes From the Cactus Patch

Jul 11, 2026

It wasn’t the first time he had gone with my wife to visit her brother in a Rehabilitation Center- that’s the newest, kindest, less shocking word for a nursing home. It’s not a pleasant place to visit, and it certainly does nothing for one’s mood afterward. Eating a pleasant lunch or running a few errands on the way home seems pointless. Their spirits have slipped into the reality that this could be their future, existing in a similar setting with other older people in that end-of-life environment. Will their children visit and try to cheer them up, or will they come by a few times a year out of guilt? The man is not sure he can return, but his wife is a few years younger than he is, and driving a two-hundred-mile round trip by herself is not an option.I’m reminded of the Traveling Wilburys song, with Roy Orbison’s rocking chair moving as his cherished guitar sits in the chair instead of the recently departed Roy. No one wants a preview of the end of the line.

Armageddon Is Upon Us…The Last Days of Texas

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments

I am not a snow person, nor an ice one. Cold weather is fine for a while, but then I want to be bathed in the warmth of the sun (Brian Wilson). But then, in Texas, the sun’s warmth means cooking alive in 100-plus-degree heat. So, living in Texas is for tough folks. Alas, the winter snow and ice Armageddon is about to return in two days; the last one was in 2021 and crippled the state for a week.

Momo and I stopped by our HEB for a few items this afternoon, and that was a mistake. The place was like a zombie apocalypse: folks fighting and snarling over the last loaf of bread, fists flying in the aisles over Hamburger Helper, and riots at the frozen pizza case. It was all entertaining, watching my fellow Texans act like, well, crazed Texans. We don’t do well when bad winter weather is approaching, and even worse once it arrives. My truck has All Wheel Drive, so I’m good with the snow, but not the ice storms, then we stay in and watch 1883 or 1923 again.

Momo is already fretting about missing church on Sunday because of the storm. I told her that God will understand, after all, he’s the one who created this lousy weather and is sending it our way. I stocked up on extra bird seed and peanuts for the Crows, Blue Jays, and now the pesky Squirrel has returned and found the relocated bird feeders, so it’s back to war with the little nut-breath. The Racoons, Possum, and Skunk are still visiting nightly, enjoying their cafeteria of dog food and sliced apples. My backyard is the equivalent of Luby’s for critters. Now, a Coyote has been coming around, but I have roadrunners on the property, so we’ll see how that plays out.

I’ll post some pictures of the end of Texas as we know it, if and when it happens…if we survive.

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Ask A Texan: Minneapolis Ain’t Lake Wobegon

/ Phil Strawn / 9 Comments

Sometimes Questionable And Often Brilliant Advice For Folks That Want To Be A Texan, But Can’t Afford To Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a dispatch from a Mr. Hardy Wood Guthrie of Okemah, Oklahoma, written on the back of a Walmart sales receipt. It seems his wife, Little White Dove, is dead set on going to Minneapolis to join in all the fun the protestors are having.

Mr. Guthrie: Mr. Texan, please excuse my bad manners for writing on a Walmart receipt. Just so you know, my wife bought all that useless stuff, except for the Chili Pork Rinds, which are my favorite snack, and of course the carton of Marlborough’s and the Natural Light Beer. Little White Dove, my Cherokee Indian wife, has lost her arrows. She’s watching the news and seeing all these protesters up in Minneapolis playing in the snow, throwing snowballs, and making snow angels with the help of those nice ICE boys. Now they’ve taken over Target Stores and are getting all that free stuff plus $200 a day for protesting. She’s real fond of that Pioneer Woman stuff and is hoping to get a new set of cookware and a bathrobe for free. I told her it’s about to get really serious because the Army boys are coming to town, but she got really smartie-pants with me and said, “I’ll do what I want to, this land is your land, this land is my land.” She said not to worry, she has a friend named Alice, and she has a restaurant where she can get anything she wants, over in Edina, where all the rich folks live. She is a big fan of that schmuck Garrison Keillor, Mister Handsy Man that lives over in Lake Wobegon, and is going to look him up and have a Lutefisk sandwich with him. She thinks it’s all a big party, sort of like Woodstock on ice, and won’t listen to me. I’m so frazzled, I’m thinking about writing a protest song about all this mess. Got any advice for me?

Little White Dove

The Texan: Well, Mr. Guthrie, sounds like Little White Dove needs a visit from the medicine man. I have a little experience with protest and such, as I went to the University of Texas in Austin, with all those hippie folks, and most of them are still there, riding around on their handicap scooters and smacking visitors with their walking canes. Back then, they weren’t collecting a paycheck for protesting, rioting, and burning things up; they got hopped up on those funny cigarettes and just did it for the fun of it. Not trying to name drop here, but I also spent some time with old Bob Dylan and his squeeze, Joan B. I think Bob is a poet and didn’t know it. and you can tell Little White Dove to be careful, because after all, the times, they are a-changing. I’m sending her a nice bouquet of big sunflowers to stick in the barrels of those Army boys’ guns, a Garrison Keillor VHS tape of Prairie Home Companion, and you a box of cherry bombs to relieve your anxiety. I’ll be watching the news to see how she does.

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Looking At 2025 In My Rear View Mirror

/ Phil Strawn / 6 Comments

I lifted the title line from Mac Davis’s hit ” Looking At Lubbock In My Rear View Mirror.” He’s gone for a while now, so I don’t think a fellow Texan would mind.

As this year slipped by, I want to thank all of you who follow my blog and comment. I’m too computer-challenged to thank an entire list like Max, so this will have to do for now. I’m hiring a six-year-old down the street as my PC tutor.

Who would have thought that our country would be in such an uproar about every darn thing anyone could dream up, but here we are.

I think Mark Twain says it best:  No matter how healthy a man’s morals may be when he enters Washington politics, he comes out again with a pot-marked soul. Makes you wonder if any of those flamboyant bastards will ever make it to Heaven? I certainly hope they find the Lord, but I still don’t care to patronize them when I get there. Sort of like a high school reunion: I wasn’t buddies with you then, so what makes you think I want to hang out with you now?

All of these privileged, university-educated white kids running around carrying signs, wrapping their heads in checkered tablecloths, and throwing objects at our Jewish Americans and our underpaid and overworked police. They seem to be mostly young white women, so that doesn’t say much for the future of marriage and child production for the good old U.S.A. Did they learn this behavior at home, or are they so misinformed and ignorant that they follow any evil cause that greets them when they wake up in the morning? Not enough caffeine, and too much weed, will alter one’s consciousness and turn their brain to nursing home gruel. They need a good ass whooping with a Mesquite Tree switch, and then give the same to mommy and daddy, and maybe the grandparents as well. Sort of reminds me of the sixties and the young folks protesting on college campuses, in between cum-by-ya campfires, pot parties, and humping like wired up Rabbits, but at least then, they had a real cause, like the Vietnam War and their dislike for LBJ and Goldwater. It got messy and dangerous at times, like in Chicago in 1968. The National Guard against the radical students at Kent State University brought it all to a nasty head, and the protest dwindled after that, but the well-informed students and older Americans did make a difference, and the average law-abiding citizen did listen and learn. I was fresh-squeezed out of high school in 1969, waiting for the draft board to send me to Asia, and a long-haired, rock ‘n’ roll-playing musician. I put myself right in the midst of that mess, but refused to buy into the radical side of it. You could call me an anomaly of sorts. Conservative before it was cool to be. I felt that my stance on things had brought my depression era Roosevelt-Democrat Kennedy-voting parents over to the other side, changing coats in the winter of chaos. My father became so conservative that he couldn’t force himself to make a left turn when driving, so many days he drove in circles or took hours to reach his destination. I am not kidding.

September 10, 2025. Free speech and Christianity in America: do we still have it? Charlie Kirk certainly thought so and put it into practice in a brilliant way that no one in the media would have thought possible. Now we have little trophy-winning kiddos like those I described in the paragraph above, thinking they can assassinate someone because they don’t like their speech or ideas on religion. One more trophy his parents can add to his childhood bedroom shelf, next to his Star Wars posters and action figure collection. They must have missed the weapons stored under his trundle bed.

Christianity. I am a Christian, proud to be so, and I will tell anyone, anytime, that I follow Jesus Christ and his teachings. As a child, I was dunked and baptized so many times that my hair smelled like river water, and I learned to swim. Dear Hearts, we are under attack most cruelly. Our attackers are Islamic, and our castrated politicians have given them total approval to rid our country of us Christians. Maybe we Christians should take matters into our own hands and rid our country of both. I might write more about this, but the time feels off today. Besides, I have to clean my guns and go buy some ammo before The Walmart stops selling it as well.

The NFL. Once again, the Dallas Cowgirls have blown another season. It’s been thirty years since old Jerry has been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy. One more thing: why is it called the Super Bowl? What’s so super or special about it? Just another game with self-serving, overpaid, obnoxious young men. And of course, Taylor Swift is in the stands with her five patented facial expressions. I don’t watch football anymore; it gives me a headache like the one I got the one time I listened to Taylor Swift sing one of her cartoon music songs. I had to take a Valium IV drip to get over that one.

I promised my wife, Momo, that I would refrain from writing about politics, and for a year now I have kept my word. It’s often maddening to refrain from grabbing the laptop and cutting loose. Let me say this: New York City electing a Muslim mayor who is a proud socialist and follower of Islam has sealed the fate of this once great city. In the near future, maybe weeks, we will be reading of large corporations and average citizens vacating to the south, mainly Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, and a few other states. I will welcome them to my small town of Granbury. One condition is that they must not bring their East Coast attitude and lifestyle with them and expect to survive in Texas. Fancy Italian olive oil suitable for bread dipping, and Texas spring branch water don’t mix. Driving through town a few days back, I saw a Tesla with New York plates, and it had a sofa, a chair, and other pieces of modern furniture tied to the roof; the only things missing were Granny and Elle Mae sitting in rockers. The exodus and invasion have begun.

I’ve received a sack full of mail and numerous emails from all over the country addressed to my Ask A Texan advice column, so there will be more of those posted soon. I can assume that, since Ann Landers is no longer around, folks think an old Texan can help them navigate this mess. Being a senior member of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge was the catalyst, and being a student of the revered Texas “word slinger” J. Frank Dobie inspired me to help, or at times, hinder others with often good but sometimes questionable down-home advice. See you later this year.

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Ask A Texan: Dealing With Those Pesky Californians

/ Phil Strawn / 17 Comments

Good Downhome And Often Practical Advice For Those Folks That Think They Know Everything..

The Texan

This Texan received a letter written on the back of a Braum’s paper grocery bag. Braums has the second-best ice cream ( Bluebell is the top dog) and A2 milk in Texas, and a lot of folks shop there just to collect the sturdy, no-nonsense retro brown paper bags with sturdy handles, me included. It seems that a Mr. Oliver Douglas of Waco, Texas, has a problem with his new neighbors, who moved from California after purchasing the ranchette next to his farm, Green Acres.

Mr. Douglas: I saw your advice column advertised at the local H.E.B. in the grilling section next to the charcoal bags. The full-size cardboard cutout of you looked really nice, and I thought if you use and endorse that brand of local charcoal nuggets, then I’ll try them too. Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing to you. My new neighbors, Chip and Brie Romero, moved in next door about two months ago. Chip, the husband, is the great-grandson of Ceaser Romero, the famous dead actor. They, like thousands of others, fled that third-world commie country of California and came to our blessed state of Texas to start a new life, and who could blame them? I mean, that governor with the Clint Eastwood hair and the Robert Redford smile has ruined what was once a pretty good place to take a vacation and stare at the movie stars. My wife, Lisa, and her friend Lisa Ziffel spent a week of vacation out there in L.A. a few years back, trying to see Paul Newman and get his autograph. She was plum bummed out when she found out he had been dead for quite a while. But she did get to see two of those big butted Kardashian women on Rodeo Drive. She asked the most famous Kardashian woman how much she paid for those big butt cheek implants, and the bodyguard sprayed her with paparazzi pepper spray. Anyway, enough of that small talk.

Our neighbors want to be Texans in the worst way, but they are annoying Californians and will never be able to assimilate into our Texas culture. They drive a Tesla Cyber truck instead of a King Ranch pickup and have a fancy electric tractor for mowing their lawn.

They asked us over for supper: they called it a dinner party, but I call it supper. They served us white wine, some sushi(which is really catfish bait to me), some ugly, undercooked organic vegetables, tofu meatless patties, and almond milk ice cream on top of a gluten-free rice and kale shortcake. I tried to feed most of it to Verdell, their little weird-looking designer dog that hung out under their custom-made Himalayan wormwood outdoor kitchen table, but he took a few bites and puked it up on my new Justin boots. I gave the little pecker-wood a little kick with my boot for doing that, and Chip lost his crap and threw his glass of expensive white wine on my new Lucase pearl snap button shirt and was shrieking like a little girl, accusing me of trying to kill Verdell. His wife, Cheese Girl, is filming it all on her iPhone and calling their attorney back in La La land. My wife, Alma, doesn’t take crap from anybody, so she grabs Cheese Girl and throws her into their fancy Tibetan Monk-inspired meditation pond full of these big-assed Japanese meat-eating goldfish, and the fish start chewing on Cheese Girl. Eb, our farm hand, hears her screaming and comes to the rescue, throwing her a rope and pulling her out of the pond with his John Deere tractor. He had to drive it through their fancy bamboo fence to save her, and that sent Chip over the top. The meat-eating gold fish were still hanging onto her legs and torso and chomping on her, so Eb shoots them to pieces with his Colt pistol, and she’s screaming that those darn fish cost ten grand each and now he’s gonna have to pay for them, even though they were eating her like a rack of pork ribs. Things got worse. With the big hole in the bamboo fence, their herd of midget horses got out and took off into the woods, and haven’t been found yet. Arnold Ziffel, our intelligent farm pig, picked up their scent and tried to find them, but no luck yet. They have some of these exotic little Watusi Cows from Africa, and when they get scared or excited, they stand on their hind legs and dance the Watusi, which they did and danced right into the fancy meditation pond. The meat-eating goldfish got hold of them and left nothing but some bones and horns. Now we’re being sued by their fancy lawyer for replacing the cows, the horses, and the goldfish. Mr. Haney, our friend, is acting as our lawyer. Got any suggestions on how to handle these two morons?

The Texan: Well, Mr. Douglas, it appears that Green Acres is the place to be, and those Californians with all their valley speak and weird ways couldn’t resist moving to Texas and bringing their genetic baggage with them. A good friend of mine lived in a little town called Petticoat Junction, not too far from where you live. A family of Californians moved in by him, and the lecherous husband kept trying to get my cousins’ three gorgeous daughters out of that water tank and into his hot tub for some bubbly California fun fun fun. His cousin, Jethro Bodine, finally had to shoot the sucker, and the rest of the family got the hint and moved back to Beverley Hills. Californians are akin to folks from the Middle East: they just can’t assimilate and don’t get how we Texans live and the code of the West. I’ll send you Jethro’s cell phone number, and he might be able to help you out. I’m also sending you a CD of one of my favorite movies, ” High Noon,” and two large boxes of cherry bombs so you can use them to make those Californians scat back to La La Land. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.

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Tall Tales From Texas: The Legend of The Mountain Boomers of The Santa Anna Mountain

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last, Texas legend. The best storytellers and liars I ever knew were my two uncles on my mother’s side of the family, Uncles Bill and Jay Manley. They are the ones who told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.” My mother believed the two ruined me and turned me into a liar and teller of tall tales, which is not such a bad thing.

The Mountain Boomers were giant lizards that ran on two legs and came down from their lair on Santa Anna Mountain in search of food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, wild pigs, small cows, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. We, kids, were scared shitless of even going out of the farmhouse after dark. Now we had giant lizards and the dreaded Woolly Boogers to deal with.

With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”

Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparents’ covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the faraway howls of an occasional Coyote pack running the creek that passed through the pastures.

The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.

Already that June, my cousin Jerry and I had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens and had learned of the dreaded Woolly Boogers. Hence, we needed a new adventure: our summer was losing air like a punctured tire: we were tiring of shooting chickens with our Daisy BB Guns, then getting our butts switched by Granny.

“Did you kids see that over there in the trees across the road? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says Uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then, a few moments later, “There it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a wild pig in its teeth.”

He had us firmly hooked and reeled in. Then he starts in on the story. Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and said,

” Right down this road here, about twenty years ago, a family’s car broke down, ran out of gas, I think. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned with some gas. The little boy got out of the car to pee alongside the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry: a 7-foot-tall Mountain Boomer was standing there with the little kid in its mouth. The poor boy was already almost chewed in half. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them, Boomers, was hiding in the scrub brush and got her, too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had gotten them because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” My other cousins and I were almost pissing our pants.

When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe any of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my uncles swore the legend and the story were true. I still dream of them.