Straight Fs, Sobriety, and Six Shots: My Not-So-Serious Life

If y’all notice, I’ve taken up writin’ like the country boy I always been—part farmer, part cowboy, and maybe just a dab of pure ornery...OK, maybe more'n just a dab. Figured it’d do good for my great-grandkids’ great-grandkids to know ol’ great-great-great-grandpa wasn’t exactly a genius. Bless my heart, I tried to be serious, but that dog just wouldn’t hunt. Heck, I even gave preachin’ a go for six years. Learned to mimic them good ol’ fire-and-brimstone Baptist radio preachers with their thunderin’ voices, but I just couldn’t find the passion for it. Once I left the nest, well, that country boy in me busted loose like a calf outta the corral.

I went off to college, but shoot, I’d rather be shootin’ pool than sittin’ in some lecture hall. Don’t know if you know it or not, but them highfalutin university folks ain’t too fond of an empty seat in their classrooms. I got the boot after a semester of straight Fs, and they showed me the door right quick. Took me 30 years to figure out maybe they had a point. Around 45, I got it through my thick skull and went back to college, earned my degree at 48 with a shiny 3.9 GPA. But not before dealin’ with them Fs—funny how they stick with ya, huh?

Now, I ain’t no stranger to tough times. Spent 18 years drinkin’ like a fish, but I’ve been sober for 40 now 2 different sobrietys a breakin' the 18 years. Even so, I never could take life too serious. It’s all been one big joke to me—‘course not all jokes end with folks laughin’. Back when I was a West Texas cop, I got a wild idea one cold night, ‘round 20 degrees out. Spotted a big ol’ dead rattlesnake someone’d run over in the road. Figured, “Why not have a little fun with this?” Tossed that snake in the back of my pickup, headed to the station, and found my buddy—poor feller who’s scared stiff of snakes.

Lucky for me (or not), his squad car was parked right by mine. Grabbed his keys, coiled that snake up real nice in the passenger floorboard, and waited for detail meetin’ to wrap up. Oh, I was grinnin’ ear to ear, waitin’ to see the fireworks. Soon as detail ended, my buddy hopped in his car, flipped on the interior light, and started fiddlin’ with his paperwork. Then it happened—BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! Six shots fired! He emptied that six-shooter into the already-dead snake, plus a good bit of the floorboard for good measure. When he figured out I was the mastermind behind it, well, let’s just say he called me words I reckon Webster’s ain’t published yet.

That night, I thought, “Boy, better not get yourself in a fix where you’re acountin’ on him to back you up!” Next mornin’, Chief called me in, laughin’ so hard he was nearly cryin’. Then he managed to get out, “Oh, and by the way, that’s two weeks off without pay!” Yep, seemed like a good idea at the time!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Baths, Buckets, and Lessons Learned: Memories of Life on the Farm

Well, lemme tell ya somethin' here, partner. Back in the days before I was even knee-high to a grasshopper, my folks got by just fine with a good ol’ windmill and a sturdy oak bucket for all our water needs—drinkin’, cookin’, and cleanin' up. When I was ’round four years old, I recall we still had that windmill spinnin’, but now we’d gotten fancy with a hand pump to pull the water up. I reckon it felt like a big upgrade back then.

Come my seventh year, Daddy decided to tear down that old windmill, and in its place, he put in one of them newfangled electric pumps right in the well. To top it off, he ran pipes straight into the kitchen so we could have water right inside the house. Lord, I tell ya, we thought we’d gone and made it to town livin’! Only catch was, we didn’t have no hot water heater yet, so for warm water, we’d fire up the stove. It took a while to heat enough water to fill up that ol’ number 2 washtub for a bath. Once we had the water hot, the whole family took turns bathin’ in it, same water, one after another, right there on the kitchen floor. Yep, that’s how it was—so, baths were reserved for Wednesday nights before prayer meetin’, Saturdays for town visits, and Sunday church. And I gotta admit, we were a little *ripe* between washes.

Now, let me share somethin’ funny about that ol’ #2 washtub. Back then, me and Mama would get our baths first, and by the time it was Daddy’s turn, the water had cooled off a bit but was still good to go. Daddy would climb into that tub, sittin’ right in the middle of the kitchen floor, which had a door opening onto the porch. Now, folks who came visitin’ always went to the back door, which we kept wide open with just a screen door to keep the critters out. Well, wouldn’t ya know, one fine day, right in the middle of Daddy latherin’ himself up, one of them right-righteous ladies from the church showed up. She came to the screen door fixin’ to knock, but when she saw Daddy sittin’ there in his altogether, her eyes just about popped outta her head! She let out a holler, turned tail, and ran faster than a fox in a henhouse, yellin’, “I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING, I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!” From that day forward, anytime she came by, she’d start shoutin’ her arrival long before she got near the door. Lesson learned, I reckon!

By the time I was nine, the farm got to be a tough haul. We packed up and hightailed it out to California, where Daddy took up a job as head ginner at one of the cotton gins his buddy managed. Let me tell ya, he made more money in three months of ginnin’ than he did in a whole year on the farm! But Daddy was a man of the land—his heart belonged to that Oklahoma dirt—so when ginnin’ season wrapped up, we headed back to the farm.

Now, with that California money, Daddy went and built us a proper bathroom onto the house. We got ourselves a lavatory, a shiny new hot water heater, and even a big ol’ porcelain tub—way bigger than that number 2 tub! Boy, I was happier than a pig in mud. I could take baths every day, and sometimes twice. Then came the day I laid eyes on my first shower, and, well, that was it for me! When I got hitched, my wife couldn’t believe it—I’d take a shower every morning, every night, and sometimes sneak in a third if the mood struck me. And you know what? I still do.

Ashes of the Prairie, Echoes of the Heart

The old cowhand stands, his battered hat pressed to his chest, silhouetted against the flames that stretch like an angry sunset across the once-peaceful prairie. His voice is low and weathered, cracking like the dry grass underfoot.

“Well, ain’t this a sight to behold? This land—this was my chapel, my livelihood, my home. The prairie... so endless, so alive. Now, she’s a red sea of fury, devouring all in her path. I reckon every blade of grass out there knows the end’s come callin’.  

This ol' land—she gave me everything. A place to lay my weary bones at the day's end, the scent of wildflowers carried on a stubborn wind, the quiet symphony of crickets beneath a watchful moon. Lord, I didn’t just work this land; I poured my soul into it, bit by bit, day after day. And now she’s burnin’, screamin’ to the heavens with a voice louder than thunder, sayin’... ‘No more.’  

Maybe it’s my fault. Took too much, gave too little. Or maybe it’s fate, nature’s way of remindin’ us that nothin' we claim is truly ours. But damn it all, it don’t make it easier to stand here and watch her die.  

The cattle’ll scatter, the barn’s bound to go up, and the wild’ll be barren long after the flames die down. But you know what scares me most? It ain’t the loss of land, nor the hard years ahead. It’s the stillness after the flames—that deafening silence when the fire's done takin’ and leaves you with nothin’ but ash and regret.  

I guess... I guess I’ll find a way, same as always. The prairie burns today, but I’ll saddle up tomorrow, pick through the ruin and see what’s left worth savin’. That’s what us cowhands do—we endure. And maybe, just maybe, the prairie will forgive me one day and let me start anew.”

He wipes his brow, dusts the soot from his trousers, and turns to face the fire once more. The wind howls, carrying embers into the starless sky.

How long’s it gonna take for folks to finally reckon with the land, the environment, to cherish her and treat her like the lifeblood she is?

Have a Good Week, Ya'll

Let’s be mindful of our earth and its well-being!

 

Mulberries, Chicken Mess, and That Skunky Ol’ Lesson

Reckon last week I was yammerin’ about why chicken makes my stomach churn somethin’ fierce. But, shoot, I forgot one mighty important piece o’ that story. Y’see, we had near ‘bout 200 chickens struttin’ around at any given time, which meant the ground was plum full of chicken mess. Add to that, we had these mulberry trees droppin’ their fruit like they owned the place. One day, the missus noticed I never went barefoot and asked why. I told her plain and simple, “Habit, darlin’. If I’d gone barefoot as a young’un, my feet would be stained mulberry purple and chicken brown for life!”

Speakin’ of stains that stick with ya, let me tell ya ‘bout the time me and my ol’ buddy got a wild hair to become big game trackers. We were just scrappy pre-teens, thought we was somethin’ special. Went and got us some double-ought traps—three, four apiece. Soon as the first snow dusted the ground, we lit out for the nearest tree-row. This particular row was hunkered down by a country road with a ditch ‘bout five feet below it.

We spied a well-worn critter track leadin’ right to a hole in the earth. Naturally, we figured, “This here’s the spot.” Set one o’ them traps in the track and secured the chain’s ring over a stob stickin’ out the ground. Didn’t know at the time that stob wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. After settin’ a couple more practice traps, we called it a day.

Next mornin’, we met bright and early to check our traps. Lo and behold, we’d caught somethin’ in that first one! But wouldn’t ya know it—the ring had slipped off the stob, and whatever it was had dragged the trap halfway into its hidey-hole. Now, in our infinite wisdom, we reckoned this critter musta backed itself in, draggin’ the trap along. “No problem,” we said. “We’ll just pull the chain and pop it when it shows itself.”

Well, famous last words! My buddy tugged that chain, and up comes this black-and-white critter with its tail high in the air. Yep, you guessed it—a skunk, lookin’ fit to spray. I took my shot, but that skunk got off his shot first. Direct hit—right in my buddy’s face! And, well, I didn’t come away smellin’ like roses neither.

Took a good week ‘fore my buddy could set foot in school again, and I was out for a few days myself. The stink faded some, but that skunk left its mark on me for life. To this day, my smeller don’t quite work right around skunks. And lemme tell ya, that ain’t necessarily a blessing!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Today Is My Seventeenth Year: The Unyielding March of Sobriety

March 12, 2018 - March 12, 2025

Well, lemme tell ya, son, life ain't been no easy road. Twenty-three long years I spent buildin' a life on the sturdy ground of sobriety. Through the sunny days and the stormy nights, I kept myself steady. Then one day, that ol' serpent came a-callin'. In a lonely hotel room, the sweet, temptin' call of a drink filled the silence. Like a fool, I gave in and danced to its tune.

For nine more years, I wandered lost in that dark maze, the taste of freedom replaced by the bitter clink of a glass. But here I am, standin' tall 17 years later. Seventeen long years of scratchin' and clawin' my way back, fightin' every single day to stay steady.

Folks say it gets easier. Easier? Easier to wake up with the echoes of nightmares fresh in my mind, the phantom burn of a drink scorchin' my throat? Easier to see the bridges almost crossed, the words almost spoken that could've shattered everything?

This is the harsh truth of alcoholism. It don't just fade away. It lingers, like a shadow at the corner of my eye, a whisper in the stillness. It's a constant reminder that one drink, one stumble, is all it takes to tumble back down. Twenty-three years. Seventeen years. These years are my armor. The scars etched deep into my soul are a testament to the fight, the shield I hold against the whispers.

I might've fallen in that dream, but I woke up. And that's my victory. This fight may never end, but I'll keep on fightin', one day, one dream, one battle at a time.

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Note: In the rooms of AA, we find strength not just in ourselves, but in a power greater than us. This power, for many, is God, understood as each individual sees fit. It's not about religious dogma, but about surrendering the reins we can't grip – the obsession with alcohol, the weight of guilt. By letting go and letting God in, we find a path to peace and a life free from the bottle. It's a powerful step, but not a lonely one. Together, in the fellowship of AA, we help each other on this journey, hand in hand, with a faith in a brighter tomorrow.

Have a Good Week, Ya'll! And THINK BEFORE YOU DRINK!!

Chicken Chaos: A Tale of Too Many Cluckers

Well, let me tell ya, “I HATE CHICKEN.” I saw this bumper sticker once, and boy, did it speak to my soul: “SUPPORT BEEF, RUN OVER A CHICKEN!” You see, growin' up, seemed like we had chicken every single night for supper and then leftover chicken for lunch. We had about 200 chickens on the ground at all times.

Come about 5 in the evenin', Mama'd grab that old wire hook and head outta the kitchen to take down a chicken for the night. She’d bring it in, pluck its feathers, and singe it over a burner on that old cook stove. Let me tell ya, that was the worst smell I ever did smell. Then, when I hit 10, she handed the chicken-killin' duties over to me. 

So there I'd go, with murder on my mind and that wire hook in my hand. “HERE CHICKEN, CHICKEN, CHICKEN,” like I had to call 'em in—there were chickens everywhere! Once I caught one of them boogers, I had to grab it by the neck and twist it real quick to separate head from body. If I did it just right, it was kinda impressive, but if not, I'd end up covered in chicken blood. Job done. 

“You want me to what? Pluck it and singe it?” Well, that sure didn't help my appetite any. When Mama'd get down on the chicken population, she’d sit in the sittin' room, and when old Paul Kellinger came on the radio from Ciudad Acuña right across the river from Del Rio, Texas, sellin' 200 baby chicks, I'd hear her scratchin' that pencil, ordering more. A week later, those dang squawkin' birds would arrive in a brooder box, and we'd pick 'em up at the Frisco Train Depot in Frederick. More dang chickens!

Sundays were a saving grace because she’d put on a roast while we were at church. Now, that was good eatin'. By the time I was 12, I started trotlining on North Fork of Red River for catfish whenever I could. Yep, there ain't no doubt about it—I HATE CHICKEN!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

From the Heart of an Okie: Momma, Daddy, and the Journey to My Texan Birth

Well, let me tell you about Momma and Daddy. They lived on a quaint little farm just west of Frederick, Oklahoma when Momma found out she was expectin' me. Now, Momma had a baby girl, Teddye Ann, ten years before me, but sadly, she was born still. Momma's heart ached for a baby so much that despite Doctor Allen's stern warnings, she decided to try again. You see, Momma was a petite woman, barely hittin' five feet tall and never weighin' more than a feather-light 110 pounds. Her deliveries were always a hard struggle for her. When she passed away at the grand age of 97, she weighed less than 90 pounds.

Momma and Daddy decided to give it another go, and she got pregnant again in the early months of 1945. When the time came for me to enter this world, Doctor Allen sent her on an ambulance ride from Frederick all the way to Wichita Falls, Texas for the delivery. Frederick only had a modest rural hospital, while Wichita General was a big deal back then. The doc had a hunch the delivery would need to be a cesarean.

So, early in 1946, I made my grand entrance, stamped a TEXAN right from birth. Well, shoot, I didn't ask for that! I'm an Okie at heart! But there it was, right there on my birth certificate. Now, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with Texas—I've lived here from the ripe age of 18 to my current wise age of 79—but my heart will always belong to Oklahoma. I might not be able to say, "Oklahoma born, Oklahoma bred, and when I die, I'll be Oklahoma dead," but in my heart, I'll always be an Okie.

I've seen and heard about the tough Dust Bowl years that swept through the land. Momma and Daddy weathered those rough times on our little farm. There's a grit and determination in those Okie farmers and ranchers that I hold dear.

So, here's a shoutout to my fellow Okies, whether it's in our nature or nurture, whether you're from Okie State, Okie U, or any of the other fine universities and colleges of Oklahoma. Whether you're Democrat or Republican, Baptist or Methodist, or hold any other belief, religious or not, to all the men, women, and others of this great Okie land, I say, GO OKLAHOMA!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!