Tag: Texas

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Texas Lore And Legends


The Jackalope

I first learned of the “Jackalope” from my late Uncle Bill Manley. Summer nights on the porch of my grandparent’s farmhouse were ripe for spinning yarns and swapping lies. Uncle Bill was a masterful storyteller; my cousins and I were young and ready to believe anything he dreamed up.

The Jackalope is part Jack Rabbit and part Antelope and is a staple of Texas lore; is it real or a yarn? No one knows for sure, but many have claimed to have seen one, Uncle Bill among them.

After three or four ice-cold Pear beers, he begins his recount.

His voice lowers an octave; he leans over, rests his elbows on his knees, and begins,

” Back in 1948, when myself and the missus were visiting down from Chicago to this here farm, I was looking for my doggy that escaped the screened-in porch. It was almost dark, and I was walking through the back pasture, making my way into a grove of Mesquite trees, and there it was, sitting, chewing on a big blade of Johnson grass. He was a big critter, about the size of a big old lazy dog. His horns stuck up like a West Texas Antelope, his eyes glowed ruby red, and his pupils were yellow like a big summer squash. I was scared the varmint was going to gore me with those big horns, but I stayed real still and began to talk to the critter. I knew it was a Jackalope right away. The more I talked, the critter seemed to like what I was saying, and it began inching closer to me. I went on for a while, and when I took a break, the varmint was right next to me, looking up at my face with those crazy eyes. Then he did something funny; he nuzzled me with his head, and not knowing what was up, I reached out and scratched him behind his long ears. He made a funny sound, sort of a cat purring. I knew we were buddies now.” Wow, what a story! My cousins and I were delighted; we wanted more, so I asked, ” Uncle Bill, what happened to the Jackalope?”

Uncle Bill always had a dramatic end to his tales; this one was no different. He takes a giant slug of his Pearl Beer and says,

” There was a pack of wiley Coyotes roaming around the farm making a ruccus and killing Granny’s chickens. I went out hunting them one night and found the Jackalope all chewed up over behind the hen house; the Coyotes got him. He put up a good fight because there was two dead Coyotes laying beside him, all gored up from the horns. I took him to the taxidermist in Brownwood and had his head mounted, and that’s him hanging on the wall of the Biscuit Cafe.” Twenty years later, I stopped at that cafe, and the Jackalope was still there.

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Back In The Saddle Again


My good friend John Payne was raised in West Texas, and I have, with his permission, used his antics as a teenager to inspire my favorite character, Ferris Ferrier. This story was inspired by John.

Ferris Ferrier lives in Happy Texas. It’s 1958, and he is as happy as a resident can be. He reads an article in the Amarillo newspaper about a movie soon to be filming in Fort Worth, and the company is auditioning for cowboys who can sing and play guitar while riding a horse.

Ferris plays guitar a bit and has some fancy cowboy duds, and his father has Ole’ Rip, the family ranch cutting horse, so he’s convinced he could give this a shot. His parents give him their blessing, and it’s arranged that his cousins Jimmy Jam and Mary Meredith will take him and Ole Rip to the casting call.


Ferris isn’t nervous about the singing and playing but more about Ole’ Rip getting spooked and bucking him off. Ole’ Rip is a working horse used to cattle and his pen, and he’s pretty unpredictable, but he’s the only horse on the farm, so Ole Rip it is.
Jimmy Jam suggests that Ferris and Ole Rip give a practice performance in the upcoming Christmas Parade next week. “Give the folks in Happy a preview of their soon-to-be movie star,” says Jimmy. Ferris agrees, and plans are made for his debut.


On the day of the parade, Mimi Jo Musson, the coordinator, moves Ferris and Ole’ Rip to the front of the show, right behind the baton twirlers.

“Might as well give our new movie star a plug, right?” she said. Ferris is nervous as hell.

Why right in front of the high school band? Ole’ Rip is bound to have a meltdown once that loud music starts. He explains to Mimi Jo the scenario that will likely happen.

Mimi Jo says, “It will be fine; all horses love music.”


At noon, the parade is lined up in the alley between the Prairie Bank and the Big Biscuit Café. Baton twirlers, Ferris and Rip, the drum major and high school band, and six floats, followed by a stagecoach driven by Gabby Roy Parnell, where Santa Claus rides and throws candy to the children.


Ferris is freaking out. His throat is dry as sand, he has to pee, and Ole’ Rip cuts one fart after the other, a sure sign he is unhappy. As the parade turns the corner from the alley onto the main street, Ferris starts to play and sing, and Ole’ Rip is doing fine. Then, the drums start, the band kicks into Jingle Bells, and Ole Rip loses it. It is the first time Ferris has seen him rear up on his back legs like Trigger, and is, for a moment, impressed…until the horse makes a hard right turn and runs into Miss Honey’s Beauty Parlor.

As Ferris and Rip enter the business, Ferris hits his forehead on the top door jamb and spews blood like a fountain. Ole Rip manages to demolish half the parlor before turning around and heading out the front door. They travel a few stores down, running parade watchers off the sidewalk.

The next stop, Western Auto and Rip, is doing a similar demo job on the best store in town. Ferris is bleeding, his guitar is smashed, and the saddle is beginning to slide sideways. As they exit Western Auto, there are three vacant lots until you reach Bramwell’s Feed Store. Ole’ Rip, smelling horse feed, picks up speed and heads for the feed store lot.

As they enter the lot, Rip is smelling oats and makes a beeline for the warehouse, where he abruptly stops in front of an open bin and proceeds to chow down.

The saddle slips sideways, and Ferris is on the ground.

He is a sorry sight, with a bloody face, torn clothes, and his precious Harmony acoustic guitar smashed to kindling, and then Margie Lou, his secret crush, shows up. She is so excited she can barely speak.

” Good God, Ferris, I have never seen a demonstration of horsemanship like that in my whole life, and I’m a rodeo queen. That was fabulous and sensational,” she screams. Ferris picks himself up and thanks Margie Lou.


She adds, ” and next week you are going to audition for that movie, you should be so excited.”

Ferris says, “You know Margie Lou, I think I’ll do my guitar playing on the ground from now on. Who knows, in a few years, I might start a band. By the way, that’s a good idea for a name, The Fabulous Sensations, and I’ll keep that in mind.”

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The Squirrels of Havoc


An Observation of The American Tree Rat…

Little NutBreath

We have not seen a Squirrel in the four years we have lived on this rocky hill within throwing distance of Comanche Peak. I read that they don’t care for Cedar trees or rocks, which we have in abundance.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my recliner, gazing at the bird feeders and waiting for the mailman to pop something in our box, and “bam,” there’s a giant female Squirrel chomping down on our unique “good stuff” birdseed. I was shocked but excited to see her; I love Squirrels, even though they are destructive little critters. My friend, Mooch, lost most of his lawnchair cushions to a pack of them, and they chewed the railing on his deck like notches in a pistol handle. He plugged a few with his Daisy pellet gun, and the rest of the pack got the message and split the scene.

My wife tolerates Squirrels; she doesn’t share the love of them as I do. When we lived in DeCordova Estates, our home was surrounded by large Oak trees, their preferred dwelling. I had a semi-pet Squirrel named Daisy that I hand-fed peanuts to while sitting on my deck, drinking coffee or an adult beverage. If I was slow in feeding her, she barked and chattered. She bit me only once. My wife, MoMo, reminded me that the little darlings will wreak havoc around our property. I scoffed at her warning.

Now we have two older baby Squirrels visiting the bird feeders. Mama shows up, gives them proper directions, and points out which nuts are the best. It’s a cute scene, right out of a Disney movie, before they went wokie.

I sit in my recliner, transfixed, watching their antics, observing the table manners of the animal kingdom.

I checked the feeders this morning around daybreak and discovered widespread structural damage around the bird cafe. The Squirrels have chewed the plastic on one hanging feeder, chewed the wood sides on the other two, and are working on my nice horizontal fence, adding notches to the rails. MoMo was right; they are destructive little rats and are wreaking havoc at the “LaLa Seed Cafe.” I plan to buy some Planters Cashews and see if I can strike a truce.

The Squirrels of Havoc have struck.

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Strawn, Texas, My Little Town


Strawn, Texas Depot, back when there was a train running

Strawn, Texas. Yep, same name as mine and a distant relative in the family food chain. We visited the town last Saturday for a day trip and lunch. Founded in the late 1800s and soon to be the gateway to our newest Texas state park, “Palo Pinto Mountains State Park.” A 5,400-acre rough and rustic layout that includes a lake, a river, a creek, mountains, trails, rocky escarpments as big as a house, and every kind of critter imaginable. The main entrance is through the town, which is in need of a shot in the arm to boost the economy. 80 percent of the downtown buildings are vacant. The Paramount Plus, Taylor Sherriden-driven television show “1883 The Bass Reeves Story” wrapped filming in the town last March and, at the request of the city fathers, left many of the sets and changes made to the abandoned 1800-style buildings. The little town has seen better days, but no one can remember when.

The Strawn Greyhounds are the winningest six-man football team in history, with numerous state championships. Mary’s Cafe, the famous eatery written up in food magazines and Texas Monthly for her large Chicken Fried Steaks, was left in its original condition because Mary and her gals fed the film crews good ole’ high-calorie Texas vittles; Chicken fried everything and topped off with gallons of white gravy, and to finish up, with a lot of sugary pie, iced tea, and coldbeer ( all one word in Texas).

Fake front movie set left by the 1883 crews
Old Hotel repurposed for the series

I’m no stranger to Strawn. My affiliation with the village goes back to 1958 when my father purchased a lot on Lake Tucker, the town’s source of drinking water and a beautiful small body of water formed by a creek when the dam was built by the PWA in the 1930s. The lot itself was steep and rocky, backing up to a massive hill and rock escarpment with boulders the size of a single-family home and a Buick. There was a dwelling of sorts, a small plywood one-room fishing shack with a tar paper roof. It had running water, a bathroom, a window unit, a hotplate for cooking a few cots, and a small dock. My mother was appalled but captive and had to rough it; she couldn’t walk out and darn sure couldn’t swim back to the dam. The place was crawling with Rattlesnakes, Copperheads, and Coral Snakes, and that was just the vicinity of the shack. Down at the dock, by our flat-bottom aluminum boat, the only transportation to the shack unless you could rock climb, the Water Moccasins were as thick as mosquitos. My mother, holding my baby sister in a parental death hug, damn near had a nervous breakdown as my father and I set about chopping the heads off of every venomous reptile we could find with a sharpshooter-shovel and a chunkable bolder. The Rattlers were the most fun; they would strike the shovel and break a fang before they were guillotined. I got to remove and keep the rattlers for later use in scaring the kids in my neighborhood. I could have been bitten many times over if I had thought about being scared, but I tackled the task with glee and abandon. I was a feral boy in my element.

The second night in the shack, during the wee hours before dawn, my mother heard something sniffing and clawing at the door. It could have been a Coyote, a Mountain Lion, a Bobcat, a Bear, or the dreaded Sasquatch. That was it for her, and we packed and left the next morning. She never went back.

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Riding The Range To Nowhere


Every visit to the grocery store found me hounding my mother for a nickel or two so I could ride the stationary pony to nowhere. She always gave in and handed me a few nickels to keep me riding the range while she shopped. In my kid’s mind, the wilds of Texas stretched before me, Indians around every corner, wild critters stalking me on my trusty steed. When the coins ran out, I would sit quietly on Twigger until my mother fetched me. I missed my pony, but I was glad when she changed stores, and the new one had a rocket ship to nowhere.

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Death By Hot Pepper


I am not a food critic or a reviewer, so forgive me if this sounds a bit over the top; true accounts usually do.

Some years back, I was tinkering around making a hot sauce or a salsa for my consumption and gastronomic distress. A buddy of mine who served in Vietnam suggested I use one of the peppers he smuggled back to the States in 1970 and has, for decades, grown them in his backyard garden. Sure thing, I would love to use them. He warned me they are the hottest peppers on earth, and a grown man would die within twenty minutes if he ate a whole pepper. He saw a chicken eat one, and the poor bird exploded into a mass of feathers and guts within a few minutes.

A few days ago, he brought me one small pepper and said it was all I would need. It was triple-wrapped in foil, double-bagged in heavy-duty Ziploc bags, and transported in a soft-walled Yeti cooler.

“Why all the elaborate precautions?” I asked.

” He looked a bit nervous as he handed me the bag and said, ” These babies are so damn hot that even breathing or smelling them will singe your lungs, destroy your sense of smell, and might make you blind.” Now I’m scared.

Written on the baggie is the name of the pepper, “Vietnamese Death Pepper.” The name alone is enough to scare the liver out of me, but being a man and not wanting to disappoint my buddy and look like a pansy-ass, I proceeded on.

The cute little Vietnamese Death Pepper

I gingerly removed the foil-wrapped pepper from the baggies, took it to the back patio, positioned myself upwind, and unwrapped the foil cacoon. There it lay, a small, harmless-looking red pepper about the size of my pinky toe. It was quite beautiful in its own way. My buddy said to wear gloves when handling the little demon and to use only a tiny sliver in your recipe, or you might die in agony. I put on leather gloves, a scuba mask, and a triple filter breathing device, shaved a tiny sliver into a Tupperware container, then wrapped the pepper up and stored it in the bottom drawer of my fridge. I figure to use this in my salsa or hot sauce that’s cooking on the range.

Even with Jalapenos, hot cajun onions, and ghost peppers, my hot pepper sauce is too mild, so I put the sliver into the boiling mix, letting the brew steep for a few hours, and I shuffled off to watch cooking videos.

I bottled the mix into a clean Jameson Irish Whiskey bottle and corked it shut. Then completed my salsa and added one drop of the hot sauce to the mix. My wife, MoMo, stood on our patio while I Facetimed her the procedure. It’s now or never. I dipped a sacrificed corn chip into the salsa, raised it to my quivering lips, and popped it into my mouth. Dang, now that’s some good stuff. About two minutes later, my guts churned, my belly swelled like a dead whale, I had trouble breathing, and my vision blurred; then my legs gave out, and I went down for the count. MoMo rushed in and began resuscitation; she was sure I was a goner. I saw visions and was going to the light, but the ghost of Chef Anthony Bourdain told me to go back and “not use so much of that little pepper,” he also called me a moron as he floated back to his personal cloud. I spent the next three days in the bathroom or confined to my bed, but I made a full recovery and never felt better. My gut is cleaned out, my vision is better, I can smell a fly’s fart, and my skin rash has healed, and my teeth are gleaming white. This stuff might be a miracle elixir. I cooked a new brew and used a minuscule dot of the killer pepper. The new batch turned out perfect; just enough heat and flavor, but none of the life-threatening side effects.

I’m working on a label, and the name of my new hot pepper sauce is “Davey Crockett’s Ass Cannon.” A nod to my buddies over at “The Sons of The Alamo” lodge, of which I am a member. It’s guaranteed to blow out your colon, incinerate those pesky hemorrhoids, make the lame walk, the mute talk, turn your hair from gray to its natural color, and remove wrinkles. Pictured above is what’s left of my second batch of salsa using my hot pepper sauce.

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Mountain Air Will Set You Free


Picture, courtesy of Fred Flintstone

After a week in the mountains of New Mexico, it’s good to be back home, I guess, but I would rather be back in Ruidoso’s cool, thin mountain air.

Mrs. MoMo and I have been, for years, regular visitors to the village of Ruidoso, New Mexico. If not for Texans, we believe the town would be a service station, a post office with one red light, and a herd of wild horses if Texans stopped coming. I’ve yet to meet a local that wasn’t a former resident of Texas.

We are used to seeing and swerving our car to avoid hitting, feeding, and gawking at the Deer, the ornery Elk, and the pesky herds of Wild Horses, and now we have seen the handy work of the local dumpster-diving Black Bears. These aren’t your usual Bears; they are “smarter than the average Bear.” The dumpsters have a bolted stop-gap, and the Einstien Bears have figured out how to open the lids. The big one wore a pork pie hat and a necktie; the little sidekick sported a bowtie and whined a lot. The lady next door captured them with her iPhone camera.

We awoke, carried our coffee mugs onto the front deck, and were greeted with a trail of white plastic trash bags torn and strewn half a block down the street. A kind lady in the house across the street helped us clean it up. I had thrown away an empty bottle of Irish Whiskey and found the top cork pulled out and slobbery evidence that a Bear had stuck his tongue in the bottle, trying to get the last drop of hooch. They also enjoyed the last bite of the Frito Bean Dip we tossed and some stale corn chips and chicken scraps. If I had known the critters were that hungry, I would have sat out a “Pic-a-Nic Basket” for them.

The big draw for Ruidoso is the quarter horse races at the Downs. I don’t bet anymore (I’m a cheap ass), but MoMo has it down to a science, and she wins money. If the horse is cute and frisky, and she likes his racing colors and the color of the jockey’s silks, and the horse takes a big poop while parading before the race, she slaps some cash down. She also considers the name of the pony, like; Blue Byou, Lewie Lewie We Gotta Go, Take The Money And Run, Trailer Park Queen, Beach Blanket Bingo, Mama’s Money Bag, and so on. Do the owners ask the horse if they like their name? Probably not. Imagine a stately racehorse with a ridiculous name.

Since the pot is now legal in New Mexico, we saw small groups of aged Hippies wandering the sidewalk in the Mid-Town shopping district. It seems the Woodstock generation has moved to New Mexico for the fresh mountain air breathed through a bong.

Velvetine and Woodstock. Photo by Timothy Leary
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A Visit To The Old Jacksboro Highway


A surprise from old buddy Mooch…

A Typical Beer Joint on Jacksboro Highway, photo by a local Wino

I’ve known old buddy Mooch for around fifty years and thought I knew everything about the man, but now I know I don’t

I rode with Mooch to Fort Worth to pick up a load of mulch. It’s one of those places where a tractor drops a bucket full in the bed of your pickup truck. Cheap and efficient. When Mooch picked me up, I assumed his Chihuahua, Giblet, would be in the front seat next to Mooch. Giblet was in the back seat strapped into a child carrier wearing Apple Air Pods, held in place with scotch tape. I didn’t want to appear stupid, so I said nothing about a dog using Air Pods. I did ask what Giblet was listening to. Mooch said, “He likes those Tibetian Dog Chants; it keeps him soothed, and he doesn’t break out in hives or crap in the seat. Chihuahuas are a nervous type, you know.” He’s right; the little shit has bitten me numerous times; once, while trying to steal my Whataburger, he bit my bottom lip, and I needed stitches. The dog is so damn old; he’s probably broken some kind of Chihuahua life record.

Since we were near Jacksboro Highway, Mooch asked me how about dropping by his favorite bar for a beer. Sounded good to me, it was over a hundred degrees, and there’s nothing like a dark, cold bar in the summer.

Only a few bars are left on the old Hell’s Highway; they’ve all been dozed, and shopping centers and fast food joints have taken their place. We drove until we were in the country, then pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of Big Mamu’s Bar And Grill.

” This is my favorite bar in my whole life,” says Mooch. ” I’ve been coming here since I was of legal age to drink beer. This is where I got my first taste of the nightlife and other things I can’t discuss.” We ambled in, sat at the bar, and a female bartender brought us two ice-cold Lone Star longnecks. Mooch introduced her as Little Mamu. Her mama, Big Mamu, sold the place to her some years ago and retired back to Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, her hometown. Little Mamu and her husband, Budraux, run the business. Little Mamu, after a closer look, was darn rough. She’s seen some action in her bar years, probably shot or cut a few folks and busted some heads. Bottle blond hair and a hefty figure with arms like Popeye, I wouldn’t want to mess with her. The songs say the gals look better at closing time, but I doubt Mamu would improve by 2 am.

This bar was right out of the 1950s. Red naugahyde booths with little jukeboxes at each table. The rest of the furnishings looked to be original as well. The old Wurlitzer JukeBox in the corner was an antique but was pumping out Merel Haggard like a champ. The neon and backlit beer signs were old and likely worth a fortune. The Ham’s Beer bear was there, the Miller High Life man fishing for trout, and a revolving Jax Beer sign. This was a man’s bar. It dripped dive and beer joint like a dimestore Siv.

Mooch pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and sat on the bar. ” You about ready, Little Mamu?” he says. Mamu grabbed a step stool, climbed onto the bar, and walked over to where Mooch and I sat. I didn’t know if she would do a Hoochi Coochi dance or drop-kick one of us in the face. Mooch turned on the flashlight; Little Mamu raised her skirt a bit, and Mooch shined the light up her dress, bent over, and took a peek upward. ” Yep, everything looks just fine, gal,” he says, handing her a twenty-dollar bill. ” When did you start wearing those Fruit of The Loom underwear? ” Little Mamu didn’t miss a beat, ” I would have worn my Fourth of July ones if I had known you were coming; you haven’t been here in months,” she says. I’m not sure what I just saw; Mooch looking up a woman’s dress with a flashlight? I’ve seen some things, but this is the best one yet. We finished our beer and left.

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The Cactus Patch Has Had Enough Of Texas…For A While


Hitch up the wagons, load the party bus, and roll em out…

I’m kidding of sorts, we don’t own a wagon or a bus anymore, but the Honda CRV is a good substitute, and it has air conditioning and practically drives itself. It’s been over a hundred degrees here for a month. I’m not talking about a mere pansy-assed 100 degrees; we’re talking real temperatures, like, 105-110, and that’s without a heat index thrown in that makes it feel like a visit to Hell On Wheels Texas in Satan’s un-airconditioned tour bus. MoMo and I are escaping and going to Ruidoso, New Mexico, this week. The land of enchantment, cool air, majestic mountains, and high rental rates. Hoping to see Deer, Elk, Bear, and Aliens if we stop in Roswell. Since the pot is legal in New Mexico, and Ruidoso has a large collection of cute little shops selling the evil weed, we will likely see many old hippie-type folks stumbling around town or cleaning out the Hostess cupcake aisle at “The Walmart.” The last time we were there, MoMo purchased some gummies made in the shape of Willi Nelson’s head, and they messed up my head badly. They were supposed to relax you and let you sleep like a baby.. naturally. At least that’s what the cute little Pot-a-rista told us. All I heard for two days was ” On The Road Again” and “Red-Headed Stranger,” and that was in my head, no music playing. I’m taking ample Irish Whiskey this time. At least if I stumble and fall from the whiskey, I won’t think it’s a revelation or a sign from above and say, “Wow, that was far-out; let’s do it again.”

Aliens eating Egg-A-Muffins and happy meals…

On the last trip to Ruidoso, we stopped in Roswell, New Mexico, UFO, and Alien Central. Having breakfast in the local Mcdonald’s downtown, a short walk to the Alien Museum, was a treat. The place’s interior is all UFO design with a play area shaped like a saucer. There was no shortage of strange people in the place. One homeless alien was taking a sink bath in the men’s restroom, and another ratty alien was begging for money in the parking lot. As we left, MoMo got excited because she spotted a little alien walking with some Earth Pod People. We stopped to gawk and realized It was a five-year-old big-headed kid in spider man pajamas walking with his parental units. She was bummed out. I told her not to worry keep believing because they will be here soon. Turns out, they are here and have been for quite a while now. She’s scared.

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Intriguing News From The Cactus Patch


Some Of My Favorite Things…sort of like Julie Andrews sang about in that movie with all the singing kids

One of the better albums from 1960s Japan. Godzilla does a jam-up job on his Yokohamafuchi electric guitar, although when he attempted to sing ” It’s Hard To Say I Love You When I’m Breathing Fire,” with his backup singers “The Hiroshima Sisters,” he hiccuped and accidentally incinerated the girls, along with most of the studio musicians.

Kids with a few dollars in change will buy anything. I was one of the little suckers for these ads in the back of comic books. Charles Atlas training manuals, tea-cup monkeys, live sea horses, tiny submarines that ran on baking soda, and the above X-Ray Specs. I sent my five quarters in an envelope and a month later received my prize. They were more like those cheesy 3-D glasses than real glasses. Georgie, my buddy, was my test specimen. Nope, nothing there, still Georgie in his baseball cap, no bones, innards, or X-Ray vision. I should have ordered the genuine Super Man glasses. I tried them on a few of the tom-boy girls in the neighborhood. After I told them I could see their bones and guts, they beat me with a hula-hoop; although I tried to tell them I was kidding, the beating continued; I barely got away. I handed them to my mother; she put them on, looked at me, and said, ” I see you’re still wearing yesterday’s underwear.”

Back before we had NPR and educational television, we kids had Shari Lewis and Lambchop, Howdy Doodie ( who was a real kid with strings tied to his body), Mickey and Amanda, the mud turtle and Opossum, Soupy Sales, and White Fang and a dozen more. This album was somewhat educational, in a Dave Gardner, Rusty Warren adult party sort of way. The gal that sings songs about puppets is Shari Lewis’s half-sister, which tried to horn in on Shari’s gig by coming up with two repulsive puppets calling them “Clam Chop” and “Devil Baby.” My cousin Jok loaned me the album. He’s the one that blew up everything with cherry bombs and shot my other cousin, Ginger, in her butt with an arrow. He was not the best influence.

A picture of my Christmas display in my front yard from six years ago. I saw nothing wrong with having a rubber T-Rex and a few Raptors eating Santa and Barbie for Christmas dinner. I had colored solar lights at night, which looked like a professional display. I was feeling pretty darn good about it until a few old ladies in my neighborhood, the ones that drove Cadillacs, sported blue hair, and wore prune faces, complained to the association office, and under threat of arrest and seizure of my home, I removed the display.

Yep…I had one of those too. Imagine giving a kid a toy gun that shoots hard plastic bullets, and they hurt at close range. In the 1950s, folks didn’t see the harm in giving us kiddos potential leather weapons. Everything was good until my cousin, a little cherry bomb kid, forced a 22-caliber bullet into my rifle and blew the thing to pieces. I also possessed a real sharp full-size Jim Bowie knife and a WW2 Army Surplus hand grenade.