Tag: poetry

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A Performance to Remember.. Cookie Becomes A Beatnik


In the fall of 1958, the first Beatnik-style coffee house opened its doors in Fort Worth, Texas. Calling itself “The Cellar.”

Fort Worth did not welcome its presence or the inhabitants it attracted. Conservative city fathers asked, “Where did these people come from? Have they always been here?” It was a cowtown of shit-kicking cowboys, Cadillac-driving oil men, and country club debutants wearing Justin boots. My cousin Carmalita, who preferred the name Cookie, was a perfect fit for the coffee house and secured a job as a waitress at the new establishment.

Being seven- years younger than Cookie, the other cousins and I had limited interaction during her teenage years. Still, I know from the family stories and the “almost out of earshot whispers” that she was a real hellion of a girl. Her mother, a rosary-clutching Catholic, believed her daughter to be mentally disturbed and demon-possessed. She was neither, just a rebellious girl born twenty years too early who refused to fit into the conservative society of the 1950s.

Immersing herself in books by Kerouac and Ginsberg that glorified the new lifestyle of the “beat generation.” Cookie began dressing in the style of “the Beats.” She envisioned herself traveling west with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise as they motored their way to New Mexico in search of God and the meaning of life fueled by Marijuana sticks and two-dollar-a-bottle liquor. Jack Kerouac was her hero.

Waist-length black hair and a resemblance to a young Ava Gardner didn’t endear her to the Sandra Dee-loving girls’ club at school. She was labeled an outcast. She dropped out of Paschal High School at sixteen to live in sin with her next-to-worthless greaser-hoodlum boyfriend, a motorcycle-riding teenage hubcap-stealing thief from the north side of town. This decision resulted in her instant banishment from the family.

Polled by a phone-in family vote, she was christened the “little trollop.” Her name was not to be spoken at gatherings, and her mother requested all photographs containing images of Cookie be returned to her for proper disposal by fire in the backyard BBQ pit. Her father was brokenhearted by her rejection. Unable to watch her sweet sixteen birthday present, a Ford Fairlane convertible, sit abandoned in his driveway, he sold it. The rebellious type was not tolerated well in the 1950s, especially in Texas and our extended family.

“The Cellar” grew in popularity, and crowds of unwashed self-appointed poets and deep thinkers found their way to the dark, smokey den.

Cookie grew tired of the bland poetry readings from ancient books and tried her hand at writing. Her heart was full of self-induced resentment, and it didn’t take long for her to dish on everyone and everything she felt had “done her wrong.” Her parents were number one on her list. She asked the club owner to let her perform a personal poem about her life, and he agreed.

Saturday evening is reserved for the serious night-dwelling “hip beats.” They convene and hold literary court to anyone who will listen. Mixed groups gather around small tables, arguing about poetry, politics, religion and the meaning of life. Old Crow adds the extra kick to the strong coffee. An occasional strange cigarette might be passed around.

Sensing the time is right, Cookie takes the stage, cradling a cardboard box under her left arm and a large pair of sewing shears in her right hand. She sets the box on the floor next to a tall stool. Tears stream from her eyes, forming dark streams of watery mascara onto her peach-pale cheeks. A thin tinsel string of snot drips from her left nostril, resting on her upper lip, and glitters in the spotlight, bathing her face in an ethereal glow. She sniffs and gags a few times, composes herself, and begins her poem.

She retrieves her favorite childhood doll baby from the box and lays it on the stool top. She grabs a large meat cleaver from the box and beheads the poor toy. A gasp erupts from the crowd. Earlier, for maximum effect, she filled the doll’s plastic head with Heinz Ketchup and potted ham to simulate blood and brains. The ketchup-splattered patrons recoil in horror when the doll’s head is guillotined and bounces onto their table by the stage.

Next, she pulls a beautiful 8×10 glossy photo of her parents from the box and cuts it to shreds with the sewing shears. She pulls a Girl Scout uniform from the box and rips it to pieces, throwing the all-American remnants of the uniform into the audience.

Cookie leans into the microphone, takes a long drag from a Pall Mall, and in a low growl, says, ” I never liked dolls or toys, but you made me treat the little fakes like real people. I fed them imaginary food, bathed them in imaginary water, changed their tiny poopless diapers, and dressed them in stupid clothes, and for that, I hate you and cut my hair.” With that statement, she grabs a chunk of her beautiful lady Godiva’s length hair and removes a six-inch portion with the sewing shears.

She continues, ” I didn’t want to be a Bluebird, but no, I had to be like the other girls on our street, you know, I don’t like the color blue, and for that, I hate you, and I cut my hair.” Then, whack, another large section falls to the stage. ” you hate my boyfriend because he is a bad boy, and he is all that, but I love him and want to spend my life on the back of his ratty-ass motorcycle holding a nursing baby in each arm as we travel west to find the meaning of life.” She then whacks the left side of her hair to within inches of her scalp.

The audience is on the verge of bolting for the door, fearing her next move may sever an artery and expire in front of them. A voice from the back of the room yells, “This chick is crazy, man.”

Cookie ends her act and exits the stage, leaving a pile of black hair mixed with ketchup and photo paper. The crowd of poets and hip cats give her a lukewarm reception. This performance was too unhinged for the normally unshakable.

That performance at the Cellar that night was the debut of what would become known as “Performance Art.”

Cookie got her wish. Less than a year later, with a baby in her arms, she and her boyfriend made their way to California, and that’s another story.

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Ask A Texan: Texas Chili Cookoff Tips for Beginners


Downhome And Humble Advice For Folks That Live So Far Out Yonder They Don’t Know Nothing About The World Except What They Hear At The Feed Store and The Septic Tank man
The Texan

This Texan received a letter pleading for help from Mr. Pico de’ Gallo of Bandera, Texas. Seems he is considering entering the world-famous Terlingua Chili Cookoff for the first time and is being forced to use his wife’s old family recipe, and has concerns.

Mr. Pico de’ Gallo: Mr. Texan, I’m entering the famous Terlingua Chili cook-off, and my wife, Conchita Bonita Maria, wants me to use her old Mexican family recipe. Her family is from San Antonio, and her great-great-great-grandmother was the cook for the defenders of the Alamo. Her name was Chile Conchita Madera, and history credits her for making the first batch of Chili, so the dish was named after her. She was also Davy Crockett’s girlfriend, and he and Jim Bowie got into a ruckus over her, and Davy shot off Jim Bowie’s pinkie toe with his famous rifle, Old Betsy. She and Davy were tight, but then he didn’t make it, and she left with the other women after Santa Anna won the battle. Santa Anna wanted to hire her as his personal cook, but she wouldn’t have any of it. My problem is my wife wants me to go out and get the fresh meat, the same stuff her great-great-great-grandmother used. Now I’ve got to go kill a bunch of Opossums, a few Skunks, some Rats, three or four Rattlesnakes, and a cow that got blown up by a cannonball during the fight. I’m not a hunter and don’t even own a rifle, only a .44 Magnum pistol, and I’m pretty sure if I shoot those critters with that Dirty Harry gun, it’s gonna blow them up to a pulp and won’t be of any use. And, to top it off, she also wants me to go to Marfa, Texas, and search the Chihuahuan Desert for the rare Chihuahuan Death Pepper, which grows near the mountains at the base of Cacti, and is really hard to find. I’m in a pickle here. Why can’t I just get some Wolf Brand canned chili and add some stuff to it? Help a brother out here.

The Texan: Well, Mr. de’ Gallo, I happen to be somewhat of an expert on Chili. My two son-in-laws have won the Terlingua Chili Cookoff twice in the last five years, so by osmosis and relations, they turned me into a Chili expert. I can tell right now, you don’t need to shoot all those road kill critters and blow them up, just go to HEB and get some pork, steak, ground beef, and other meats, and tell her you shot the critters. She won’t know the difference. I’ll email you my special recipe for my award-winning Chili. I use my special hot sauce, called Davy Crockett’s Colon Cannon, because it’s made with the Vietnamese Death pepper brought back to Texas from Vietnam in 1969 by my buddy, Tex Stiles, the famous BBQ Chef. He was fighting the Cong over there, and an old Mama San turned him onto the pepper. It’s the hottest one in the world, and one pepper could kill two or three folks, so you’ve got to use only one or two drops in your batch. I’ll send you some Cherry Bombs and a CD of John Wayne’s famous movie, ” The Alamo.” Your wife’s granny might be in there somewhere.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Moves To New York City To Be A Social Worker


Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.

Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.

The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.

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Ask A Texan: All Taped Out…


The Texan

Somewhat Intellectual Advice For Folks That Don’t Have An Intellect Or Can’t Spell The Word…

I received a letter written on the back of a missing cat poster. I called the number, and the owner confirmed that the cat had come home, which is a good thing. The man who wrote the letter on the absconded poster, A Mr. Thurston Howell, claims his wife has lost her mind and is attempting a home remedy facelift.

Mr. Howell: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Wall Street Journal and thought you might be able to offer some sound advice. I ran out of printing paper, so I used a missing cat poster that I found stapled to my mailbox to print this letter. I hope you don’t mind. Besides, the lady put the posters everywhere in our upscale neighborhood, which is against our HOA rules here in Beverly Hills. It seems her cat goes missing at least once a month, and Elly Mae Clampett, the sweet girl down the street, searches and finds the missing furball. The crazy cat lady has around fifty cats, so missing one would be no big deal. I found three of them eating a mouse on the Cordovan leather backseat of my Bentley last week and had to trade the car in for a new one. Anyway, that’s not the issue I’m addressing.

My wife, Lovey, has been begging for a face lift. She says all the women at the country club are getting them. I told her no way because, since our banker, Mr. Drysdale, made some bad investments with our money, we are on a strict budget. She’s a big fan of that TikTok thing on her phone. She saw that an influencer in Hawaii has invented a do-it-yourself at-home facelift using Gorilla Duct Tape. I’m familiar with the benefits of duct tape. When Lovey and I were stuck on a deserted island a few decades ago when a tour boat we were on hit a reef and marooned us with a group of idiots, one of the smart guys used a roll of duct tape and some Palm Tree bark to fix the hole in the boat, and we were able to get back to Waikiki a few years later, just in time to see Elvis on the beach filming a movie.

Lovey came to breakfast this morning with her face wrapped up in Gorilla Duct tape. It frightened me so badly that I spat out my coffee and ruined my Lobster Pâté breakfast roll. Rosie Jetson, our robotic chef and maid, had to stop cleaning the pool and clean up our deck-side breakfast table. She had applied makeup and lipstick to her tape-face, and now she looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Our little dog, Gilligan, was so scared that he hid in the pool house and won’t come out. Lovey claims that after six weeks, when she removes the tape, she will be as beautiful as her best friend, Ginger, the hot red-headed unemployed actress she hangs out with. I think she’s lost her coconuts. Do you have any recommendations on how I can put an end to this madness? I attached a picture of Lovey so you can see for yourself.

Lovey Howell

The Texan: Well, Mr. Howell, forgive me for being forward, but you can probably afford a good plastic surgeon for Lovey if you live in Beverly Hills, belong to the country club and drive Bentley cars. It sounds like you’re being a bit stingy. TikTok has messed up a lot of folks. My daughter-in-law followed an influencer’s advice and used Super Glue to style her hair, only to wind up in the ER, where the surgeon, with the help of a beautician, had to remove all her”Rapunzel-esque” mane. As a result, she is now as bald as Kojak. So, if your wife is stupid enough to do what some moron on TikTok advises, she may well need to see an expensive Beverly Hills shrink. I would first take away her smartphone and have Rosie, your robot maid, destroy it. Then, I would have Rosie hold Lovey down and rip off the duct tape. Tell Ginger to lie like a garage sale rug and tell your wife she is as pretty as that other girl, Mary Ann. Call Elly Mae Clampett to come down and style Lovie’s hair and loan her a tight pair of American Eagle jeans to accentuate her figure and make her look like Sydney Sweeney. If that doesn’t do the trick, it’s likely that Granny Clampett, Elly’s grandmother, will have some sort of possum belly-based cream to fix the damage from the duct tape. I’m sending Lovey a CD of a great TV series to watch while she recovers. “Petticoat Junction,” I’m also enclosing a box of cherry bombs so you can blow up the cats before they ruin the leather seats in your newest Bentley. Let me know how this all turns out.

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Jesus Got A Mainline..Tell Him What You Want


Southwest Texas in the 1930s was its own special kind of hell. It wasn’t better or worse off than most of the state, but it was way out yonder and then some. Most Texas folks never ventured that far.

You could find a hundred preachers and ask them if God was punishing Texas farmers, and they would all praise the Lord and tell you times are hard, but we are blessed. Preachers back then were good at blowing smoke up folks’ backside, and then blessing them after the plate was passed.

One main highway, US 377 from Fort Worth, led to Stephenville, Dublin, Brownwood, Coleman, Santa Anna, and on to San Angelo, then farther out to desolate West Texas and the Chihuahuan Desert Big Bend. Small crop and cattle farms along the route, made up of God-fearing, gun-toting, worn-down, and dirt-poor families, faded into heat waves and obscurity as the fence post clicked by. The WPA was new to road and highway repair. Craftsmen and skilled labor were scarce, and what was available was assigned to building and repairing buildings, schools, bridges, and parks. The last place our government wanted to send its money was to the South to make living conditions better for poor southern white folk. Not much has changed in Washington, but we folks in Texas figured it out.

My grandparents, during those years, were cotton farmers in Santa Anna, Texas. A good crop of anything was a dream, a decent one, a miracle. Johnson Grass and Thistle Weed ruled the rows, and if a family could keep them at bay, a sellable crop of cotton might be picked: that’s if rain fell, and like miracles, there wasn’t much of either available.

My mother, Mozelle Manley, one of four children, lived on her parents’ farm and suffered through those hard-scrabble times. These are her recollections as told to me over many years. Sometimes over a glass of wine, or a late-night conversation, or just a visit while she prepared dinner. She didn’t keep a diary or put her thoughts to paper, but she was exceptional in her oral history, and I, if nothing else, was a devoted son and an apt listener.

Around late September, the cotton was getting ripe for picking. My grandfather, a miserly old goat, used his children as unpaid farm labor, which was the custom back then: the more kids you had, the less labor you paid. My mother, a delicate young girl, wanted to write poetry and stories, but her pen was the wooden end of a hoe, chopping weeds in the cotton rows. I learned this after I was an adult in my forties, and she finally gathered the courage to tell me about her childhood years. I played the part of the good son, listener, and historian.

Pickers would come to their area around harvest time to pick the cotton for the families they knew needed the help. They mainly were black folk from around San Angelo, or farther west. They had their own farms, but could make a good buck picking sacks of white gold, enough to hold them over for the winter months and beyond.

One family would come to Santa Anna every year: a large black family from San Angelo. The patriarch was an old snow white haired man folks called “Preacher.” He was an actual certified man of God with his own small country church, but had a passel of kids that worked to keep the family afloat. My grandfather never knew much about the man, or the brood, but always paid them in cash money, and trusted him enough as to not quibble over the weight or his sacks of cotton weighed at the gin at the end of each day. Preacher always said he had a “mainline to God.” No one doubted that, ever. You could see it in his eyes, his face, his demeanor, and his spirit that traveled with him like a treasured handbag. Men of God have a discerning spirit and a glow about them, even in the dark of night.

Every summer, my mother and her siblings would chop weeds in the cotton rows. Pesky little growths that kept the poor soil’s nutrients from feeding the precious cotton bolls. By harvest time, the entire group of children was worn down to a nubbin and ready to catch the first hobo freight out of town for Fort Worth or Dallas. My grandfather was a hard-assed father who used his children as day labor and often treated them the same way. In his later years, he found Jesus and softened a bit, but only enough that you could spread his soul like hard butter on a two-day-old biscuit.

Preacher and his family would show up about the time grandfather was pacing the wood off of the back porch floor. They would pitch a few tarp tents, sleep in his barn and eat a few of granny’s five-hundred or so Chickens. The cotton was picked, weighed, and the Preacher and his clan got their cash and went home to San Angelo and their church. This went on for years, maybe a decade or more.

As my mother and her siblings aged and graduated high school, they knew what they must do: leave the farm to forge a life for themselves. My uncle joined the Navy, fighting in the Pacific theater against the Japs. My mother and her two sisters caught the train to Fort Worth and built bombers and fighters in the aircraft plants for World War II. The days of free labor were over, and grandfather switched from cotton to maze, corn, and Johnson grass for hay. Preacher came back once, but seeing that the end was there, never returned. He knew the things that could kill a family’s spirit, and he didn’t care to see this one end. He truly had a mainline to God. I found it amazing and yet amusing what a few glasses of wine and a few hours with my mother taught me about her family.

Having a mainline to God is a special gift. My mother knew this and always kept Preacher in her prayers and thoughts.

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Ask A Texan: The Wild West Days Of Gunsmoke And Cherry Bombs


Illuminating Southern Advice For Folks That Seek The Meaning Of Life As We Live It In The Great State Of Texas…

The Texan

A few days back, I received a letter from a Mrs. Hagan of Gunsmoke, Montana. It seems her husband, Festus, and his pals have gone plum Prairie Dog crazy since a family from Minnesota moved into town.

Mrs. Hagan: Mr. Texan, I saw your column in the back of The Farmers Almanac, and I’m hoping you can help me and my husband, Festus. The entire town has gone Prairie Dog crazy. About a month back, a family from Minnesota moved into the KOA campground outside of town. At first, they seemed friendly in a weird sort of way, but it was clear they needed some help. They didn’t wear much clothing, and their children were scraggly and reeked of an old can of Tuna Fish, so Sheriff Dillion, my husband’s employer, and his wife, Miss Kitty, took them under their wing. Gunsmoke is known as the safest town in the USA, probably because everyone in town packs a gun, either on their hip, in their purse, or their pickup. Even the service dogs with the little red vest have a pistol attached to their vest. I will admit that when the townsfolk celebrate, they tend to shoot into the air or the ground. After all, this is the last town of the old wild west. Sheriff Dillion is as guilty as he rest of us; he carries two pistols and likes to shoot out street lights and street signs after a few cold beers. Well, the scroungy kids of the Minnesota family started blowing up people’s mailboxes with Cherry Bombs, which is against the law ’round here. Then, the little pecker-heads began throwing them into folks’ business. Our local grocer, Little Bob’s Sure Good Market, had his entire produce section blown up by the kids with Cherry Bombs. Sheriff Dillion and my husband, Festus, can’t catch them in the act. The whole town is on edge and at each other’s throats. Festus and I are constantly arguing. Well, our big summer celebration is Wild West Days, featuring a big rodeo and a Carnival. We still have the original Miss Kitty’s Saloon in the old west part of town, so that’s where most of the action takes place. Festus and Doc Adams coordinate the whole shindig. After the rodeo, around dark, everybody was in the old saloon drinking hooch and having a good old time. Our local country band, “Little Junior One Arm And His Blasting Caps,” was laying down some great dance tunes. Festus, even with his limp and all, was dancing his best in years, and Sheriff Dillion and Miss Kitty were having a little too much fun. I guess the sheriff got too excited about a song the band played, and he pulled out his 44 and fired a few shots into the ceiling, which is already full of bullet holes from the old wild west days. One of the shots threw a spark into Miss Kitty’s lacquered-up hair, and it caught fire. Festus, quick on his good right leg, threw a beer on her head to extinguish the blaze. She looked real bad, half her red hair was gone, and her mascara was running like a river. I guess that was her last nerve, and she pulled out a derringer from under her skirt and shot Sheriff Dillion in the foot, making a considerable hole in his Justin boot. The Sheriff, drunk and now enraged from the cheap hooch, pulled out his other 44 and shot off Miss Kitty’s pinky toe, which was bad because it was the toe she wore her dead mother’s wedding ring on. The toe and the ring fell through the cracks in the old wooden floor and down to who knows where. During all this confusion, the mean little Minnesota kids sneaked in and dropped a bunch of Cherry Bombs down the knotholes in the wooden floor. The explosions rocked the saloon like a bomb, and the floor started to collapse. No one knew there was an old tunnel underneath the saloon that had been there for over 150 years. Some idiots back in the gold rush days dug it to catch the falling gold dust from miners and cowboys paying for their drinks with gold. The saloon floor fell into the open tunnel, taking half the dancers and all the band with it. The fire department rescued everybody, and Miss Kitty and Sheriff Dillon were taken to the hospital. A fireman found her toe with the ring still attached, and a foot surgeon sewed it back on. The local hoodlums packed up the Minnesota family in their old station wagon and ran them out of town, good riddance. The Fire Department boys found an old sign in the tunnel that said “Wandering Star Gold Mine,” of which the town paper has no record. Miss Kitty played the Tammy Wynette “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” song for the sheriff, who was fired, and Festus is now out of work and sweeping the sidewalks for tips, and his limp is getting worse. I’m looking for advice on how to get the town and my marriage back to its glory days.

The Texan: Well, well, Mrs. Hagan. This is going down as the wildest west tale I’ve had the honor of reading. It’s a riveting read, and I will likely frame it to hang in my tool shed. It seems your troubles began with the folks from Minnesota and a town that is lost in time. I will admit, I am familiar with that family. The father of the daughter wrote me for advice some months back, and he was a jiggered as you. I assume that since they ended up in your quaint town, he heeded my advice. The old west days, cheap hooch, guns, cowboys, bad tempers, and Cherry Bombs are a sour mixture in a bad cocktail, of which, after reading your letter, is what I need. My advice is to take Festus and move about a hundred miles away to a little town called Rawhide, Montana. I’ll make a call to their sheriff, a nice fella by the name of Rowdy Yates, who would likely hire Festus, even with his limp and all. I’m enclosing a U-Haul gift card, a bottle of Excedrin PM, A VHS copy of the great movie, Paint Your Wagon, and, of course, my usual gift of a box of Cherry Bombs. Let me know how this saga of the old west turns out, and when you see Sheriff Yates, tell him to head ’em up and move ’em out. He’ll get it.

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Hey Kids, It’s Fun Being Sick!


How Kids Beat The Pandemic In The 1950s

Kids are an intelligent species. They know far more about human interaction and theatrical interpretation than their parents suspect. I can’t put a date on when this anomaly was discovered, but people with fancy degrees and a goatee first noticed this behavior in the early 1950s. My neighborhood may have been ground zero for their study.

As a bunch, the kids in my neighborhood were healthy. We ate mouthfuls of dirt, sucked on pebbles, and ingested every foodstuff imaginable without washing our grimy hands. This was perfectly acceptable to our mothers. Our young immune system was that of a caveman: we scoffed at germs, ” away with you foul vermin.” Like Superman on the TV, we were indestructible.

The only malady that affected us, was the dreaded Monday morning tummy-throat-aching body-virus. This malady usually broke-out in after a thirty or forty day incubation period. It spread like wildfire through our four-block coterie and most of the second and third grades, mostly affecting boys, but the girls were losing their immunity at an alarming rate.

The second week in November, close to Thanksgiving, most of our second-grade class was infected and missing in action. The symptoms were: headache, stomach ache, sore throat, and body aches, sometimes we developed a limp and had to crawl from the bathroom to our bed. When our mothers asked how we felt, we would point at the affected areas and groan, eliciting additional sympathy.

The first morning was the worst, then by noon we recovered enough to watch cartoons and eat some ice-cream, then after supper, the symptoms worsened, and mom made the call for us to stay home another day. Sleeping in was mandatory, and if we were recovered by lunchtime, we could go outside for some fresh air. This bug was known to not last more than three days, tops.

A seven year old can’t grasp the enormity of a situation the way their parents can. As a group, we were unaware that our symptoms matched those of the dreaded Polio Virus. Our kindly school nurse, fearing the worse, calls the health department for back-up.

Two blocks away at George C. Clark Elementary, our diligent principal cancels all classes and has the entire building sanitized by a nuclear cleanup team from Carswell Air Force Base. The newspapers are on this like a duck on a June Bug.

Lounging in bed eating Jell-O, and watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, my cohorts and I are unaware of our neighborhood pandemic.

Tuesday, mid-morning, a contingent of doctors and nurses from the Fort Worth health department, arrive to access the outbreak. They plan to visit every affected home around our school and test every sick child for the dreaded Polio Virus. Large syringes and foot-long throat swabs are required. A dozen ambulances stood by to transport the poor ill children to the hospital. The local newspaper was there, as well as the television news folks.

Skipper, my stalwart best buddy, and the elected grand Poo-Bah of our gang, was the first to break. With two syringes sucking blood from his skinny little kid arms, he sobbed and said he was faking it, we all were faking it. He gave us up like Benedict Arnold. Roger Glen ran screaming from his house when he saw the size of the needles, and the smartest girl in our class, Annie, gave a signed confession. The epidemic was over.

Most of us couldn’t comfortably sit for a few days, but we were all healthy until the next school year. That’s when the Asian bird, chicken, rat, and cat flue got us all.

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Unraveling the Vanishing Girl of Marfa


Marfa, Texas, is one leg of the infamous Texas Triangle. Alpine, Fort Davis, and Marfa make up the redneck Bermuda Triangle and all the oddities that spring from its lands.

Momo and I have visited the quirky town a few times and plan another trip, perhaps in December. On our last trip, sitting in Planet Marfa, sipping a Lone Star beer and listening to the locals spin yarns and tall tales about the goings-on around the Chihuahuan Desert. We learned of nuclear-crazed killer Chihuahua dogs, strange lights in the mountains, the ghosts of James Dean and Liz Taylor at the Piasano Hotel, and enchanted horned toads that grant wishes. The young’uns that have relocated from Austin only add to the weirdness of the place.

The one story that folks were reluctant to rattle about was the young girl who vanished from her family’s desert home in 1965. She strolled into the desert behind their home to collect grasshoppers and other insects for a science project and never returned, and not a smidgen of evidence was ever found. A few days later, the parents noticed her prized acoustic guitar was missing from her bedroom, and their pet Longhorn steer, Little Bill, was missing from his stall. The girl often led him out into the desert to graze on the clumps of tasty grasses and plants. Lawman worked to solve the case for two decades, but no leads or culprits were found. Word around town was that space aliens had abducted her and the steer for scientific purposes or worse. No one thought much about the theory since Marfa loved that nonsense.

Sagebrush Sonny Toluse, the Grand Pooh-Bah of all things Marfa, tells the best version of the story. He said to a group around the bar,

“ I was walking my old doggy for his nighttime constitution. I live just outside of town, nearly in the desert, and that’s how I like it. The moon was full, so Rufus and I walked a little farther than usual. I hear guitar music from somewhere. It’s not a loud electric guitar but a soft one, like a Mexican guitar. It’s getting closer, and now I hear singing, the floating voice of a young girl. I stop, turn around, and passing by me; no more than ten feet is this little girl riding a Longhorn steer, playing the guitar, and singing an odd song I didn’t know, something about a Kay Serra or something like that. Behind her, sitting on the steer, is a giant grasshopper about half the size of the girl. I know we have big bugs here in Texas, but this critter was massive, about the size of old Rufus, my dog. The trio rode past me into the fading desert, never paying any attention to us. I was troubled by the encounter, so I went and asked the older sister, who is now an old woman, about the young girl who vanished so long ago. I told her about the ghostly encounter in the desert. She said her sister often rode the Longhorn steer like a horse and would play her favorite tune while sitting atop the beast. It was a Doris Day song, and she sang a bit. “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, the future’s not ours to see, Que Sera Sera. “

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California Dreamin’ Chapter 6


New friends, a fresh vocation, and a fine abode for an extended stay. The Strawns couldn’t reckon their good fortune. Were they in the midst of a reverie, or was it a heavenly intervention from on high? My grandmother continued casting glances over her shoulder, half-expecting to glimpse the Guardian Angel who was running this show. Sister Aimee and her mammoth church would require some acclimatization, at least on John Henry’s part.

After the church service, which was more of a Hollywood show than a religious sanctuary, John Henry ambled backstage in search of Blind Jelly Roll Jackson. He rapped on a door marked “orchestra,” but receiving no response, he turned the unlocked knob and proceeded inside. There sat Jelly Roll on a red velvet setee while Sister Aimee fervently laid her hands on his cotton-top head, offering a vigorous prayer of salvation. Pancho Villa stood behind her, firmly attached, growling like a small lion and tugging hard at the bottom of her satin robe. Upon catching sight of John Henry, Sister Aimee hollered,

“Clear out, sinner! Can’t you see I’m rescuing this wretched man’s soul?” John Henry promptly shut the door and made his way back to his family, wanting no part in the strange affairs of that place. This church wasn’t through with him quite yet.

Two weeks into his new job, John Henry felt comfortable enough to open the case of his fiddle. During his time in Texas, he had earned the reputation of a “campfire fiddler,” skilled enough to keep up with any string band in Fort Worth. Nevertheless, this was not the path he aimed to follow. For nearly two years, Young Johnny had shown a deep interest in mastering the art of playing the instrument. The time had come to pass on this skill to the eager young man.

A visit to a local pawn shop produced a fifth-hand fiddle. It wasn’t much of an instrument, but for $5.00, case and bow included, it was good enough for the boy. Johnnie, when given the instrument, almost keeled over from joy. He took the fiddle to his back porch bedroom and began to torment every dog and cat in the neighborhood with his playing, which was more screeching than music.

Miss Angel Halo, a retired high school music teacher, resided a few houses away. She recognized that sound, having heard the screech of strings from her students for most of twenty years. Her Basset Hound, Baby Dog, cowered beneath the back porch while her feline companion, Miss Greta Garbo, made a hasty exit to escape the noise. Miss Halo made her way to the offending house and exchanged pleasantries with the Strawns. Over a cup of coffee, some neighborhood gossip, and a large slice of warm bundt cake, she offered her aid in schooling young Johnnie in the ways of musical notation and the art of the violin; she was a cello player herself. If the boy would mow her grass twice a week, and pull any pesky weeds in her flower beds, she would instruct him in learning the instrument.; no charge. The pact was sealed, and harmony was restored to the neighborhood.

Six weeks into his son’s tutoring, John Henry, not having heard the boy play, was curious if he had learned to play the fiddle. At his teacher’s insistence, Johnnie’s practice sessions were daytime only, and he was confined to the garage, door down, so as not to upset the neighbors.

Saturday evening found John Henry on the front porch, nursing a cold beer and coaxing a few tunes from his beloved fiddle. He asked Johnnie to fetch his instrument and join him, and in a swift instant, the boy returned, fiddle in hand, eager to display his skills to his father. To John Henry’s amazement, as he played an Irish jig, his son effortlessly intertwined harmonious notes with his own, giving the old man a partnership in the form of twin fiddles. A father’s pride has no bounds, and he played on, ignoring the tears on his cheek. In time, that instrument and the dreams of a child would take young Johnnie to the pinnacle of country music.

More to come in Chapter 7

https://notesfromthecactuspatch.com/2024/07/28/california-and-the-magical-elixers-chapter-7/

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A Young Scholar Among Jabbering Idiots


Thanks to my late favorite aunt, Norma Lavender, I became a scholar early in life.

Five-year-olds are stuck between that titty-baby stage and graduating to sandlot baseball and comic books. If life got tough, I could still console myself with a grimy thumb to my mouth, and a skinned knee sent me squalling to momma. I couldn’t tie my own sneakers or button a shirt.

My pushy aunt realized my floundering ways and rescued me with books. She got her hands on the first two years of Fun With Dick and Jane, the books the Fort Worth school system used to teach kids to read; comic books would have to wait; Micky Spillane and Mike Hammer were calling me.

Aunt Norma quizzed me like a Perry Mason for a year, teaching me to write and read. By my sixth birthday, I was a reading Jesse, a child phenom, and a leper to my neighborhood gang. They could barely write and couldn’t read a lick of anything. Here I was, a young Shakespeare among a crowd of jabbering idiots.

Having given her parenting rights to her sister-in-law for a year, my sainted mother has now stepped in to reacquaint herself with her young scholar. I still couldn’t tie my sneakers and applied too much Butch Wax to my flat-top haircut. My mother was a hard-core Southern Baptist, and I didn’t understand why when I colored outside of her parental lines, she would cross herself and say a prayer right before she administered a righteous butt whooping with her favorite weapon; a 9inch by 12-inch Tupperware cake holder. To this day, I won’t touch a piece of Tupperware.

I was assigned a weekly Micky Spillane paperback and expected to read the entire book. Looking back, those trashy, noir detective books were not fit for a child or an educated adult, but Aunt Norma would read a book in 24 hours and was quite an educated gal. I didn’t understand most of what I read, but a few phrases stuck with me: “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” “A hard man is good to find?” Mike Hammer was always in trouble with a trashy broad. I shared my new vocabulary with the gang, and they dug it.

Mother started receiving phone calls from the other moms, blaming me, her little boy, for teaching their uneducated idiots smutty language. The Tupperware storage pan came out of the cabinet, and my butt burned for a week. Aunt Norma gave me Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn to reprogram me. I dreamed of someday becoming Mark Twain, a kid with a Big Cheif tablet and a handful of Number 2 yellow pencils stored in a Tupperware container.