Tag: summer

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Summer Adventures of a 1950s Boyhood


It was the summer of my seventh year, 1957.

It was too hot to play pick-up baseball games unless my buddies and I got to the Forest Park Ball Diamonds before 8 am, and the city pool was closed because of the Polio scare; my mother kept a picture of an iron lung taped to the icebox to remind me what would happen if I disobeyed her orders. Boredom set upon us, we had too much free time on our grimy little hands, so the six of us that comprised our neighborhood coterie did what any gang of young boys would do; we went feral. It was two full months of constant butt-whoopings, loss of cartoon time, and other parental vs child warfare. My buddies and I agreed it was our best summer so far.

Mr. and Mrs. Mister, our next-door neighbors and mentors, attempted to reel us in, which worked for a short while. Mrs. Mister, a wonderful mom substitute who resembled the movie starlet Jane Mansfield, would let us sit under their backyard Mimosa tree. At the same time, she served chocolate chip cookies and Grape Kool-Aid to control our restless young spirits. Fred and Ginger, her twin white Poodles, would join us and beg for cookies. Mr. Mister, when his wife wasn’t looking, would let us have a sip or two of his ice-cold Pearl beer. We were bad assed and nation-wide.

This was the summer we declared war on our school tormenters, the older boys across the tracks known as “the hard guys.” And thanks to Mr. Mister and his military and engineering experience, we successfully implemented a detailed plan and defeated our nemesis. Sidewalk biscuits with implanted cherry bombs and a small Roman Catapult designed by Mr. Mister played a role in the defeat. Instead of feeling remorse for injuring our schoolmates, the battle made us insufferable and meaner, fueling our summer of feral behavior.

Our parents and Mrs. Mister were shocked and bewildered. Fifty or so butt-whoopings with everything from a belt, switch, and a Tupperware pan, didn’t phase me or my gang. The three girls in our neighborhood, our classmates, were all tomboys, and they said we were now “too mean” for them to associate with. Cheryl, our center fielder, the only girl we would allow to play on our team, called us “mean little shits.” Those are pretty sophisticated words from a seven-year-old gal, although we knew some of the good ones we heard from our fathers.

Skipper, or resident math wiz and duly elected gang leader, had the “Hubba-hubba’s” for Cheryl and gave her his tiny Mattel Derringer cap pistol as a sign of affection. He found it on his front porch one morning with a note from her mother that read, ” stay away from my daughter, you mean little shit.” Now we know where her scoffing comments came from. He was crushed, of course, but he was young and felt much better after he blew up Mr. Rogers’s mailbox with a cherry bomb. Firecrackers and high-powered fireworks secretly supplied by Mr. Mister played a big role in our feralivious behavior. The two neighborhood garages that caught fire were blamed on us, and Georgie, with his love of matches and lighter fluid, may have had something to do with those fires, but he wouldn’t admit to it.

My parents started taking Miltowns, an early pill similar to Xanex, and most other parents began drinking more than normal. Mr. Mister was called in to negotiate a truce, but secretly, he was on our side. He felt boys should have the right to cut loose and show their young oats, even though we didn’t have raging hormones, underarms, or pubic hair, which we anxiously awaited.

Our parents had enough of our feral behavior, and one Saturday evening, there was a hot dog party in our backyard. All my gang was there, as were their parents. Ice cream and a cake were served along with burnt wieners, and the Misters were there with Fred and Ginger. It was a downright ambush, the predecessor to the popular “intervention.” Our parents let us know that the next stop for us was “The Dope Farm,” an institution where malcontents and little hoodlums were sent to do time. We knew the stories about the place. It was out of a horror movie, and Father Flannigan wouldn’t be there to save us. It was time to clean up or be locked up doing hard labor and eating maggot-infested gruel. No more baseball, cartoons, or Mrs. Mister’s cookies and Kool-Aid. We huddled, agreed amongst ourselves, and promised our parents we would walk the righteous path of the good child. We did for the most part, but we hid our stash of cherry bombs for the next summer.

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Understanding Cicadas: My Summer Adventures with Little Buzzy


Little Buzzy

Yes, Dear Hearts, Summer Is Upon Us…

It will happen any day now. Zillions of them will crawl from their dirt bungalows, dust off their wings, slick back their hair, and proceed to make us miserable with their obnoxious song. Cicada’s are God’s way of shaking his “no-no, you’ve been bad” finger at us.

In the 1950s, it seemed the little critters were everywhere in our Fort Worth neighborhood. Cats loved to eat them, dogs like to crunch them, and us kids captured them for fun. Tie a kite string on their leg and fly them around like a model airplane, and then blow them up with a Black Cat firecracker. Such fun. Nothing was quite as freaky as an angry Cicada buzzing in your hand.

One summer evening, as the family sat in our backyard, drinking iced tea and listening to the buggy orchestra, I put my pet Cicada, “Little Buzzy,” down the back of my mother’s shirt. No one in the family knew she was such an accomplished acrobat.

The educated experts say the insects appear in seventeen-year cycles, then die off and reappear seventeen years later. Who are these experts, and when did they start keeping track of the bug’s appearances? What if a few miss the die-off or stay too long in their hidey hole and mess up the entire show? That may explain why we heard them every summer in the 1950s; confused Cicada’s.

I’m looking forward to sitting on my patio, a nice tumbler of Irish whiskey in my paw, and listening to the sounds of my childhood.

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Who Needs A Doctor When You Have the Farmers Almanac


I have been reading the revered Farmer’s Almanac for the past six months, and it’s surprising how accurate and sometimes inaccurate it can be.

The Almanac and I go back a long way. My Grandparents introduced me to the book when I was six years old and spent summers on their Texas farm trying to convert myself from a city slicker to a country boy. They were firm believers in the power of its predictions, although they were let down more than a few times.

This fine morning, as I drink a cup of java and read the pages, it tells me the summer in this part of Texas is forecast to be cooler and wetter than average. I knew it to be BS the moment I read it. No summer in Texas is cooler and wetter. Every day is a mix of misery and suffering, topped off with biting and stinging bugs. We are the land of burn-your-ass-off heat, and everything planted or growing wild turns brown and shrivels away by August; the bugs are with us until the first freeze. It was a bit wetter in July, but the temperatures are still around 95 degrees, making you feel wrapped in a hot, wet towel and sitting in the devil’s sauna. Unfortunately, they missed that forecast by a few hundred miles.

There is no mention of the Corona Virus and all the hoopla that came with it. So, how did the staff at the Almanac not know about this bug?

Back when the Farmers Almanac was in its heyday, rural folks depended on it for farming, ranching, and day-to-day living. The book was also full of home remedies, potions, poultices, plants, and hocus-pocus to treat their maladies. Unfortunately, doctors were few, and most families lived their lives without seeing one. As a result, most country folks were born at home and also died there.

The Almanac takes great pride in “do it yourself” folk remedies and contains dozens of them, along with questionable ads for elixirs, oils, good luck charms, H’aint Bags, and voodoo dolls. Grandmother used them all. I knew if I became ill while at the farm, all of these would be administered. My Grandfather was strangely healthy for his age. He knew better than to get sick around his wife. If he was ill, no one knew it.

It was bound to happen. In the summer of 1956, I am spending my summer on the farm. Fever and chills arrive during the night. My temperature is off the charts, and I am shaking like a hound dog passing a peach pit. Grandmother calls in her friend down the road, Mrs. Ellis, for a second opinion. The two-country alienists stand at the foot of my deathbed in deep consultation.

It is decided. I will receive the complete treatment reserved for the rare “Raccoon Flu” and possible “demonic possession.” Treatment will commence immediately.

The two women dragged me from my sickbed and thrust my aching body into a cold water bath for an hour. Grandmother gives me two doses of salts, three teaspoons of “Reverend Moses Triple Strength Root Tonic,” and a double-dog dose of “Dr. Sal’s Really Good Opioid Extract.” Then, my shivering torso is coated with “Sister Amy’s Pure And Blessed Olive Oil” from the banks of the River Jordan. Next, I am wrapped like a mummy in a white cotton blanket; a mustard poultice is glued to my chest, and a burlap bag of foul-smelling something is tied around my neck. They place me in bed, covering me with 6 quilts, and two speckled hens are brought in to sleep in my room overnight. Grandmother says I will be well by breakfast. At this point, I am praying for death during my sleep.

Dawn brings a cool breeze into my sick room, and I am awakened by one of the spotted hens sitting on my chest. She is clucking softly as if to say, “it’s time to get up; you’re well now.” I realize the hen is right; I feel like a new kid. No fever or chills, and I am hungry for a fat biscuit and my Granny’s country gravy.

I follow the two hens down the hallway into the kitchen. Grandfather sits at the breakfast table, reading the Almanac. Without looking up, he exclaims, ” going to rain today, The Almanac says around noon.” The last rain the farm had was over a month ago; what does the stupid book know.

Granny tells me to take the two-spotted hens outside and feed a big handful of laying mash because the Almanac said mottled hens will have an excellent laying week. She doesn’t ask how I feel; she knows her hocus pocus worked.

I head back to the farmhouse for noon dinner after spending the morning building Horned Toad houses out of pebbles and sticks. We sit at the kitchen table, munching on fried chicken, when a loud clap of thunder shakes the house. Granddad, without looking up, says, “Yep.”

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch 3/9/24


My late cousin, Chumly, is pictured above after he found his calling in shark training. Steven Speilberg employed him to wrangle his pen of sharks used in the movie Jaws. This is the last photo of Chum after he thought he had made friends with the lead shark. The only parts of Chum recovered were the sneakers and sunglasses.

My mother’s late uncle Zap was considered the inventor of the family. His most famous contribution was the ” Home Personal Hair Removal Wand,” which was the forerunner to Nair and other hair removal products that became household staples in the 1950s. Zap and his lovely wife, Yippie, a Harpers Bizzare hair model, are pictured here, demonstrating the device for the Fort Worth Press in their backyard pool in 1957. Her hair from the waist down was zapped away, but when she fell backward into the pool, she was rendered bald as a cue ball. The divorce came shortly afterward.

Pictured above is my cousin’s niece, Fifi, who, since the age of 16, has identified as a dog. After years of expensive therapy, her parents gave in and presented her with a custom-made Serta dog bed. The last report is that all was going well except for letting her out to pee twice a night and holding an umbrella over her when it’s raining.

Pictured above is my grandson’s Boy Scout Troop 33 1/3 of the Texas Longhorn Division, arriving at the Texas/Mexico border to support the National Guard. After arrival, they were issued Daisy BB guns and a towsack full of chunkable river rocks to fend off the invaders. Jesus Navidad, an illegal, after crawling through the razor wire, said, “Those Boy Scouts are mean little shits, and man, those BB guns and rocks hurt, I texted all my relatives and told them to stay home until they can catch a free flight to New York.”

My childhood neighbor, Mrs. Mister, in 1956, posing for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram after becoming the only female swimming instructor at the parks and recreation’s Forest Park Pool. Swimming lessons hit an all-time high that summer and the pool had a record year. I’m the goofy kid, bottom right, second up behind our right fielder, Rhonda.

Pictured above, around 1954, is my neighborhood milkman, Mr. Rock Pint. He was a swell guy who gave all of us kids free chocolate milk and ice cream sandwiches during the hot Texas summers. All the moms loved him, and many of the younger kids resembled Mr. Pint; must have been something in the milk?

Pictured above is a crowd photo from the Texas International Pop Festival, August 1969. I am in the center of the crowd, about thirty people back; Momo, my wife, is just to the right of the center, about forty people back. My buddy, Jarry, is the blond guy with the severe sunburn that required hospitalization, but the paramedics wouldn’t transport him until the Grand Funk Railroads set was over. I survived one-hundred-degree temperatures for three days and got to meet Janis Joplin one late night when this nice gal with a Texas twang asked me if she could cut in line as I was waiting to buy a hot dog. It took a minute for me to realize it was her, but I was cool; it was the sixties, man. That night, ole Janis “took a little piece of my heart, now baby.” Momo and I still get a good laugh and a few wheezes when we revisit those times. Our children and grandchildren will never be as cool as we were.

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The Summer I Became A Feral Child


It was the summer of my seventh year, 1957.

It was too hot to play pick-up baseball games unless my buddies and I got to the Forest Park Ball Diamonds before 8 am, and the city pool was closed because of the Polio scare; my mother kept a picture of an iron lung taped to the icebox to remind me what would happen if I disobeyed her orders. Boredom set upon us, we had too much free time on our grimy little hands, so the six of us that comprised our neighborhood coterie did what any gang of young boys would do; we went feral. It was two full months of constant butt-whoopings, loss of cartoon time, and other parental vs child warfare. My buddies and I agreed it was our best summer so far.

Mr. and Mrs. Mister, our next-door neighbors and mentors, attempted to reel us in, which worked for a short while. Mrs. Mister, a wonderful mom substitute who resembled the movie starlet Jane Mansfield, would let us sit under their backyard Mimosa tree. At the same time, she served chocolate chip cookies and Grape Kool-Aid to control our restless young spirits. Fred and Ginger, her twin white Poodles, would join us and beg for cookies. Mr. Mister, when his wife wasn’t looking, would let us have a sip or two of his ice-cold Pearl beer. We were bad assed and nation-wide.

This was the summer we declared war on our school tormenters, the older boys across the tracks known as “the hard guys.” And thanks to Mr. Mister and his military and engineering experience, we successfully implemented a detailed plan and defeated our nemesis. Sidewalk biscuits with implanted cherry bombs and a small Roman Catapult designed by Mr. Mister played a role in the defeat. Instead of feeling remorse for injuring our schoolmates, the battle made us insufferable and meaner, fueling our summer of feral behavior.

Our parents and Mrs. Mister were shocked and bewildered. Fifty or so butt-whoopings with everything from a belt, switch, and a Tupperware pan, didn’t phase me or my gang. The three girls in our neighborhood, our classmates, were all tomboys, and they said we were now “too mean” for them to associate with. Cheryl, our center fielder, the only girl we would allow to play on our team, called us “mean little shits.” Those are pretty sophisticated words from a seven-year-old gal, although we knew some of the good ones we heard from our fathers.

Skipper, or resident math wiz and duly elected gang leader, had the “Hubba-hubba’s” for Cheryl and gave her his tiny Mattel Derringer cap pistol as a sign of affection. He found it on his front porch one morning with a note from her mother that read, ” stay away from my daughter, you mean little shit.” Now we know where her scoffing comments came from. He was crushed, of course, but he was young and felt much better after he blew up Mr. Rogers’s mailbox with a cherry bomb. Firecrackers and high-powered fireworks secretly supplied by Mr. Mister played a big role in our feralivious behavior. The two neighborhood garages that caught fire were blamed on us, and Georgie, with his love of matches and lighter fluid, may have had something to do with those fires, but he wouldn’t admit to it.

My parents started taking Miltowns, an early pill similar to Xanex, and most other parents began drinking more than normal. Mr. Mister was called in to negotiate a truce, but secretly, he was on our side. He felt boys should have the right to cut loose and show their young oats, even though we didn’t have raging hormones, underarms, or pubic hair, which we anxiously awaited.

Our parents had enough of our feral behavior, and one Saturday evening, there was a hot dog party in our backyard. All my gang was there, as were their parents. Ice cream and a cake were served along with burnt wieners, and the Misters were there with Fred and Ginger. It was a downright ambush, the predecessor to the popular “intervention.” Our parents let us know that the next stop for us was “The Dope Farm,” an institution where malcontents and little hoodlums were sent to do time. We knew the stories about the place. It was out of a horror movie, and Father Flannigan wouldn’t be there to save us. It was time to clean up or be locked up doing hard labor and eating maggot-infested gruel. No more baseball, cartoons, or Mrs. Mister’s cookies and Kool-Aid. We huddled, agreed amongst ourselves, and promised our parents we would walk the righteous path of the good child. We did for the most part, but we hid our stash of cherry bombs for the next summer.

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Things Are Cooking In The Cactus Patch


Here Comes The Sun…

I don’t mean the beautiful song by Dear Old George Harrison, son… I mean, it’s hot, damn hot, here in South Central Texas. I shouldn’t bitch too much, we had our chance to move to Ruidoso, New Mexico, and passed, and now we suffer. That’s what Texans do, and we do it well. I should be better conditioned; my family didn’t have air conditioning until the early 1960s. I grew up heat tolerant and blazing tuff and could walk on hot sidewalks barefoot while eating a 0-degree Popsicle that would stick to my bottom lip and rip off the skin. Now, I’m just a pansy-assed old guy. It was 107 degrees here yesterday, with a heat index of 117. I’m listening to Christmas music, just trying to stay cool. My poor plants are stressing, begging for water, and screaming all night. As a dedicated gardener and ornithologist ( birdman ), I must watch out for my flora and fauna. Lots of water and good quality birdseed, although the Crow family is back and cleaning the feeders out in record time. Now they sit on my roof and “caw..caw” for hours, claiming my homestead as their own. I’m a bit nervous because, as a child, I saw Hitchcock’s classic “The Birds,” and it traumatized me to the point that I ran from Sparrows and Parakeets. Crows are enormous birds with large beaks that can take out my good eye with one peck; as long as I keep the excellent seed coming, I should be alright. It’s so hot; even the smaller birds sit in the shade all day.

Reunions And Medical Conditions

The Orphans 1968

Last Saturday, MoMo, myself, Danny, and Dana Goode met Jarry and Benita Davis for lunch at the famous “Lucilles” restaurant in Fort Worth. Jarry, Danny, and I played in the “Oprhans” and “The ATNT” back in the sixties. We were a semi-infamous rock band that played all the DFW circuits, LuAnns, The Studio Club, Strawberry Fields, The Box, Teen A Go Go, Phantasmagoria, etc., traveled around Texas and Oklahoma, and even opened for the “Iron Butterfly.” The three of us are the surviving members; our drummer Barry and keyboardist, Marshall, have gone on to the great jam session in the sky. We revisited some of the good old musical days but mostly talked about kids, grandkids, our working lives, and then, of course, our medical issues, of which we have plenty. We all had cancer and beat it, foot issues, hearing loss (caused by loud rock music and large amplifiers), brain trauma, back surgeries, transplants, nervous breakdowns, plain nervousness, forgetfulness, food allergies, food fears, fear of everything, and upcoming funerals ( our own ). We didn’t start showing scars, but we came damn close. I might have won that one. I believe the patrons around us were glad to see us leave. We promised to get together again, and we will, while there are still three of us.

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Rocky Mountain High In Colorado Springs


Heading to the Market! Photo by Ken Kesey

This past Saturday, while visiting my wife’s lovely Daughter, husband, and her young family in Colorado Springs, we visited the Old Town Colorado Farmers Market in the original 1800s village of Colorado Springs. It is the happening place to be if you are an aficionado or an original member of the 1960s. My wife and I are both, so we were looking forward to taking a time machine back to the days of innocence and peace.

A beautiful day; the weather was in the low 70s, sunny and bright, and the scents of fresh organic produce, fragrant honey, extravagant lemonade, and Rocky Mountain High pot floated through the park. Sunshine was on our shoulders and flowers in our hair. I thought I spied John Denver strumming his Martin guitar, but then, remembered he has been dead for a while now, thanks to not checking his fuel gauge on his plane.

Young families with passels of little kids, every breed of dog imaginable, and I believe that every old hippie that came to Colorado Springs in the 60s never left. Grandmas with dreadlocks, granny dresses, and boobs hanging south to their knees were escorted by their husbands that resembled Rip Van Winkle more than a modern-era man. I thought we were at a “reproduction” of Woodstock. One cool guy may be the twin of the late Joe Cocker, down to the cowboy boots and the tye-dye tee shirt, while another was a ringer for Arlo Guthrie. It was a fantastic trip; my wife and I were stone-cold sober, so that made it even more surreal.

Tents with vendors selling “Colorado Eco Hip Friendly Bee Honey,” “Homemade and Cosmic Blessed Hemp Jelly,” “Granny Sunshines Fresh Baked Love Buns,” ” Hip Harry’s Secret Tomatoes,” and so on. A few booths were original and had quite a queue: “Madam Gina’s Personal Physcriatic Help-$20 for ten minutes.” Another was “Personal Weed Advice.” With all the different varieties, one could, if not careful, might choose a lousy bag and wake up in hell.

The only thing that did worry me was the number of young folks wearing backpacks. Men and women seemed to be carrying all their belongings in a variety of fashionable packs; maybe in case, they were called on a long-distance personal quest at the last minute.

What did those bags include? I am guessing they would be some “smart water,” “an Apple Laptop and iPhone ( required of the hipsters),” some high-quality weed, an extra pair of Doc Martin sandals, maybe a few organic pieces of fruit, and a flash drive containing the soundtrack from Woodstock or Dave Mathews. Of course, I could be wrong.

After the market, we went to the exquisite “Broadmoor Hotel.” This place has gardens equal to those of biblical Eden. Beautiful trees, flowers, and bushes that would never be found in Texas, and enough grounds staff to ensure it all stayed in perfect cosmic alignment.

Beautiful people strolling the sacred grounds with their Gucci sweaters tied around their shoulders and their Tacova boots shined to perfection. The reflection from their Rolex watches would have blinded me if not for my $10.00 pair of gas station sunglasses. This is how the other half of the country lives at a grand a night for a bed and bathroom. If I had a tin cup and a sign, I would have begged for enough money to pay for the trip.

The lobby reminded me of Fort Worth’s Amon Carter Museum. Fredrick Remmington’s famous oil paintings hung on every wall. There were easily ten million bucks in original western art in that lobby. I was in a trance.

It was a great trip to see the family, with good food, and perfect weather. We look forward to going back and having to wear a jacket.

It will be 104 degrees in Granbury today. I think God has a sense of humor and may have chosen Texas for his new “weather Hell” because of all the Californians moving here. Nothing looks funnier than a toasted Wokie.

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A Friday Rant From The Cactus Patch That is Visiting in Colorado for a few days !


Well oil my musket, wipe my ass and call me Davey Crockett. Things in the Cactus Patch are so off-kilter I can’t walk straight without a good shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Now the whales are pissed off and jumping onto boats. The boat was owned by a Democrat Greenpeace Pot Smoking Transgendered Fishing Captain attempting to coax a throng of weekend mariners to join his cause. The whale was obviously a conservative and was enraged by the rainbow flag flown aftward and the “Little Mermaid” sticker on the hull. Let’s hope the Great White Sharks off Lon-gilend don’t catch on.

If Martha Stewert went to prison for insider trading, why isn’t Pelosi, her husband, and most of the congress receiving the same treatment? The only reason she is still alive is that she has enough money to buy black market spare organs to keep her going. If she farted, her face would explode.

Merrick Garland is going to prosecute Trump? WTF? How about he starts with Hunter Biden, his wife, his father, his hookers, and then all the Antifa and BLM trash that ruined Seattle, Portland, Minneapolis, and other smaller cities? Garland is a worthless human unit that uses Dippity Do on his hair and hasn’t had a good bowel movement in years.

Biden releases another 20 million barrels of oil from our national reserve. Who is he selling it to this time? He will try and take a victory lap, but will likely be held up by Jill and the Secret Service. The corpse doesn’t know what planet he is on. This is the result of putting an old man that has shit for brains in office. Although Scarlett O’Hara wore her dress made from her curtains better than Jill does.

Biden’s machine is in full swing. The cute little Barbie black lesbian is now a historian. She and her lemmings now tout that he is the new Winston Churchill. At 79 years old, Mr. Churchhill knew his time was up. Health and mental issues had rendered him a shell of the ferocious lion-hearted warrior he was in the 1940s. Biden is only an 80-year-old feeble man with a small quadrant of his brain that occasionally functions. Don’t insult the world by comparing Biden to Churchill. It’s sacrilege.

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The Father’s Day Reel That Never Caught A Fish


A few nights ago, I thought about “Father’s Day.” I often wake in the wee hours, which is my most fruitful time to contemplate the state of the world. Things include forgetting to water my veggie garden or putting the trash bin out for collection. The small items require as much thought as the big ones.

The restaurants will be packed to the limit this coming Sunday, and Bass Pro Shop and Amazon will work overtime until Saturday night. But, of course, it wasn’t always this way.

Like Mother’s Day, it wasn’t an official government-sanctioned holiday until the 70s, although the American public has recognized the special day since 1910.

It gained ground during the Second World War because the retailers figured out how to make a few extra bucks by plucking our heartstrings with schmaltzy advertising. As a result, Hallmark has sold Billions of cards, and American retailers continue to milk this golden cash cow dry.

Around our house in the 1950s, “Father’s Day” wasn’t considered an extravaganza. My Dad mowed the yard or made repairs on our home, Mom made him a special meatloaf with cornbread, and my sister and I gave him our homemade construction paper cards. Sometimes, he received a gift, but not often. One year, Mom purchased a fancy fishing lure for us to give him. Large, shiny treble hooks and feathers would make any fish want a bite. Another year, a nice shirt and a pair of fishing sneakers. He never expected much because money was always tight, and folks of his generation weren’t wired like they are now.

I gave my Dad a Garcia saltwater fishing reel for ” Father’s Day.” 1969. Captain Rick Corn, who owned the Sports Center in Port Aransas, gave me a “poor boy’s” deal, or I could have never afforded such a gift. It was a beautiful bright red and chrome reel nestled into a padded black leather case. Unfortunately, it was too pretty to use. The saltwater would tarnish the colors and the shining chrome within a few weeks. Then, it would be like our other working reels.

For years to come, during our fishing trips into the Gulf, I noticed he never put the reel on a pole. He said it would be a shame to lose it overboard like we had a few others when a 40lb King Fish hits our bait at light speed, and the rod escapes the holder and goes flying into the water. He kept it locked in the storage closet of our family beach house. So, I forgot about the reel for many years.

My father passed away in 1996. So when my sister and I sold the beach house in 2001, I ran across the reel in the storage closet; it had never been on a pole. It was as shining and beautiful as the day I gave it to him.

Years ago, I passed the reel on to my youngest son, Wes. He knows the family story behind the reel.

He and his family live on South Padre Island, just a short drive from Port Aransas. His home is on a canal that leads to the Gulf. His Blue Wave fishing boat moored to the dock behind his house. I have not seen the reel on his rods yet, so I will assume he treasures the 52-year-old reel as my father did by not risking its loss in the Gulf. One day, he may pass it on to my grandson, and perhaps he will catch a record-breaking Kingfish with that reel.

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Thoughts From The Cactus Patch


“If a Republican Senator or lawmaker had attacked a liberal Justice like Sotomayor or Kagan or Jackson, declared without ambiguity that ‘they will pay the price,’ it is virtually guaranteed you would see wall-to-wall coverage if an attempt was made on their lives,” he said, referring to Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer’s, D-N.Y., comments in 2020 about conservative justices, including Kavanaugh.” Taken from the New York Post.

It’s disturbing that the national news media outlets gave zero coverage to the attempt on Supreme Court Judge Kavanaugh’s life. True, the young man did not fire a shot or get into the house, but it was an attempt. When did one political party assume total control of the information on television, newspapers, and the internet? A guess would be in the early 2000s. Peter Jennings and a few other tv talking heads from back in the 90s, although liberal, attempted to give us the facts and the truth. I had high hopes for Lester Holt, but he caved in record time and fell into step. Who can blame the man? The networks pay these teleprompter readers extravagant salaries that have no base in reality. It’s a job, and they don’t write their own script.

Our Supreme Court judges are our most sacred cows deserving to be protected no matter the party affiliation of the president that appointed them. Not a concerned or denounced word from President Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, or others of their ilk. So, does that make them complicit in the attempt? First, it would be a yes, but maybe they are afraid to speak out against their radical base. They could be next in line. Silence can be golden, but it can be deafening and damning in the newsroom.

I’ve seen much in my 73 years, but I must confess that 2021 and 2022 may win the golden calf or at least a plaster Saint for your garden. History denotes the effectiveness of presidents, starting with General George Washington. Up until Carter, Buchanan, and maybe Hoover was considered the losers of Washington. Jimmy and Rosiland Carter can rest easy now; our current president has taken the flaming torch and is leading a parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. He thinks he is going to light the Olympic flame. Please, Jill, take him home.

Maureen and I don’t take many trips nowadays. We did manage a family gathering in Fredricksburg, Texas, back in May for Maureen’s 70th, but that was before the gas prices went south. Galveston was on our agenda for July, but with the cost of fuel, hotels, and food, we will be sticking close to home. Maybe a short day trip and a good meal will suffice. The days of long hauls in our trusty Honda may be over for a while. I believe the Gulf of Mexico and Guido’s shrimp baskets will be there next year.

The tomato harvest is upon us. The backyard garden is fruitful this year. Small, medium and Godzilla-size orbs are ripening within a day. It’s either my taste buds or on the fritz, or the tomatoes this year lack flavor. The Squash bit the dust early on due to a disease or bugs. I blame it on the hot, dry spring and, of course, the economy.