Category: Texas

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The Call of The High Desert


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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The Boy Who Became Sweet Baby Jesus



The year was 1955, and at six years old, by my grandmother’s observation, I was a heathen child, almost feral. Being raised in the big city of Fort Worth on a steady diet of television featuring Popeye, Bugs Bunny, and the Three Stooges, I was living in a religious void. I saw the “good book” as a large decoration on the dining room table and read it at Christmas, Easter, and family funerals. Recently, I had been attending a few services at the Poly First Baptist Church with my parents. Still, the preacher, with his over-animated, stage-stomping Hell-and-Damnation rants, scared me more than The Mummy and Frankenstein combined. I was wishing for a fatal disease to strike so I would be bedridden and couldn’t attend.


I had been visiting the farm for six weeks, from June into July, and it was my first time away from my parents. The farmhouse had no television, only a radio. By the third day of no cartoons, I had the shakes and a low-grade fever. I did bring my Red Ryder BB gun and enough ammo for a summer’s worth of popping some of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens: the BBs bounced off their thick feathers, so none were harmed. Other than throwing dirt clods at Rattle Snakes, it was all the entertainment I could muster. Granny was a wise Cherokee, medical Shaman, and self-proclaimed Texas Biblical scholar, and she felt a week at the Baptist Church Vacation Bible School would fix me up and assure my acceptance into Heaven. I had no idea where Heaven was or when I would be required to visit, so I trusted my Granny would make my reservations.


Miss Ida Belle Mae and her younger sister, Rita Rose Mae, are the self-appointed teachers of our Bible school class of 25 children, ages 6 to 10.
Homely as a sack of poultry feed, the two are old maids and prolific spinsters rumored to survive on a tidy income from a single pumping oil well on their farm. It has been a long-standing gambling bet at the Domino Parlor that that gasping little well will give it up. To date, no one has won the wager.
When the holidays come around, the two sisters are rumored to donate a substantial sum to the church. To appease the ladies and keep the money flowing, the kind but timid preacher is forced to let them do what they please. Their pleasure this summer will be teaching Bible school. The preacher will regret this decision.


On the first day of Bible School, our class cut, pasted, and signed 270 prayer cards for the sick and unfortunate children in Africa; quite a feat for 25 kids. Most of us were injured and bleeding from paper cuts and glue poisoning from licking the envelopes. My tongue swelled up the size of a buttery biscuit. The kid beside me glued his lips shut, and Miss Ida had to pry them open with a spoon and a douse of grape Kool-Aid.


Miss Ida sent us outside to lounge under the trees and recover from our stint on her assembly line. There is no recovery; it’s 96 degrees and not a rustle of a breeze, but it’s better than forced child labor.


A black Cadillac sedan stops in front of the church, and an older lady escorts a boy of maybe nine or ten into the main building. The kid wears a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. We assume he is here for a funeral or a baptism, but don’t care because it’s too hot to move or think. Miss Ida rings the lunch bell. Yummy peanut butter, grape jelly sandwiches, and lukewarm Kool-Aid await—the usual menu for Bible school attendees.
After we are seated, Miss Ida brings the suited boy to the front of the class. She is beaming like a schoolgirl attending her first prom In a giddy voice, she addresses us,


” Children, I would like to introduce Master Stewart Sweet. His daddy is the famous tent-preaching evangelist and faith healer from San Angelo, the Right and Honorable Doctor I.M. Sweet. Master Stewart will attend our Bible school and lead the children’s Bible study on Sundays for a few weeks. I can assure you that he is quite capable since he has read the Bible three times, all before he was six years of age, and preaches at his father’s tent revivals.” Miss Ida doesn’t know this kid’s back story, nor do we, but it will soon come to light.


As a class, in childish camaraderie, we are unimpressed and instantly dislike this brat. Will this kid, dressed as a department store dummy, preach to us about sin and saving our little souls? At our young age, the worst thing we could have done is tell a few small lies, steal a cookie, or shoot a chicken with a BB Gun. Hell and Damnation are years away for most of us.


Young Master Stewart steps from behind Miss Ida’s table and slams his ten-pound Bible down on the floor so hard it sounds like a firecracker. A few girls in front are shaken and begin to whimper.
The young preacher Stewart raises his hands to the Heavens and launches into a tirade that can only be considered appropriate for adults designated to luncheon with Beelzebub within the hour.


After ten minutes of our first fiery sermon, we are ready to wrap this kid in scotch tape and send him to Africa with the prayer card. Suddenly, he stops and begins to bless our food. He bows his head and, in a reverent whisper, says,


” Dear Lord, these children, wretched little hayseeds that they are, cannot survive on the butter of the Peter Pan and the mush of Welches. They need a substantial amount sustenance so they may be healthy to accept your holy spirit. Starting tomorrow, a glorious feast of grilled sausages wrapped in soft buns, the salad of the potato and the ruby-red fruit of the melon will be their manna from Heaven. Amen.”


Miss Ida is speechless. The little preacher kid has called her food “garbage,” and she has to sit there and take it. The class is now a bit impressed. This kid is good.
The sisters, rattled by Young Sweets’ blessing, need time to recover and devise a plan to send this kid back to San Angelo as soon as possible. So they send the class outside to suffer in the heat again.


Miss Rita delivers the ice cream freezer and instructs two larger boys to start churning for the afternoon dessert. Allowing us to have ice cream may be the only kindness these two witches grant us.


Twenty-five minutes into the churning, the ice cream remains a pitiful mush. Now impatient for their treat, the class gathers around the freezer, demanding an explanation. We are kids and know nothing about how these machines work. You add ice, salt, liquid, and chur. That’s all we know.


Young Stewart parts the crowd and approaches the ice cream freezer. He kneels and places both hands on the contraption. In a soft, almost inaudible voice, he says a small prayer and violently shakes the machine a few times. He rises and declares, “There shall be delectable ice cream in five minutes.” He is right. This ice cream might be the best we have tasted in our young lives. Little Master Stewart fixed the ice cream machine. A girl calls it a miracle.


After ice cream, Miss Ida calls the class for Bible study and a story. Her stories are known to last too long, and kids tend to lose interest and fall asleep. Her voice is that of an older man who smokes two packs of Camels daily — raspy and accentuated by the occasional hack.


Bitsy, the smallest and youngest girl in class, is seated at the front table and is in distress. The new kids in the class are unaware that she has an immobilizing speech defect. She stutters, and her vocabulary is limited to a simple yes or no. The little girl is wide-eyed and squirming in her chair.
Miss Ida knows her problem, and when Bitsy politely raises her hand to request a bathroom visit, Miss Ida insists that she must stand and ask aloud in front of the class. Of course, Bitsy, immobilized with fear and embarrassment, wets her pants. Miss Ida snickers and calls her a little baby child. We all knew these two sisters were mean, but now we know they are darn right evil.


Master Stewart comes from the rear of the class and stops in front of Bits. He turns and gives the two sisters a “stink-eye” that makes them fall back into their chairs, white with fear.
He bends down, takes Bitsy’s head in his tiny hands, and declares,

” Take this affliction from this small child. Purvey upon her the diction of William Shakespeare and the wisdom of Mark Twain. Let her words flow forth like the singing of Doves on the south wind. She will never again stammer or grasp for words and will someday speak to massive gatherings of people who will clamor to hear her message. Amen.”


The class sits in stunned silence. Healing the ice cream machine was a warm-up compared to this. A girl from the back of the room yells, “Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus.” And there it is: Young Stewart will now be known as Sweet Baby Jesus, or just Sweet Baby for short.


Miss Ida and Miss Rita sit rigidly in their chairs, eyes glazed and staring into nothing. The amount of “stink eye” Stewart, now known as Sweet Baby Jesus, put on them must be compelling.
He approaches the two women, lays his small, soft hands on their wrinkled, sweating foreheads, and mumbles a few words. His back is to the class, so we have no idea what is said. The two evil sisters shiver a few times and awaken from their “stink eye” trance. They stand, gather themselves, and tell the class they are going home. Master Stewart will teach for the duration of the Bible school. They depart the church as if in a zombie trance.


Sweet Baby Jesus takes his Bible, sits on the edge of Miss Idas’ desk, smiles, and says, “Now, let’s hear some real Bible stories straight from the source.” It was a beautiful afternoon full of unexpected laughter and acceptance. For once, we kids found that listening to the word of God from another kid made us feel good, sort of like hot oatmeal on Christmas morning.


The following day, the preacher greets us with the news that young Stewart is back in San Angelo and will teach the class for the remainder of Bible school. Of course, we were sad to see our new Sweet Baby Jesus depart our Bible school. Bitsy, in between constant talking, sniffles, and wishes him the best.
The class wrote a letter to Sweet Baby, thanking him for his kindness to Bitsy and for putting the evil sisters in their place.


I attended the vacation Bible school for a few more summers, but it wasn’t the same without Sweet Baby, and I attended my last one at eight years old.
A few decades later, I read that the Right and Honorable Reverend Stewart Sweet, with assistance from his wife, Bitsy, had established an enormous ministry in Africa and healed everything from Beri-Beri to auto engines.
It looks like Sweet Baby Jesus is still doing a great job.

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The Weather And Old People


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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Religion, Family, and a Baptism Gone Wacky


Swimming With Jesus In A Cement Pond

I wrote this story some time ago. It was water Baptismal day at our church today, so I figured, why not share this bit of family history with my readers?

My first taste of religion came when I was six. A boy from Fort Worth, I was taken to the Polytechnic Baptist Church to witness the near-drowning of my young father. He was baptized by a man named Reverend Agustin Z Bergeron. The preacher, a certified Cajun from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, was a legend, standing alongside only two others: Reverend J. Frank Norris and Billy Graham.

Someone in my family, an aunt or a cousin or all members thereof, thought that father’s soul needed saving to ensure his path to Heaven would be an honest one. I suspect it was his mother. She was a championship sinner with no apparent way to redemption, so convincing her only son to Baptism might also gain her entry to God’s domain as a parental guest. I also suspect that the bottles of hooch and the .38 Special in her traveling suitcase would be overlooked as she accompanied him through the pearly gates. Looking back on my family history, I now realize that the entire bunch of my father’s family was street rat crazy. They also loved alcohol and were world-class consumers of hooch. It didn’t faze them a bit that, back in prohibition, the entire bunch went temporarily blind from a bad batch of moonshine my grandmother’s brother brewed in the woods behind their house.

The Sunday of the Baptism was as hot as I can remember. The church was surrounded by large shade trees, but there was not a whiff of a breeze inside the building. Religion and suffering are one and the same. July in Texas is considered a preview of the weather in Hell, and the good reverend used it well.

I sat beside my mother. My little sister was in her lap, not yet a year old. My clothes were soaked with sweat. I might have wet myself and not known it. The summer heat rose from the wooden floor beneath us. Hell lay just below, waiting for us to waver, to lose our faith. Satan would pull us down through the cracks in the floorboards if we let go. It seemed so simple. I didn’t understand sin or what it meant to fall into Hell. Kids don’t think about such things.

Pacing the floor, Preacher Augustin moved from wall to wall. Behind him, the choir of big-haired women added their Amen and Hallelujahs, their voices sharp and clear. The pulpit held the preacher’s Bible, unused, but not forgotten. He did not need its leather-bound wisdom. He knew all he needed to instill fear in the hearts of those gathered in that church. The stifling air was drenched in repentance.

The sermon concluded, and the baptism commenced. Father was the last on the list.

Mother had dressed him in a new white shirt and a black tie. With his new black horn-rim glasses, he looked like the television comedy star, Steve Allen. The shirt was stiff as cardboard, making it hard to move. One might expect that if someone were dunked in water, a swimsuit or at least a robe would be appropriate. But no, Baptists preferred it genuine, fully dressed in their best clothes, shoes, watch, and wallet had to be saved.

Father’s name was called. Entering the pulpit from behind a velvet curtain, he climbed into the baptismal tank. I found it odd that a church would have a small swimming pool at the altar. A waist-deep concrete tub full of unpurified water from the Trinity River. How would one know that the occupants hadn’t released a stream of urine into the sacred water in their moment of personal repentance and acceptance? It’s a natural response akin to peeing in a lake. Father stood in the holy waters awaiting his deliverance. He carried the look of a trapped man; no escape route was available, so his fate was sealed. It’s not that he wasn’t ready to accept Jesus as his savior, but the whole scene felt off-kilter. The preacher smoked Camel cigarettes and drank iced tea while he preached, and the combination of the smell and his aftershave was awful.

Preacher Augustin wasted no time. He asked Father if he was ready to accept Jesus and be bathed in the Holy waters. Father mumbled a few words, and the preacher pushed him back into the Holy water. Time passed, it seemed like minutes, and along with lovely words and passages, Father was still immersed in the Holy waters. A hand, then an arm, reached up, flailing about. Finally, a leg broke the surface, and a shoe flew off. Still, Preacher Agustin continued the baptismal.

Looking back, it was common knowledge that father was a country musician and made his living playing in the beer joints along Jacksboro Highway. Preacher Augustin figured that since my father was a fully certified sinner, an extra dose of salvation was needed.

Father made it to the surface with seconds to spare. Sputtering and coughing, on the verge of death, he rolled over the side of the cement pond and lurched toward the side door of the church. Holding my baby sister, my mother grabbed me by my bony arm, and we made a hasty beeline to the car. Father was there waiting, dripping wet, looking like a bad meal on a china plate, but he was a saved man.

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Bonnie and Clyde: The Glamorous Outlaws’ Secrets


A Girl Has To Look Good When She Goes


I did not know that today was the anniversary of the killings of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, both from Dallas, Texas. I wrote this true recount some years ago, but would like to share it with my readers again. My late aunt Katy loved telling us kids about this whenever we were sitting around in her backyard eating watermelon and hot dogs.

Thanks to the new Netflix movie “The Highwaymen,” the two most famous outlaws from Texas are captivating a generation that has never heard of them. I’m referring to those two crazy kids from West Dallas: Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.

Their hijinx and daily run-ins with the law kept many a small-town newspaper in print and propelled the two young delinquents into living legends of their own time.

The car chases, robberies of banks, merchants, grocery stores, five and dimes, gas stations, gumball machines, lemonade stands, produce stands, and just ordinary citizens made spectacular fodder for the papers. They were the new folk heroes of the southwest, and as bad as these two were, their antics were pure journalistic gold. And, they didn’t mind killing a few lawmen and citizens if deemed necessary.

In the 1920s and early 1930s, my father’s Aunt, Katy Eberling, owned and operated a beauty salon on the corner of Rosedale and Hemphill Street in Fort Worth, Texas. For seven years, it was prosperous, allowing her to employ four beauticians and a manicurist. She was thriving and often turned away new clients or referred them to other shops. She wasn’t wealthy but made a darn good living for the times. Then, along comes that pesky old depression and she loses three beauticians and the manicurist because her clients now do their hair at home, or go to Leonard Brothers Department Store for two dollars less per set. Katy is weeks away from closing the doors when a visit from a new client changes her luck.

A cold December Friday afternoon finds Katy sweeping up the shop and preparing to close when a man and women enter through the back alley door.

The woman, a frail, bony little thing, is dressed in the best clothes that money can buy. A pale yellow cashmere sweater with a beige camel hair skirt. A string of pearls drapes her little neck. The man who accompanies her wears a three-piece pin-striped suit and a black fedora. These two are right out of Macy’s of New York. 

The woman is small, almost child-sized, no more than eighty pounds. She strides up to Katy, extends her tiny hand, and says, “ My name is Bonnie and could you please give me a wash, cut and set. I know its late, but I will pay you nicely if it is not too much trouble.”

Katy, having made little money that day, agrees and escorts her to the shampoo sink. As Katy is shampooing Bonnie’s hair for the third time, she notices the man sitting by the back door holding a shotgun in his lap. It is then that reality sets in, and Katy realizes who this new client might be. She removes her hands from the woman’s wet hair and retreats a few steps.

 Bonnie, sensing her fright, assures her in a kind voice, “Mam, I am here for a beauty appointment, we mean you no harm, and will pay for the service.” Katy assured that she will not be gunned down, completes the shampoo, and leads Bonnie to the beautician’s chair.

Once Bonnie Parker is seated, it’s as if she’s a lost Catholic girl returning to confession.

She recounts her childhood, her marriage at a young age, her desire to be a poet, to attend a good university, and to make her Mama proud. She then makes mention of that mongrel over there by the door and how he has ruined her life beyond repair.

 Once she begins the tales of their lives on the run, she cackles like a mad witch and has Katy laughing along with her. First-hand knowledge makes it all the crazier. Katy knows that Bonnie is leaving out the killing parts to spare her.

Two hours later, the appointment is finished. Bonnie Parker hands Katy six twenty-dollar bills and says she will be back next month, around the same time of day, if that is alright. Katy says that will be fine, and Bonnie departs with Clyde in tow.

Knowing she has to keep this to herself, she tells her husband Harvey, and no one else. Katy is full of remorse, knowing that the money she accepted is probably blood money or someone’s life savings, yet she took it because it would allow her to keep her shop open for a few more months. If she is truthful with herself, she enjoyed the excitement it produced.

The next month, on a Friday, the two most wanted crooks in the land arrive at 4:30 PM. Bonnie receives a wash, trim, and set, and the confessions continue. Katy earns another six twenty-dollar bills. This time, she is less remorseful and less frightened.

Bonnie visits twice more. The last visit was unnerving for Katy. Bonnie Parker is unwashed, and her clothes need cleaning. She is gaunt and hollow-eyed. There are no confessions or funny stories. Clyde remained in their car, and Bonnie, upon being seated in Katy’s chair, removed a 38 pistol from her purse and cradled it in her lap as if she was expecting trouble.

When the appointment is finished, Bonnie Parker checks her makeup in the mirror, straightens her skirt, and says to Katy, “ My mama always says, a girl’s gotta look good when she goes. How do I look, Miss Katy?” Katy replies, “ You look lovely as ever.”

Bonnie hands Katy eight twenty-dollar bills and says she will see her next month.

A few weeks later, Katy reads in the newspaper that Bonnie and Clyde were killed in a shootout with the law in Louisiana. Katy hopes she looked good when it happened.

This story was told to my cousins and me many times. When we were young, Aunt Katy left out much of the detail. As we grew older, into our teenage years, the story became more graphic and colorful. I had no idea Aunt Katy was so famous.

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Ask A Texan: The Lines In The Sand Are Drawn, And It’s 1933 And 1938 Again


Advice From A Texan That Listens, Watches, And Learns From History

In 1931, as the sunlight cast long shadows across the Asian continent, Japan’s invasion of Manchuria marked the first stirring of trouble that would engulf the Pacific and all of Asia in the dark embrace of war. Seven years later, in 1938, the boots of German soldiers marched into Poland, igniting the fierce, relentless path toward war in Europe. With sinister determination, the Axis powers wove their tapestry of aggression, plotting to dominate and reshape their corners of the earth. At the same time, the unwary world stood on the precipice of chaos. The USA wanted no part of either party of aggression; It’s not because of neutrality or isolationism, we were in the midst of our own soup pot of misery, the Great Depression, which took America to its knees and shook the unshakeable into a fearful corner.

President Roosevelt had a vision, not one draped in golden accolades or celebrated with lavish banquets, but a steadfast resolve to steer the nation back to unity, offering hope and livelihoods to millions of hard-working citizens striving for a better life, or to bring back the comfort of the one that had vanished in the winds of the Dust Bowl.

Hitler drew a red line in the Atlantic down the west coast of the UK, and Japan drew the same line encompassing China and Manila, with Hawaii being the jewel that would put them closer to the United States.

Hawaii had thousands of Japanese who had immigrated, or were born on the island, who were fiercely loyal to their mother country and the Emperor, and the island was teeming with spies who reported back to Japan. We now call them sleeper cells. Germany had the same in most major cities in our country, mainly on the East Coast. We were in grave danger, just as we are today, but the countries are different, and harbor the same sinister ideology. Our homeland is infiltrated with insurgents that are loyal to Islam only, and their ideology is to take over our soil and put us on a prayer rug.

Jews were persecuted in Europe, but the United States had been doing the same for decades, only in a more evasive and gentler way. Iran and the Arab countries hold a mission to wipe Israel off the map of the world, and all the Jewish people that live there, and the United States, because of friendship and Christianity, is now included. Their goal is the same as the Nazis’, mass extermination of anyone who doesn’t bow to their ideology.

You can call me a racist, a hater, or anything you wish: I consider myself an American patriot, and can say with all confidence that the Muslim religion, like the Nazi movement in Europe and Japan in the 1930s, is not one of peace; it borders on being a radical, demonic ideology more than a religion, but it’s well-organized and sweeps entire countries into its bag of deception and hate.

We hard-working Christian Americans have allowed the demonic enemy to come to our shores and take over entire U.S cities, imposing their radical culture on our citizens. They are succeeding in changing our culture, as they have in France, England, Ireland, and most of Europe. Tribalism via empathetic immigration has taken the white Christian culture of these countries and turned them into Islamic strongholds. You will find more mosques than churches. This is the one thing that Hitler or Hirohito couldn’t accomplish because they had no willing Americans to support their plans.

Today, our country is full of enthusiastic, pliable, young, overeducated students and liberal professionals who are willing to aid Islam in dissolving our constitution that was declared in May, 250 years ago. America had better wake up and take up its call to arms. The lines are once again drawn, and now we have more enemies to see their task through.

We are staring the past in the face before us, and we damn well bond together and keep what our founding fathers so lovingly gave us.

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Ask A Texan: What Will Allah Have For The Terrorist When They Get To His Place?


Sometimes correct but snarky advice for those who seek it.

This Iranian fellow sent me an email ranting and raving about what the US is doing to his country. I asked him why he was here in the US. He says he didn’t feel safe over there anymore, and besides, he can get almost everything for free over here. He also said he is considering wrapping himself in explosives and blowing up a Quick Trip gas station or a 7-11. He wants to go to Allah’s Heaven in the worst way so he can get his 72 or so virgins. I took him seriously, so I alerted the two businesses. I also sent him a picture of what to “really” expect when he gets there. I also sent him a Bible and a box of cherry bombs wrapped in melted chocolate.

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Ask A Texan: Ozempic Is A Pain In The Butt


Real Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Have Any Brain Cells left….

The Texan

This Texan received a request for help written on the back of a Walmart bag, the new ones made from paper. Mr. Weemus Weesley of Sore Rabbit Foot, South Dakota, says his wife is abusing Ozempic in the worst way possible.

Mr. Weesley: Mr. Texan, there ain’t nobody in our town that knows nothing about nothing. My wife, Luella, is a bit overweight. Well, some folks say she just has big bones, but she is honestly just a bit overweight, as are most women her age during menopause. Most of the weight is in her buttocks. I had to butter up the door jambs to the bathroom just so she could get in there for a shower. Her Doctor gave her a script for this new weight loss stuff, Ozempic, but she is deathly afraid of needles and passes out after I give her the first jab.

Some influencer on social media said she could inject this stuff into a blueberry and put it up her behind like a suppository. So she tried it. It was working for a while, and she wasn’t eating two gallons of Blue Bunny ice cream a day, but then she stopped losing weight everywhere except in her buttocks and her hands and her feet, and now the rest of her is still a bit heavy, but her ass, feet, and hands are the size of a little kid’s. She’s going through two or three pounds of Blueberries a week, and now I don’t have any to put in my yogurt, and she has this little gimlet ass, hands, and feet about the size of our six-year-old granddaughters, who refuses to come visit because Luella looks like some weird alien from those 1950s scary shows. She’s so freaky looking, I can’t even take her to Walmart at midnight when no one is there except folks in their jammies. Any ideas on this one?

The Texan: Well, Mr. Weesley, I’m almost out of words on this one. I’ve seen the pictures of the Hollywood crowd, and they all look like “The Night of the Living Dead,” staggering around with folks helping them to walk. This might be a good movie for her to watch. I believe it’s on Amazon. Take those Ozempic pens and squish all the juice out, then fill them with liquid Miralax, and change her ice cream to Bluebell. She might still be a bit overweight, but she’ll be regular and happy. This is just a phase these women are going through. Oprah will look like her old, chubby self once she stops the Ozempic. I’m sending you a case of liquid Miralax and some cherry bombs just to cheer you up.

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The Light Crust Doughboys Are On The Air


One Hundred Fifty Years Of Texas Music

Back in 1985, my father’s band, The Light Crust Doughboys, recorded an album that was meant to focus on Texas music, some present, mostly passed. Country music wasn’t invented in Fort Worth, Texas, but Western Swing was. Bob Wills started as a Light Crust Doughboy, as did most of the great talent from the 1930s onward. I was fortunate to have known every man on this record for my entire life. The members on this album were: Jim Boyd, vocals and rhythm guitar; Jerry Elliot, vocals and electric guitar; my father, Johnny Strawn, fiddle, electric mandolin, and vocals; Bill Simmons- keyboard; Elden Graham, stand-up bass; Marc Jaco, electric bass; Maurice Anderson, pedal steel guitar; Dale Cook-drums; Phil Strawn, five-string banjo; and Gary Murray, announcer. The album was recorded at Sumet-Burnet Sound Studios in Dallas, Texas, in April of 1985. Recording engineers were Bob Sullivan and Bobby Dennis. It was produced by Marvin Montgomery.

Songs on the album, in order, are: Side One 1. The Light Crust Doughboy Theme Song. 2. The Yellow Rose of Texas, 3. When The Bloom Is On The Sage, 4. Texas In My Soul, 5. Beautiful Texas, 6. Waiting For A Train, 7. Old Joe Clark with myself on five string banjo and my father on fiddle, 8.Tumbling Tumble Weeds, 9. You’re from Texas, composed by the legendary Cindy Walker. Side 2, 1. If You’re Gonna Play In Texas You Gotta Have A Fiddle In The Band, 2. Amarillo By Morning, 3. Across The Alley From The Alamo, 4. In The Mood, done the Texas western swing way, 5. Does Fort Worth Evdr Cross Your Mind, 6. Sure ‘Nuf Texan, 7. Texas When I Die, 8. Closing radio them, the song the band has always used since their inception in the early 1930s.

They are inductees into the Western Swing Hall of Fame and the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, and are part of the Country And Western Hall of Fame ( Chet Atkins always decided who would be inducted )

I traveled with these men for many miles, driving their van, loading and setting up their equipment, and playing bass, guitar, and banjo when one of them was ill and couldn’t make the show. Smokey Montgomery made me an official member of the band in 1984, which was the greatest honor any musician could dream of. The one cut from the album included in this post features my father (fiddle) and me (five-string banjo) playing the old 1800s standard, “Old Joe Clark,” with the rest of the Light Crust Doughboy band. We may grow old and die, but our music lives on forever.

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Ask A Texan: Selling Body Parts Is Quite Profitable…


Drug and Age Induced Advice For Seniors Over 75

I’m turning 77 in a few months, and the only object made from fine wood that I want is a Gibson F5 G Mandolin. Banjo Ben in Mo. has a used one for 4900. bucks. I’ve contacted The Southwestern Medical Center about selling a kidney ( I only need one to pee), maybe a pinky toe, and both testicles, but no response just yet. My son is checking into a clinic in Martamoras, Mexico, that is willing to give me a nice sum for all usable parts, so I can purchase the instrument. I don’t need balls, a pinky toe, or two kidneys to play, so it may work out. I’ll keep you all informed on the negotiations, though my Spanish is limited to “more chips and salsa.” Pronto. How many testicles does a man really need?

This sounds very inappropriate, so sorry.