Tag: writing

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Nostalgic Christmas Memories from Fort Worth


A recount of my childhood Christmas memories in Fort Worth, Texas.

Photo by: Leonard’s Museum and Ansel Adams
Photo by: Elf -O-Mat Studios

Riding a ceiling-mounted “Rocket Train” to nowhere around the basement of a department store doesn’t seem like a Christmas activity, but that’s what thousands of other Texas kids and I did every year in the 1950s.

Leonard Brothers Department Store occupied two square blocks of downtown Fort Worth real estate and was known as the Southwest’s Macy’s. They offered everything the big shot stores in the East carried and hundreds of items no retailer in their right mind would consider.

If you had a mind to, one could purchase a full-length mink coat with optional mink mittens, the latest women’s high-fashion clothing line from Paris, France, an Italian cut-crystal vile of Elizabeth Taylors spit, James Dean’s signature hair cream, Rock Hudson’s autographed wedding photos, a housebroken Llama, an aluminum fishing boat and motor, a new car, a pole barn, a lovely two-story craftsman home “build it yourself kit” delivered to your lot, chickens, barb wire, hay, horses and cows, a 30-30 Winchester rifle, a 40 caliber autographed General George Custer Colt pistol, a bottle of good hootch and a Ford tractor. That’s about as Texas as it gets.

The Christmas season in downtown Fort Worth was internationally recognized for its innovative and incredible decorations. The righteous and self absorbed city fathers figured the best way to outdo Dallas, a full-time effort, was to line every building with white lights from top to bottom and install large glowing decorations on every lamp pole, street light, and building façade available. If that didn’t make you “ooooh and ahhhh,” then you needed to take a BC Powder and head for the house.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my parents would take my sister and me downtown to see the decorations and visit the Leonard Brothers Department Store. Santa just happened to be in their basement, taking advanced verbal orders from every crumb cruncher who could climb the stairs and climb into his lap.

My sister always asked for the latest doll between screams and crying fits. She was scared senseless of “HO-HO,” but somehow managed to spit out her order. Like clockwork, every year, I asked for a Daisy BB Gun with a year’s supply of stainless silver ammo ( for killing werewolves), a full-size Elliot Ness operable Thompson Sub Machine Gun, or an Army surplus Bazooka with real rockets and a long, razor-sharp Bowie knife encased in a fringed leather holster. It was a 1950s boy thing; weapons were what we longed for. How else could we defeat Santa Anna at the Alamo or win World War II, again? Our neighborhood may have sported the best-supplied “kid army” on the planet, and jolly old Santa was our secret arms dealer; parents non-the wiser. I finally got the BB Gun, but Santa was wise enough to not bring the other request.

Walking down the stairs to the store’s basement was the thrill I had waited for all year. There, hanging above my head, was the beautiful red and silver tinseled sign, “Toy Land,” kid nirvana, and the Holy Grail all in one room. The smell of burned popcorn and stale chocolate candy wafted up the stairs, and I could hear the cheesy Christmas choir music and the sound the Rocket Train made as it glided along the ceiling-mounted rails. I almost wet my jeans.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of parents jostled down isles of toys, pushing, grabbing, and snarling like a pack of wild dogs fighting for that last toy; the holiday spirit and common courtesy were alive and well. The queue of kids for the Rocket Train snaked through the basement like a soup line.

Sitting on his mini-mountain top perch, sat old red-suited Santa Claus and his elfin apprentices, herding kids to his lap at break-neck speed. Each child got about fifteen seconds, a black and white photograph, and then it was off the lap and down the steps. Kids were fast in those days; we memorized and practiced our list weeks before our visit for maximum impact. “Ho-Ho” had better be writing this stuff down. Kids, don’t forget squat.

After two Santa visits, four Rocket Train rides, and three popcorn bags later, our family unit departed Leonard’s for the new and improved “Leonard’s Christmas Tree Land,” located across the street from the main building. Thanks to the demolition of several wino-infested abandoned buildings, the new lot was now the size of Rhode Island and held enough trees for every person and their dog in the state of Texas.

Thousands of fresh-cut trees awaited our choosing. Father, always the cheapskate, chose a sensible tree; not too big, not too small, yet full and fluffy with a lovely piney aroma. My sister and I pointed and danced like fools for the “pink flocked” tree in the tent, which cost the equivalent of a week’s salary. My parents enjoyed our cute antics. The sensible tree was secured to the top of our Nash Rambler station wagon, and we were homeward bound.

Pulling into our driveway, it was impossible to miss our neighbor’s extravagant holiday display. We had been away from home for 6 hours and returned to a full-blown holiday extravaganza that made our modest home look like a tobacco road sharecropper shack.

Our next-door neighbors, Mr. Mister and his lovely wife, Mrs. Mister, were the neighborhood gossip fodder. The couple moved from Southern California for his job. He, an aircraft design engineer, and she, a former gopher girl at Paramount Studios. The Misters reeked new-found money and didn’t mind flaunting it. They drove tiny Italian sports cars and hired a guy to mow their lawn. His wife, Mrs. Mister, always had a Pall Mall ciggie and a frosty cocktail in one hand. Father said she looked like a pretty Hollywood lady named Jane Mansfield, but Mother said she resembled a “gimlet-assed dime-store chippy.” I got the impression that the Misters were quite popular in the neighborhood.

Mrs. Mister on her fancy sofa
Mr. Mister contemplating his next invention

Their Christmas display was pure Cecil B. DeMille. A life-size plywood sleigh, with Santa and his reindeer, covered the Mister’s roof, and 20 or more automated Elves and various holiday characters greeted passersby. Twinkling lights covered every bush and plant in the yard, and a large machine spat out thousands of bubbles that floated through the neighborhood. This was far more than Fort Worth was ready for.

The kill shot was their enormous picture window that showcased a ceiling-high blue flocked tree bathed in color-changing lights. There, framed in the glow of their yuletide decor, sat Mr. and Mrs. Mister with their two poodles, Fred and Ginger, perched on their expensive modern sofa, sipping vermouth martinis like Hollywood royalty. This display of pompacious decadence didn’t go unnoticed by my parents.

Father hauled our puny tree into the living room and began unpacking lights for tomorrow evening’s decorating. Mother hurried my sister and me off to bed. Visions of spying Elves, sugar plum pudding, and dangerous weapons danced in my head; Christmas was upon us like an itchy fungus.

Sometime after 10 PM, Father got hungry. Searching for sandwich fixings in the kitchen, he found a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Then he found a fresh half gallon of Eggnog, which he enjoyed with the bourbon. While searching for bread to make a ham sandwich, he found two boxes of “Lux Laundry Soap Flake” with a dish towel in each. Then, by chance, he discovered the food coloring. This gave him an idea for our sad little tree.

I awoke with a start. The sun was shining on my face, which meant I was late for school. I ran into the living room and was stopped in my tracks.

Our formally green tree was now flocked in thick pink snow, as were the curtains, the fireplace mantel, two chairs, the coffee table, and my father, who lay on the couch, passed out, with a half-eaten ham sandwich on his chest. My Mother sat a few feet away, sipping her coffee and smoking a Winston; my Louisville slugger lay on her lap. I was reluctant to approach her, but I had to know.

I timidly put my hand on her shoulder and asked, “Mom, is Dad going to be alright?” She took a sip of coffee and a drag from her ciggie and said, “Well, for right now, he will be, but after he wakes up, who knows.”

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Tall Tales From Texas: The Legend of The Mountain Boomers of The Santa Anna Mountain


At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last, Texas legend. The best storytellers and liars I ever knew were my two uncles on my mother’s side of the family, Uncles Bill and Jay Manley. They are the ones who told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.” My mother believed the two ruined me and turned me into a liar and teller of tall tales, which is not such a bad thing.

The Mountain Boomers were giant lizards that ran on two legs and came down from their lair on Santa Anna Mountain in search of food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, wild pigs, small cows, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. We, kids, were scared shitless of even going out of the farmhouse after dark. Now we had giant lizards and the dreaded Woolly Boogers to deal with.

With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”

Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparents’ covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the faraway howls of an occasional Coyote pack running the creek that passed through the pastures.

The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.

Already that June, my cousin Jerry and I had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens and had learned of the dreaded Woolly Boogers. Hence, we needed a new adventure: our summer was losing air like a punctured tire: we were tiring of shooting chickens with our Daisy BB Guns, then getting our butts switched by Granny.

“Did you kids see that over there in the trees across the road? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says Uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then, a few moments later, “There it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a wild pig in its teeth.”

He had us firmly hooked and reeled in. Then he starts in on the story. Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and said,

” Right down this road here, about twenty years ago, a family’s car broke down, ran out of gas, I think. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned with some gas. The little boy got out of the car to pee alongside the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry: a 7-foot-tall Mountain Boomer was standing there with the little kid in its mouth. The poor boy was already almost chewed in half. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them, Boomers, was hiding in the scrub brush and got her, too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had gotten them because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” My other cousins and I were almost pissing our pants.

When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe any of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my uncles swore the legend and the story were true. I still dream of them.

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The Journey to Fort Worth: A Story of Hope and Sacrifice


The continuing story of Jesus Got A Mainline
the Manley Family: Front from left, Jasper, Marcy, Lavelle. Standing, from left, Mozelle, Jay, and Catharine

Leaving home to forge a new life can be an exhilarating journey or a regretful mistake, depending on the circumstances of the departure. My mother, Mozelle, saw it as a journey that must be made; there would be no regret or sadness. The days of laboring in the fields and chopping cotton were behind her now. She would never again grip the wooden handle of a hoe.

Her mother’s parting tears left a permanent stain on the shoulder of her best dress. Her father’s apathy and refusal to hold her pierced her heart.

The bus ride to Fort Worth stretched into the night, giving her time to reflect and to shed her tears in the dark.

Sharing an apartment with her sister, Lavelle, she found work at Consolidated Aircraft Corporation, where she built B-24 bombers as part of the war effort. She was now the girl on the famous poster, with her sleeve rolled up and a polka dot headscarf. Her life was all work with little time for a social life.

In a letter from home, her father demanded that she and her sister send him a percentage of their paychecks, as their departure from the farm had forced him to hire labor and change crops that yielded less money. They complied, albeit unwillingly, for the sake of their mother. They learned that the Preacher and his family had come one last time, and with no cotton to pick, returned to San Angelo, where he passed a few months later. His sons carried on the church. She never forgot Preacher and his mainline to Jesus.

Her brother, Jay, wrote frequently to his sisters from his ship in the Pacific theater. He was a gunner on a destroyer and participated in the invasion of Iwo Jima. He was one of my two uncles who were the best liars and spinners of yarns and tall tales, and he passed that treasure on to me.

The front porch of the family farm house was his stage, and I would sit for hours absorbing his tales, some true, some as tall as the oak tree growing in the front yard. Give the man a few Pearl Beers and he could orate as well as Will Rogers. I felt he missed his calling to be a writer or a stage personality. In later years, the stories had darker undertones, and he became a world-class alcoholic who, after two stays in a state hospital, beat the demon and lived a sober life until his passing in a car accident in 1968, a head-on collision caused by, of all things, a drunk driver. She believed the war affected him deeply and led to his drinking problem. Today, we call it PTSD. My mother loved him dearly, and she was the force that convinced and aided him to seek help. His death affected her deeply, and I believe she grieved him for the rest of her life.

As a young girl, my mother wrote poetry and was quite good; she won an award in grade school. Her handwriting was exquisite. She and a fountain pen became one, and a sheet of lined school paper became her canvas.

Reading the great poets of her time and writing her own poems was her idea of a proper education, and she dreamed of one day publishing her own book. There were hundreds of pages of poems, squirreled away in a drawer, for someday. The poems were lost, and so was the day with them.

After the war ended, she and her sister worked on drawing maps. There was more time for a social life, and the two enjoyed dancing, so that led them to nightclubs at Crystal Springs on Lake Worth, Belknap Street, and Jacksboro Highway. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a husband, but was swept off her feet by a good-looking, dynamic young fiddle player in one of the bands. The attraction was immediate and intense, and both of their backs were chock-full of Cupid’s arrows. That nice young man, a native of Fort Worth, a veteran, and recently relocated from Hawaii, would become my father.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Moves To New York City To Be A Social Worker


Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.

Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.

The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.

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Why Every Writer Deserves to Call Themselves an Author


A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I know that Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote would likely not agree with her observation.

Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.

I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?

My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.

My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.

My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.

At 76 years old, I consider myself a writer; with over 200 short stories and interviews to my name, they attest to my efforts.

I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.

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Wont You Be My Friend? Mr. Rogers Was Right On


Photo by: Burt, Ernie Set Up The Scene

Fred Rogers had it right. He wanted to be friends with everyone, if even for an hour a day. He kept his personal opinions to himself and focused on the positive. Fred would have made a terrible politician. He was the kind father that every kid wanted and every adult wished for. Mr. Rogers would have walked on broken glass before intentionally hurting anyone’s feelings. Not so much with the rest of us knuckle-dragging neanderthals.

If you read my blog, you know that I like to poke fun at both political parties. I am an equal opportunity abuser; no one is over-looked. My dislike for each camp is about even, so it’s easy to throw each under my bus and back over them a few times. Nothing is more satisfying than imagining the screams of a crooked-scum sucking-lying-thieving politician as they are squished into asphalt pancakes.

Maybe two days ago, I discovered that I may have lost a few friendships over my past satirical post. Was it something I said? Probably not, but more like something I wrote. These posts were not offensive, at least not to me, but meant to be informative and jovial; light-hearted little digs covered in glitter and dancing unicorns. I didn’t know these friends were liberal in their thinking. Politics are rarely mentioned when we are together, but it’s possible that after a few bourbons, my inside voice became my outside voice, and a wayward word or two slipped out, and there you have it; friendship canceled—no return calls or text, no email addressing the possible offending reference, only non-confrontational silence.

I feel bad about these misunderstandings, but not too bad. Friendships can be strong and unwavering, and I have a few of those, or they can be as casual as a tank top and flip-flops, and I have some of those too.

When I turned ten years of age, my late father shared a pearl of wisdom with me. Speaking from experience, he said,” there are two things you should never discuss with family or friends; religion and politics.” A wise man he was. Having forgotten his advice over the years, I have paid the price many times over; and it appears I continue to do so.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

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Ask A Texan: All Taped Out…


The Texan

Somewhat Intellectual Advice For Folks That Don’t Have An Intellect Or Can’t Spell The Word…

I received a letter written on the back of a missing cat poster. I called the number, and the owner confirmed that the cat had come home, which is a good thing. The man who wrote the letter on the absconded poster, A Mr. Thurston Howell, claims his wife has lost her mind and is attempting a home remedy facelift.

Mr. Howell: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Wall Street Journal and thought you might be able to offer some sound advice. I ran out of printing paper, so I used a missing cat poster that I found stapled to my mailbox to print this letter. I hope you don’t mind. Besides, the lady put the posters everywhere in our upscale neighborhood, which is against our HOA rules here in Beverly Hills. It seems her cat goes missing at least once a month, and Elly Mae Clampett, the sweet girl down the street, searches and finds the missing furball. The crazy cat lady has around fifty cats, so missing one would be no big deal. I found three of them eating a mouse on the Cordovan leather backseat of my Bentley last week and had to trade the car in for a new one. Anyway, that’s not the issue I’m addressing.

My wife, Lovey, has been begging for a face lift. She says all the women at the country club are getting them. I told her no way because, since our banker, Mr. Drysdale, made some bad investments with our money, we are on a strict budget. She’s a big fan of that TikTok thing on her phone. She saw that an influencer in Hawaii has invented a do-it-yourself at-home facelift using Gorilla Duct Tape. I’m familiar with the benefits of duct tape. When Lovey and I were stuck on a deserted island a few decades ago when a tour boat we were on hit a reef and marooned us with a group of idiots, one of the smart guys used a roll of duct tape and some Palm Tree bark to fix the hole in the boat, and we were able to get back to Waikiki a few years later, just in time to see Elvis on the beach filming a movie.

Lovey came to breakfast this morning with her face wrapped up in Gorilla Duct tape. It frightened me so badly that I spat out my coffee and ruined my Lobster Pâté breakfast roll. Rosie Jetson, our robotic chef and maid, had to stop cleaning the pool and clean up our deck-side breakfast table. She had applied makeup and lipstick to her tape-face, and now she looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Our little dog, Gilligan, was so scared that he hid in the pool house and won’t come out. Lovey claims that after six weeks, when she removes the tape, she will be as beautiful as her best friend, Ginger, the hot red-headed unemployed actress she hangs out with. I think she’s lost her coconuts. Do you have any recommendations on how I can put an end to this madness? I attached a picture of Lovey so you can see for yourself.

Lovey Howell

The Texan: Well, Mr. Howell, forgive me for being forward, but you can probably afford a good plastic surgeon for Lovey if you live in Beverly Hills, belong to the country club and drive Bentley cars. It sounds like you’re being a bit stingy. TikTok has messed up a lot of folks. My daughter-in-law followed an influencer’s advice and used Super Glue to style her hair, only to wind up in the ER, where the surgeon, with the help of a beautician, had to remove all her”Rapunzel-esque” mane. As a result, she is now as bald as Kojak. So, if your wife is stupid enough to do what some moron on TikTok advises, she may well need to see an expensive Beverly Hills shrink. I would first take away her smartphone and have Rosie, your robot maid, destroy it. Then, I would have Rosie hold Lovey down and rip off the duct tape. Tell Ginger to lie like a garage sale rug and tell your wife she is as pretty as that other girl, Mary Ann. Call Elly Mae Clampett to come down and style Lovie’s hair and loan her a tight pair of American Eagle jeans to accentuate her figure and make her look like Sydney Sweeney. If that doesn’t do the trick, it’s likely that Granny Clampett, Elly’s grandmother, will have some sort of possum belly-based cream to fix the damage from the duct tape. I’m sending Lovey a CD of a great TV series to watch while she recovers. “Petticoat Junction,” I’m also enclosing a box of cherry bombs so you can blow up the cats before they ruin the leather seats in your newest Bentley. Let me know how this all turns out.

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Halloween Candy Haul: A Grandpa’s Last Trick-or-Treat Adventure


I wrote this in 2019, but thought it appropriate to bring it out again for Halloween.

I’m sad to say, that my wife did not believe me when I announced this would be my last “trick-or-treat” before my coming demise. There are three things left on my bucket list, and this will reduce it by one.

Walking out of the front door in my black jacket, black shirt, black jeans and Texas Rangers baseball cap, the look on her face says that she didn’t believe I would really do it. I reminded her to “hide and watch” as I departed down the sidewalk carrying my Trader Joes paper bag.

A few blocks down, I joined a group of children in search of sweets. It was cold, so most had on heavy jackets that hid their fancy costumes. The kids assumed I was someone’s grandfather and welcomed my presence as a chaperone and comrade. A few of the mothers gave me the stink eye, but being a kindly older fellow went a long way in easing their fears.

A few dozen houses behind us, the group was thinning down to a dedicated few. The hour was late and the school bell rings early, so the younger ones retreated for home to sort their spoils. I noticed that my bag was getting heavy, so I told the group I would do one last stop, then split for home.

Our last stop was a retirement apartment complex. One kid said ” it’s the best because old people miss their grandchildren and really pile on the goodies.” I can identify with that, and I would do the same if I was wielding the candy bowl.

As predicted, the octogenarians loaded our bags to the bursting point. They didn’t mess around with the bite size candy bars, everyone received full size bars, like the ones you see in grocery stores. My bag, one handle ripped, was maxed out.

Unable to carry my booty, I summoned my wife to drive me home. She was excited over the amount of candy I collected because she loves chocolate as much as any six-year-old, and I had enough to last for months.

At home, we turned on “The Bride of Frankenstein” and dumped my bag of goodies onto the den rug. We were, for a moment, children again. A treasure trove of candy lay piled before us. It was the largest haul of my life. I gave my spouse a smug “told you so” smile, as she clapped with glee and sorted out the best chocolate bars for her consumption. It was then things took a weird turn.

From the pile of sweet treasure I pulled a plastic bag of No. 2 Male Catheters. I’m thinking someone at that retirement home must be missing these by now. Digging further, I exhumed a new tube of hemorrhoid cream, two tubes of denture paste, a bottle of stool softener, handwipes, a pair of reading glasses, an adult diaper rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon and three 50% off coupons from Luby’s Cafeteria. I was mortified. My wife laughed so hard she barely made it to the bathroom. Well, at least I gave it a shot.

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Ask A Texan: One Last Halloween


Advice For Non-Texas Folks That Need It, Whether They Know It Or Not

The Texan

I received an email from Mrs. Lillian Munster of Winston, Massachusetts. It seems her husband is determined to have one last Halloween, and she is fearing the worst.

Mrs. Munster: Mr. Texan, I read about your advice in a magazine I got at the Goodwill Store last week. My husband, Boris, is 92 years old and recently had an episode from being electrocuted while working in his shop ( he calls it his lab ). Still, it’s really just a shop in our garage, which is full of crazy stuff he has been building for decades: lots of glass tubes, electronic machines, tables with straps, and things like that. He was installing a large Ham Radio tower and lightning struck it, knocking him out from the jolt. Our oldest son, Eddie, just happened to drop by and found him on the garage floor mumbling nonsense. The doctor at the ER said the lightning jolt and the fall likely affected his brain. Now he is insisting that he go trick-or-treating because he thinks this will be his last Halloween, and it may well be. The jolt and the fall gave him a cut on his forehead, but Eddie used a staple gun to close the injury, and it did disfigure his face a bit, giving him a limp, and he now drags one leg behind him, and it’s hard for him to walk because he is 7 feet 6 inches tall. It also affected his speech, and he now only talks gibberish and is afraid of fire. He wants to go trick-or-treating with the kids in the neighborhood, but I’m afraid for his safety. We have folk in our rural area that own guns, pitchforks and torches, and they might get the wrong idea when he mumbles for some candy. He does look a bit scary. Do you have any suggestions on how I can prevent him from going through with this? I’m sending you a recent photo of him so you’ll see what I’m talking about.

My husband, Boris, after his morning coffee

The Texan: Mrs. Munster, I can see why you are concerned. He looks pretty scary, and if I answered the door and he was standing there with his plastic pumpkin candy holder mumbling gibberish, I might well grab my 12-gauge or a garden pitchfork too. Try to persuade him to visit a haunted house, or at least attend a Halloween carnival at the local school or church; he would likely be a big hit with the kids there. My late uncle Zevon developed a facial condition, and long brown hair grew and covered his entire face, which made him resemble the Wolf Man from the old 1930s movies. He became increasingly self-conscious and stopped going out in public; instead, he began to make a living by writing hit songs. I’m sending you a CD of Halloween songs, which includes the Monster Mash, the tune my uncle wrote. I’m also sending your husband a box of Cherry Bombs to keep him occupied in his lab. Keep in touch.

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The Legend of Shorty J. Squirrel: A True Texas Tale


I wrote this story in 2012 when Momo and I lived in Berry Creek, a golfing community in Georgetown Texas. I played golf with a large group of men that are mentioned, and this account, although written from an animals perspective, is true. Another Texas Tale, but not too tall of one.

Shorty J. Squirrel

On a  sultry Texas afternoon, a group of men gather around a small, flag decorated concrete pedestal just a few paces from the 18th tee box.

They stand in a loose semi-circle, reverent, staring at a small metal figurine of a Squirrel.

From a box, one of the men produces a metal plaque and passes it around to the others for their approval. It makes the rounds, one by one, each man taking a moment to read the inscription, and nod his approval.

This will be their final tribute to one of God’s small creatures that had touched each of their lives.

In the woods of Berry Creek, life for the animals is good. The Deer are safe from hunters, the Ducks are well fed and sassy, and the wily Squirrels rule the forest. The occasional Bobcat and Coyote might pay a visit, but they don’t fancy the closeness of the humans, so they quickly move back to the wooded outskirts. The Skunks are courteous and know their place.

Most mornings, as dawn creeps over the tree tops, life on Lanny’s Pond is already in full swing.

The Ducks congregate to plan their day of begging, and who will get the prime mooching spots. The Mallards usually win the best locations based on their good looks and surly attitude. The other Ducks resort to the equivalent of standing by the cart path with a cardboard sign.

The Squirrels, not ones to socialize with the lowly Ducks, meet at the base of a gnarled oak tree behind the 13th tee box to discuss the previous days events.

Who’s still around, and who’s not?  Who stole somthing from the giants little cars yesterday? It’s always a vibrant discussion, and the main topic usually involves their encounters with the “giants”. In Squirrel language, there is no word for humans, so they simply refer to humans as “giants”.

The Squirrels consider themselves the self-appointed royalty of Berry Creek, and  take no lip or beak from the other critters. They view the Ducks as stupid and clueless, the Deer, beautiful but dangerous, and the Skunks a foul annoyance. The remaining animals are categorized as flagrant opportunist. But not the Squirrels. They always have a plan. They don’t beg, they just take what they need.

In Texas, legends are part of the culture.  Every patch of woods in the state has at least one critter or human that falls into the legend category.

We have Ol’e Rip the Horned Toad, Bob the Bobcat, the Chupacabra, Big Foot, the Jack-a-lope, Pecos Pete, Davy Crockett, William Travis, Ol’e Blue, Ol’e Yeller and Pasquale the horned toad that started the battle of the Alamo. There’s no shortage of legends in Texas, and it’s folks like it that way.

But the woods of Berry Creek, there is but one uncontested legend, Shorty J. Squirrel.

The oppressive Texas heat is tough on all the critters, but Shorty knew how to keep cool. He would find a bare spot beneath a tree, stretch out on his belly, and let the damp earth cool him down.

On one of these cooling off sessions, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t hear the large black dog creeping up from behind.

Jolted awake by the sense of being flung violently through the air, Shorty realized  something large and vicious had a firm grip on his tail and was swinging him around like a stuffed toy.

After several violent roundhouse swings, the dog lost its prize, when a large piece Shorty’s tail broke off in its teeth.

Escaping to a nearby tree, bloodied, and missing more than half of his familiar rear plumage, Shorty glared down at the slobbering mongrel standing there with a substantial piece of his former beautiful tail protruding from it’s muzzle.

“Stupid inbred animal” he barked.

Shorty knew he was lucky, and thankful to be alive. Many of his extended family had been whisked away by the dog killers.

Squirrels, because they all look-alike, are not prone to personal vanity, but they do have a bit of a rude streak and tend to take notice when one of their own looks a little different.

The few days after the dog incident, Shorty made his morning appearance at the meeting tree, and was greeted not with concern for his brush with death, but by laughter and ridicule focused on his damaged tail.

He explained the attack in animated and vivid detail, wanting the others to know how close he came to death at the jaws of the large dog killer, but the other Squirrels could only point at his damaged appendage and laugh all the louder.

Disgusted and dejected, Shorty made his way over to the sand bunker on the 17th green, sat down and had a good sulk.

While sulking in that sand bunker, Shorty noticed a group of  the “little cars” stopped nearby, and being the breakfast hour, he hopped over to see if there were any hidden morsels worth taking. Creeping ever so quietly, he raised himself into the little car.

Smelling something fragrant and nutty, he climbed into the glove box, finding a nice piece of a half eaten granola bar.

Hidden in the glove box and munching away on his prize, Shorty didn’t notice the little car moving forward. It was too late, he was trapped in the little car.

Shorty, hunkered down in the glove box, frozen in fear, and no way to escape, could only stare up at the faces of the two giants riding in the little car.

When it stopped and  the giants exited, Shorty escaped back to the safety of the sand bunker. He told himself that was a little risky, but well worth the meal, and he would likely try it again.

The next morning, the same group of little cars came again.

Shorty saw one of the giants throw a handful of nuts onto the ground next to the car.

When the giants were on the mound swinging their long sticks, Shorty stole a few of the nuts and scampered back to the sand bunker.

The giants smiled in amusement as they drove away.

A few days later,  the little cars came again, and Shorty bounded over to see what was to be offered.

One of the kind giants sitting in the car, held a nut in his paw and offered it to Shorty. Cautiously, he approached the large paw and took the nut from its grasp. He devoured it, and the large paw produced another nut, then another, and another, until Shorty could hold no more.

After a rousing round of nuts, Shorty was uncomfortably full, and waddled back to the sand bunker. Not having to look for food that day, he relaxed in the sand. ‘This is the life” he told himself.

The other Squirrels, having watched this scenario for a good while, approached Shorty, begging  to learn his technique of training the giants to give him food.

Shorty, being pretty full of himself at this point, and seeing an opportunity to raise his status in the clan, explained that only “he” was able to train the giants.

His newly  deformed tail had bestowed upon him, special powers that allowed magical interaction between himself and the giants.

The other Squirrels, being somewhat ignorant, and naturally superstitious by nature, accepted his explanation without question.

As the days progressed, Shorty, intent on milking this to the end, and starting to believe his own story, would put on his daily show for the clan.

Shorty would approach the little cars, raise up on his hind legs, and staring intensely at the giants, would wave his small paws in a circle, bark a few commands, and the giants would extend a nut bearing paw. The Squirrel clan, watching from the trees would bark in wonderment and approval of their new guru.

The giants enjoyed the unusual antics of the little Squirrel, and noticing his shortened tail, appropriately named him “Shorty”. They thought he was the friendliest Squirrel they had ever encountered.

As the months progressed,  Shorty warmed to the giants and would trustingly climb into the little car and take nuts from an ever-present bag. The giants would speak to him, using his new name and he would respond as best he could with a chatter and the flip of his small tail.

When the little cars would approach the 17th green, the friendliest giant would sometimes yell out Shorty’s name, and he would scamper over to receive his handout.

The other Squirrels in the clan, noticing how completely  Shorty had trained the giants,  unanimously elevated him to “deity status”.

Shorty’s name was now sacred in the woods of Berry Creek.

As Shorty’s legend grew in the woods, it equally grew in the community of giants.

Giants in their little cars would yell for Shorty and throw nuts on the ground as they drove by.

But Shorty was confused. These giants were not “his giants”, and some threw objects at him when he tried to retrieve the nuts. He was always happy to see “his giants”, and they were always happy to be in his company.

One afternoon, Shorty was retrieving a nut that had been thrown from a little car. Dashing across the cement path, he failed to see the little car as it sped toward him, and

Shorty was crushed beneath the wheels of the little car.

His last thought was of his circle of “giant friends”, and who would now train them?

Who would be their friend?

The driver of the little car, thinking it was just a lowly Squirrel, continued on his way. Not caring, not knowing that he had ended the life of a “small legend”.

The life of Shorty J. Squirrel.

One of the kindly friends of the giants found Shorty on the path, took his small broken body home and called Shorty’s “favorite giant” to inform him of his death.

The group of giants were grief-stricken at the passing of their small friend, and vowed to give Shorty a proper tribute to honor their friendship.

As the sun sinks low, one of the men places the small metal plaque on the monument and they silently walk away into the Texas afternoon.

Their tribute, now complete.

After Shorty died, the group of about 30 men, which grew to around a hundred, established a memorial golf tournament held every year in August. It was called The Shorty and was quite popular. I wrote the original story and painted the first poster for the event. As far as I know, it’s still going strong, from what I hear from my friends who live there. We take our critters seriously here in Texas.