My One Hundredth Post

     I first posted on this blog January 10, 2012.  This week represents my one year anniversary and I feel that I should do something to celebrate that milestone.  I searched my mind for some appropriate method of acknowledgement and came up with what I consider a brilliant idea.  I’ll post an essay.  This will be my one-hundredth post.

     During the past year, I have written about subjects near and dear to my heart.  I have tried to be honest, objective, and fair in my stories, but I admit I’m human and have my biases which might accidently show through.  I have written about Barbeque, oil fields, a road trip and my Uncle John Burleson.  I have discussed and included recipes for pecan pie, lemon velvet ice cream, enchiladas, guacamole, apple pie, and refried black-eyed peas.

     I did a series of articles about the Texas Revolution, the luck of Sam Houston and the egotistical arrogance of General Santa Anna.  A friend chastised me for mentioning that William Barrett Travis, the hero of the Alamo, was eaten up with gonorrhea.  My friend does not understand that I want to tell truthful things that were not in my history books.  Travis was no less a hero because of his propensity to dip his wick in tainted wells—he still wrote a mean letter and he wrote several beauties from the Alamo during the siege.  He was self-treating his affliction with mercury at the time, but I don’t want to infer that those fine letters were the product of a deranged mind.

     When I wrote about sweet Panchita Alavez, I mentioned the inept Col. James Walker Fannin.  Fannin felt he should have been supreme commander of the Texas army, based on twenty-one months undergraduate work he did at West Point.  He managed to leave the safest fort in Texas and allow his troops to be surrounded and captured in the middle of a pasture near Coleta Creek.  He did not do this by making an honest mistake.  He did it by repeatedly ignoring Houston’s orders through obstinacy, arrogance, indecision and stupidity.  The Mexicans forced him to watch the execution of his entire command before they shot him.  I’ll get back to him later.

     I have lately been involved with a series on the remarkable women of Texas, and there are many.  My reasons for focusing on the women are simple.  They are more fun than most of the men.  And tougher.  And better looking. This fixation on Texas women started when I looked at a family picture of my father’s parents, taken around nineteen hundred.

      In the picture, Amanda, my grandmother, was a wisp of a girl, twenty-four years old, maybe ninety-five pounds, surrounded by her husband and eight children.  The children were all dressed to the nines in homespun clothing, starched and ironed.  Mandy wore a lacey, fitted black dress and grandfather was decked out in a suit and tie.  Mandy made all their clothing and probably starched and ironed everything that morning.  She was radiant in the picture, contented and smiling.  She was most likely pregnant, but her waist was still tiny.  The pregnancy did not yet show.

     I mention that because Amanda went on to have six more children in the next six years.  Dad was the youngest.  I’ve often wondered if some sympathetic doctor tied her tubes then, because she had the last of fourteen children at age thirty.  By the way—in the picture I mentioned Mandy was radiant and smiling.  James, my grandfather, had a different expression.  He looked for all the world like a deer caught in headlights—he was scared to death, perhaps wondering how he could afford to pay the photographer.

     Oddly, my most popular post has been the Pecan Pie Recipe, with 180 hits, most of them during the recent holiday season.  The “Village Blacksmith Outed,” about my friend R.G. Box and his creation “Rowdy,” follows with 107 hits, then Tom T. Hall with 106, and the cute, transplanted little Texan, Gus Gaunt, with 74.  The road trip story about Fresno and Bakersfield is next with 66 hits, then the World’s Championship Barbeque Cook-off, and on and on.

       I have not counted, but I estimate that I have written over 125,000 words here in the past year, and it is still fun.  I indulge myself with my writing—no one is grading it, so I do as I please.  I always capitalize “Barbeque” and refuse to capitalize “yankee.”  Drives the spell-check crazy, but pleases me.

     I’ll wrap this up.  My blog is most popular in the U.S., with over 12,000 page-views.   Russia is second with 375, but Russia has quit hitting the last few months and I don’t understand why.  Guatemala is third, with 137 hits, I’m sure because my friend John Bacon spends time down there.  I had 13 hits from Spain while Hugh and Ken visited Andalusia, and a few from Costa Rica where Jack and Mandy Robbins vacationed.  The rest are scattered around the world, probably spread among insomniacs with computers in some third world country with electricity.

     One last observation—I have accrued $30.76 in my Google account.  They pay me based upon how many people view the little ads in the top corner of each entry.  When I get $100.00, they will send me a check.  I had hoped this to be a source of fun and profit, but it looks like I’ll have to settle for fun.  You all go back and read something I wrote last year and stay with me now, ya hear.

Is Cinco de Mayo some kind of Mexican Sandwich?

                                                         

      If the number of people moving into Texas keeps rising, will Texas be able to pass on the Texas State of Mind?  That is the question asked by Robyn, a friend of mine who worries about such things.  Robyn grew up in California, and loves that state, but she has always been intrigued by the deep sense of pride and unwavering loyalty to homeland that defines Texans.

     She first noticed this phenomenon as a teenager when exposed to Texas children in California schools.  In the 1940s, southern families came to California in droves, forced by the Depression and the Dust Bowl to relocate or starve.  Some children, those from Oklahoma, Arkansas, and other beleaguered southern states, began to assimilate the culture of California, and adjust to their surroundings.  Not so the Texans.  They had no desire to adjust to this foreign country.  They incessantly griped about the weather, the scenery, the way people talked.  They constantly compared everything to Texas, and everything came up short.  They were slow-talking, loud-mouthed, uncouth little disciples from the land of the Rio Grande, and were going back there as soon as circumstances permitted. 

     My friend Robyn, and most everyone else in California, soon became tired of the obnoxious visitors, but she couldn’t help but wonder about a land that marked its people so deeply.  Now, as a Texas resident, she sees this unnatural pride of place, deep reverence for local history, and unjustifiable loyalty from a new perspective—and she sees it up close and personal.

      Her Texas friends and neighbors make statements like, “The best cantaloupes in the world come from Pecos, Texas.” "Everybody knows the Cowboys are the best team in football, except for the Texans.”  “The Texas Hill Country has the sweetest water on God’s green earth.”  “They grow more cotton in Lubbock County than they do in Egypt.” “Ain’t no watermelons as good as the ones from Luling, Texas.”  “Texas ought to secede from the Union—let them yankees freeze in the dark.” “Did you know the hamburger was invented in Athens, Texas?” “All the helium in the United States comes from some wells up by Amarillo.” “The best looking women in the world come from Dallas.”

     Texans make these statements in a matter-of-fact tone, leaving no room for discussion.  Robyn realizes, after years of conditioning, that Texans are not purposely being rude, they truly do not recognize any other point of view.  These “facts,” and many others, are ingrained into Texans from birth.  Texans know they are true—no sense arguing about it.

     The short answer to Robyn’s question—with the population increase, will Texans be able to pass on their state of mind—is no.  In my lifetime, the Texan mindset has eroded dramatically and will continue to do so.  The great leveling influence, forced by the passage of time and the influx of people, will slowly work to homogenize Texans into the same bland beings that inhabit the rest of our country.  As with other current trends, seemingly logical and just actions have unforseen consequences.

    Individualism, the very rock of the Texas spirit, is actively discouraged in today's world.  Individuals are viewed as selfish, greedy, and not to be trusted.  The popular view holds that individuals create and hoard vast resources and refuse to share with a needy public.  The public is needy through no fault of its own—it was not given the opportunity to accumulate a fortune at the expense of others.  Even if it had been, it was far too noble to have done so.

      Consider the spoken word.  Texans’ unique accents and mannerisms are disappearing.  College students, especially coeds, spend hours practicing enunciation to get rid of their drawls.  A “Texas Drawl” is considered a liability in the business world and seems to be forbidden in the entertainment industry.  Actors like Sam Elliot are allowed to keep their natural accents, and they are type-cast to emphasize their speech patterns, often for comic relief or ridicule.

     As with so many facets of our existence, our country—the United States, not Texas—puts a high value on diversity, then exerts every effort to suppress it.  For an example, look at television news.  More and more women, and blacks, and Hispanics, and even a few token Arabs are broadcasting the evening news, but they all sound as if they had the same speech coach.  Women are welcomed, so long as they have fantastic legs and are willing to display them in impossibly short skirts.  They cannot get comfortable, knowing that the slightest movement will expose their assets.  Even the weather girl needs a boob job to get out of the sticks and onto the network.  We are encouraged to diversify as much as we want, so long as we conform.

     In my lifetime, I have watched colorful parades and lavish celebrations of San Jacinto Day dwindle to a scant mention in the back pages of the newspaper.  More people in Houston, and the rest of Texas, celebrate Cinco de Mayo than Texas Independence Day.  I was grown before I learned Cinco de Mayo was not some kind of Mexican sandwich.  The more diversified we are, the more people who crowd in to take our jobs, the less important our heritage becomes. 

     A few of us are working to keep that heritage strong, focusing on old-time values, reminding others of the great history of this state, and instilling Texas pride in our young people.  We are moderately effective, but people are indifferent, and the tide is turning. My son is a true Texan, but he lives in Colorado, where his son will grow up talking funny.  My daughter has a fervent faith in all things Texan, but her children’s eyes glaze over when I start to tell about how Cap'n Jack Hays and the Texas Rangers once fought the Comanche in our little valley. 

     I will keep spreading the word, and I will keep losing ground.  The Texas that I once knew--flamboyant oilmen,  frugal ranchers,  gritty promoters,  optimistic farmers--still exists, but is fading fast.  Ambition is viewed as a character flaw.   Courage, ethics, fortitude, and determination are laughed at by lawyers and spin doctors who know that image is everything, and reality is contrived to fit the situation. 
     No, Robyn, we won’t be able to pass on our heritage, our spirit, our love of this place.  That will all die—but it will die hard, and I will be lucky.  I will die first.

Juanita Dale Slusher---Texas Women Series

    No listing of notable Texas women would be complete without reference to Juanita Dale Slusher.  Writing poetry was not chief among her accomplishments, but held an important place in her heart.  She poured out her soul in poems such as this:

Hate the world that strikes you down,

A warped lesson quickly learned.

Rebellion, a universal sound,

Nobody cares, no one’s concerned.

Fatigued by unyielding strife,

Self-pity consoles the abused.

And the bludgeoning of daily life,

Leaves a gentle mind…..confused.

     Juanita wrote this poem in 1962, while serving time in the Goree State Prison Farm for Women, outside Huntsville, Texas. At the time, she was married to a fellow named Jack Sahakian, the Hollywood “hairdresser to the stars” of that day.  Jack was Juanita’s third husband and they were married in 1959, while she was headlining at a the EL Rancho Vegas Hotel.  Two weeks later, she was arrested by the FBI.  Her four-year-old daughter stayed with Jack while Juanita Dale served her time.

Who needs captions?

     You may know of Juanita by her stage name—Candy Barr.  Barney Weinstein, owner of both the Theater Lounge and the Colony Club in downtown Dallas, gave her that name because of her teenage craving for Snickers candy bars.  It was 1951 and she was a sixteen-year-old divorcee with an angelic face and  unbelievable body.

     Juanita was born in Edna, Texas, on July 6, 1935, the youngest of five children.  Her mother died in a car accident when she was nine, and her dad remarried.  The stepmother was physically abusive, and Juanita experimented sexually with a teenage neighbor boy and an older babysitter.  Knowing Juanita's proclivities, it was playful sex among consenting adolescents, but today it would be considered sexual abuse.  When she was thirteen, Juanita ran away.  She left the ninth grade and moved to Dallas, where she grew up quickly.

     Juanita Dale worked as a chambermaid in a cheap hotel and, when she was fourteen, was briefly married to a safe cracker named Billy Joe Debbs.  When the marriage dissolved, she started working as a cigarette girl and cocktail waitress in seedy men’s clubs.  Because of her perky good looks, quick wit, saucy humor, and willingness to share that fantastic body, she quickly became a favorite of the lonely patrons. 

     While most girls her age were learning ninth-grade geography, hoping to make cheerleader, and holding hands with their boyfriends, Juanita was dealing with drunken salesmen, obscene conventioneers, and immature frat boys.  She learned to dispense her charms in direct relation to the size of the bills the customers stuffed into her skimpy costume.  Most of her patrons were allowed a suggestive pat or perhaps a kiss on the cheek, but some of the more generous were invited to share her bed.  It was more Texas hospitality than outright prostitution.  As Reba McIntyre said, “Be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy, and they’ll be nice to you.”

     By the time she was sixteen, Juanita was five-feet-three, voluptuous, and absolutely beautiful.  A “producer” approached and asked her to do a screen test for a starring role in a movie.  She should have wondered when the “screen test” was held at a San Antonio motel.  She said she was drugged and coerced at gunpoint into making the fifteen-minute hardcore film, but that did not hurt her performance.   The 8mm pornographic movie was called “Smart Alec” and became an “underground” sensation

      At the urging of Barney Weinstein, she bleached her hair, stepped onstage at the Colony Club and soon became the most sought-after stripper in Dallas.  Weinstein named her “Candy Barr” and paid her $85.00 per week, about the same as a good civil engineer made in 1951.  Her trademark costume was a white cowboy hat, pasties, bikini panties, cowboy boots and two pearl handled six-guns, strapped low on her hips.  At sixteen years old, she brought the house down as she finished her act firing the cap pistols into the air while strutting offstage.

     In 1953, she married Troy Phillips, a night club denizen who became her manager.  In late '54, she had a daughter.  Business at the Colony Club suffered when Candy was out with her pregnancy.   When her body regained its dazzle, Weinstein signed her to a $2,000.00 per week contract.  The sweet-looking, abused teenager from Edna, Texas, was making a $100,000.00 per year on the stage, taking off her clothes in a theater full of drunks. She was a product of the times.

38-22-36  But who's counting?

     Candy’s marriage went on the rocks and she filed for divorce from the abusive Phillips.  At five one morning, very drunk, he came to her apartment and kicked in the door, intending to beat her.  After warning him three times and trying to run away, she shot him in the lower stomach with a .22 rifle.  In her statement to the police, Candy said she missed high.  Charges against her were dropped when Phillips recovered and verified her story.  It was early 1956, and Candy was just twenty years old.  Next year, she could legally vote.

     After the public sensation caused by the shooting, Candy was more popular than ever.  She had long been playing to standing room only crowds, but the Colony Club was now forced to turn away customers.  Her notoriety caused the powers that be in Dallas to feel that Candy’s lifestyle was staining the reputation of the city. 

      Police started a wire tap on her phone, which soon led to her arrest for possessing four-fifths of an ounce of marijuana. According to Candy, she was keeping it for a friend. At that time, the penalty for such an offense in Texas was up to life in prison.  Even though the police burst into her apartment without a warrant, and the wire tap evidence would be illegal in today’s world, Candy was found guilty and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.  Today, if prosecuted at all, the same crime carries a six-month sentence. 

     No one knows who ordered the wiretap, or why it was done.  Candy obviously ticked off someone downtown, and  it may have been as simple as refusing sexual favors to some well-connected, vindictive official.  In any case, she received a call, asking her to hold something for a friend.   The friend dropped by, and two hours later, the police raided her apartment.  The police never admitted the wiretap or revealed the name of her "friend." She was a victim of the times.

     I was one of the endless stream of  “immature frat boys” who went to Dallas periodically back then for football games and weekends of debauchery.  My friends and I went to the Colony Club, the Carousel, or the Theater Lounge, depending upon who was on stage.  The rest of Texas, and Lubbock in particular, had no such entertainment.  The strippers were hard-looking older women, the clubs were sleazy, and I always left feeling dirty.  Even so, I went back every return trip to see if conditions had improved.
  
     I stared at the poster of Candy Barr in front of the Colony Club, but never saw her on stage.  I will always remember the picture.  Her face was so sweet, it made June Alison look slutty, and her 38-22-36 body was absolute female perfection.  I opined the picture was touched up and probably many years old, but a friend who had seen her on stage told me it did not do her justice.

     As the long appeal process continued, Candy took her act on the road.  She appeared to packed houses in New Orleans, Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Hollywood.  Everywhere, men lined up to pay for the privilege of watching her take off her clothing.  She became involved with Mickey Cohen, a west coast gangster, after appearing in the Largo Club on Sunset Strip.  Cohen helped pay her legal bills and financed the appeals process.  He introduced her to Hollywood.

     Twentieth Century Fox hired Candy as a choreographer and technical advisor for the film, Seven Thieves.  She taught Joan Collins how to striptease for her part in the film.  Collins said, in her autobiography, “She taught me more about sensuality than I learned in all my years under contract.”  Joan also said, “…she was a down-to-earth girl, with an incredibly gorgeous body and an angelic face.”   Candy was twenty-four years old.

      In late November of 1959, Candy married Jack Sahakian, her hairdresser.  Her appeals of the marijuana conviction exhausted, she entered the prison farm two weeks later on December 4, 1959.  Juanita used the prison time to augment her eighth-grade education and served three years and three months before being paroled on April 1, 1963.  The terms of her parole forbid her return to exotic dancing or living in Dallas. 
  
      Candy returned to her family home in Edna and began a quiet life, raising pure-bred dogs.  She married her fourth husband, a railroad worker, and lived in seclusion.  Candy was pardoned of the marijuana charges in 1967 by Governor John Connelly, and returned to the burlesque stage briefly in 1968, her dancing career all but over.  She spent a weekend shacked up with Hugh Hefner in 1971, but nothing came of it.  They both must have felt the other would look good on their resume. 

      In 1972, Juanita published  A Gentle Mind....Confused,  a thin book of  poetry.   When she was a 41 year-old grandmother, in  1976,  Candy posed, scantily clad, for the cover of Oui Magazine.  For several pages of alluring nude pics, and the cover, she was paid $5,000.00.  Her last appearance as a stripper took place in the Ruby Room in Dallas in 1997, when she was sixty-two.

     Juanita died at age seventy in Victoria, Texas.  For business reasons in 1970 she changed her legal name, and those of her children, to Barr.  Her grandson, Ryan Barr, named his first daughter “Candy” after her.  Another of her great-granddaughters is named “Snickers.”

    



Candy Barr was a product and a victim of the times--beneath it all, she was a gentle mind....confused.