Tag: romance

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Ask A Texan: The Quest For Big Rock Candy Mountain And The Bates Motel


Sort of Professional Texas Advice For Folks That Can’t Afford The Real Thing.

The Texan

This Texan received a postcard from The Walmart in Tom Joad, Oklahoma. It seems that Mr. Junior Steinbeck’s wife, Rose of Sharon, thinks she is real sick and wants a vacation bucket list trip, which he can’t afford.

Mr. Steinbeck: Mr. Texan, I’ve never written a request for advice, so please consider this my first and bear with me if I make any mistakes. Two weeks ago, Rose of Sharon, my wife of forty-five years, said she was near the end. This is nothing new; she and her four sisters are all world-class hypochondriacs and have so many fatal diseases that it’s a miracle any of them are still walking around and breathing. The woman has been on death’s door since the honeymoon, but has been as healthy as a town dog for all these years. Rose of Sharon comes to me and says that, since she is pretty sure this malady is the fatal one, she wants to take one last trip and go see the Big Rock Candy Mountain in South Dakota. I say, “There ain’t no Big Rock Candy Mountain, that’s a dang song.” She says, “No, Junior, it’s that big candy rock with those faces carved in it.” I say, ” No, Rose, that’s Mount Rushmore and those faces are the past great presidents, are you a moron?” Well, I gave in since she was ill and all.

We load up the truck and head out. About midnight, Rose says she needs a bed to sleep in, and our Ford Ranger pickup ain’t no Simmons Beauty Rest. I remember that guy on the radio always saying We’ll leave the light on for you, so I started looking for that motel. We drive into a town, and there it is: Motel 3, with its sign all lit up. I walk into the office, and there’s this guy behind the desk dressed like one of those Beatles boys, and he has a red dot on his forehead. The place is all smoky and smells like perfume burning, and I hear a goat from somewhere in the back office. I say we need a room. He says it’s okay, it will cost $25.00. I’m thinking that’s awfully cheap, but I’ll take it. Rose is moaning and groaning and thrashing about in the front seat. Once in the room, Rose decides she needs a shower. She comes out of the bathroom and says, “Junior, there ain’t no towels, toilet paper, or soap, what the hell?” So, I go to the office and tell Mr. Abdul something or another, we need the bare necessities. He says, “towels, $5.00 each, soap is $2.00, toilet paper is $ 3.00. I’m thinking this is a rip-off, but I pay anyway. I get back to the room and Rose says there ain’t no pillows or sheets on the bed. By this time, I’m a little hot. Same response: Pillows $4.00 each, sheets $10.00, and if you want to watch TV, the cord is $5.00. Again, I pay. Rose needs her rest and some clean sheets.

I go to put on the sheets and there is a big, old, huge blood stain on the mattress, so I flip it over and the blood stain is even bigger. Rose of Sharon freaks out and screams, ” Junior, this is the Bates Motel. I ain’t taking no shower and get stabbed by a lunatic granny.” We pack it up and leave, drive all night to Mount Rushmore. Rose thinks it’s no big deal, a big rock with faces. All she ever wanted was to see Big Rock Candy Mountain. Any ideas how I can fix this mess with the Motel 3 and a disappointed wife?

The Texan: Well, dang it, Junior, I’m almost, but not quite, a loss for words on this one. I have a couple of aunts who have been living with fatal diseases for about sixty years, and not one of them has expired yet. My grandpappy says it’s the water in Texas, stuff keeps you alive for a little too long past your shelf life. Motels aren’t what they used to be. I suspect you were looking for that Tom Bodett Motel 6: that’s the one that leaves the light on for you. You stumbled into one of those foreign-run places that charge for everything, even the cock roaches. You can sue the grifter, but it’s likely to cost more than the bill, so let it lie. Take Rose of Sharon to Enchanted Rock in Fredericksburg, Texas: it looks like a big old slab of rock candy, and she probably won’t know the difference. Keep in touch, and I’m sending Rose a box of Big Rock Candy and a copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

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Ask A Texan: Mrs. Gentry’s Dilemma: Boat Motors vs. False Teeth


Down Home Advice For Folks That Are Out Of Options

The Texan

I received a letter from Mrs. Gentry of Tallahatchie, Mississippi, stating that her husband, Catfish John, had taken the money she gave him for a set of new false teeth and spent it on a new boat motor. She’s as mad as a cottonmouth.

Mrs. Gentry: Mr. Texan, I’m surprised I’m having to ask a stranger for help. I saw your articles in the Farm and Ranch magazine, and you seem to know your groceries. My husband, Catfish John, is what the locals call him because he spends a lot of time on the Tallahatchie River running trotlines. He had three teeth left in his fat head, so I gave him some cash I had hidden away in a coffee can and told him to go to town and get some new teeth cause I was sick of looking at his toothless face. His hound dog, Little Bob Barker, has the same problem, so I told him to get the dog some choppers, too. He comes with what I thought was new teeth. I looked at him and said, “Wait a darn minute here, Catfish, those don’t look like real teeth; they’re too big and are all the same size. ” Well, he admitted that he needed a new boat motor, so he bought a couple of boxes of Chiclets, those lovely little white candies, and super glued them into the holes where his teeth used to be: he did the same for his hound dog. They look like a couple of smiling great white sharks, and I’m out all the hidey money I was saving for our daughter’s upcoming wedding to Billy Joe MacAllister. She’s not around much these days cause Catfish sees her and the boyfriend throwing stuff off the bridge, which worries me; I’m missing a bunch of laying hens and some piglets. I’m as mad as a pissed-off cottonmouth and ready to send him to live with his baby brother, Perch. Any ideas on fixing this mess? I sent you a picture of him and the hound.

The Texan: Wee Doggies, now that’s a problem. Southern men take their fishing real seriously, and a good boat motor is essential. My grandpappy had the same problem, so Granny fed him soft biscuits and white gravy and mashed up his meat, and he got along just fine. Teeth are expensive these days, so he was just trying to save money. I love those little Chiclets candies; they are a true American institution. I wouldn’t worry too much if one falls out, he can replace it, they’re really cheap. As far as the wedding, have your daughter go to the justice of the peace. At least Catfish will always have nice-smelling breath, and if you’re at a social gathering and you need a breath mint, just jerk out one of his teeth. Keep in touch, and I’m sending him a big box of assorted-colored Chiclets so he can change his teeth to suit the holiday festivities. Let me know what your daughter was throwing off that bridge.

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Johnny’s Journey: From War to Healing in Hawaii


Chapter 16: Johnny Didn’t Come Marching Home

Foreword: Usually by another writer or friend. Excuse the breaking of tradition. These chapters reveal my struggle with the truths of my family. As a child and later as an adult, I saw the darkness of alcoholism and how it grips every soul within a household. I wished for families like those in a Norman Rockwell painting, gathered at the table with Grandfather carving the turkey, but life shattered that image. AA was just beginning to rise, and the word “enabler” had not yet marked the shadow of alcoholism. Bleeding in a public arena is not pretty.

The island of Hawaii held its charm, still untouched by the war. A year after the conflict with Japan, a few tourists arrived by boat, drawn to its beaches and emerald water. The men and women in uniform returned home, demobilized from the military. Johnny chose differently. He stayed, nurturing the holdings he had acquired over two years. Luck had favored him; he owned land in downtown Honolulu, not the best area, but one that would grow over the years and be worth hundreds of times what he paid. California held no interest, Texas even less. He would again be under the veil of his mother’s demands and secrets. The more time away he had, the more he saw that the extended family of her sisters and cousins was more toxic than nurturing. The arrangement with the old Korean had soured; there would be no marriage to his granddaughter, a relief to Johnny. He would take his chances to either flourish or fail in Hawaii.

Near the end of his first year after leaving the Navy, once again, the missives from home arrived almost daily. They were often the same—repetitive and sharp. Nothing had changed; Sister Aimee’s cures were lost like smoke in the wind. His father did not write, making Johnny feel like he was not there or had no strength to fight. The family had returned to Fort Worth. He now knew that something dire had transpired.

A letter from his sister Norma came with bad news. His beloved dog, Lady, had passed peacefully in her sleep at the age of eighteen. John Henry was not doing well; a depression had set upon him soon after they returned to Texas from California. His leaving a prestigious job and salary and returning to the furniture shop, working for a pittance of his former wage, caused him great stress. He would go days without speaking to anyone, lost in his sadness, reluctantly accepting the fact that he was now an older man and he had left his best life out west. PTSD was not yet diagnosed, but his behavior had all the signs of the illness. Killing another human, even in the ugliness of war, will take a piece of a man, leaving him un-whole and susceptible to the whispers of the Demons that await. John Henry had many to fight.

Johnny’s mother had become a mean, spiteful woman full of hatred for anyone other than her precious sisters in arms; they were all swimming in alcohol for the better part of each day. The reality of life was a concept they didn’t grasp; the party came first, and to hell with the rest of it.

Norma was planning to leave and join her brother in Hawaii but was reluctant to leave their father in his fragile state. Guilt washed over Johnny for not being there for his dog, Lady; she had been his faithful companion for his entire life. He was ashamed that he was more broken up over her death than the tribulations of his parents; they were adults who occupied their own prison. They could deal with it themselves. He wanted nothing to do with any part of their perils. Still, the missives came daily, now more frantic and cruel than ever. He was teetering, trying to stay positive and not give in to the dark web woven by his mother’s disease. It was impossible to fight. In anguish, he gave into her cruelty, hating himself for his weakness. Arriving in Hawaii, a boy, then becoming his own man, now again, a boy dragged across the Pacific Ocean by a three thousand-mile umbilical cord.