June 8, 2026

Guest Column by Jennifer Fry

Dad.  For some, the word may strike fear in the heart.  For me, it strikes the funny bone.

While my brothers and I were growing up, Dad’s favorite band was Trout Fishing in America.  If you Google the name, a mix comes up of angling advice and lyrics to nursery rhymes, re-imagined for the kid at heart.  Their song “The Window,” for example, features Little Miss Muppet and the spider who sat down beside her and “threw her out the window!”  And don’t forget Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, who who “put [his wife] in a pumpkin shell and threw her out the window!”  You get the idea.

I can remember the day Uncle Bill—near-spitting image of my dad, and even today, hard to tell apart from him at first glance—first introduced Trout Fishing to my family.  The year was 1991; my twin brother and I were seven years old.  The five of us were over at Uncle Bill and Aunt Liz’s house to let the kids play together, when all of a sudden Uncle Bill blurted out, “You gotta hear this new band, Jim!”

Soon, cassette-tape lyrics like “It’s mine!  I won’t share it!” whined into the room.  From then on, my dad was hooked.  He owns all the CD’s and more signed T-shirts than he can wear in a day.  He’s been to eight concerts, the last of which filled the room with all 81 eager listeners.  In their 60’s now, Mom and Dad might have been the youngest ones there, including the band members.

Formed in 1979, the two-member, Texas-based band is composed of acoustic-guitarist Ezra Idlet and upright-bassist Keith Grimwood.  Idlet stands tall at 6 feet 8 inches, while his band partner Grimwood only reaches 5 feet 5 on a good day—a difference of about 15 inches that only adds to the comedic element of their performance.  The pair depend heavily on word-of-mouth for their success.  As of 2020, they had released 25 albums and were nominated for four Grammy awards.

In the band members’ own words, it is “impossible to tell you what sort of music Trout plays.”  Their website lists inspiration from “rock and roll, blues, folk, country, bluegrass, funk, Latin, and reggea” to flavor their music.  In a word, it’s weird, which is all the more fitting for my dad.  Their music caters to children as well as adults.

Through the years, Trout Fishing’s lyrics have come in handy for me.  As a parent now, they seem all the more apropos.  If my child rubs his face with grimy fingers, my impulse is to belt out, “Don’t get it in your eye-o!”—a nod to a song they once wrote about pico de gallo.  Or, if two of my children are fighting over a toy, I might sing defiantly, “It’s mine!” and stomp my foot like a five-year-old.  Indeed, the apple falls not far from the tree.

I complained one day that my husband didn’t appreciate “Mine!” as a song.  My dad replied, “Your husband has never been a child.  And I have never grown up!”

Truer words have never been said.  I should have expected as much from my dad, knowing how my parents met.

In 1979, Jim had a roommate named Howard whose girlfriend Rita (affectionately called “Rita-babe” by my dad) had a best friend named Marie.  In the days when landlines put limits on telephone communication, Howard would call Rita from the shared apartment phone, sometimes while Jim was awake; Jim worked night shifts.  Ever the jokester, Jim wanted to make Rita-babe laugh, so he’d steal the receiver from Howard.  Unknown to Jim, sometimes Marie was over at Rita’s house and was privy to her end of the conversation.  Upon hearing Rita laugh, Marie wanted to laugh, too—so she stole the receiver from Rita.

What started out as Howard talking with Rita became Marie talking with Jim.  She married him two years later because he made her laugh.  Sadly, the very thing that drew her to him was a source of conflict throughout their marriage.  The conflict didn’t stop us kids from having fun with Dad, though.  Mom, we thought, was just a stick-in-the-mud.  As a wife myself now, I’ve come to see Mom in a more sympathetic light.

I remember sharing jokes with Dad that I had gleaned from the Reader’s Digest “Laughter, the Best Medicine” section.  Usually, he’d have read them already.  When the punchline didn’t come out right (it almost never did), he would say with an emphasis on each word, “Timing is everything.”

I did the same with the Peanuts comic strip from Dad’s collection of six volumes.  He would, of course, have already read those, too—many times over.  The set was the only thing he remembers ever asking from his dad.  It was a special set.  The jokes and comic strips, and later movie lines, became a sort of culture between us.  It was an echolalic habit—“movie-speak,” for those unfamiliar—that somehow encompassed life’s great variety.

We have all heard the adage, “God must have a sense of humor.”  If he does, I want it to be like my dad’s—off-beat, but not off-color; unexpected, but not out-of-character; child-like, but not childish.  And in the end, right as rain.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  May I never grow up to be just like you.

May 22, 2026

TOP PHOTO: Dawn and Ethan Fry walk home from school in Old Town Uvalde.

Guest article submitted by Jennifer Fry

My brother called yesterday afternoon as I was walking two of my four kids home from their last day of daycare for the school year.  My daughter may or may not return for a short summer session before she goes to kindergarten, her “new school.”  It was a special moment for us.  Though we live only two blocks, at most, from the daycare, we rarely walk either to or from the program.  It was a beautiful, cool day on account of the recent rains, and I wanted them to enjoy the short trek home—which they did by, first, dipping their toes in the puddles and, later, traipsing through the mud.  In the middle of this idyllic scene stormed my brother’s fury.

A talk with Jason is never an equal give-and-take.  He is usually the one to do all of the talking, with the one on the receiving end left with no room for rebuttal.  In fact, his abrupt, argumentative nature earned him the nickname “the Judge” by our great-grandfather when we were six.  Arguments are not usually a fair fight with him, and this occasion was no exception.

The conversation started off peacefully enough.  He reminded me that my family were moving back to San Antonio—an eventuality that I was not able to rebuff by saying that my husband had been having second thoughts.  The topic quickly moved to gas prices.

I should convince my husband to move closer, he said, because “gas prices are $4.19 a gallon and they’re not going down, despite what the president says.”  I later found the average gas price in San Antonio to be $3.43—not great, but well below his quoted price.  Pain at the pump was a good segway into politics for him, my brother’s preferred topic these days.

“Did you know they’ve destroyed all this gas and oil infrastructure in Iran that will take years if not decades to rebuild?”  he asked.  I didn’t know.  I’d been too busy raising my kids.

Somehow the “war in Iran” led to talk of the primaries for midterm elections and Thomas Massie’s recent loss to an inferior candidate in the Kentucky senate race.

“Thomas Massie was the only Republican to vote to release the Epstein Files.  He was in office 12 years and he lost to a guy who never went out and actually campaigned!  It’s because Trump spent millions of dollars against him because he doesn’t want the Epstein Files released,” he said.

This I knew something about.  “Thomas Massie is embroiled in his own scandal,” I told him calmly.  “His dear wife of 35 years died suddenly—he didn’t cause her death—and within 18 months he was married to a woman half her age.  And it sounds like he had a girlfriend or mistress between them.”

What I didn’t say is that Massie’s call for the Epstein Files to be released could signal to voters that he’s a RINO, a Republican in Name Only.  Tony Gonzales, a Congressman from our district in Texas, was ousted for a similar reason.  In the middle of both the campaign leading up to a run-off election and a brewing scandal of his own, Gonzales rescinded his bid for re-election.

Jason was dismissive.  “People grieve in different ways.  I knew a guy, my neighbor down the street, who got married within a couple of months of his wife dying,” he said, still angry about Trump’s alleged interference in Massie’s re-election.

“I tell you the Republican Party of today is not the Republican Party from when we were growing up in the ’90’s,” he went on.  “Did you know they’re redistricting congressional districts in Georgia to push out black voters?”

I didn’t know that either.  But was this true, I wondered.

The conversation then turned to how “all” Republicans should be to blame for things like Alex Pretti’s death, on account of many of them having supported Kyle Rittenhouse’s acquittal—again, something I knew a little about.

This was, I wanted to point out, a false analogy.  The circumstances of the two cases are not the same. On the one hand, two civilians were interacting in a dangerous situation and one became (or continued being) aggressive to the point of threatening life; on the other, as far as I understand, the man escalated tensions with the police.  Policemen have the state’s authority to use deadly force for a reason.

“Kyle Rittenhouse’s trial outcome was just,” I said.  “He acted in self-defense.”

By this point, I had reached home with my two kids in tow; my husband had been at home with the youngest.  The kids and I left our muddy shoes at the door and I sat down to wait one quarter hour until it was time to get my eldest son from school.  I was still on the phone with my brother and he was on speaker.

Mine was not a counterargument that Jason had time to listen to, it seemed.  Erratically, the topic turned to internment.  Earlier in the conversation he had mentioned a detention center being built down the street from our father’s house, a fact that I had not personally verified.  I have since learned that it is a massive, already-built warehouse at 542 SE Loop 410, three and a half miles almost directly south of our childhood home, that federal agents are looking to convert to a 1,500-bed holding facility.  As of February, there was no word on when the facility would be finished out.

“If these are for deporting illegals, then why are they permanent?” Jason asked.

The purchase of the facility faced some push-back by local leaders and concerned citizens, to no avail.  A News 4 San Antonio/WOIA article from February pointed out, “Ultimately, officials acknowledged ICE does not need local approval to buy property.”

Immigration and Customs Enforcement provided a statement to News 4 regarding the purchase of the facility:  “Every day, DHS is conducting law enforcement activities across the country to keep Americans safe. It should not come as news that ICE will be making arrests in states across the U.S. and is actively working to expand detention space.”  I could not have said it better.

“Tell me,” Jason asked again, “do you think that what happened in Germany in the 1930’s could not happen here?”  It was a tiresome trope.  “Why would people living here have to prove their loyalty to the U.S.?”

“It’s human nature,” I countered.  I reminded him that something like that had already happened.  “We rounded up the Japanese and the Germans during World War II out of fear.”  Thankfully, our family was not among them, but this is the exception which proves the rule.

Our great-grandfather, J.O. Klatt, the one who nicknamed Jason, had emigrated from Germany to the U.S. as a child in the 1910’s and by 1941 was an integral part of the smithing operation at Alamo Iron Works in San Antonio.  He was an exceptional metallurgist. At the time, Alamo Iron Works provided metal supplies to the war effort.  Because his supervisor stepped in to say that he was already serving his country through blacksmithing, Klatt was not subject to the draft—nor, as it would seem, to internment.  Perhaps he had proved his loyalty to his adopted country by his civilian service, something younger generations would do well to emulate.

On and on it went like this.  At one point, Jason’s gruffness made me cry.

I began to notice a pattern:  Jason would give what he considered a bombshell revelation based not on facts but his interpretation of the facts—facts that he didn’t consider worth my time to retell, because facts alone aren’t explosive.  It was ad hominem after ad hominem, sensational claim after sensational claim, while all along, he was claiming the moral high ground.

“I’m telling you the truth here,” he said, expecting to be believed.

When I tried asking for proof, he whined.  “You’re coming at me with logic,” he said.  “What do you want me to do, give you my sources?”

Actually, yes.

“Are you sitting in front of your computer?  Can you pull all this up?”  he asked.

In vain, we tried—as the minutes ticked by for me to go get my son.  Frantically, my husband paced about the room, unsure of who was getting the schoolboy and what to do about the other kids.  I was already five minutes late by the time I pulled up any articles related to Alex Pretti, to say nothing of any other name my brother had dropped.  Meanwhile, Jason was dully reading out meaningless headlines, as if that alone would pull me to his side of the aisle.

This is not the way to persuade, I reasoned.  Like a good wine, arguments take time to develop.  Clearly, he had not studied rhetoric or the human condition.

“I don’t want to be a Democrat,” I finally told him, more abruptly than I had meant to.  The conversation had touched a nerve that both of us were uncomfortable with feeling.  “I have to get my son.”  I nodded wordlessly to my husband that I would pick up the schoolboy.

Had Jason called to strong-arm me into performing my civic duty, I wondered.  If so, he was more than three hours too late. I had already voted in our county’s run-off Republican primary election just that morning—a fact I had been unable to convey.

“I’m just telling you this because I care,” Jason said simply.  “You need to look into these things.”

“And you need to stop being a bully!” I wanted to tell him.  “And stop berating people for not having the time to look into it.”

And so the storm blew over, with neither of us giving ground.  I can’t really even say we agreed to disagree.  It was more like a stalled chess game, the pieces of which we will, no doubt, pick back up to hurl at each other the next time he calls.

  January 21st, 2025

  Article submitted by David Fisher

Guest Article submitted by Diana Olvedo-Karau

Top Picture by Diana Olvedo-Karau

01-06-25

  2024 has come to an end and as a community advocate, I am reflecting on politics in Uvalde County and how it will affect us into 2025. Take time to read these thoughts and remember, you have to look beyond the obvious.

    2024 was a presidential election year and in Uvalde County every person that ran for a county office, except maybe one individual, ran on the Republican ticket; after being lifelong Democrats. And almost every individual that ran for an elected office related to law-enforcement, and was present at the Robb School mass shooting, was elected to office.

   City politics had many ups and downs in 2024 beginning with Cody Smith winning the mayor’s race in November 2023 and resigning in April 2024, after defeating Kimberly Rubio, the mother of a child killed in the Robb School massacre. This placed the city council in a position of appointing Lalo Zamora as mayor pro tem, until a runoff election for the mayor’s position had Zamora defeated by Councilman Hector Luevano, a retired DPS officer.

    As happens almost every year, property taxes went up again. In the middle of all this, the Uvalde CISD petitioned the voters for an increased tax rate to help offset a $2 million deficit and Uvalde County commissioners approved a request by the Uvalde Volunteer Fire Department to petition the voters for the creation of an Emergency Service District, which would create another taxing entity. Voters said no to more taxes and defeated both propositions in the November 2024 election.

   The City of Uvalde closed out the year by considering a petition by the Carper Capt family and other investors for the creation of a Tax Increment Reinvestment Zone (TIRZ) to develop land surrounding the new Legacy Elementary School. The Capt’s donated the land for the new school, which provided a significant tax break for them and also created a burden for the City of Uvalde on how to deal with inadequate streets and infrastructure to handle expected increased traffic and growth in the area. So the perceived solution by too many on the city council is approving the TIRZ to pay for burdens created by accepting the donated land for the new school; thus allowing the Capt’s to develop the land for a profit. In a nutshell the Capt/investors get to use public funds for private gain.

   2025 will be an interesting year to watch in local politics, with the big question being, will Bill Mitchell run for reelection after being County Judge since 1987? There are plenty of people waiting in the wings hoping to take his place; but only if and when Mitchell decides to step down.

   Good old boy, status quo politics was alive and well in Uvalde County and looking to transition smoothly into 2025. Will Uvaldeans continue to sit back and do nothing to change this reality? I for one will continue to work towards change because it’s the only right thing to do. What about you?

12-23-24

Article Submitted by Stan Popovich

Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay

For many people, in addition to their hardships and mental health challenges, their thoughts are overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. This can paralyze a person, making it challenging to function or think rationally.

If you’ve ever felt like this—if you’ve ever felt like suicide is an option—keep in mind that, regardless of your situation, everything changes over time. You may feel like you can’t take it any longer, but the pain you feel won’t last forever. Even if you feel like your future is hopeless, no one can predict the future, and things can improve.

  Suicide is not the answer. If you’re experiencing thoughts of suicide, here’s what you should do.

Go To The Hospital Immediately If It’s More Than Just Thoughts

If you have a plan in place for a suicide, or you’ve acquired the means to complete a suicide, you must call 911 immediately. Or reach out to a loved one and tell them what’s going on—they will likely intervene and bring you to the hospital. You can also call your therapist or psychiatrist, if you have one, and they will help you. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is also available 24/7 at 1-800-273-8255.

Seek Help

If your life is not in immediate danger, the first step is to seek help from a qualified mental health professional. Suicidal ideation is serious and should not be ignored—it requires proper care. Your loved ones, friends, relatives, priests, etc. are all potential sources of help, but they cannot and should not replace professional help. Regardless of your situation, it is essential to ask for help when you need it.

Focus On The Facts Of Your Situation And Not Your Thoughts

When people are depressed, they often can only “hear” their fearful, negative thoughts. This will only make you feel worse. Your fearful thoughts are exaggerated and not based in reality.

When you’re depressed or anxious, focus on the facts of your current situation and not on your fearful and suicidal thoughts. When going through a difficult time, you will tend to think of negative things which might be related to suicide. When this happens remind yourself that your thoughts may exaggerate your current situation. During these cases its best to talk to your counselor who can give you advice on how to reduce symptoms and handle your difficult emotions.

Remember That No Situation Is Hopeless

You never know when the answers you are looking for will come to your doorstep. Even if things look bleak, there are circumstances and factors that you can’t predict which can be used to help overcome your current situation. Remember that all you can do is try your best each day—for yourself. Show self-compassion for the challenges you face and remember that patience, persistence, education, and commitment will go a long way in improving your mental health. Most importantly, get help right away when you feel that suicide is your only option.

  Stan Popovich is the author of “A Layman’s Guide to Managing Fear” For more information go to  Stan’s website at http://www.managingfear.com/

Article and picture submitted by K. Irene Stone

12-23–24

Written December 10, 2017, by K. Irene Stone, the first Christmas after I moved
back to Uvalde County.

Gray December Morning Musing: The door slammed behind me as I entered the long
utility hall and walked into the warm kitchen. An enthusiastic “Renee!” greeted me as
Grandma got up from her recliner in the living room. She came over, gave me a hug,
and asked if I wanted some coffee.

Sure, I said, and pulled out a chair to sit at the small kitchen table. She busied herself
getting down the delicate-flowered China cups out of the top cabinet — no coffee mugs
for the Reagans — and poured us both a cup. I’m not much of a coffee drinker but
drinking coffee from a China cup made me feel elegant, cultured. As I took the first sip I
could hear Pop in the living room, cheering on the Spurs.

Grandma sat down by me and before she could lift the cup to her lips, the door
slammed again. We looked up expectantly, and mom walked into the kitchen. Her
yellow sweatshirt was faded and covered with dirt, but she was grinning from ear to ear.
Look what I found, she said, holding out a garden-gloved hand. There, in her covered
palm was a perfect arrowhead, still crusty with dirt. Grandma immediately jumped up,
and, without asking, retrieved another China cup and poured mom a cup of coffee while
Mom carefully placed the arrowhead in my hand. I glanced down at it and enviously
asked, where did you find it? By the cement tank — dug it up, she replied, patting the
rusty spade in the tool belt on her waist. She took the steaming cup from Grandma.
Whew, its cold out there she said as she and Grandma sat down.

I reached over and opened the cookie drawer and pulled out a few stale Oreo cookie
from the opened package. Grandma had the best stale Oreo cookies. I handed Mom
one as the door slammed. We looked over as Daddy walked in, his brown jacket flecked
with deer hair. Got a nice eight-point buck, he grinned, pushing his cowboy hat back.
Bob and WC are dressing it now. Grandma got up, retrieved another cup, filled it up,
and handed him a cup of coffee. He blew on it to cool it. Sure is getting nippy out there,
he commented as he leaned against the kitchen wall, cup in hand.

Did you see the tree? Grandma asked all of us. Your Christmas tree? I asked back. Yes,
only ten days to Christmas, but I got it up in the parlor, she said proudly. Mom and I
scooted our chairs back and followed her into the living room, Daddy trailing behind.
As I passed by Pop, he sat up in his recliner, the footrest making a loud sound. His farm
and cattleman magazines leaned haphazardly on the side table. A couple fell off when I
leaned over and kissed him. A big man, 6′ 5″, he was a softie around his grandkids. I
stood back, forgetting about the TV and the Spurs game. He waved me aside. Can’t see
through muddy water, he said. I laughed, got of his way, and turned as Grandma
motioned me into the parlor with Mom and Daddy.

The back door slammed again, and Darrell walked into the living room, pulling off his
diesel-soiled jacket. It’s cold out there, he said. Daylight’s getting dimmer. Had to come
in with all you sissies. Ha! I said, hugging his neck, the strong scent of diesel
surrounding me, and maybe just a hint of cattle. Howdy, cuz, he replied, a big grin on
his face, pulling me closer. I laughed and tightened my hug.

Come in and see Grandma’s tree, I told him, stepping back. He chuckled, I bet its red.
Isn’t it always, I replied as we walked into the parlor together. There before us was a
small artificial tree covered in red lights and ornaments. Grandma’s signature Christmas
tree.

We all gathered around the little tree, and I reached over to cup one of the red bulbs. As
it glowed in my hand, I could feel its red glow reach up into my heart, enveloping it with
its warmth. I closed my eyes, wishing this moment would never fade, feeling the
presence of all whom I held dear gathered around me. There was no cold. No darkness.
Only warmth and happiness. Slowly, hesitantly, I opened by eyes, the bulb still cupped
in my hand … knowing I would be the only one left standing there.

Christmas memories. During this time of year, I pray they never lose their glow for you
and me, even when our dear loved ones are long gone and live only in our hearts.

“The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all
wrapped up in each other” – Burton Hills

12-10-24

Article submitted by Addison Day

As assigned by their ENGL-1301 Professor, Professor Ruiz, this group of Knippa Collegiate students banded together to face a topic they felt strongly about. These girls discussed and brainstormed ways to present the brutalities of reality for children around the world in a respectful manner while taking inspiration from Jonathen Swift in his article, A Modest Proposal. In this article, they offered a satirical solution to the problem, while at the end proposing a true suggestion in order to grab the attention of those around them. 

Stolen through a Screen

  Statistics from the year 2022 state, one in six kids ranging from ages nine to twelve have experienced romantic or sexual conversations with an online-only contact. To make things worse, one in eight children of the same age range had shared a nude image with an online-only connection. (Thorn, Online Grooming) These statistics have only become increasingly worrisome over the recent years, from 2022 to 2023 reports of children being
victims of sexual exploitation online shot from 32 million to 36 million. (USOPC) Although systems have been instituted to prevent online child trafficking such as the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s CyberTipline, which allows individuals to report suspected sexual exploitation of children, something more must be done. Access to social media allows children to meet and interact with strangers, which must be prevented.

  In order to prevent children from speaking with strangers online, their access to social media will be revoked until they turn sixteen. This will prevent them from having such easy access to people who they do not know, and who want to harm them. In schools, if the district chooses to do so, the students will have access to heavily monitored and restricted devices which will be used only for school purposes. This would be good for the workforce, as there would be jobs monitoring which needed to be filled. Although firewalls could be instituted, children can learn their ways around this, and firewalls are not always reliable.

  If the school does not choose to allow access to technology, then the students will have to find other ways to complete their assignments. The students will have to use physical textbooks, dictionaries, and encyclopedias. This may seem arbitrary and impractical, but if these ways of completing assignments worked in the past, then they will work now. Although the assignments may take more time, it will allow the students to remain safe from a whole other
world being the internet.

  The solution previously suggested may seem extreme, as our world today relies so heavily on technology. However, online child trafficking is a large-scale issue which requires a real solution. Many people use technology under someone else’s name and image. This is deceitful to all those they come into contact with on the internet. This act, known as catfishing, causes around 55%-65% of online child trafficking. (Thorn) In order to prevent this, social media
apps must require pictures of the user to be submitted along with facial recognition to verify that it is the same person. Another measure which must be taken is the children must take a seminar similar in educational levels to that of Driver’s Ed. In this seminar the children will learn of the dangers of trusting people online.

  Children need to be protected from the dangers of social media. We should not only protect the children, but a punishment should be applied so child trafficking can potentially be prevented. The punishment should be applied to anyone who is involved in the act of child trafficking. The punishment should be life in prison with no chance of parole. The victim should not be alone, there should be support groups put in place. The victim should be able to have
someone to talk to. Overall, we have a big issue, online child trafficking, but we can try our hardest to prevent it. Our job is to keep the children safe, if you see something say something. We are in this fight together to stop child trafficking.

Websites used
https://eightdaysofhope.com/app/uploads/2022/11/Human-Trafficking-Statistics-and-Online-Safety.pdf

https://www.usopc.org/news/2024/april/26/dhs-launches-know2protect-public-awareness-campaign-to-combat-online-child-exploitation-and-abuse-with-many-public-and-private-sector-partnersincluding-google-meta-snap-roblox-nascar-u-s-olympic-paralympic-committee-boy-scouts-of-america-national-police-athletic-league-and-more#:~:text=In%202023%2C%20the%20National%20Center,reports%20received%2010%20years%20ago