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The TwoTexans’ Ride to South Dakota

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments
The Texan at Mount Rushmore

In my last post about “The Texan Heads to South Dakota,” I mentioned riding an ATV with the cowboys and cowgirls and the ill-tempered Bison; well, that didn’t happen: I blame that grandiose idea on my meds or age; both came into play, and Momo brought me back to reality. She’s a retired nurse, so she knows things we common folk don’t.

Momo and I don’t travel much outside of Texas, but this year we decided to take the trip to South Dakota to see the famous Mount Rushmore, the Crazy Horse Monument, and the annual Bison Roundup at Custer State Park. We don’t have much time left in our hourglass, so we figured this would be our longest adventure.

We are senior citizens, old people, to be exact, and didn’t realize we couldn’t have hours in one day and about the same the next. In our foggyds, we are still in our 50s and as robust as Jack LaLanne, who lived to be 97, and went through half a dozen Happy, the white German Shepherd co-host on his workout show. My late 1950s-oriented mother used to stand in front of the black-and-white television, working out with him while smoking a Winston cigarette and sipping black coffee. She worked out well between coughing fits. I neither smoke nor work out, so I might live a bit longer.

We stayed the night in Wichita, Kansas, at a great hotel on the university campus. As we drove through the Kansas farmlands, the famous song “Wichita Lineman” stuck in my head for a few hours. Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell made a musical dream team. If only Glen had married Bobbi Gentry, his life would have been different. I swear that woman had the longest legs and the best head of hair in country music, and that’s before she ever sang a note. Glen had her as a guest on his Goodtime Hour show back in the late sixties and asked her how long it took to shave those legs, right before they sang a duet. She said it took a couple of hours and two stiff cocktails. Look it up; it’s on YouTube, just like everything else that ever happened.

From Wichita, we drove to North Platte, Nebraska: not much of a city, populated by people who don’t know how to coordinate their clothing or wash their vehicles, with all the men, and a few women, wearing their gimme caps backward, and Walmart is the main retailer in town. We stayed one night at a hotel there, then moved on to Keystone, South Dakota, home to Mount Rushmore, deep in the Black Hills of the Dakotas. A three-day trip that should have taken two, but our old bodies and weary traveling souls couldn’t keep up. I will give a shout-out to how much I despise using Google and Apple Maps on my iPhone. I would have done better with a folded paper map. Please, Elon, start a map service that actually works and doesn’t give you a mental breakdown.

When we got to our hotel, I realized that somewhere along the journey, my car key fob had fallen out of my pocket, probably while I was filling up our pickup with $4.99-a-gallon gas. We searched the pickup, the room, the suitcases, other people’s rooms, the parking lot, and the woods, but found nothing. Honda said we should take the car to a locksmith to change the vehicle code so the lost key fob wouldn’t work. We drove to Rapid City in the rain and fog, barely able to see the mountain roads. We got it done, got back to the hotel, and drove to our room in Keystone, $175.00 poorer. Then the day we leave for home, Momo finds my keys in the pocket of one of her thirty jackets and sweaters she keeps in the backseat of our truck. She is permanently freezing to death, even in 100-degree weather. Now we are down to one set of keys for the pickup, and we are both slipping into phase one of the derangement category. If nothing else, this trip gave us a grand showtime presentation of what old folks shouldn’t be doing.

But it ain’t over yet, dear hearts. While backing out of the handicap parking space at the 1880 steam locomotive train ride through the Black Hills from Keystone to Hill City, I backed into an illegally parked car behind us, which gave us no room to back out. So we left a note on the car’s windshield, as we do in Texas with the number and such, and finally, through the Keystone police deputy, tracked the owner down in Rapid City. She has a detached retina and shouldn’t be driving anything but a walker; her car had numerous damages from previous collisions, or had been purchased at a demolition derby, and she was parked in a narrow drive that was marked “No Parking.” A concerned elderly person called the cops on us: Bless their little heart. The deputy was very understanding, noting it wasn’t in a parking-lot-marked space, and said Barny Fife—was his hero. Now Flo and her gang have to fix her car and our pickup. What the hell can go wrong next? Car damage, lost keys, nothing left but a medical emergency. This was part of the preview I mentioned earlier.

Mount Rushmore is a wonder to behold. One of the most amazing things we had witnessed. Old George, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Honest Abe, their faces carved into a granite mountain.

We met folks from all over our country and Europe. The folks in Europe like to come here for some odd reason, and Americans like to go there. Doesn’t make sense to me. My sister, a world traveler, hasn’t visited much of the US, except Seattle, San Francisco, the Gulf, and Oklahoma, and thinks you have to go overseas for a proper vacation. I told her she should move to Europe, but instead, she sold her home in Plano to a Muslim family with numerous wives and a passel of kids, and now lives in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, near her daughter and grandson. She says her old home is now a temporary neighborhood Mosque and “Learing Centre.”

I guess I’m just a Texas bumpkin with no taste in my mouth. I don’t give one silver dime about visiting Europe: they all drive on the wrong side of the road, the language is a hindrance, and the food is questionable at best. Give me a Whataburger Junior meal No. 1, with fries and a drink; now that’s fine dining. We did stumble upon a wonderful restaurant in Keystone, The Powderhouse Lodge. Best darn food I’ve had anywhere, except for Momo’s steaks. The hostess, an older lady named Sherrye, was a wonderful old soul, and it was obvious she ran the place like a drill sergeant with a velvet-covered baton.

The Chief Crazy Horse mountain carving monument blew us away. It was better than Mount Rushmore and twice its size. The Lakota Indian Nation is financing it through donations and philanthropy; Jean Kroc, the widow of McDonald’s founder Ray Kroc, is their main source of funding. Our tour guide was Lakota, and I, being part Cherokee, we hit it off. We made secret Indian brotherhood handshakes and whispered promises to take back the country one day. He told me he has a well-supplied secret band of Lakota warriors with Jeeps and big-assed pickups ready to go when the time is right. I gave him my email and phone number.

The high point of the trip, which is the proper name for traveling retired folks. Vacations are for those still working and getting a week or two off each year; the world-famous Bison Roundup in Custer National Park was the high point.

Custer National Park, named after the famous idiot Cavalry General, sits in the middle of the Dakota Black Hills and has about 1,500 to 2,000 Bison roaming around, doing as they please. At around 2,500 pounds, they own the place. It’s a beautiful part of America that everyone should see before we pass on. George Armstrong Custer might have had prestige, a nice mustache, goatee, and long, flowing hair, but the American Indians kicked his butt. Looks and stupidity buy you only so much time; ask any of those fools in Hollywood.

Texas also has herds of Bison. We can thank the famous cattle rancher Charles Goodnight and his hardy frontier Texas wife, Molly, for saving a handful of orphaned Bison calves, raising them, and establishing a large herd of the last of the Plains Bison in Texas. The large, surviving historical herd now lives in Caprock Canyon, near Goodnight Ranch, a Texas state memorial site.

Waking at 4 AM and heading to the park in the dark, we missed our GPS-guided turn and ended up on a dirt road that led us to a paved park road with the other 20,000-plus folks. We waited in a car line for over two hours and eventually reached one of the viewing areas along the steep hills surrounding the corrals where the bison are kept for vet checkups, branding, and a few auctions for ranchers and other state parks hoping to start their own herds.

Armed with our folding chairs and dressed in our best Bison-viewing attire — Stetson hat, western boots, and Wrangler jeans — pure Texan. We made our way across the hill and found a spot that wasn’t flat but was sturdy enough to keep us from rolling down the hill’s steep, rocky slope. We were at the south viewing area where the corrals are located, and I understand there were just as many folks at the North area of the park where the Bison had been gathered a few days before.

Cowboys and Cowgirls from all over the country are picked from thousands of applications to wrangle and drive the Bison. They are not paid a dime and do it for the love of country and our western heritage, and of course they get to herd the largest and meanest beast alive. No wonder the Indians had such a hard time with them. Bison aren’t cattle, not even as docile as a Longhorn, and they have a permanent mean streak, likely because Indians with arrows chased them around the prairies, and then white moronic hunters shot them for sport and their hides: it’s an inherited generational thing. You get too close to one, and you are done for: flipped in the air, stomped into the prairie grass, and sent home in a body bag. They ain’t pets in corrals at the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show. That’s the reason I decided not to take part in the roundup. A 2,500-pound bison is no match for a puny ATV driven by an old idiot.

Long before we could see the herd crest the hills, we could feel the vibration of their hooves pounding the South Dakota prairie through the ground and into our boots. We could see dust rising a few miles away. Thousands of people from every state in our union and Europe stood up, readied their cameras or phones, and prepared for one of the most majestic spectacles in our country.

The sun shone brightly, the sky was deep blue with thin, wispy clouds, and in the distance, over a few large hills on the prairie, we saw the herd emerge, not stampeding, but walking leisurely, with 60 wranglers on horseback keeping them together. A few tried to escape, but the wranglers chased them down and back to the herd. It was a breathtaking sight. Pure American western heritage. People cheered, clapped, wept, and celebrated as the historical herd of American beasts moved on the prairie to their temporary corrals. The spirit of America was alive and on full display that morning. People from every state in our country and Europe came together to witness the 8th wonder of the world. Momo and I will never forget that day.

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The Call of The High Desert: A Marfa, Texas Tale

/ Phil Strawn / 28 Comments

Momo and I are creatures of habit, wandering through the peculiar tapestry of our country, mainly the desert southwest and the mountains of far West Texas. Drawn like a moth to a porchlight, time and again to the whimsical embrace of a certain town.

Marfa, Texas, stands as a solitary beacon of floating lights in the mountains amidst the vastness, nestled alongside its mysterious neighbors—Alpine and Fort Davis—forming a curious landlocked Bermuda Triangle of odd happenings in the Chihuahuan high desert. Strange lights, ghostly apparitions floating around town, young hipsters from Austin that migrated to the new Nirvana, only to find out that it costs more than they can afford to live there, and who will buy their third‑rate art and used clothing? The local folks call them “Marfa Surfers.” Either the surf is up or down, and then on to the next beach. The average shelf life for these young gypsies is around three to six months: then it’s back to Austin, where their air of weirdness is commonplace.

Each visit finds us returning to the Hotel Paisano, a historic haunt where the stars of the film “Giant” once breathed in the same desert air, their whispers still echoing through the adobe walls, reminding us of the historical stories that linger in this town.

There exists an ever-growing assembly of characters, primed to share the local tales intertwined with a potpourri of exaggerations, all while maintaining a devilish demeanor as they weave their narratives, and Planet Marfa appears to be their favored stage.

Sagebrush Sonny Toluse was my favorite from our last visit. Sporting a long white beard and a wooden leg, courtesy of a large desert dump of toxic nuclear waste from the 1945 Atom Bomb. The waste was eaten by a group of escaped Chihuahuas from a breeder in Persideo, which turned them into vicious, mutated killer mongrels, which in turn relieved him of his right leg. I believed most of it, but truthfully, he’s full of crap, but it was fun crap. I was hoping to run into him again, ply him with beer, and hear a few more stories.

As luck has it, he was at his usual seat at the end of the bar, looking much worse for wear than two years ago. The dry desert air is supposed to preserve one like an Egyptian mummy, but Sonny may be the exception. He looked as if he had been vacationing in Hell and just arrived home that day. His drinking a case of beer a day is not considered medicinal or practical, and he was smoking two cigarettes at a time with a third sitting in a classic Hotel Paisano glass ashtray, ready to be lit. I didn’t see money on the bar, so the kind young bartender likely lets him drink for free these days.

I saddled up beside him, and he remembered me:

“You’re the fella from Fort Worth who liked my stories,” he says.

“Yep, that’s me,” I reply. Mister gullible, but interested enough to listen and use what he tells me, even though much of it is a tall tale, and I do know something about that genre.

I ask the bartender to bring Sonny two beers, on me. He appears to have had more than a few already, but I can sense he is ready to orate a few of his tales. It’s then that I notice he is wearing a black patch over his left ear, and his left arm is missing: his shirt sleeve is held in place at the shoulder by a safety pin, and there is a large area of his scalp on the left side that is bare of hair. The poor man looks like a wreck, so I ask if he was in a car accident. He drinks his beer in one gulp, lights his third cigarette, and I can sense he is going to explain his ghastly appearance. Momo is sitting under a canopy, enjoying a beer, texting, and taking a few pictures. A light rain has started to fall.

Sonny wastes no time and begins his story.

He speaks in between deep draws of his cigarette and swigs of his fourth beer, ” Back about a year ago, I was driving on the highway over by El Cosmico, you know that bunch of hippies from Austin that live in those tents and trailers. There was this 1960s Fairlane station wagon with the hood up, spewing steam, and a family standing by the side of the highway, so I stopped to help. The man said they were from Minnesota and were looking to set up camp in the desert, but couldn’t afford to rent a space in El Cosmico. They were a ragged-looking bunch, three kids, all wearing boxer shorts and sneakers, long hair with fishing lures woven into it. The wife, who called herself Sassy, was cute, but kind of a smart ass. The guy, Tiberius, was really nice. I told them there’s an old abandoned campground about ten miles out that might fit their need, and it has a little pond the kids can swim in. After I put some water in their radiator, they followed me to the spot, which is way out yonder in the desert. When we got there, they were excited to see a few Yurts that were still livable, so after I got rid of the rattlesnakes, they moved right in. It was getting dark, so they asked me to stay for supper and spend the night. I had a cooler full of beer, and they fixed up some beans and weiners and sat around the campfire swapping stories. That’s when I told them about the toxic killer Chihuahuas that roamed the desert at night, and that’s why I have a wooden leg cause they chewed the other one off. They thought I was full of crap and got a big hoot over my story, which was really a warning: this place ain’t safe at night. They laughed so hard, the wife wet her shorts, and they thought I was telling a tall tale. Around midnight, we all said goodnight and hit the hay.

I ordered him two more beers and a fresh pack of cigarettes, and he continued, ” I was sleeping in my truck, and during the night I had to pee, so I hobbled a few feet away from the truck, because at night, I take my wooden leg off to give my stump a rest. That’s when the little demon Chiuauas jumped me. They had been hiding under the pickup, waiting for me. The little demons got me down, chewed off my left ear and most of my left arm, and took a good part of my scalp and hair, which was sparse already. The family woke up after the attack, piled me in the car, and drove me to the hospital over in Alpine, and the doc saved my life, cut off the rest of my arm, and sewed up what was left of my ear and scalp. I was there for a week or so, and when I returned to Marfa, the family had packed up and gone back to Minnesota. They were too weird for me anyway.” I looked at the bartender, and he gave me a smile and a nod, as if to say, It’s all true.

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Chuking Rocks At Each Other

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments
Four boys playing and throwing rocks in a dirt alley with old houses and a fence
Four boys joyfully play a spirited rock-throwing game in a gritty urban alleyway.

When I was a child in the 1950s, one of our favorite forms of retaliation against our enemy, the small group of hoodlum kids we called the ‘hard guys,’ from across the tracks, was the infamous rock fight.

As kids, we didn’t possess the strength to propel a stone fast enough to kill an enemy, but they hurt, especially when one pops you on the forehead or the back of your flat top haircut-wearing head while retreating from the fracas.

We were all masters of rock chucking and knew which rocks were the best for throwing: the larger gray stones that lined the railroad tracks across the field from the back of our house. The railroad furnished us the perfect weapon for rock fights, just the right size and weight, and hard edges that would raise a welt on young tender skin.

Georgie, our neighborhood firebug and the biggest titty baby of our gang, took one rock to the nose and had to have stitches, so our parents, after a series of butt-whoopings, ended that form of warfare. We still had BB guns, so that replaced the rocks, but presented a greater danger of shooting one’s eye out, like the classic 1984 movie, ” A Christmas Story. Not a one of us, or our enemy, lost an eye, but those BBs did sting through our jeans and T-shirts.

That description of past juvenile antics brings me to this point: we, meaning the American public and families, are still chucking rocks at each other, not actual stones, but words and actions driven by, news paper articles, television news, social media platforms, and the newest form of ammunition is the smartphone text; they’re all the same, and they hurt more than a small rock to the head and sometimes the wound never heals.

Political and religious tribalism is the newest and the worst form of family alienation. I know firsthand, because I go through it daily, and so does my wife, Momo. Our children and a few fair-weather friends and relatives are liberal Democrats, and we are conservative Christians, so we are easy accessible targets for alienation from their La La land of beliefs and ideology. We are not pious Bible beaters, and, sure, we drink cocktails and wine and beer, and we were teenagers with long hair, rock band playing fools, and a bit wild back in the 1960s. We weren’t real Hippies, but more of a middle-class version that bathed every day and didn’t hang out with the Manson family. We didn’t care for the Vietnam War, but we darn sure didn’t burn buildings, assault the police and citizens, and cheer on socialism like the younguns of today do so freely without guilt.

My grandfather once told me that to get along with family, never talk politics or religion, and he was correct. My father’s extended family on his mother’s side all lived in Fort Worth, within a few blocks of each other. During summer cookouts, a few of them always got into rabid arguments over politics and sometimes religion. Most of them were good, hard-drinking, night club dancing Baptists, but a couple were Catholic, so it was bound to happen. Fists flew, beer bottles zipped by our heads, and uncles and cousins rolled in the grass until one gave up. But that was the end of the disagreement; it didn’t go past the backyard fun, at least not until the next get-together. I cringe at using the term ” back in the day, and the good old days, but that’s when we were civil to each other and didn’t alienate family and friends.

Today, it’s a different world that I don’t recognize. Indoctrination and tribalism go hand in hand. The political tribalism goes both ways; each party is its own, and you insert religion and lack of belief in God and Jesus into the encampments, and it becomes a toxic mix that has ruined many a family gathering and destroyed relationships.

Now, we have texting, which is the worst form of communication. I will admit we use it to communicate with our church’s music ministry, friends, and family. It’s so easy, so non-committing, so bland, so lacking in tonality and reality that a simple few phrases can be taken as an insult or call to arms. It also signals that ” I don’t want to have a real conversation because that requires actual interaction and brain power to think about what you are talking about.” Texting is the newest form of ignoring human interaction; it says I’m too busy to have a conversation or what you have to say is not worth my valuable time. Texting is here to stay unless Elon Musk invents a brain chip implant that lets us communicate our thoughts via Starlink.

I’m looking forward to that implant.

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The Weather And Old People

/ Phil Strawn / 30 Comments

I don’t know what it is about us as we age, but the weather fascinates us.

Momo and I watch the weather every night. Even if it’s raining, we want to know if there will be more rain or when summer will actually start frying our brains when we go outside. It’s been raining here almost every day for almost three weeks, and more is coming, so I guess the El Niño thing really works.

Momo did her Girl Scout Indian Rain dance in April, and I’m sure that set it all in motion. I’m talking big rain, 2-3 inches at a time, flooding, winds, tornadoes, hail, water rescues, the whole enchilada with extra sauce. She worries that I watch too much news, but it’s crap; I watch only for the weather forecast. I told her it’s better than sitting by the window watching for the mailman to deliver our junk mail. My late, late grandmother did that for twenty years, and then one day she won some stupid prize and got a big check, so I guess it was worth two decades of watching the mailbox.

We spend most evenings, after Wheel of Fortune, on our covered back patio, safe from the rain and hail, sipping a libation. Lately, our resident Road Runner has been in the backyard more than usual, looking for frogs and lizards. He came up behind my chair and probably would have jumped on my shoulder if Momo hadn’t moved. They are large, curious birds that kill Rattle and Copperhead snakes to feed their young, or just for fun, so it’s a bird you don’t want to piss off. The Indians in the area say that if one lives on one’s property, one will always be snake-free and have good luck, so play the lottery, which Momo does. I guess that’s why Dodge named their most popular muscle car back in the ’60s’, The Roadrunner, with a 440 Hemi.

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Ask A Texan: Does Burger King Still Give Away Those Crowns?

/ Phil Strawn / 2 Comments
Mostley irritating advice from an old guy that’s seen too much
The Texan

Yes, Dear Hearts, famous words from my favorite comedian, imagine 60 billion American people leaving their jobs, their homes, dyeing their hair odd colors, wearing clothing straight from the Goodwill Store, and crawling like babies, riding buses, planes, cars, electric scooters, skateboards, roller skates, 5 K runs, etc., and making their way to every major city in the US to protest a man who has done miraculous things for our country. The Burger King in our town closed, or I would have worn my cardboard crown all day.

Now, to even things up, the conservatives, you know those folks, the ones who have jobs in the private sector, go to church and praise the only real king that will soon be returning, and will be plenty pissed off. Let’s get those 60 billion other folks to hold a nice day of protest to celebrate Obama and Biden and all of their stellar accomplishments. Isn’t AI amazing? How can you take a small crowd and, with a computer, turn it into the largest rally in the world? Gotta love AI and how it’s ruining the world.

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Ask A Texan: Did We Think This Would Not Happen? Welcome To Never..Never Land And Do You Want Peter Pan With Welches Jelly On That Sandwich?

/ Phil Strawn / 13 Comments

Loosely Dispensed Common Sense Advice And Commentary Shot From The Well Armed Hip Of A Old Texan That’s Seen Too Much And Doesn’t Give A Rats Ass What Other Folks Think, Or Eat

The Texan

It took Forty-Eight Years for the Death to America and the Great Satan Party to take over the Middle East, like those morally depraved little shits took over Daytona Beach a few days ago and literally ruined the once nice state of Florida. Iran’s murdering demon-possessed regime robe-wearing ass is kicked so hard their butt is in their throat, but yet they keep issuing threats, shooting off those cute little Chinese and Russian missiles, and now claim they will nuke Israel, the UK, most of Europe, a good portion of the Middle East, and of course, America. I am anxiously awaiting what Elon Musk has in store for them. How many presidents in 48 years said they would be a problem to be dealt with, but kicked that Wolf Brand Chili can on down the dirt road for the next delegation of thieving, lying, scum-sucking politicians to deal with. FDR, the two Bushes, one fully grown to size of a Scotch Pine Christmas Tree, and the other a puny shrub planted in too much shade, gave a half baked attempt, Regan got a few things done, Carter made everything worse, Ross Perot ran scared and said screw it, Clinton took the white house to a new low in history, Nixon..nuff said about him, Obama gave his magic carpet riding bunch of cut -throat brethren billions in cash, and Biden tried to take most of it back.

Truman had the balls to use the big firecrackers, Churchill had the guts, and a country full of English, Scottish, Irish, and Celtic patriots behind him, and Margaret Thatcher was likely the toughest of them all. Now we have a president who clearly sees this must be dealt with, or Jesus will be coming within the next six weeks, and he will be plenty pissed off upon arrival.

Momo and I are not afraid of the nuke over downtown Fort Worth, we would sit in our backyard with a nice whiskey and put on the Solar sunglasses we purchased at 7-11 as our bodies are char-broiled to Texas BBQ perfection. I recently purchased some 6666 BBQ Rub from Taylor Sheridan’s Ranch in West Texas.

I’ve become testier in my old age. The IRS has been holding our 2024 tax refund for a year now because we overpaid them, and they can’t bring themselves to give it back to us, saying we committed fraud. Fraud against whom, ourselves? I hate every politician on all sides. You bet if I could pull it off, I would jump at a $185K a year job and leave a few years later having accomplished nothing and pull a wagon load of 30 Million to the bank, that’s the real reason these narcissistic bottom dwellers run for office and try and stay in as long as modern medicine can keep replacing their bodily parts. Greed and Power, once that rhinestone-encrusted crown is put upon their head, it’s almost impossible to relinquish it to another greedy bandit: one size fits all. God has a plan for them, and I hope I get to witness their time out and try to bullshit God, who my pastor says has a good sense of humor and won’t be afraid to use it.

The US has more oil than the Middle East times ten, so these high gas prices are driven by the stock market and speculators, denizens from the depths, and yes, Quint will need a bigger boat to land those bastards. Enjoy that PB&J sandwich and that glass of Jim Beam. Sorry about all the swear words in this post, I told you I was getting testier and meaner these days.

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Music, Worship And War: Ask A Texan

/ Phil Strawn / 16 Comments
The Texan on his first typewriter that took two adults and a child to lift….Note the resemblance to Earnest Hemingway

Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.

After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.

Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.

World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?

Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “

There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”

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Happy Trails From The Alamo and Demon Rats Visit The Ayatollah

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.

Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.

The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!

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Speaking Of The Famous Battle, And The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

I am not a talented orator, so being asked to speak from the lodge podium is an honor of the highest order. I am preverbally stuck in the first degree of The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge, which is an offshoot of the Masons, but without the secrecy and historic scandals. To be a member, a relative had to have died in the battle against Santa Anna. My great, great, great, and late, cousin, Tiberius Straughn, on my father’s side of the family, was my ticket into the hallowed halls of Texas history.

The Grand Poohbah of the lodge asked me to keep my remarks, or speech, or story, whichever blurted out, on track with what the lodge stands for, Sons of the Alamo, of course. My speech was more of a story, starting with the Alamo and blending into my family’s deep and troubled Texas roots. The lodge was full of members, not so much to hear my spiel, but it was all you can eat Catfish and Bingo and free beer night, so I made the best of it. I put on my made-in-China coonskin cap and stepped to the podium. Half of the hall was full, Chinette plates of Catfish and cornbread balanced on their laps, and a cold brew sitting on the floor next to their feet.

My mother, the family historian by default, didn’t see the need to preserve any part of her or my fathers ancestry in writing, and knew little of my fathers great great great, late, cousin Tiberius Straughn’s life, except that he was a baker of bread and pastry delights by trade, and friends with Gustav Shiner, the founder of Shiner Beer, Angus Stiles Sr, the famous BBQ founder, and a special close friend of another baker, Veronica Baird, the mother of the Texas bread dynasty. Tiberius and Veronica were rumored to have been a couple before and during the battle. She suspected there may have been some minga-minga behind the adobe ovens, or in the powder keg room, which was a gamble if a candle was used to illuminate the frolic.

She and Tiberius, while not pawing each other, made bread for the ragtag Texan army, while Angus Stiles served up some delightful chef’s surprise meats, and Gustav cracked a keg or two of his delicious beer. I imagine that if they knew they were destined to die, why not do it on a full stomach and a nice buzz? The three men perished in the battle, but Veronica, along with the other women, was given a free pass out of the decimated fortress. So that is why I am a member of the lodge and have now been invited to speak.

My mother, without my fathers permission, didn’t sugarcoat Tiberius’s exploits and grouped him in with the other worthless wanderers on her and my father’s side of the family. He was a cad, a gambler, a womanizer, a liar, a horse thief, a half-assed writer, and a hopeless romantic and petulant drunk, so he fitted in with most of the defenders, especially Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, both fond of their home-stilled sour mash bourbon and smooth Tennessee Whiskey.

So, as I sat at my desk into the wee hours of the morning, flipping through pages of notes from conversations with relatives and family friends, and from ancestry research, I found a small treasure chest of information that can be tied into my oratory debut.

On my mother’s side of the family, my Grandmother, Marcy, was born and raised on the Cherokee Reservation in Oklahoma. Her father was a Deputy Marshal who worked out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and was running buddies with Bass Reeves, the first black Marshal in history. That would make Bass and Tonto the first minorities to hold high historical positions. I can imagine it grated on The Lone Ranger that Tonto always knew where the outlaws were hiding by simply holding a wet finger to the wind or putting his ear to the ground, plus he had a great head of long dark hair, and family said old Lone had a bad case of ocular acne around the eyes, so that explained the mask. My great-grandfather was one mean Indian sumbitch, and had so many notches on the handle of his Colt that it gave him a palm rash. My grandmother, still a teen and before she married, was rumored to have had many moonlight walks along the banks of the Canadian River with the famous Chief Quanah Parker and to have been running buddies with Tiberius offspring, the infamous outlaw Belle Starr, the granddaughter of the departed Alamo hero, Tiberius Straughn, which was somehow, through blood relations, or irreputable relations, tied into my fathers family, Mother was never quire sure of how it worked out, and didn’t care to know. My grandmother showed Belle how to make Buffalo Blood Pudding and Dutch oven biscuits, and Belle taught my granny how to fast-draw and fire a pistol. Granny caught the mischievous chief in a delicate position with Belle and, out of meanness, shot off Quanah’s pinky toe, right through his custom-made Buffalo hide boot.

Tiberius, before he made his way to the Alamo, traveled with Lewis and Clark up the Missouri River into no-man’s-land and, being part Indian but mostly Scottish, was able to communicate with the somewhat friendly tribes they encountered. Not all the Indians were jovial, and Lewis and Clarke had to dispel many of the ornery ones.

Cousin Tiberius’s favorite Indian lady was Sacagawea, a stunning young Shoshone woman who joined the expedition as an interpreter and guide. Long dark hair that glistened in the sun, high cheekbones, deep green eyes, and a strong but curvy figure. She was a knockout dressed in those buckskins. Tiberius was smitten to the point of lustful stupidity, allowing his youthful obsession with Sacagawea to affect his duties, so Lewis and Clarke relieved him of his charge and sent him back down the river in a borrowed bark canoe. A few years later, he found himself in South Central Texas, baking buckwheat bread and sticky cinnamon buns for the new Texians coming from the east. By chance, he ran into an old acquaintance, David Crockett, and his band of long rifle Tennesseans, who convinced Tiberius to join up with them to help with a little skirmish down in south Texas at a little mission called the Alamo. Tiberius, still smarting from a broken heart, felt obliged to join up with the gang of rabble-rousers.

Upon arrival through the gates of the mission, Tiberius figured old Davy had sold him a bag of rotten apples: this was no small squirmish, but a certain death sentence. Across the shallow San Antonio river, thousands of Mexican grenadiers sat polishing their bayonets, eating frijoles, tacos, and singing songs, all fueled by a few wagon loads of Tequila and loco weed. El Rancho Grande seemed to be the favorite sing-along led by General Santa Anna playing his gut-string Spanish guitar. Tiberius quickly converted an old adobe oven to bake some bread and rolls, and Stiles cooked up a few hogs and served the hungry army the first BBQ sandwiches in Texas: Angus Shiner furnished the beer. Veronica Baird, having known Tiberius for a year or so, sneaked down to the river, had a bath, washed her hair with lye soap, and waltzed around from behind the oven, giving Tiberius the shock of his life: Sacagawea was now a footnote in history. Who could resist a woman who smelled like a cinnamon bun?

The next few days were intense. Bullets flew, cannon balls exploded, Mexicans climbed ladders up the outside mission walls only to be repelled, but resistance could only last so long, and the enemy army breached the walls and sat about killing all the Texans. Tiberius, Augustus, and Stiles fought with all they had, laddels, spoons, knives, baker’s paddles, kicking and biting, but in the end, they were killed. Veronica Baird, along with the other women were spared and escorted from the mission. Veronica spotted Santa Anna about to take a bite from one of her cinnamon buns, grabbed a rock, chunked it, and knocked the delicacy from the general’s hand. His dog, Mucho Pero, ate the bun in one gulp. My recollection might not be the most bravado exploit, but it got me into the lodge and a coonskin cap.

Armageddon Is Upon Us…The Last Days of Texas

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments

I am not a snow person, nor an ice one. Cold weather is fine for a while, but then I want to be bathed in the warmth of the sun (Brian Wilson). But then, in Texas, the sun’s warmth means cooking alive in 100-plus-degree heat. So, living in Texas is for tough folks. Alas, the winter snow and ice Armageddon is about to return in two days; the last one was in 2021 and crippled the state for a week.

Momo and I stopped by our HEB for a few items this afternoon, and that was a mistake. The place was like a zombie apocalypse: folks fighting and snarling over the last loaf of bread, fists flying in the aisles over Hamburger Helper, and riots at the frozen pizza case. It was all entertaining, watching my fellow Texans act like, well, crazed Texans. We don’t do well when bad winter weather is approaching, and even worse once it arrives. My truck has All Wheel Drive, so I’m good with the snow, but not the ice storms, then we stay in and watch 1883 or 1923 again.

Momo is already fretting about missing church on Sunday because of the storm. I told her that God will understand, after all, he’s the one who created this lousy weather and is sending it our way. I stocked up on extra bird seed and peanuts for the Crows, Blue Jays, and now the pesky Squirrel has returned and found the relocated bird feeders, so it’s back to war with the little nut-breath. The Racoons, Possum, and Skunk are still visiting nightly, enjoying their cafeteria of dog food and sliced apples. My backyard is the equivalent of Luby’s for critters. Now, a Coyote has been coming around, but I have roadrunners on the property, so we’ll see how that plays out.

I’ll post some pictures of the end of Texas as we know it, if and when it happens…if we survive.