Summer days, and the living is lazy. It seems I have done nothing but porch sit, sleep, eat, read, and do laundry. And I'm loving life (except for the laundry part).
Porch sitting is the best. Ronnie brews coffee and makes our toast, and we sit on the second floor porch of our 1875 Victorian home and watch the squirrels raid the bird feeder. After they get their fill, Cardinals and wrens take turns. We watch the cars and pickups taking people to work and kids to school, and talk about how it will be when I retire in December.
We are getting our RV ready for a trip to Alpine, TX, next month. We bought a car-caddy so we could take the Mini Cooper with us. We can ride to Marfa or travel over to Fort Stockton without taking our highway home with us.
We've been on short overnight trips in the RV, but this will be for an entire week, and we will be in the RV together instead of me following behind in my car. If we love it as much as we think we will, after I retire, we plan to trek around Texas to all 95 state parks. Although there is a man named Dale Blasingame who did it in a tad over 12 months (367 days), I think Ronnie and I will ramble at a slower pace.
I'm looking forward to Palo Duro Canyon State Park and Lost Maples State Park; they've been on my bucket list for at least a decade. And it will be nostalgic to vist Huntsville State Park and Garner State Park. I'm sure they've changed significantly since the 1960s.
There isn't a porch attached to the RV, but there is a coffeepot and toaster inside and two camp chairs with our names on them. I'm gonna love being retired with this man.
Showing posts with label Ronnie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ronnie. Show all posts
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Settling in a new hometown
Young people often can hardly wait to grow up and leave the small towns where they were raised. I was certainly one of those. My brothers and I yearned to get away from a community where everyone knew everyone else's business. We raced to the city--for me it was Houston, for my brothers, it was Dallas--so we could kick up our heels in anonymity and then find a spouse--someone we hadn't known since the first grade.
After living in Houston for 48 years, my sweetie and I moved to Navasota, population 7,049. Getting to know everyone is not as easy when you move into a community as an adult, especially if you don't have kids in school. But we're smart people, and we are finding our way.
Our first friend in town was Mitch White, proprietor of the Filling Station Restaurant and Cafe. Ronnie bartered his Fender guitar to Mitch in exchange for food service. We ate "free" for over a year. Mitch's daughter was on the high school drill team, so we started attending games. Navasota's Rattler Nation has won the state championship for the last two years.
After his daughter graduated from high school, Mitch closed his establishment and started a rock band. Occasionally we go to the Dizzy Llama to listen, but we're not regulars... because... let's be honest, we hardly resemble the hard party people we were in our youth. Smoke-filled bar rooms that smell of stale beer and tobacco have lost their appeal. But we like Mitch, and we enjoy his band, so we show up on occastion, listen to a set, and then scurry home in time for Saturday Night Live and Blue Bell ice cream.
Recently we joined the Two Rivers Historical Society, which is the smartest thing we've done so far. A couple of weeks ago Judge Eddie Harrison of Brenham gave a presentation on the Buffalo Soldiers. He is a direct descendent--his father was a Buffalo Solider--so we were privy to anechdotes not availabe in a textbook or on Wikipeida.
"Riders of the Orphan Train" is scheduled for Saturday, June 18, at St. Stanislaus Cathiolic Chruch parish hall in Anderson, TX, at 2 p.m. Not too many peple know much about the mass migrarion of 250,000 orphans and abandoned children who were taken out of New York City and given away at train stations across the west. About two dozen were taken in by farm families in Anderson and Plantersville in the early 1900s; many of their desendents still live around here. The stories of the orphans who came to Texas are compelling.
I hope you'll drive out to Anderson--it's smaller than Navasota but it is the county seat. Ronnie and I will be there. If you'll come, you'll enjoy a dramatic and powerful story-- and we'll introudce you to our neighbors.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
After the floods, is a sweltering summer on its way?
Last weekend's severe storms were devastating.
I watched in horror as the 24-hour news feed showed vehicles being submerged and swept away, of homes being swamped by rising water, of tornadoes tearing away roof tops and yes, of accounts of people being stranded and found drowned. In Brenham, a short 30 miles away, someone drowned in a motor home and a young father was swept away by the rising water from the Brazos River that capsized his pickup truck. Another family reported their house being knocked off its foundation by torrential flood waters.
According to news reports, the double-digit inch rains in Texas qualified as a 500-year flood event. Only trouble is, this is the second 500-year flood we've had in the last two months!
On May 22-23, during the last catastrophic flooding, I was in Houston. My place was dry and I had power, but the flooding marooned my son and me for 24 hours. People in apartments near one of the college's centers were climbing on the rooftops to escape the rising water. When the storm was over, Houston and the region suffered $5 billion in damages.
Last weekend during the ravaging rains, I was in Navasota, and again, my house was dry and I had electricity, but there was a power outage around 10 p.m. at the state prison farm outside of town. A brawl broke out between 50 prisoners and correctional officers after inmates refused to return to their darkened cells when the emergency generator malfunctioned. Three are recovering in the hospital.
Navasota reported 10 inches of rain and 60+mph wind gusts. Local officials set up Navasota Junior High as a shelter for folks, but livestock had to survive on their own since the animal shelter was full. Our three dogs found refuge in the house. A neighbor in the next block has goats... we still have not heard how they fared.
Ronnie was on his way home when his BMW flooded. Thank heaven, he didn't get swept away from the creek that rose from its banks only five yards from where his car stalled. He walked home in water that rode as high as his knees. I'd say he walked home in the dark, but he counted at least a hundred lightening strikes across the sky during the ten block trek.
After the storm, a wrecker took the car to College Station where the dealership assessed damages. Unfortunately it's a total loss. Still, it's just a car. Ronnie is alive, and I am grateful.
More rain came through during this week, and I cancelled my weekly trip to Houston for fear I might get stuck there. If I'm going to be stranded, I want to be with my sweetie and my dogs.
Eventually all the rains of Spring will subside, and Summer will blaze like hell-on-heels. We may face destructive wildfires as we have during recent summer seasons. I hope not, but there is no way to predict... unless, of course, we believe the scientists who are warning of climate change caused by humanity's misuse of the environment.
Can we stop raping our surroundings of its resources and reclaim the balance of nature? That's a hard choice for Texas, a state that worships oil and gas production to the detriment of everything else. But I think we've been warned: Mother Nature is getting pissed.
I watched in horror as the 24-hour news feed showed vehicles being submerged and swept away, of homes being swamped by rising water, of tornadoes tearing away roof tops and yes, of accounts of people being stranded and found drowned. In Brenham, a short 30 miles away, someone drowned in a motor home and a young father was swept away by the rising water from the Brazos River that capsized his pickup truck. Another family reported their house being knocked off its foundation by torrential flood waters.
According to news reports, the double-digit inch rains in Texas qualified as a 500-year flood event. Only trouble is, this is the second 500-year flood we've had in the last two months!
On May 22-23, during the last catastrophic flooding, I was in Houston. My place was dry and I had power, but the flooding marooned my son and me for 24 hours. People in apartments near one of the college's centers were climbing on the rooftops to escape the rising water. When the storm was over, Houston and the region suffered $5 billion in damages.
Last weekend during the ravaging rains, I was in Navasota, and again, my house was dry and I had electricity, but there was a power outage around 10 p.m. at the state prison farm outside of town. A brawl broke out between 50 prisoners and correctional officers after inmates refused to return to their darkened cells when the emergency generator malfunctioned. Three are recovering in the hospital.
Navasota reported 10 inches of rain and 60+mph wind gusts. Local officials set up Navasota Junior High as a shelter for folks, but livestock had to survive on their own since the animal shelter was full. Our three dogs found refuge in the house. A neighbor in the next block has goats... we still have not heard how they fared.
Ronnie was on his way home when his BMW flooded. Thank heaven, he didn't get swept away from the creek that rose from its banks only five yards from where his car stalled. He walked home in water that rode as high as his knees. I'd say he walked home in the dark, but he counted at least a hundred lightening strikes across the sky during the ten block trek.
After the storm, a wrecker took the car to College Station where the dealership assessed damages. Unfortunately it's a total loss. Still, it's just a car. Ronnie is alive, and I am grateful.
More rain came through during this week, and I cancelled my weekly trip to Houston for fear I might get stuck there. If I'm going to be stranded, I want to be with my sweetie and my dogs.
Eventually all the rains of Spring will subside, and Summer will blaze like hell-on-heels. We may face destructive wildfires as we have during recent summer seasons. I hope not, but there is no way to predict... unless, of course, we believe the scientists who are warning of climate change caused by humanity's misuse of the environment.
Can we stop raping our surroundings of its resources and reclaim the balance of nature? That's a hard choice for Texas, a state that worships oil and gas production to the detriment of everything else. But I think we've been warned: Mother Nature is getting pissed.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Family Game Night
When I was growing up in the 1950s, Charades was a favorite game in our family.
We played in the living room. Mother was one team captain and Daddy was the other. Each captain "acted out" the book, movie, famous quotation, person place, or thing and scored points when their team correctly guessed the right answer in 2 minutes or less.
I especially loved "sounds like" clues. My brothers and I would get so excited sometimes that one of us might blurt out the song title or famous person's name even though we were on the other side's team. No telling what happened next. Either we'd roll off the couch laughing ourselves silly, or scream "No fair!" and try to pinch the culprit.
Years later Pictionary came on the scene. Instead of acting out, we attempted to draw a person, place, animal, action or something "difficult" (meaning the word was difficult to represent in a drawing) in a minute or less so our team could correctly guess what it was. The rules prohibited you from drawing pictures that contained any letters or numbers (such as a yellow car with "Taxi" written in the door) or using verbal clues about what you were drawing.
There were a couple of spin-offs--Fast Draw and Win, Lose or Draw. Or were they precursors? I don't remember.
My sweetie and I are going to visit my brother and his wife at their get-away place outside of Dallas. I heard Hasbro brought back Pictrionary a couple of years ago, and I'm going to look for the game at Walmart, take it to my brother's ranch and see if Mark still has his artist's touch.
If Ronnie blurts the answer out of turn, I may pinch him. But more 'n likely, I'll just laugh myself silly.
We played in the living room. Mother was one team captain and Daddy was the other. Each captain "acted out" the book, movie, famous quotation, person place, or thing and scored points when their team correctly guessed the right answer in 2 minutes or less.
I especially loved "sounds like" clues. My brothers and I would get so excited sometimes that one of us might blurt out the song title or famous person's name even though we were on the other side's team. No telling what happened next. Either we'd roll off the couch laughing ourselves silly, or scream "No fair!" and try to pinch the culprit.
Years later Pictionary came on the scene. Instead of acting out, we attempted to draw a person, place, animal, action or something "difficult" (meaning the word was difficult to represent in a drawing) in a minute or less so our team could correctly guess what it was. The rules prohibited you from drawing pictures that contained any letters or numbers (such as a yellow car with "Taxi" written in the door) or using verbal clues about what you were drawing.
There were a couple of spin-offs--Fast Draw and Win, Lose or Draw. Or were they precursors? I don't remember.
My sweetie and I are going to visit my brother and his wife at their get-away place outside of Dallas. I heard Hasbro brought back Pictrionary a couple of years ago, and I'm going to look for the game at Walmart, take it to my brother's ranch and see if Mark still has his artist's touch.
If Ronnie blurts the answer out of turn, I may pinch him. But more 'n likely, I'll just laugh myself silly.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Hitting the road, RV style
My sweetie bought us a recreational vehicle, known commonly as a RV.
She's a Dolphin, which is a popular brand. In fact, the newest custom ones can sell for as high as six figures all tricked out, but Ronnie found an old girl that was still trustworthy with only 45,000 miles on her odometer. Built in 1997, she was a steal at $12,000, and he is proud he found her.
She's got two captain chairs up front. One for Ronnie, the driver, and one for me, the navigator... or as Roinnie sometimes complains, the nag-igator.
She's 36-feet long with a slideout in the living area, complete with sofa and recliner/rocker. There's a full galley with gas stove, microwave and a man-sized refrigerator, dining table with cushioned benches. In the back, there's a bathroom with shower-tub, and a bedroom with a luxurious queen bed. Plenty of room for two adults. Actually the specifications hint that the RV will sleep six. In addtion to using our queen bed, there could be two people sleepng on the converted dining table and two on the pullout sofa, but trust me, my man isn't letting anyone crowd him inside his new home-on-the-road.
Ronnie has spent weeks sprucing her up. She's sparkling clean, inside and out, and sporting new license plates so everyone knows that she belongs to a veteran. Her fluids are topped off, and she's ready to hit the road. He has a spot reserved in Kerrville for us over Spring Break.
Although it's still two weeks away, I'm already packing.
We figure we'll take the Dolphin across country this summer and see some of America. We can't decide if we'll head up to Montana or across to Florida, but we're leaning toward the northwest. Driving to Florida seems more like a plan for autumn, winter even, skimming the Gulf coastline like snow birds.
If we like travelng RV-style, we plan to trade up in a year. If we discover we like the idea of RVing more than the actual experience, we figure we can probably sell the old girl for what Ronnie paid for her. Either way, it's sure to be quite an adventure.
She's a Dolphin, which is a popular brand. In fact, the newest custom ones can sell for as high as six figures all tricked out, but Ronnie found an old girl that was still trustworthy with only 45,000 miles on her odometer. Built in 1997, she was a steal at $12,000, and he is proud he found her.
She's got two captain chairs up front. One for Ronnie, the driver, and one for me, the navigator... or as Roinnie sometimes complains, the nag-igator.
She's 36-feet long with a slideout in the living area, complete with sofa and recliner/rocker. There's a full galley with gas stove, microwave and a man-sized refrigerator, dining table with cushioned benches. In the back, there's a bathroom with shower-tub, and a bedroom with a luxurious queen bed. Plenty of room for two adults. Actually the specifications hint that the RV will sleep six. In addtion to using our queen bed, there could be two people sleepng on the converted dining table and two on the pullout sofa, but trust me, my man isn't letting anyone crowd him inside his new home-on-the-road.
Ronnie has spent weeks sprucing her up. She's sparkling clean, inside and out, and sporting new license plates so everyone knows that she belongs to a veteran. Her fluids are topped off, and she's ready to hit the road. He has a spot reserved in Kerrville for us over Spring Break.
Although it's still two weeks away, I'm already packing.
We figure we'll take the Dolphin across country this summer and see some of America. We can't decide if we'll head up to Montana or across to Florida, but we're leaning toward the northwest. Driving to Florida seems more like a plan for autumn, winter even, skimming the Gulf coastline like snow birds.
If we like travelng RV-style, we plan to trade up in a year. If we discover we like the idea of RVing more than the actual experience, we figure we can probably sell the old girl for what Ronnie paid for her. Either way, it's sure to be quite an adventure.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
First love
I believe a
woman remembers her first love because there’s such a sweet romantic high
about it, like being drunk on Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.
You can
hear the nostalgia in the lyrics “I Got the Boy,” a heart-warming song inspired
by reading in the newspaper the details of your first love’s wedding and
honeymoon. Jana Kramer sings:
I got the first
kiss and she'll get the last
She's got the future, I got the past
I got the class ring, she got the diamond and wedding band
I got the boy, she got the man
Yeah there's an old you that I knew,
Fake IDs to get into those spring break bars
Back woods on a four wheel, hanging on tight, I can still feel my racing heart
And now you're cleaned up with a haircut, nice tie and shoes
If things were different and I had a choice, which would I choose?
She's got the future, I got the past
I got the class ring, she got the diamond and wedding band
I got the boy, she got the man
Yeah there's an old you that I knew,
Fake IDs to get into those spring break bars
Back woods on a four wheel, hanging on tight, I can still feel my racing heart
And now you're cleaned up with a haircut, nice tie and shoes
If things were different and I had a choice, which would I choose?
Oh my. The
memories just flood like Galveston’s beachfront during a hurricane and wash
over me. Our innocent flirting in algebra class. Shy at first and then more brazen.
The first date at Huntsville State Park. Getting all dressed up for the Junior Prom. Sneaking off to Splash Day USA. The budding feeling of young love. Our
sharing secrets and mutual plans for the future: a white-framed house and five
children. The dreamy certainty that we’d experience happily ever after. Followed
by the shifting emotions, the drama of misunderstandings and arguments that
ended in deep kisses. Until the last fight that ended it all. Or did we just
drift away after high school graduation? Whatever the reason, the memories are
no longer sad—they’ve become sweet with time.
Truth is,
we learned enduring lessons from one another about love. How fragile it is. How
intimacy is more than sweat-slicked bodies and breathlessness. How commitment
binds together a man and a woman, and we were far too young for such capacity.
The
question, however, in Jana's song is intriguing: If things were different and I had a
choice, which would I choose?
The answer comes in a heartbeat, quick and sure. I’d leave the boy where
he is now—nestled in past memories. My sweet Ronnie is not my first love, but
he is surely my last. He is the man with whom I make new memories every day. He's funny, he's wise, he's kind. The memories of the
boy pale in comparison.
What about you? Which would you choose?
Sunday, January 3, 2016
2016 Bucket List
It's the first week of 2016 and I'm filled with excitement. I have a shiny new bucket list:
- Design, develop and deliver courses, workshops and retreats that help people make sense of their lives.
- Practice what I preach by reflecting on my own life journey, releasing what no longer serves me and unleashing my passions at full throttle.
- Explore the simplicity and complexity of the craft of writing to find my sweet spot - that creative, blissful place where I can let the words flow. Sometimes effortlessly, sometimes not.
- Reacquaint my body to mindful movement by exploring the residential streets of my small town neighborhood.
- Cook on a daily basis, creating meals that feed my soul and nourish my body.
- Love Ronnie and Matthew with the fullness and tenderness of my heart.
- Enjoy the company of my women friends, feeling their support and giving them mine.
I will live 2016 with intention and not be caught up in the mindless, objectifying prejudice flooding our communities. I will take care of my place in the world by turning away from the vicous hate being spewed by toxic tongues and practicing the gentleness of human kindness.
What's on your 2016 bucket list?
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Mosquito Control
My cousin Barbara Jean is visiting us this week, and we’ve entertained
each other with tales of growing up in the late 1950s. It is amazing to me that
children of this era share similar stories even though they lived miles and miles from each other.
Sitting on the porch and drinking coffee this morning, Ronnie
told us about the trucks that drove up and down the alleys in Pampa, TX,
spraying chemicals to rid the night of biting mosquitos. They called the drivers “smoke men” and chased
after them, inhaling the sweet aroma of DDT. Since DDT has no odor, the scent
must have been added by the city’s public works department—or maybe from the
manufacturers—so people could be assured the pesticide was saturating the air.
Barbara Jean and I responded with our own stories of the
numerous times my family visited hers in Baytown, TX. Our parents, enjoying their
cocktail hour, frequently sent us children outside to play in the dusk. More
times than not, that meant chasing the mosquito killing trucks that drove
around the neighborhood. Summer after summer, we probably inhaled enough DDT to
grow an extra set of ears.
Breathing DDT particles in the air, according to the Agency
for Toxic Substances & Disease Registry, affects the nervous system. The government agency says the pesticide was
used on insects that carried malaria, so Americans had a choice: Would folks rather
be eaten alive by mosquitos that might be carrying deadly diseases or douse themselves
with harmful repellents full of potentially dangerous chemicals? In the 1950s manufacturers
convinced the public to choose the latter. Given the choice, the danger of malaria trumped
any concerns about neurological problems.
Times have changed. Today, DDT is banned in the U.S. and has been
since 1972.
The replacements for DDT, however, are not free of side
effects. Products with high concentrates of DEET can cause rashes, disorientation,
and seizures. Picaridin and oil of lemon eucalyptus are two other repellents
that have come to stores in the last decade. Experts say these repellents make good
alternatives to DEET. They also have side effects, but they are less serious…
temporary irritation of the skin, eyes, and/or lungs. (I guess temporary is the
descriptor that makes them less serious.)
The fact is, three-fourths of the American public, according
to Consumer Reports, are more
concerned about West Nile and other deadly diseases carried by those pesky
flying insects that populate warmer climates than any side effects the
pesticides have. As the old saying goes, “Better living through chemistry.”
But is it the right call? I don’t know.
I can only tell you this, decades later, neither Barbara
Jean, Ronnie, nor I have any more visible ears than the original two God gave us. As for the mosquitoes that are swarming around us in the late afternoons,
they are keeping their distance. Our nervous systems? That’s a different story.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Honky tonkin' in Navasota
We went to the Dizzy Llama last night. It’s a local bar complete
with pool tables, dart boards and lots of town folk out having a good time. It’s
the part of Navasota they call Navagetdownsota.
We ran into our favorite waitress Kristi who used to work at the Filling Station Cafe and Diner before it closed. She introduced us to her new sweetheart Robert. Tall,
blond, knock-dead handsome. The best part, he is very, very good to her. It warms
my heart to see twentysomething-year-olds delight in each other as they test the waters of new love.
Our friend Mitch White was there with his band Brickyard
Kane. The band is solid now with Jarret on drums, Kevin on bass, Tyler on lead
and Mitch on rhythm guitar. Primo badass and rollicking
fun. The beer (and O'Douels "make believe beer") came to the table icy cold and the music was hip-swaying hot. We had the best time.
Brickyard Kane recently signed a three year contract with Bad Dog Records. Soon they will
be traveling across the country promoting an album they’ll cut with their new
label. Mitch said 12 weeks on and 2 weeks off. I think they will find it hard living on the road, but they are excited about the chance to hit the charts with their Texas blues rocker sound. They'll play like they did tonight with guitars blazing, drums pounding till the walls shimmy, and Mitch shouting the blues and rocking full throttle.
Just think, Ronnie and I will be able to say we knew these guys when they were first starting out. How cool is that?
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Lunch in Brenham
After a dreary winter, my sweetie and I mounted our Gold Wing trike this weekend and joined the other bikers on the farm-to-market (FM) roads in this part of Texas. There were quite a few on the road between here and Brenham, which was our destination.
We traveled Hwy105 west, enjoying the cool undercurrent in the warm air. We're still under a burn ban, but I smelled timber smoke about 8 miles out of town. Whoever was snubbing his nose at the law must have incinerated his pile of tree stumps, trunks, and limbs late last night because no smoke colored the horizon. The smell, however, was distinct.
We had lunch at the Must Be Heaven Sandwich Shoppe, a destination eatery in historic downtown. With Mitch's Filling Station Café and Diner closed, it's been hard to find a place in Navasota for lunch. Yes, there's the Dairy Queen, Cow Town out by the livestock auction barn, a barbecue place by the Roadway Inn, and Eric's Mexican restaurant, but none of them has the mouth watering food that Mitch served (even if FourSquare touts Cow Town's burgers as "the best in town."). So yesterday, we headed west. It's only 30 miles to Brenham, the county seat of Washington County and home to Blue Bell Creameries.
We feasted on fat Reuben sandwiches, made with butter-toasted wheat bread instead of rye. The mouthwatering sauerkraut would make your German grandmother jealous. We each ordered a side of broccoli salad, created from a closely held secret recipe, blending cheese, bacon, mayo, and amazing herbs together in a way I haven't figured out how to replicate.
The restaurant is decorated in country chintzy; the music is vintage American rock 'n roll. The syrupy lyrics of "To Know Him is to Love Him" brought back memories of slow dancing on prom night in the high school gymnasium. Perfect music for belly rubbing, until, of course, one of the old biddy chaperones marched out on the basketball court and pulled you apart from your pimply faced boyfriend.
Ronnie and I took our time, enjoying our lunch and each other's company. Only one item could have made the meal perfect, and yes, we did try to order a dish. But, alas, we were told Texas's favorite dessert will not return until Monday. I bet folks line up around the block tomorrow at lunch for a taste of Blue Bell. It's been a looooong time without.
We traveled Hwy105 west, enjoying the cool undercurrent in the warm air. We're still under a burn ban, but I smelled timber smoke about 8 miles out of town. Whoever was snubbing his nose at the law must have incinerated his pile of tree stumps, trunks, and limbs late last night because no smoke colored the horizon. The smell, however, was distinct.
We had lunch at the Must Be Heaven Sandwich Shoppe, a destination eatery in historic downtown. With Mitch's Filling Station Café and Diner closed, it's been hard to find a place in Navasota for lunch. Yes, there's the Dairy Queen, Cow Town out by the livestock auction barn, a barbecue place by the Roadway Inn, and Eric's Mexican restaurant, but none of them has the mouth watering food that Mitch served (even if FourSquare touts Cow Town's burgers as "the best in town."). So yesterday, we headed west. It's only 30 miles to Brenham, the county seat of Washington County and home to Blue Bell Creameries.
We feasted on fat Reuben sandwiches, made with butter-toasted wheat bread instead of rye. The mouthwatering sauerkraut would make your German grandmother jealous. We each ordered a side of broccoli salad, created from a closely held secret recipe, blending cheese, bacon, mayo, and amazing herbs together in a way I haven't figured out how to replicate.
The restaurant is decorated in country chintzy; the music is vintage American rock 'n roll. The syrupy lyrics of "To Know Him is to Love Him" brought back memories of slow dancing on prom night in the high school gymnasium. Perfect music for belly rubbing, until, of course, one of the old biddy chaperones marched out on the basketball court and pulled you apart from your pimply faced boyfriend.
Ronnie and I took our time, enjoying our lunch and each other's company. Only one item could have made the meal perfect, and yes, we did try to order a dish. But, alas, we were told Texas's favorite dessert will not return until Monday. I bet folks line up around the block tomorrow at lunch for a taste of Blue Bell. It's been a looooong time without.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Small Town Problems
In this week’s newspaper, The Navasota Examiner, the front page reported how the county judge gave pay
raises to employees in a couple of departments without the county commissioners
giving their okay. The commissioners thought the employees shouldn’t get across
the board raises, even if they were underpaid sheriff deputies. Instead, they
thought all the employees should get merit raises; in other words, they should
earn their raises.
Well, I’m here to tell you, if that happens, I think the
public works employees shouldn’t get squat. (Maybe the county doesn’t have them
on payroll; maybe they’re city workers. I get confused about who works for whom
since they are all public employees who actually get paid by my neighbors and me--the
taxpayers.)
Here’s why I’m peeved at the city works department.
My sweetie and I recently hired the services of ABC Lawn Services
from College Station to trim the trees in our front yard. When they were
finished (and they did a great job), they gathered the limbs and neatly stacked
them in the side yard. We waited three weeks for “heavy trash
day." Five men and a truck with a heavy-duty wood
chipper machine showed up on Monday morning, looked at our neat piles, and before Ronnie could
get downstairs to talk with them, they’d put a slip of paper on the front door with
the pre-printed message: Quantity Too
Large. If they hadn’t hopped on the truck and already hustled four blocks
down the street, I think my man would have chased them.
Ronnie and I had been reading about the brouhaha over city
services in The Examiner during
previous months, and these workers’ actions were totally passive-aggressive. You see, the city workers have been balking at
the growing trash from broken tree limbs (caused by the dry drought followed by
wind and rain). The city council talked about adding an additional charge to
our city bill to motivate the workers, but the retired folks raised hell about being
on fixed incomes. Then, the city council talked about requiring residents to
cut the limbs into sticks and bundle them, but the retired folks raised hell again,
this time about ailing bodies and weak backs. I don’t remember ever reading
anything about the amount. Which brings up the question: How will the amount diminish
if city workers refuse to pick up any of it? Should we ask neighbors to take
5x5x10 lots of it and spread it out so the five workers can spend the day
stopping at three houses instead of one?
I’ve been mad as an African killer bee all week, but my man has a cooler
head focused on solving problems. Instead of raising Cain, Ronnie had my son come up from Houston with two male buddies on Friday. They took care of the tree limbs, easy peasy—and cleaned out the garage.
The best part, it only cost a six-pack of Bud Light from the Valero gas station and two
large Super Supreme pizzas from Pizza Hut.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Struggle
I've been struggling lately.
Struggling with revising a novel. Struggling with building an online class. Struggling with being a better person.
Where has all this gotten me? To be honest, it's gotten me very tired. But yesterday I learned an important lesson from a very gifted teacher.
Charlotte Gullick is an author and creative writing teacher in Austin, TX, and I spent the day with her--along with 20 other writers who've been struggling with their revision process. Charlotte broke down the process for us and then she gave us time to play with different perspectives, suggestions, and strategies.
Aha! In six hours I discovered the process for unraveling the twisted parts of my manuscript and filling in where it is threadbare. But that's not all. I also discovered I could apply what I learned about revising to my creating an online course that is engaging and my developing into the woman I long to be.
The Aha moment came with the way Charlotte had us break down the process into one specific element at a time. Instead of attacking the mammoth manuscript all at once, she advised us to rate each craft element (plot, point of view, verb choices, etc.). Each revision draft focuses on one craft element only, so the writer can concentrate on what needs her attention.
I can do that with my manuscript now, and I am so excited and so ready.
Over the last six weeks, I have built an online class for English 1301 that, now that it is finished, I absolutely "hate" what I've done. There is no pacing, no rhythm, no enjoyment. But I have hope. I'm going to revise the course, one element at a time, and make it sizzle. I believe I can do that now, thanks to Charlotte's class.
Lately, I have been hard to get along with. My sweetie says I've lost my sense of humor--that I take everything wrong, that I'm so fast to pick a fight. As I think about Charlotte' class yesterday, I recall the title for her course was "Honing the Spark," because she thinks it is crucial for us to remember and embrace the spark that first led us to undertake a full-fledged novel. That spark is what sustains us as we revise and move from good to better to great. I think remembering the spark is important for relationships as well.
Ronnie felt an instant spark, he says, when he first met me. He says it was my smile that grabbed his heart that day almost four years ago when I walked in the restaurant. For me, the spark came later and took awhile to ignite. I'd been badly burned before and not so quick to be dazzled. But he is the love of my life, and I want to be the woman he deserves. So today, I will focus on the spark and let go of my petty-mindedness that leads only to regret. And tomorrow I will focus on another element of my love for him so I become more of the woman I want to be.
Thank you, Charlotte, for a map for revising my manuscript, and the other important things in my life!
Struggling with revising a novel. Struggling with building an online class. Struggling with being a better person.
Where has all this gotten me? To be honest, it's gotten me very tired. But yesterday I learned an important lesson from a very gifted teacher.
Charlotte Gullick is an author and creative writing teacher in Austin, TX, and I spent the day with her--along with 20 other writers who've been struggling with their revision process. Charlotte broke down the process for us and then she gave us time to play with different perspectives, suggestions, and strategies.
Aha! In six hours I discovered the process for unraveling the twisted parts of my manuscript and filling in where it is threadbare. But that's not all. I also discovered I could apply what I learned about revising to my creating an online course that is engaging and my developing into the woman I long to be.
The Aha moment came with the way Charlotte had us break down the process into one specific element at a time. Instead of attacking the mammoth manuscript all at once, she advised us to rate each craft element (plot, point of view, verb choices, etc.). Each revision draft focuses on one craft element only, so the writer can concentrate on what needs her attention.
I can do that with my manuscript now, and I am so excited and so ready.
Over the last six weeks, I have built an online class for English 1301 that, now that it is finished, I absolutely "hate" what I've done. There is no pacing, no rhythm, no enjoyment. But I have hope. I'm going to revise the course, one element at a time, and make it sizzle. I believe I can do that now, thanks to Charlotte's class.
Lately, I have been hard to get along with. My sweetie says I've lost my sense of humor--that I take everything wrong, that I'm so fast to pick a fight. As I think about Charlotte' class yesterday, I recall the title for her course was "Honing the Spark," because she thinks it is crucial for us to remember and embrace the spark that first led us to undertake a full-fledged novel. That spark is what sustains us as we revise and move from good to better to great. I think remembering the spark is important for relationships as well.
Ronnie felt an instant spark, he says, when he first met me. He says it was my smile that grabbed his heart that day almost four years ago when I walked in the restaurant. For me, the spark came later and took awhile to ignite. I'd been badly burned before and not so quick to be dazzled. But he is the love of my life, and I want to be the woman he deserves. So today, I will focus on the spark and let go of my petty-mindedness that leads only to regret. And tomorrow I will focus on another element of my love for him so I become more of the woman I want to be.
Thank you, Charlotte, for a map for revising my manuscript, and the other important things in my life!
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Ronnie got a haircut
Isn’t it amazing how a haircut can make such a startling
impression? Ronnie got a haircut Saturday, and the change is profound.
Ever since I’ve known him, Ronnie has worn his silver gray
hair long and shaggy. You know the look: Vietnam vet, aging hippie, outlaw
biker. It’s a fashion statement embraced by a lot of men in their sixties.
They’re retired, so they no longer have to adhere to the dress code of whatever
profession they had. As for Ronnie, he was in law enforcement and then worked
in the IT division for an international oil and gas company. In fact, he still
consults for a chemical lab that a friend owns, but he works from home where his dress code doesn’t even require him
to comb his hair unless he’s going to the store.
Some men, when they get older, revert to their military days
and get “high and tight” haircuts. But I think that’s because their hair is
thinning. Ronnie has a head full of gorgeous silver streaked hair, the kind
women pay several hundred dollars to get at a salon.
Some men shave their heads because they’re losing it anyway
and they don’t want those 1950s “dome heads” their fathers had (where they’re
bald on top and fringed around the sides) or, even worse, sporting those
god-awful “comb-overs.”
Ronnie did shave his head once when he was in his early
thirties, but it was because he’d grown a ponytail and his wife and mother were
both after him to cut his hippie hair. I’ve seen pictures, and trust me, they
are not pretty. Maybe that’s why I’ve been nervous about talking him into a
haircut. I didn’t want him to revolt.
Yesterday, after lunch at the Filling Station Café & Diner, we
asked our friend Mitch if he could recommend a place here in Navasota. He did,
and we hustled over to Madison’s Avenue across from Brookshire Bros. grocery
store. I thought I’d ask the stylist to cut about four inches off and he would end
up with an “elder statesman” haircut, reminiscent of Lyndon B. Johnson.
But Ronnie decided he wanted to go short. Uh-oh. Had I
pushed him too hard?
I turned him over to Lyssa Minor and her scissors and prayed
for the best.
The result was a spectacular executive or business style
haircut. Instead of looking like a badass biker, he looks respectable, clean
cut, and serious-minded (except for the mischievous light that is always
flickering in his brown eyes).
In other words, he looks ever so handsome. I think I’ll take
him to Brenham for dinner and show him off.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Texas Birthday Bash
Tomorrow is Texas Independence Day, but Navasota celebrated this weekend with its annual Texas Birthday Bash in the courtyard of the city hall. We had two days of live country music and Texas themed fun.
The bands were loud, rowdy, and down home country. We sat on one of the bales of hay scattered in front of the bandstand, but many families brought camp chairs along with wool blankets or quilts to wrap around them. Good idea--wish we'd thought to do the same.
A winter blast from the north required layered clothing. Seriously insulated jackets (the kind that are worn in deer stands or duck blinds) were favored gear for both men and women. Ronnie and I don't hunt, so we bundled up in our Harley leather motorcycle jackets. My beautiful blood-red cowboy boots were new, but the ones on the other women were scuffed and weathered. They weren't wearing their boot-scootin' dancing boots in inclement weather. I'll know better next year.
The guys sported short haircuts and full beards--no skimpy soul patches for these young men. They smoked filtered cigarettes, drank Budweiser, and bought cotton candy, funnel cake, and kettle corn for their rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children. And when the music moved them, they punched the air with their fists and danced with their women on the hard concrete.
Marsha's Petting Zoo had the little ones squealing with delight as they toddled after the llama, sheep, and goats. I thought how my younger brother would have joined in the reverie because he acts like he's 6 when he's around children. But Dallas was being pelted with snow and sleet this weekend, preventing Mark and his wife from joining us.
A mechanical bull also attracted youngsters from 3 to 12. The ride's operator wisely matched the bull's aggressiveness to each rider, so all the 3-year-olds had gentle rides while the 12-year-olds were spun and bucked till only the best weren't thrown to the pillow-soft padded flooring. The line was long, with older kids, determined to stay upright, jumping back in line for rematches.
For $5 each, we could have judged the chili cook-off, and we wanted to, especially since our friend Mitch cooked the meat for the entry from Brookshire Brothers grocery store. But the cook-off was over by the time we moseyed over to that side of the venue. Unlike Houston, the cook-off must end at lunchtime instead of offering competitive vittles into the evening of the event.
We met a fellow named Jim from La Grange. He came over to thank Ronnie for his service when he spotted Ronnie's Vietnam vet service cap. Jim is three days from being mustered out of the Army after serving in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He and Ronnie talked about the movie "American Sniper." We'd seen it last week, but Jim said he might have to wait to see it in video in the privacy of his home. He fought in Fallujah, and he isn't sure what emotions might come up. Ronnie nodded in understanding and said, "I was able to watch it with no problem, but that's because it wasn't my war." They discussed the differences between Vietnam and Iraq, jungle warfare versus house-to-house urban warfare, and the differences in the way they were welcomed home. They both agreed, as crazy as it got during their tours, they'd volunteer again. These two native sons are from the bloodline of the patriots who made Texas independence possible 179 years ago. They make me Texas proud.
The bands were loud, rowdy, and down home country. We sat on one of the bales of hay scattered in front of the bandstand, but many families brought camp chairs along with wool blankets or quilts to wrap around them. Good idea--wish we'd thought to do the same.
A winter blast from the north required layered clothing. Seriously insulated jackets (the kind that are worn in deer stands or duck blinds) were favored gear for both men and women. Ronnie and I don't hunt, so we bundled up in our Harley leather motorcycle jackets. My beautiful blood-red cowboy boots were new, but the ones on the other women were scuffed and weathered. They weren't wearing their boot-scootin' dancing boots in inclement weather. I'll know better next year.
The guys sported short haircuts and full beards--no skimpy soul patches for these young men. They smoked filtered cigarettes, drank Budweiser, and bought cotton candy, funnel cake, and kettle corn for their rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children. And when the music moved them, they punched the air with their fists and danced with their women on the hard concrete.
Marsha's Petting Zoo had the little ones squealing with delight as they toddled after the llama, sheep, and goats. I thought how my younger brother would have joined in the reverie because he acts like he's 6 when he's around children. But Dallas was being pelted with snow and sleet this weekend, preventing Mark and his wife from joining us.
A mechanical bull also attracted youngsters from 3 to 12. The ride's operator wisely matched the bull's aggressiveness to each rider, so all the 3-year-olds had gentle rides while the 12-year-olds were spun and bucked till only the best weren't thrown to the pillow-soft padded flooring. The line was long, with older kids, determined to stay upright, jumping back in line for rematches.
For $5 each, we could have judged the chili cook-off, and we wanted to, especially since our friend Mitch cooked the meat for the entry from Brookshire Brothers grocery store. But the cook-off was over by the time we moseyed over to that side of the venue. Unlike Houston, the cook-off must end at lunchtime instead of offering competitive vittles into the evening of the event.
We met a fellow named Jim from La Grange. He came over to thank Ronnie for his service when he spotted Ronnie's Vietnam vet service cap. Jim is three days from being mustered out of the Army after serving in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He and Ronnie talked about the movie "American Sniper." We'd seen it last week, but Jim said he might have to wait to see it in video in the privacy of his home. He fought in Fallujah, and he isn't sure what emotions might come up. Ronnie nodded in understanding and said, "I was able to watch it with no problem, but that's because it wasn't my war." They discussed the differences between Vietnam and Iraq, jungle warfare versus house-to-house urban warfare, and the differences in the way they were welcomed home. They both agreed, as crazy as it got during their tours, they'd volunteer again. These two native sons are from the bloodline of the patriots who made Texas independence possible 179 years ago. They make me Texas proud.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Ronnie to the rescue
Wednesday was a nasty day. Navasota was gray, wet, windy, and cold. The streets and sidewalks were muddy, and no one was out, unless running from a vehicle to a store. Even the birds huddled hidden away under building eaves.
I wouldn't have ventured out of my warm house if I hadn't had a doctor's appointment, but I did. Ronnie, sweetheart that he is, drove me. I left him waiting in the reception room while I had my check-up, but he was outside in the bitter, biting cold when I came out. What the...?
As soon as I opened the door, I had my answer. He was sitting on a bench with a tiny, trembling Chihuahua cuddled against his chest inside his jacket.
"We're not keeping it," I said. I didn't know where the dog came from or what Ronnie was doing with it. All I could think about were the three rambunctious dogs in our backyard and the fourth with my son. Five dogs? I don't think so. Someone had to draw a line in the dirt.
He beat me to it.
"I'm not leaving her," he replied. "She's lost and she's freezing." He stood, resolute, holding the little dog close to his body.
A flurry of conversation followed, with the doctor and her staff joining in. The dog had been seen running with another dog and then all alone, up and down the sidewalk for the past half hour. Ronnie had seen it following a kid on a bike, but the boy said the dog didn't belong to him and he didn't want it. The doctor said the dog had to belong to someone and Ronnie agreed but insisted he wasn't leaving the dog in the cold. Instead, he continued to warm her with his body heat and calm her with his touch.
We brought her home, but with a plan. Tomorrow Ronnie will call the dog pound to see if anyone is looking for a 4-pound female Chihuahua, and he will put an ad in the "FOUND" section of the Navasota newspaper.
In the meanwhile, she's safe with a man who has a heart as big as Texas for God's creatures. Her tail dances like a conductor's baton setting the cadence for the March of the Bumblebee. Her big brown chocolate eyes rival Antonio Banderas' Puss 'n Boots character in all the Shrek movies. No longer trembling cold, but flying up the stairs and snuggling under the blanket he's put for her in his office, she's full of spirit.
I wouldn't have ventured out of my warm house if I hadn't had a doctor's appointment, but I did. Ronnie, sweetheart that he is, drove me. I left him waiting in the reception room while I had my check-up, but he was outside in the bitter, biting cold when I came out. What the...?
As soon as I opened the door, I had my answer. He was sitting on a bench with a tiny, trembling Chihuahua cuddled against his chest inside his jacket.
"We're not keeping it," I said. I didn't know where the dog came from or what Ronnie was doing with it. All I could think about were the three rambunctious dogs in our backyard and the fourth with my son. Five dogs? I don't think so. Someone had to draw a line in the dirt.
He beat me to it.
"I'm not leaving her," he replied. "She's lost and she's freezing." He stood, resolute, holding the little dog close to his body.
A flurry of conversation followed, with the doctor and her staff joining in. The dog had been seen running with another dog and then all alone, up and down the sidewalk for the past half hour. Ronnie had seen it following a kid on a bike, but the boy said the dog didn't belong to him and he didn't want it. The doctor said the dog had to belong to someone and Ronnie agreed but insisted he wasn't leaving the dog in the cold. Instead, he continued to warm her with his body heat and calm her with his touch.
We brought her home, but with a plan. Tomorrow Ronnie will call the dog pound to see if anyone is looking for a 4-pound female Chihuahua, and he will put an ad in the "FOUND" section of the Navasota newspaper.
In the meanwhile, she's safe with a man who has a heart as big as Texas for God's creatures. Her tail dances like a conductor's baton setting the cadence for the March of the Bumblebee. Her big brown chocolate eyes rival Antonio Banderas' Puss 'n Boots character in all the Shrek movies. No longer trembling cold, but flying up the stairs and snuggling under the blanket he's put for her in his office, she's full of spirit.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Breakfast at Mitch's
Sundays always include breakfast at the Filling Station Café and Diner in Navasota. When Ronnie and I came here a year ago to buy our house on Church Street, we stopped at the café to have coffee and pie. Mitch, the owner, gave us an overview of the town while we enjoyed the best cherry pie I've had in years. (And yes, the a la mode was a scoop of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream from the creamery in Brenham, a mere 30 miles away.) Mitch was our first acquaintance and is now a good friend. We eat at his place a couple of times a week, and one of those times is on Sundays.
In good weather the place is packed with weekend bikers, antique-hunters, and Aggie tailgaters. The FM (farm-to-market) roads are ideal for motorcycles, the antique stores in Navasota and surrounding towns are stocked with second-hand trash and hidden treasures, and Texas A&M University is only 18 miles north of the Navasota city limits. Football is a religion in Texas and our fighting Aggies have a congregation that comes from near and far to stand as one... as the team's symbolic 12th man. (If I have to explain the 12th man to you, I won't because you don't know enough about Texas traditions to understand anyway.) Navasota has a slew of B&B's that fill up on the weekends of home games.
Today is not a good weather day. In fact, it' cold and wet outside, and most people are snuggled in their homes with the thermostat on 78 and a fire blazing in the den. We hadn't been out all weekend, and we were starving for good food and interesting conversation, so we bundled up and headed for the café about the time the church crowd let out. The church-goers who wanted to skip home cooking drove through the Dairy Queen across from the school administration building to pick up burgers or through Church's out by Wal-Mart to get a bucket of fried chicken. The rest of them drove straight home where, I'm guessing, based on my own memories of Sunday family mid-day meals, roast beef or baked ham and garden vegetables awaited. They'll spend this afternoon watching the Dallas Cowboys play the Greenbay Packers. Like I said, football reigns in Texas.
When we got to the café, the parking lot was less than half full. Veteran waitress Chrissy greeted us and brought us steaming mugs of coffee. I washed down my prescription pills and ordered the egg and vegetable flour burrito. I hadn't had it before, and my eyes got big as the moon when she brought out an order that would easily feed a family of four. I ate what I could and boxed the remainder for Ronnie to have in the morning. He had the "4X4," which consists of 4 eggs, 4 meats, hash browns or grits, biscuit or toast, and 2 pancakes.
Mitch came over to say hello and we got into a lively conversation about the price of gas and the significant layoffs in the oil industry that are being predicted. It will be the 1980s all over again. Texas has been golden while the rest of the nation has struggled with city governments in other states going bankrupt, but now it's our turn, and it won't be pretty. We also discussed Ronnie's and my plans to go to Cuba in May, the politics around the proposed bullet train from Houston to Dallas, and the idea of balancing the federal budget with a valued added tax (VAT) on merchandise rather than an income tax.
Good food and interesting conversation are the staples of small towns, and our friend Mitch offers both at his Filling Station Café and Diner.
In good weather the place is packed with weekend bikers, antique-hunters, and Aggie tailgaters. The FM (farm-to-market) roads are ideal for motorcycles, the antique stores in Navasota and surrounding towns are stocked with second-hand trash and hidden treasures, and Texas A&M University is only 18 miles north of the Navasota city limits. Football is a religion in Texas and our fighting Aggies have a congregation that comes from near and far to stand as one... as the team's symbolic 12th man. (If I have to explain the 12th man to you, I won't because you don't know enough about Texas traditions to understand anyway.) Navasota has a slew of B&B's that fill up on the weekends of home games.
Today is not a good weather day. In fact, it' cold and wet outside, and most people are snuggled in their homes with the thermostat on 78 and a fire blazing in the den. We hadn't been out all weekend, and we were starving for good food and interesting conversation, so we bundled up and headed for the café about the time the church crowd let out. The church-goers who wanted to skip home cooking drove through the Dairy Queen across from the school administration building to pick up burgers or through Church's out by Wal-Mart to get a bucket of fried chicken. The rest of them drove straight home where, I'm guessing, based on my own memories of Sunday family mid-day meals, roast beef or baked ham and garden vegetables awaited. They'll spend this afternoon watching the Dallas Cowboys play the Greenbay Packers. Like I said, football reigns in Texas.
When we got to the café, the parking lot was less than half full. Veteran waitress Chrissy greeted us and brought us steaming mugs of coffee. I washed down my prescription pills and ordered the egg and vegetable flour burrito. I hadn't had it before, and my eyes got big as the moon when she brought out an order that would easily feed a family of four. I ate what I could and boxed the remainder for Ronnie to have in the morning. He had the "4X4," which consists of 4 eggs, 4 meats, hash browns or grits, biscuit or toast, and 2 pancakes.
Mitch came over to say hello and we got into a lively conversation about the price of gas and the significant layoffs in the oil industry that are being predicted. It will be the 1980s all over again. Texas has been golden while the rest of the nation has struggled with city governments in other states going bankrupt, but now it's our turn, and it won't be pretty. We also discussed Ronnie's and my plans to go to Cuba in May, the politics around the proposed bullet train from Houston to Dallas, and the idea of balancing the federal budget with a valued added tax (VAT) on merchandise rather than an income tax.
Good food and interesting conversation are the staples of small towns, and our friend Mitch offers both at his Filling Station Café and Diner.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
High School Football
Despite threatening rain clouds, homecoming at Navasota High School brought out the entire town. Alumni as far back as the Class of '35 were honored (that's 80 amazing years!), and the bleachers were filled with people of all ages dressed in blue and white attire.
While the rain stayed way, memories of my own high school senior year homecoming flooded my mind. Navasota's Rattler Nation includes a marching band complete with a majorette and six flag girls, the Diamonette drill team, a slew of cheerleaders, and no less than 54 football players who suited up for the game. Back in my day, the green and white fighting Huntsville Hornets had no drill team, no flag girls, only six cheerleaders, and maybe 20 players.
But the hometown spirit was the same: Friday night football in Texas rules!
In the 1960s, we girls wore mums to homecoming. We'd keep them afterwards, pinned to our mirrors or walls where they turned brown and dried to fragile artifacts. My mind conjured the images of those big fat white flowers, and I thought how times have changed.
The corsages I saw Friday night were made of artificial flowers and accessorized with bling on steroids. Lots of different styles, too. The style I'd consider traditional was worn on the left shoulder, but oh my gosh, the glittered streamers flowed from shoulder to ankle. There were also corsages as necklaces, as armbands, and the most popular: as garters worn on the thigh. The garters were favored by the cheerleaders in their min-skirts, as well as spectators in blue jean shorts.
How times have changed.
Even though the 1960s claimed Drugs, Sex, and Rock 'Roll as its banner in American culture, Huntsville High School officials held tightly to the values of the 1950s, and cheerleader skirts were required to hit mid-calf, covering darn near all of their legs. Even if flower-clad garters had been available (and trust me, they were not), L.K. Westmoreland would never have allowed the cheerleaders on the field had they dared to wear them.
Confession: Ronnie and I did not stay for the entire game. The Rattlers were ahead 42-3 at halftime, and we felt confident the hometown team could win without our cheering from the stands. We bought "Navasota Rattlers Get Ready" t-shirts because we heard that the Rattlers will probably go to District and we will want to be in the stands to witness their win. We watched the crowning of Rebecca White as homecoming queen and listened to the Class of '35 and the Class of '45 sing the school song. While most folks stayed for the rest of the game, hollering and stomping and cheering the Rattlers as the second half began, we sneaked out.
While I waited for Ronnie to get the car from the crowded parking lot, I sang my school song softy to myself ("Oh, Huntsville High School, hear us singing our love and loyalty to thee beneath the shadows of the pine trees..."). We moseyed over to the Wrangler steak house on Hwy 6 and talked about how much we love this small town.
What are your high school homecoming memories?
While the rain stayed way, memories of my own high school senior year homecoming flooded my mind. Navasota's Rattler Nation includes a marching band complete with a majorette and six flag girls, the Diamonette drill team, a slew of cheerleaders, and no less than 54 football players who suited up for the game. Back in my day, the green and white fighting Huntsville Hornets had no drill team, no flag girls, only six cheerleaders, and maybe 20 players.
But the hometown spirit was the same: Friday night football in Texas rules!
In the 1960s, we girls wore mums to homecoming. We'd keep them afterwards, pinned to our mirrors or walls where they turned brown and dried to fragile artifacts. My mind conjured the images of those big fat white flowers, and I thought how times have changed.
The corsages I saw Friday night were made of artificial flowers and accessorized with bling on steroids. Lots of different styles, too. The style I'd consider traditional was worn on the left shoulder, but oh my gosh, the glittered streamers flowed from shoulder to ankle. There were also corsages as necklaces, as armbands, and the most popular: as garters worn on the thigh. The garters were favored by the cheerleaders in their min-skirts, as well as spectators in blue jean shorts.
How times have changed.
Even though the 1960s claimed Drugs, Sex, and Rock 'Roll as its banner in American culture, Huntsville High School officials held tightly to the values of the 1950s, and cheerleader skirts were required to hit mid-calf, covering darn near all of their legs. Even if flower-clad garters had been available (and trust me, they were not), L.K. Westmoreland would never have allowed the cheerleaders on the field had they dared to wear them.
Confession: Ronnie and I did not stay for the entire game. The Rattlers were ahead 42-3 at halftime, and we felt confident the hometown team could win without our cheering from the stands. We bought "Navasota Rattlers Get Ready" t-shirts because we heard that the Rattlers will probably go to District and we will want to be in the stands to witness their win. We watched the crowning of Rebecca White as homecoming queen and listened to the Class of '35 and the Class of '45 sing the school song. While most folks stayed for the rest of the game, hollering and stomping and cheering the Rattlers as the second half began, we sneaked out.
While I waited for Ronnie to get the car from the crowded parking lot, I sang my school song softy to myself ("Oh, Huntsville High School, hear us singing our love and loyalty to thee beneath the shadows of the pine trees..."). We moseyed over to the Wrangler steak house on Hwy 6 and talked about how much we love this small town.
What are your high school homecoming memories?
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Friday night at the fairgrounds
My sweetie and I went to the Bubba Can Barbecue Cook-off at the Navasota Fairgrounds Friday night. Our friend Mitch invited us. A big karaoke contest was the centerpiece of the entertainment. Eighteen contestants were vying for a $1,000 first prize, and Mitch was one of the judges.
Woodsmoke perfumed with chicken, pork, and beef cooking in barrel drums, slathered with secret sauces and rubs, filled our nostrils as we entered the fairgrounds. Campers converted to cookhouses bordered the covered pavilion. We sampled the ribs and found seats on the aluminum stadium bleachers. The stage, bathed in neon violet light, was at the opposite end of the dirt arena. Kids were running wild, kicking up dust like tumbleweeds. The smallest among them swirled with their arms spread like desert dervishes. Their skin shimmered in the neon glow.
Next to the beer concession, a local vendor sold girly baseball caps encrusted with sparkling glass crystals, trays of costume jewelry, blinged out cigarette holders, and purses with compartments for concealed handguns. Business was steady.
The karaoke choices ran the gamut, from traditional western swing to the downtown blues to old time rock 'n roll. Supporters punched the air with their fists and whooped and hollered. Dozens of couples danced in the dirt in front of the stage. The contestants seemed to love the convivial merrymaking. We sure did, and we joined in.
The men were dressed in jeans, sleeveless western shirts or cotton t-shirts, and boots, their heads covered with straw cowboy hats or billed caps; western tooled holsters filled with cell phones hung from their leather belts. Their partners were dressed in blue-jean cut-offs and colorful tops with spaghetti straps. They were long-haired and long-legged, swinging and swaying in step with the music.
My sweetie got in a discussion about Harley motorcycles overheating in traffic with Mark, the husband of one of the barbecue cook-off contenders. Ronnie told Mark about the numerous times we had to pull over on the side of the road in Houston because the Harley trike overheated and stalled out. The last time was in 100-plus degree heat, and we thought we were going to die of heat stroke. Shortly thereafter, we surrendered that trike for a water-cooled Honda Goldwing trike.
Mark shrugged. "I dunno, man. I have a Harley now and I gotta say, it runs great. No trouble at all."
Ronnie was sure the man was joking. "Really??? Not even in traffic?" The man smiled. "Man, I live in the country and I work in Navasota. What traffic?"
Point well made.
One of the benefits of small town living is the absolute lack of traffic jams, (except for the bumper-to-bumper lines at the railroad crossings that dissect the town). Ron and I feel like hamsters on a wheel in Houston. It's nice to enjoy a cool night at the Navasota Fairgrounds and be reminded that we are lucky enough to have an escape plan from the city.
Woodsmoke perfumed with chicken, pork, and beef cooking in barrel drums, slathered with secret sauces and rubs, filled our nostrils as we entered the fairgrounds. Campers converted to cookhouses bordered the covered pavilion. We sampled the ribs and found seats on the aluminum stadium bleachers. The stage, bathed in neon violet light, was at the opposite end of the dirt arena. Kids were running wild, kicking up dust like tumbleweeds. The smallest among them swirled with their arms spread like desert dervishes. Their skin shimmered in the neon glow.
Next to the beer concession, a local vendor sold girly baseball caps encrusted with sparkling glass crystals, trays of costume jewelry, blinged out cigarette holders, and purses with compartments for concealed handguns. Business was steady.
The karaoke choices ran the gamut, from traditional western swing to the downtown blues to old time rock 'n roll. Supporters punched the air with their fists and whooped and hollered. Dozens of couples danced in the dirt in front of the stage. The contestants seemed to love the convivial merrymaking. We sure did, and we joined in.
The men were dressed in jeans, sleeveless western shirts or cotton t-shirts, and boots, their heads covered with straw cowboy hats or billed caps; western tooled holsters filled with cell phones hung from their leather belts. Their partners were dressed in blue-jean cut-offs and colorful tops with spaghetti straps. They were long-haired and long-legged, swinging and swaying in step with the music.
My sweetie got in a discussion about Harley motorcycles overheating in traffic with Mark, the husband of one of the barbecue cook-off contenders. Ronnie told Mark about the numerous times we had to pull over on the side of the road in Houston because the Harley trike overheated and stalled out. The last time was in 100-plus degree heat, and we thought we were going to die of heat stroke. Shortly thereafter, we surrendered that trike for a water-cooled Honda Goldwing trike.
Mark shrugged. "I dunno, man. I have a Harley now and I gotta say, it runs great. No trouble at all."
Ronnie was sure the man was joking. "Really??? Not even in traffic?" The man smiled. "Man, I live in the country and I work in Navasota. What traffic?"
Point well made.
One of the benefits of small town living is the absolute lack of traffic jams, (except for the bumper-to-bumper lines at the railroad crossings that dissect the town). Ron and I feel like hamsters on a wheel in Houston. It's nice to enjoy a cool night at the Navasota Fairgrounds and be reminded that we are lucky enough to have an escape plan from the city.
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