Do you know what this is?
Yep! It’s the National Debt.
Staggering, isn’t it?
Tales from a Texas ranch from a City Boy with a Cowboy Hat
Plopped down by one of the stock tanks to watch the sunset and enjoy the evening breeze and the peace and quiet. Heard a rustling in the brush behind me and out stepped this specimen ... freaked me out when it barked!
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In spite of the ground being parched and re-parched, I found a bluebonnet today! There it was...all by its lonesome...having fought the plant-strangling drought to declare that it's springtime in West Texas. I was reminded of She-Who-Who-Has-No-Name...
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in Texas, there was a young Indian girl who had no name.
The tribe knew her as “She-Who-Has-No-Name ” …and while not necessarily shy, she seldom joined in normal activities around their village.
She could be found typically standing just outside the circle of various groups of her tribe, whether they be children or adults … watching …holding her beloved doll.
About that time, there came a drought that struck the land and its native people with such a devastating blow that even the medicine men worried for the future.
Season after season came and went with no clouds …no rain …no early-morning fog …no snow.
The Fall had no color since the trees had no leaves.
And the winters that followed were bitter and cold …with howling winds strong enough to suck the breath out of anything that lived.
Countless Spring times had come and gone when the promise of fruitfulness and abundance was answered with nothing but stinging dust to swirl across the land as winds pushed it this way and that …no grass blades, bushes or trees to shield the soil.
Summers, too, bent such a powerful, parching heat upon the country that the animals - Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Buffalo, Mr. Deer, Mr. Raccoon and the others left the countryside to find sustenance and reprieve elsewhere, leaving the bleached bones of their less-lucky brethren behind.
Even Mr. Rattlesnake sought different places.
There were no streams, no lakes, no ponds …no water. No grass, no flowers, no berries, no fruit.
Only Mr. Coyote stayed, although he frequently wondered to himself about his decision to do so. He knew his ribs showed clearly beneath his, now shaggy, coat of fur. But he stayed, because the People stayed.
Just the land …and the endlessly, cloudless sky.
Large cracks shattered the thirsty soil and each day, they widened and lengthened into dark, black chasms that seemed to drop into an endless blackness below. Mothers were careful not to let their babies get close …for fear that there might be demons below who would snatch them from the crevice edge.
The People suffered, and many died.
It became clear to them that the Great Spirit was unhappy.
So… the medicine men danced to the drums in supplication …and the People danced with them, sending their cries in unison heavenward to the Great Spirit, begging for respite … pleading for rain …begging for mercy.
Courageous warriors, overwrought with their condition and that of their tribe, cut themselves with their razor-sharp flint knives so that their own blood flowed onto …and into the earth …hoping the Great Spirit would notice their plight.
Watching all this silently from the shadows of her tepee, She-Who-Has-No-Name clutched her beloved doll that had been fashioned from bleached buckskin.
Even though she felt the stab of hunger in her belly, there was something that made her love this doll as much as she loved her own family.
It was finely decorated with eyes, nose, mouth and ears painted with bright red berry juice. It had leggings beaded with polished bone and seeds.
From a braided buffalo-hair belt hung the teeth of a bobcat. And upon its head was a war-bonnet made from the bright blue feathers of the bird that cried “Jay! Jay! Jay!”
It had been a special gift from her grandfather … who had died in the early days of the drought.
Suddenly, the medicine man fell to the earth, in a cloud of dust …exhausted.
The drums ceased. The people froze in amazement.
What sweat remained in his body glistened on his skin in the flickering of the fires.
Looking up at the others beneath a star-speckled sky he announced that he had a message from the Great Spirit.
The message was that the tribe must make a sacrifice. They must make a sacrifice of their most prized possession. It must be a burnt offering, said the medicine man. And once made, the ashes must be scattered to the four points of the compass … north …east … south …and west. Only then would the Great Spirit’s annoyance with his people be put to rest.
The medicine man looked at his chief … then at his people.
Long, silent moments passed, and a low murmur arose amongst the People.
Quietly, they questioned one another …what was their most prized possession?
After years of drought and hardship …they hardly had anything at all.
It was late and all decided to take the question to sleep with them …and find an answer in the morning.
The crowd dispersed to their tepees, still murmuring to one another ...heads bowed from exhaustion or consternation.
In the shadows, outside the flickering light of the tribal fires, sat Mr. Coyote.
He watched the girl called She-Who-Has-No-Name …and saw her glance at her doll and clutch it a little more tightly to her body.
He smiled to himself, turned, and loped off to his den in the rocks about half-a-mile away.
She-Who-Has-No-Name knew. She knew what the most prized possession was. While the others talked about it, and wondered …she knew. It was in her arms. It was her doll.
She loved that doll like nothing else. While the other children giggled and laughed and played games, she tended to the warrior doll that was given her by her grandfather.
She ate with it, slept with it, and had there been water, she probably would have bathed with it.
She was the last one standing near the circle where the tribal fires were turning to embers. She looked at her doll …then at the dying fire, then suddenly turned and peered into the darkness at the very spot where Mr. Coyote had sat just moments before.
In spite of a heavy heart, She-who-had-no-name knew what she had to do.
She-Who-Has-No-Name returned to her father’s tepee and lay down on her buffalo blanket. She held her beloved doll tightly …and waited for the others fall asleep.
Night sounds were all around her. They seemed more defined than other nights.
She heard to footfall of a neighbor’s dog, there were cries of geese far overhead returning to their northern home and the hoot of a hunting horned owl.
There was the slow, rhythmic breathing of her father and mother, and brother and sister as they fell slowly into a deep but troubled sleep.
Then …in the distance, she heard the sharp bark and long, wailing howl of Mr. Coyote …as if he were making the sound, just for her.
She waited until she knew her family was truly asleep.
Quietly …furtively …with the silence of a cat, she arose. Quickly she retrieved a stick of wood still smoldering in the tepee fire, its heat still glowing on one end. Then she stepped out into the night, with the smoldering stick …and her doll.
The stars were out …sprinkled across the dark heavens …but there was no moon. And it was quiet …very quiet. Tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks.
Moving well away from the camp, but not too far, she gathered small sticks and twigs with which she made a mound and lit it with her ember from the tepee.
As the little fire grew, She-Who-Has-No-Name took her most prized possession and thrust it into the fire. By now, her tears were gone. She watched as the fire consumed her doll. She could smell the burning of the dried leather and the feathers of its headdress.
She nudged it now and then with a stick until the whole doll was burned, and then waited until nothing but ashes were left.
Then, as she had seen her father and other men do, she scooped up the ashes and cast them in four different directions …to the north …to the east …to the south …and finally, to the west … the acrid smell of the ashes filling her nose.
That done, she sat where she had stood. She was exhausted. Soon she fell asleep …but not for long.
She awakened just as the eastern sky turned ever so slightly brighter. Her hand swept against something …soft? Then she smelled something fragrant …sweet. What was this?
She couldn’t tell in the darkness, but she wasn’t afraid. But, she scampered back to her tepee and awoke her mother.
She tugged her sleepy mother by the hand to the spot where she had made her own personal sacrifice and slept amongst the ashes she had spread.
As the coming sun brightened the world around them enough to see, She-Who-Has-No-Name and her mother gazed upon a little lake surrounded by blue flowers … blue as the feathers of the raucous bird that cries “Jay! Jay! Jay!”
Both stood, hand-in-hand, amazed.
When her mother looked at her, told her of her sacrifice. Her mother told her father, who in turn told the chief and medicine men, who told the rest of the tribe.
The whole tribe came to see the little lake surrounded by thick, blue flowers. They spoke quietly to each other, some coming to She-Who-Has-No-Name to say “thank you.”
Even as they did, clouds formed in the sky and a soft, rain began to fall. The tribe, every man, woman and child stood in the rain, many with uplifted arms, as it soaked into the ground and kissed their skin.
It rained many times like that over the several seasons, and the trees and bushes grew back their leaves …grasses grew in the fields and berries on their vines …flowers added themselves to the growing carpet of bluebonnets that spread even more around the growing lake. The animals returned, including Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Buffalo, Mr. Deer and even Mr. Rattlesnake.
The tribe changed the young girl’s name from She-Who-Has-No-Name to She-Who-Dearly-Loves-Her-People and the little girl …as she grew …would sit on a hillside and watch as the bluebonnets spread further and further across the land, mixing with the red and pink of wild phloxes and the orange and rose of the Indian paintbrush.
Every now and then she would catch a glimpse of Mr. Coyote who seemed to wink at her just before disappearing into the nearby brush.
So today, as Texas emerges each year from Winter …and Spring begins to stretch into life, the bluebonnets roll out their royal carpet for all of us … and She-Who-Dearly-Loves-Her-People.
[this is a story I tell to youngsters around a campfire during the spring season]
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The Parrot…a story…
Music by The Four Bags used under the Creative Commons License from MusicAlley.
Click HERE to listen…(3 minutes 20 seconds)
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Dr. Barksdale, a local Dallas physician, was driving home past White Rock Lake from a country-club dance late one Saturday night.
He slowed a bit while driving past the lake so he could admire the glistening of the full moon against the water.
As he drove, enjoying the view, out of the corner of his eye appeared a lovely young girl by the roadside, dressed in the sheerest of evening gowns, beckoning him for a lift.
He slowed, stopped and motioned her to climb into the back seat of his sedan.
"All cluttered up with golf clubs and bags up here in front," he explained. "But what on earth is a youngster like you doing out here all alone at this time of night?"
Listen...
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I met Charles Chupp about three years ago after stumbling on one of his books at the second-hand book store.
Little later, when the clerk came around and announced, “We’re closing now,” I’d made it more than halfway through the book.
Had to buy it, because I wasn’t finished.
However, was glad to pay the discounted price (being the Scotsman that I am) because it started me on a soul-enriching journey of putting Charles Chupp’s writing to voice, with his permission, of course.
Hope you like my read of Charles Chupp’s “Dog Pile!”
| Listen... |
| Six minutes |
| Music by: Carl Cubbedge |
| under Creative Commons License Podshow Podsafe Music Network |
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Last year a friend of mine sent me an email with a video attached to it.
The video was by Baxter Black - a superb performer, also a veterinarian, and a poet, a storyteller and who knows what else.
Anyway, the video was titled “So Lucky To Be An American.”
I watched it; then I watched it again. I even watched it a third time, which is unlike me.
I was moved by Baxter Black’s comments in that video and the fact that he made his comments from the front porch of his country home had even more impact on my mind.
I became curious, so I searched out Baxter Black.
Found him on the Internet at www.BaxterBlack.com and then discovered he’d been a regular on RFDTV since 2005.
You can find RFDTV on your TV remote guide if you look hard enough or you can visit their website at RFDTV.com.
Good stuff, if you're country-oriented.
Not only that, I found Baxter on National Public Radio as a regular.
You can find his NPR stuff HERE.
Anyway, thought I’d give Baxter a call to see if he’d chat with me for a few moments about who he was, where he came from, and how he came to Entertainment when he was a veterinarian by training.
He said “okay” so here you have it.
Listen!
| Listen... |
| Sixteen minutes |
| Music by the Dave Lambert Band |
| Visit Baxter Black's website HERE |
| Photo by Kevin Martini Fuller |
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This podcast was inspired by Tracy Funchess—who is an instructor at Azle Junior High School in Azle, Texas.
She’s also Charles Chupp’s favorite, and only I might add, daughter.
Tracy got her dad to furnish the words—and then asked me to provide the recitation.
I was more than happy to comply.
All of us, Charles, Tracy and I, hope this story brings a little Christmas joy to your Holiday Season—and the upcoming year of 2009.
| Listen... |
| Six minutes |
| Music by: |
| Tracy Jane Comer and The New Autonomous Folksingers under Creative Commons License |
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After several hiccups, bumps, potholes and a move halfway across Texas, I managed to link up with Charles Chupp last week in Brownwood. Met him at a place called Skillets and he bought me lunch as we talked about, well, everything.
He also gave me a couple of his books – “Waggin’ Tails” and “Coffee at LaDon’s.” He signed them both for me.
I’d been struggling to get a makeshift studio together in my new digs near San Angelo so I could renew my efforts for The Texana Review, which includes some reading of Charles Chupp’s work.
I already had one of his other writings picked out when I picked up “Waggin’ Tails” and read the first story titled “Sooner.” I knew I had to put voice to it.
Sooner was Charles Chupp's first canine companion.
So, rather than later, here’s “Sooner.”
(Oh, by the way, a few definitions: "Hugh" is Charles Chupp’s dad; "John Franklin," his younger brother; and "snipes," well they’re cigarette butts for those who haven't the addiction to tobacco)
Listen...  |
| 7:00 minutes |
| Music by Jim Fidler under Creative Commons License Podshow Podsafe Music Network |
| Buy Charles Chupp's books at his website HERE |
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History 101 by Charles Chupp isn't the history I remember learning as a history major in college. Nor as a continuing student of that which could teach us the future, if we were to pay attention - you know, history.
Nonetheless, historians can have fun with the story-telling of history, especially if you're blessed with a fertile mind, a Big Chief tablet and No. 2 pencil; and just as especially, if you're proud of your community and your state.
And that's what Charles Chupp does, and is.
Listen...  |
| 5:47 minutes |
| Buy Charles Chupp's books on his website HERE |
| Music by Luke McNeil under Creative Commons License Podshow Podsafe Music Network |
| Support from |
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(Podcast)
Charles Chupp grew up in a small Texas town, De Leon to be exact. And like anyone who spent any meaningful time in a small town, they know just how important the local movie house was on Saturady mornings. Here's a thoughtful memory from Charles Chupp. It's titled "Showbiz."
Play and/or download HERE
3:38 minutes
Or click HERE to use a media player
Charles Chupp's website:
Music by Rob Costlow under Creative Commons License
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