Tag: Texas

Posted on

Chapter 12. Wagons Ho From Texas To California, War Comes To America


My grandfather, John Henry Strawn, was a man who walked through the shadow of World War I, kill or be killed, and he did that to stay alive. This left his life marked indelibly by the echoes of battle and the night terrors of remembrance.

Like a capricious storyteller, as most newspapers were in those years, in the bustling heart of Los Angeles, the “Daily News” spilled forth tales of a world war that often danced precariously between the lines of truth and embellishment. John Henry read the papers, listened to the radio, and sensed the winds of conflict stirring anew: England, under the dogged leadership of Churchill, had already been forced to take up arms against Germany, and the very fabric of Europe was being torn apart by Hitler’s relentless march. The veterans he worked with and once fought beside in the first war, their spirits worn yet resolute, whispered with a shared conviction that Japan, lurking in the periphery, was quietly readying itself for an insidious alliance with the Nazis, as if the world were a stage set for a dark, unfolding tragedy.

Though a year too young to answer the call of duty, my father carried the heavy knowledge that at eighteen, the war might come knocking at his door.

With weary eyes and a resolve hardened by fate, Churchill was bartering and begging Roosevelt for machines of war, trying to keep the demons of Hitler from roaming freely on Europe’s fields and invading his island nation. With the earnestness and bravo of youth, Young Johnny approached his father, asking him to sign the papers letting him enter the fray at seventeen. No man who had walked the grim aisles of battle wanted his only son to face the specter of death on foreign soil, yet in a moment of bittersweet surrender, he found himself issuing that reluctant blessing, driven by a love that could not deny the call of his son’s heart. Convincing his wife, Bertha, would be a battle he dreaded and would likely lose.

Japan unleashed its first thunderbolt, and as the morning awoke over Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, our once-proud Navel fleet lay shattered on the waters of war, a haunting reflection of the chaos unleashed on that fateful December 7th, 1941. The weight of long-forgotten battles seemed to press upon the shoulders of the divine Emperor Hirohito as if the specters of ancient warlords propelled him towards an unseen abyss, a dark and uncertain fate simmering beyond the horizon. The gates of Hell swallowed Japan, and the gatekeeper kept them imprisoned until their foolish folly was completed.

Three members of the string band Blind Faith had fancied themselves sailors and enlisted in the Navy, much to the dismay of Johnny, Blind Jelly Roll, Pancho Villa, and Le’ Petite Fromage, who found themselves in possession of a hefty bag of bookings badly in need of some good ol’ resolution. To add a sprinkle of chaos to the mix, Pancho Villa, the loyal seeing eye dog of Blind Jelly Roll, had now joined the ranks of the visually impaired, having lost sight in his last good eye. Sister Aimee, ever the resourceful soul, splurged on a certified German Shepherd to take over the seeing-eye duties, much like the replacement engine in a clunky old jalopy. Pancho Villa, undeterred and full of moxie, took to his new post on a small platform fixed to the back of this new pooch’s harness, barking orders like a captain adrift at sea, blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings. More than once, they came perilously close to being flattened by a passing car, prompting Jelly to stuff Pancho into a papoose on his shoulder, urging the little rascal to button it. It was becoming painfully apparent that the music of the Blind Faith string band was about to fade into the pages of history, as every good tale must come to an end; their final curtain had been drawn, and boy, did it drop with a thud!

Le Petite Fromage, bless her heart, found herself smitten with the charming trumpet player of the church orchestra, a situation that surely raised the eyebrows of the good girls in the choir. Sister Aimee tied the knot between the two in their rather cramped dressing room as a way of keeping things discreet—or perhaps just to save on wedding costs. Off they scampered on an Eastbound train to Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, the very next day, with visions of a well-timed little one dancing in their heads like so many sugar plum fairies. Meanwhile, good ol’ John Henry, ever the dutiful father, marched with his son Johnny to the enlistment office, signing his life away in exchange for a rather dashing Navy uniform, all at the tender age of seventeen. As for Bertha, bless her soul, she took to her bed like a shipwrecked sailor, wailing and concocting her questionable brews that promised to calm her nerves but likely only added to her woes. There she lay, utterly convinced that her son was on an express boat to Pearl Harbor and straight into the chaos of World War II. The dutiful son had left one duty to embrace another.

Chapter 13 Wagons Ho, The War Becomes Real
Posted on

When Northeastern Mobsters Hold Our Country Hostage


Rantings Of an Elderly Man That Has lost all filters and doesn’t give a damn if I ever get them back….

Let me set this writ straight from the start: I am not a union supporter and never have been. When I was building multiple projects at the Mall Of America in the early 90s, the local labor unions threatened me and my family with death numerous times. Tires slashed late-night phone threats and everything you could imagine if my employer, a Texas company, and I did not comply with their Nazi commands. This was in Minneapolis, Minnesota, supposedly America’s friendliest state; if you believe that whispering downhome wolf in a sheepskin suit, Garrison Keillor, the hometown boy, made good, then exposed as the unvirtuous butt-pinching bad boy of small-town America.

The longshoremen are shutting down the country because a forklift driver’s six-figure income is insufficient. The average income for a hardworking American is 58K. And a man driving a forklift on a dock is worth over three times that? Since when did our country go full “batshit crazy?”I would guess it was around when the sainted Franklin D. Roosevelt was crowned president for what he envisioned as a lifetime. An elitist northerner sporting a lilted half-European accent that smoked his ciggies in a pearl holder and humped more willing women than JFK could dream of. He was a cad, but considering the almost canine looks of his genius wife, I could throw him a bone: Sorry for the apparent cheap joke.

Momo and I are trekking to the HEB tomorrow to stock up on whatever is left. The panic buying is upon us like a flock of city park Ducks on a single Junebug.: my condolences to the dearly departed ducks in Springfield Ohio. Ordinary women in far-too-skin-tight leggings fight in the aisles over toilet paper, face moisturizers, wine, Mountain Dew, and Rice A Roni, the San Francisco treat. Down here in Texas, we won’t put up with that crap in the Northeast. We have plenty of farms with fresh produce, hordes of cows, pigs, and fish, feral pigs, feral cats and dogs, and feral people, and if we don’t have it, we will invade Mexico and take it. Why not? They have already invaded us.

Did I say too much? Probably. If you have any significant complaints, call me at BR-549 and ask for Junior.

Posted on

Taking A Knee For The Right Reason


I’ve always believed in the raw strength of prayer. A small child kneels by the bed. A grown man kneels beside a dying parent. God listens. He may not grant all our prayers. There are reasons for this. A dying parent approaches the end, no cure in sight. It is time. We all have our moment.

Momo and I found ourselves at a prayer gathering in the park a week ago. The turnout was sparse, the heat oppressive, the air thick with discomfort. Yet, amid it all, the holy spirit lingered among us. Men, women, and children knelt, some on one knee, others prostrated on the pine needles, indifferent to the thoughts of strangers. The older ones were weighed down by age, needing to rise again; I understood. What struck me was the number of young folks present: teens and those in their twenties, engulfed in faith. I thought, why should I be surprised? This faith is not merely for the old; it is for the young, from the cradle to the grave and beyond. It filled me with a quiet hope against the dark forces that assail our nation—a small, emerging army ready to stand, bolstered by the strength of Michael, the Archangel. Change is coming; stay tuned.

Posted on

Throwing Things At My Television


Tonight, I discovered that my pitching arm doesn’t work anymore. Listening to the debate, I couldn’t tell who deserved my ire. Trump could have done better, and Harris surely had the questions, possibly weeks in advance, so it wasn’t really a debate but a corrugated yuk-yuk party. I started scanning my den for objects to hurl at my flat screen. My Dallas Cowboys honorary brick would go through the set and possibly the wall, so that was out. Maybe a vinyl record album, but then I like them too much. A music CD, nope, I like them too. Maybe a sandal, nope, might ruin the footwear. So I threw an old Texas Highways magazine, and it bounced off: no power in my throwing arm anymore. Trump did bring up the Haitians eating people’s pets, which got a yuk from the moderators, but folks, that is true. I read that one Ohio grandmother watched a hungry Haitian eat her little Yorkie while she still held the leash. Haitians have a new dish, Kitty Tacos, which we’ve likely eaten before if you lived in Texas. I can’t take any more politics, so this will be my last post about the subject. Chapter 10 on Wagons Ho to California is about in the can, so stay tuned for that. May the force be with you…well, maybe not; Luke Skywalker likes Harris. Why did he have to go and ruin my Star Wars memories?

Posted on

The Journey to Bakersfield: A Lively Tale of Struggle and Triumph, Chapter 9


My grandfather, John Henry, possessed a mastery of storytelling that filled the room with warmth. When the rain beat against the windowpanes, or the ice or snow kept me inside, I’d perch myself on the floor near his rocking chair, mesmerized by the tales of his youth in rural Texas, his days as a soldier in the US Army, and the harrowing battles in France. With each word, he painted vivid scenes of the struggle and resilience of his family during the tumultuous depression years in 1930s California. Pausing only to adjust his fiddle, John Henry would then draw the bow across the strings, filling the room with a lively jig that seemed to echo the resilience and spirit of those days and family members long ago passed on. When my grandfather passed, my father, as any good son would do, took the helm, recounting those years in California and beyond. A few drinks of good scotch whiskey for us both lit up his memory and released his vivid imagination. The more scotch we consumed, the more colorful his recounts, so parts of this story may be a bit grandiose.

Bringing Blind Jelly Roll Jackson and Le Petite Fromage into the string band’s musical circle infused the fellows with newfound assurance. John Henry found himself utterly taken aback by their musical prowess.

Johnny and the string band continued to improve with each passing week. After six months of playing front porch shows, birthday parties, a few illegal chicken fights, and one funeral, W6XAI Bakersfield, the most influential radio station in California, came calling. The station approached the band with an offer to perform a thirty-minute live show. Le Petite’s Daddy, Baby Boy Fromage, used his questionable connections to secure the band’s spot on the show, as his own band, The Chigger Bayou Boys, were regulars on the hillbilly program hosted by Colonel Bromide A. Seltzer. The esteemed Colonel was famous for featuring the latest talents on his popular daily show, always staying on the lookout for fresh and promising acts he could sign to a strangeling management contract that left him flush with cash and the talent with a pittance. Blind Faith fitted his bill.

Baby Boy Fromage arranged for transportation to and from Bakersfield. The radio station had agreed to pay the boys $75. 00 for the show, which included four commercials for Father Flannigan’s Holy Healing Tonic, Sister Aimee’s Blessed Miricle Face Cream, and Puffy Cloud Lard. In today’s world, that kind of money might buy you a mediocre supper at an Olive Garden, but in the Depression years, it was a small fortune. Of course, Baby Boy would require a chunk for providing the transportation and a meager finder’s fee for getting the band on the show. All said and done, Blind Faith would make $40.00 cash to split six ways. Le Petite had warned the boy that her father’s deals can sometimes border on nefarious, so don’t cry like a freshly born titty-baby if the whole thing flushes down the toilet.

Around noon on Saturday, the stagecoach to Bakersfield arrived at the Strawn residence. Le Petite’s daddy had promised luxury transportation for the haul to Bakersfield. Baby Boy’s idea of a luxury transport was a converted Tiajuna Taxi, complete with no less than a hundred bullet holes along each side of the vehicle. Two church pews nailed to the wooden floor served as seating, and the big stain on the floor was likely blood. The driver was a Mexican chap who didn’t speak English and drove with a bottle of Tequila planted in his lap. His GPS was a ratty map with the route colored in red crayon. Le Petite was furious with her daddy and planned to smack his big head with a *cajun blamofatchy.

Arriving at the station, the band was led into a large room where the broadcast would take place. A small stage covered with short nap rugs and a half dozen microphones placed where each musician would stand. Another band, The Light Crust Doughboys, from Fort Worth, Texas, was packing up, having completed their live show for their sponsor, Light Crust Flour. They were in Hollywood to be in a Western movie with Gene Autry, and this was their last commitment before heading back to Texas. Johnny spotted their fiddle player, made a bee-line over, and introduced himself. The man, Bob Wills, a fellow Texan, wanted to hear youngsters play, so he stuck around for the live show, which was due to start in twenty minutes. The radio technicians placed each member in front of a mic, giving Le Petite her own microphone for singing. The band played 16 bars of music so the man in the sound booth could adjust the volume. Bob Wills sat in a corner, smoking a cigarette and drinking what appeared to be a pint bottle of hooch hidden in a brown paper sack.

The two announcers, a heavy-set fellow wearing a black cowboy hat and his companion, a boney, skittish little gal, also wearing a matching cowgirl hat and white boots, took their positions in front of a microphone next to a nervous Le Petite. The man told the band that when that light on the wall turns from red to green, that means we are live, and you start your theme song while we announce you and our sponsors. Jelly said he couldn’t see the light, but Pancho Villa would give him the queue. The announcer asked Johnny if that man was blind? Johnny said, “Yep, blind as a bat but he’s a pretty good driver and got us here in one piece.”

The boys had no theme song, so Jelly told them to play Red River Valley: You can’t mess that one up. The man at the mic counted down, the light turned green, and the boys let loose on their new theme song. All the time, the two announcers were jabbering about their sponsors.

The announcers stepped back from the microphones and gave the boys a thumbs-up to start their show. Le Petite counted off a cajun song about a “Big Mamou” and went into “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” and then “Cold Beer and Calomine Lotion.” The band played every tune they knew, finishing up with Johnny playing a fiddle tune called “Lone Star Rag,” which caused Bob Wills, with a big grin on his face, to rise from his chair and clap along. When the show ended, Bob gave Johnny a few pointers, telling him he had a bright future in country music and to get in touch when and if he returned to Fort Worth. Fifteen years later, back home in Texas and playing country music for a living, Johnny got in touch with Bob Wills, who became his mentor and close friend, gifting Johnny with one of his fiddles, which he is playing in this photo. I have that fiddle as well as my grandfather’s fiddle.

My father, Johnny Strawn playing twin fiddles with Bob Wills. Forth Worth, around 1952.

  • * Cajun Blamofatchy is a piece of wood use
Wagons Ho To California: Grandmother Is Healed By Sister Aimee McPherson And Carman Miranda Stops By….Chapter 10
Posted on

Chapter 8. California Ho!-Blind Jelly Roll Jackson Brings Home The Le’ Petite Fromage


Young Johnny and the rest of the string band joined the Strawn family for Sunday church attendance. John Henry warned the boys that they were about to witness a religious spectacle, so hang on to your britches. He also told the boys that If Jelly Roll was invited to join their group, all four of them would be standing before him, even though he is blind, for revering one’s elders was of the utmost importance.

Bertha and the boys walked with John Henry to the orchestra dressing room, where they found Jelly Roll and Pancho Villa seated on a red velvet settee, likely the same furniture that Sister Aimee used in the soul-saving of Jelly Roll, who now embraced his savior with religious zeal. Each of the boys introduced themselves, shook hands with Jelly, and gave a guarded pat to Pancho Villa; the banjo player was the only one to get a vicious bite from the foul-tempered canine. After a brief, casual conversation, young Johnny inquired if Jelly Roll would entertain the notion of joining the string band. Jelly Roll pondered the request for a few minutes, then gave them a yes, but a young female singer from the choir he had recently befriended would come with the package. The boys agreed, and a deal was struck.

Jelly Roll produced a tidbit of dried bacon from a pocket and gave it to Pancho Villa; he then directed the pooch to hurry down the hallway and fetch Miss Fromage. Pancho returned with a smallish girl in tow. Jelly Roll introduced the boys to *Miss Le Petite Fromage from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Her daddy is Baby Boy Fromage, the famous Cajun singer, so her vocal abilities come from good stock. Miss Le Petite was a diminutive gal, measuring less than five feet, yet possessing the curves and form of a fully grown woman, except for her hands and feet, which were the size of a small child’s: she had little baby feets and hands. When she spoke, her heavy cajun-accented voice was as smooth as honey on a warm biscuit. Jelly Roll and Miss Fromage agreed to rehearse with the boys on Saturday at John Henry’s home. The group left with the boys feeling like something big was about to happen.

On Saturday, John Henry gathered up Blind Jelly Roll and Miss Fromage and delivered them to his humble home. The boys perched themselves on the front porch. They were as nervous as a cat in a dog show, and who wouldn’t be: this was their first foray into professional music. John Henry kindly assisted Jelly Roll and Pancho Villa to a seat while Miss Fromage opted to stay standing.

After assisting the boys in tuning up, Jelly asked, “Are you all familiar with Mama Mabel Carter’s tune, Will The Circle Be Unbroken?”

The lads nodded knowingly. He then tapped his foot, “In the key of G, one ana two ana three ana four-ahh.”

After a lively eight-bar introduction with Jelly Roll bending his guitar strings into a torturous sound and Johnny joining him with his fiddle, Le Petite took a deep breath, stood up on her tiny toes, and belted out the song with such gusto that her boisterous vocals nearly blew the boards off the porch floor. By the song’s end, neighbors had gathered in the front yard, their feet tapping and hands clapping in rhythm to the spirited tune.

Turning to the band, Le Petite declared, “The next ditty is from my dear ole Daddy, Baby Boy. It’s a G-C-D progression with A minor thrown in for color. It’s called Party On The Bayou: Cold Beer And Calamine Lotion.” Step it up, boys; it’s a rapide quick-un”

The band played for two hours, covering Cajun music, Dallas blues, and some Bakersfield Okie-inspired country. It was clear that Jelly Roll and Le Petite were professionals and were teaching these lads a thing or two. The rehearsal was a rousing success. But now, if they were to play for money, they needed a good name for the band. Johnny threw a couple out, as did the banjo picker, but nothing stuck on the wall.

Le Petite said, ” Monsieur Jelly Roll, being a blind fellow, and now a born again unto sweet Baby Jesus with the strong, unshakable faith, why not call this outfit **”Blind Faith?” They liked it, and Le Petite announced, “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

  • *Le Petite Fromage is a type of French cheese popular in the bayou country of Louisiana.
  • **Blind Faith was a 1960s supergroup consisting of Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker, and Ric Grech. My father couldn’t remember the name of his string band, so Jelly Roll, being blind and embracing his newly found faith, seemed to fit.
The Journey to Bakersfield: A Lively Tale of Struggle and Triumph, Chapter 9
Posted on

Chapter 4, Wagons-Ho, Leaving Texas Far Behind


Divine lightning has been known to strike twice, but only if it is directed by a Guardian Angel.

With a job in his pocket, the few loose coins that jingled in his khakis sounded like a hundred dollars.

John Henry made it a point to stop by, to offer up his thanks to Sargent and Sunny for their helping hand. Their kindness was the kind that stuck with a man, went deeper than any he’d known before.

Sargent asked John Henry to join him for a stroll down the sidewalk, just the two of ’em. They walked and smoked on their Lucky Strikes, talking about this new job that was waiting for John Henry like an open road.

They trudged along the sidewalk, the setting sun beating down on their gray fedoras, until they came to a halt in front of a small, weathered, stucco bungalow. A faded ‘For Rent’ sign hung crookedly from the porch railing, creaking lazily in the faint breeze. An older woman, around Sargent’s age, sat in a creaking swing, sipping listlessly at a glass of iced tea; she gave them a slight wave as friends do. The only sounds were the rhythmic groan of the swing chains and the growing buzz of cicadas, their evening song a mournful hum that seemed to vibrate through the very air itself as dusk drew near.

Sargent took one last drag on his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the dusk. With a practiced motion, born of countless battlefields, he field-stripped the butt and sent it swirling into the breeze. Beside him, John Henry echoed the gesture, the ritual of it a comforting reminder of days past and the unbreakable bonds of soldiers forged in blood and fire.

Sargent spoke up.

“I’ve already gotten the okay from the owners; they’re fixin’ to move up to San Francisco for a spell, maybe a long one, five or six years they say. The house is yours for the taking if you’re so inclined. I put in a good word for you, figured my vouchin’ would mean something to them. Hope our bond of friendship will be the thing that seals this deal tighter than a jug of moonshine on a hot summer day.”

John Henry let out a hearty laugh, the easy kind that comes from deep in the belly, at the mention of moonshine.

“I ain’t touched the white lightning in near 10 years, Sargent,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I’ll take the house, and you can bet your Justin boots our friendship is stronger than any gold or jug of ‘shine you can find.”

That evening, after John Henry shook on the deal for the house, he stopped at a butcher shop around the corner from Sergeant’s house. He counted out what little change he had left, just enough for three thick pork chops, a couple of fat red potatoes, and a sweet onion. Tonight, he’d throw the chops on the campfire, watch ’em sizzle till they were good and done, and bake the spuds in the coals. Bertha and Johnny, they’d eat like King Farouk. And Lady, she’d get her a big chunk, too, because this was a night for celebration if there ever was one. One thing he had learned in life is to take your blessings as they come and give thanks because they may never come again.

Click the link below for Chapter 5.

Life In California, Chapter 5

Posted on

Ob-La-De-Ob-La-Da Life Goes’ On Brah…La-La-How The Life Goes’ On


Yes, Dear Hearts, as the Beatles say, life does go on. As of today, I’m five years cancer-free. I’m expecting a face time phone call from Sir Paul and Ringo anytime now.

Posted on

A Small Miracle


My Grandfather was a farmer. His life was a hundred seventy-five acres of cruel, rocky land in Southwest Texas. He would not have had it any other way.

On a scorching July afternoon in 1955, I stood next to him at a fence row along the south pasture, watching anvil thunderheads form in the West, behind the Santana Mountain Peak, the namesake of his town, Santa Anna.


Little rain had fallen the past few years. The stock tanks were dry, animals were suffering, crops were dead or dying, and the town’s soul was faltering. The prayers on Sunday were plentiful and to the point: Please bring rain.

There was talk of bringing in a rainmaker at the domino parlor, but the town had little money for such a wild idea. The town folk felt as though the good Lord wasn’t listening. A miracle was needed, even if it was a small one.

We had been standing at that fence row for a good hour, Grandfather not flinching or diverting his eyes from those clouds.
I wanted to see what he was seeing, but I couldn’t. He seemed to be taunting those thunderheads to come over that mountain, staring them down, challenging those clouds to bring what they had to his farm.
Looking away from the clouds for a moment, I looked at his weathered face. Just like his land, deep furrows everywhere. It’s as if each wrinkle was his reminder of a furrow that hadn’t produced a crop. He was only sixty, but his face looked decades older.
He glanced down and caught me staring. Embarrassed, I said the first thing that came to mind,

“Grandfather, why are you a farmer?”


Still staring at the clouds, he cleared his throat and said,

“I’ve always been a farmer boy; it’s all I ever knowed. One night, when I was about your age, the good Lord sent a tiny angel to my bed. She lit on the quilt and said Jasper, you’re going to be a farmer, and you will grow food to feed the children and the beast. This will be your life. How can you argue with the Lord boy? So, here I am.”


Until then, we had never had a real conversation, and I liked the kindness in his voice. I wanted to know this man who had been so elusive and indifferent to me.


“Does the good Lord always tell people what they will do?” I asked.

He replied, “It’s what I here’d,” Now you best go tell Granny to get the cellar ready; it’s going to come up a cloud tonight.”

And with that, our first visit was over. Even though it was short, I now felt a closeness to him that hadn’t been there before, and I was eager for the next time.


I came round the barn and saw Granny carrying an armful of quilts and pillows to the storm cellar. She already knew a storm was coming. She always knew.


Grandfather missed supper, unwilling to leave that fence row, afraid those thunderheads would retreat if he did. They didn’t. The first crack of thunder shook the walls and sent me and Granny running for the storm cellar.


Grandfather wouldn’t come with us. He stood at that fence row until the hail stones pounded the cellar door. Only then did he come down, wet and bleeding from the cuts on his scalp. Granny fussed over him for a few minutes, and then he laid down on a cot and fell asleep.
We passed the night in that damp cellar. Granny, sitting, reading her Bible by the light of an oil lantern, Grandfather snoring, and me slumbering between fitful dreams of thunder and lightning. The storm did what it was sent to do.

At dawn, we came out to a sea of water. The fields, flooded, reflected the sunrise like a new jewel. The farm animals rejoiced in unison. Grandfather checked the rain gauge on the fence,

” Seven inches” he yelled.

Granny cried into her cupped hands, and I can’t remember why, but I cried with her.


Around lunchtime, we loaded into the old Ford and drove into town. People lined the sidewalks. Women hugged each other, old farmers patted one another on the back, dogs barked, and children laughed. The town had regained its spirit and hope overnight.


The Biscuit Café was alive, as was the domino parlor and the feed store. Everywhere, the people of Santa Anna rejoiced and gave open thanks for this small miracle.


At the café, Grandfather treated us to a nice chicken lunch. Pastor Bobby and his wife came in and, standing in the middle of the café, offered a prayer of thanks for the rain. Grandfather, not a church-going man, bowed his head and gave a hearty “amen” along with the rest of the patrons.

As we returned to the car, Granny’s old friend Miss Ellis came up to Grandfather, hugged him tight, and in a weepy voice said,

“it’s a miracle Jasper, God gave us a miracle.”

He politely endured her hug for a minute, then we moved on towards home.


That seven-inch rain didn’t end the drought for Santa Anna, but it gave the farms enough relief for the crops to stand tall again and the stock to survive that summer and fall. Grandfather became a church-going man, never missing a Sunday, and his farm produced the best crop in years.


Sixty-seven years later, my wife and I took a day trip back to Santa Anna. I was curious if the town had grown and prospered. It hadn’t. The Biscuit Café, the feed store, the domino parlor, and most of the other shops I remembered were gone. The old church still stood, showing its age but still holding its head high.


We drove out to the old farm. The house, the barn, and the smokehouse are all gone, lost to a fire. The only thing left was the windmill and the cellar. The fields were taken by scrub brush and weeds. Not a furrow survived.


I stood at that old fence line and looked west to the Santana Mountain. Just like that day in 1955, thunderheads were building behind the peak. It was going to “come up a cloud.” I never forgot that conversation with my Grandfather that day, and sadly, I never got to know him better before he passed away a few years later.


I have always believed that the power of prayer can produce miracles, and on that day, standing at that fence line, Grandfather and the Lord struck up a deal. The town got their small miracle, and Grandfather got religion.

Posted on

“Ain’t Scared”


This, Dear Hearts, should scare conservative Americans to death.

CHILLING: Biden Regime Declares Trump Supporters Domestic Terror Threats in Newly Released Internal Documents, Sought to Set Up DHS Intel Unit to Target Them

Here in Texas, we have more down-home sayings than cattle. “Ain’t Scared” is one of them, and it sort of says it all about how we Texans feel about the crap that our government fan throws our way. The above title is real, and Dear Hearts, this time we should be scared…real scared. If the title doesn’t hit you in the gut, perhaps the picture will.

How I long for the presence and the voice of the esteemed Paul Harvey. His ability to provide perspective on our nation’s turmoil and division would be invaluable.

Good day.