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.

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.

Digital storytelling

I've been thinking about the power of story and how we seem to be losing family histories. I've always claimed we have world history, American history, Texas history--but that family history is being lost because we don't seem to be writing down those stories.

But I''ve been wrong.

Last night, I met a new friend at the Navasota Theater. She told me about her interest and decade of work in digital storytelling. Yes, since the 1990s, there's been a movement that began at the San Francisco Bay Area-based Center for Digital Storytelling, located at www.Storycenter.org.

Through digital storytelling, communities, organizations and schools have been using technology to capture 3- to 5-minute stories that focus on the heart's core of a story. Most stories emphasize partricular themes that run the gamut, e.g., from personal stories to historical events, from exploring community and social issues regarding personal views on family relationships, racism and social justice.

The methodology is simple: merge tradtional storytelling with contemporary digital tools, such as photography, audio, video, text and/or voiceover. The way to formulate the script is by asking such questions as:  How do I find meaning in life?  What do I think?  How do I feel?  What's meaningful in my life?

Is this cool, or what?

If you want to explore this dynamic, modern, creative way to tell your story, you can find a FREE webinar on creating digital stories as a "first step of your storytelling journey, and a gateway to further explorations of image, sound and digital media" (www.storycenter.org).

As I've said many times: we are natural storytellers--it is in our DNA. What is the story only you can tell? You can write it, podcast it, video it, draw it... You've so many choices. You need only to choose one and share your unique narrative so that we can connect. So, take your first step and in the words of that famous athletic shoe company: Just do it.

Please.

Write-in

I woke up with a novel idea (no pun intended). I want to host a write-in. What do you think?

I'll have it at Church Street Retrerat, which is Ronnie's and my Victoian home, built in 1875 in Navasota, TX. It's only a 90-minute drive from Houston.

There's roomy spaces in rooms with high ceilings and slow moving fans, a porch looking out on a pecan and elm shaded lawn, a fenced backyard with three rowdy dogs to keep you company but not talk to you, and blocks of small town wonder for solitary meandering with the Muse as company.

Bring your writing tablet or laptop. I'll provide coffee and tea, maybe a little fruit and cheese. We'll write together, but in silence. We will be like children in parallel play--feeding off each other's creative energy, but not interrupting one another's thought process.

In silence but in community.

You see yourself as an artist but not a writer? No worries--bring your sketch book. Or your camera.

In the late afternoon we'll come together, reflect on the experience, and decide if we should do it again.

Sound like a plan?

April is flying by, and soon it will be May, so when? Sundays are preferred but I'm open.

Don't worry, be happy

Deb Nance, a librarian friend of mine in Alvin, TX, has a great blog you guys should follow (in addition to mine, of course). The blog address is Readerbuss.blogspot.com and you guessed it, the blog is about good books, ones that feed your intellect and your imagination and satisfy your hunger for other voices. Today, she offered a recommendation for the Instant Happy Journal: 365 Days of Inspiration, Gratitude and Joy by Karen Salmansohn.

Deb says the author reveals the tricks that cheerful folks use to "keep their happy on." You know, those people who always have a smile on their face and a spring in their step? It’s not just in their DNA—they have ways to adjust their attitudes and behaviors that keep them in the optimistic zone. But here’s the best part: (in Deb’s words): “She [the author] not only shares the tricks-to-be-happy but she gives you time and space to practice them in this little journal book.”

Okay, I am convinced. I’m ordering several copies at Amazon.com, your favorite bookstore when you live in small town Navasota, and I’m going to share them with a couple of “unhappy” friends. Deb says she’s been practicing for only twelve days and she’s already 117% happier. That blows my mind because Deb was one happy women already. (How did she get the percentage change? With some complicated mathematical formula that is ‘way over my head, so I’m just trusting her.)

I believe that for most of us, happiness is a choice. Personally, I’ve discovered on most days when I feel negative and critical, it’s because my attitude has taken a nose dive. There’s lots of research to support this idea that has been published in The New York Times, USA Today, Psychology Today, and many, many scholarly journals. Here is what one expert, Remez Sasson, the founder of Success Consciousness, writes:  

“A positive attitude helps you cope more easily with the daily affairs of life. It brings optimism into your life, and makes it easier to avoid worries and negative thinking. If you adopt it as a way of life, it would bring constructive changes into your life, and makes them happier, brighter and more successful.”

And just to be clear, a positive attitude expresses itself in an attitude of happiness.

One of the “tricks” I’m certain is in the Instant Happy Journal will be getting out in the sunshine and enjoying the beauty of the day. It’s 55 degrees and sunny in Navasota today—I’m grabbing my sweetie and going outdoors. To be honest, I woke up happy, but if a little happy is good, why not reach for 117% more?

Sisterhood Retreat

I'm getting my groove on.

In another week I will be host the Sisterhood Retreat for a group of Lone Star College female students. A group of them came last year and we had such a delightful time that my colleague Cassandra Boyd and I decided to make it an annual event. I affectionately call my small town Nava-slow-da, and it is, which makes it a perfect place for students to get away from the frantic scrabble of college-work-family and slow their pace for reflection and renewal.

I’m welcoming these female students into my 1875 Victorian home, which sits on a corner in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Navasota. I’m creating a space where they can search inside their heads and hearts and share their stories of struggle and triumph. They will write, they will dance, they will talk, and in doing so, they will honor and support each other’s dreams.

Nothing is stronger than a circle of women sharing their stories.

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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?

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.

Riding the wildflowers

I love riding a motorcycle with my man. I used to ride my own Harley, but I prefer the view from the "queen seat" now. I can look around and think how blessed I am while Ronnie keeps us upright and between the lines.

We spent last weekend riding the wildflowers on the back roads around Navasota, TX, our new hometown, which, with a population of 7,000+, is the largest town in Grimes County.

On Friday we stopped first at the Filling Station Cafe and Restaurant on E Washington Ave., for breakfast, where our favorite waitress served us omelets and biscuits and coffee. After gassing up at the Valero station, we headed for Anderson, the county seat. We had business there, such as getting our vehicles registered and obtaining a DBA for writing retreats at our 1875 Victorian house.

According to the website, the county clerk's office is open from 8 am until 4:30 pm. We'd called to be sure and an answering machine repeated the same hours listed on the website. However, the door was locked when we arrived. We weren't surprised. Not really. Last Friday was Good Friday and Grimes County is a Christian stronghold, not full of profit-driven heathens like the big cities have. We, being more Christian than heathen ourselves, saw it as a sign to enjoy the countryside and took a farm-to-market road to Carlos, TX.

The sun warmed our backs and the scents of bluebonnets, buttercups, lavender, wild lilies and other field flowers filled our noses. We passed ranches where Herefords and Brahmans and Texas longhorns moseyed the pastures and glimpsed other pastures that were home to Palomino horses and goats. Vegetable gardens and lush rose bushes bumped up against ranch houses and mobile homes. Such a startling and welcomed contrast to Houston skyscrapers and concrete.

The next day we got a late start and headed in the opposite direction to Washington-on-the-Brazos. We stopped at the state park where Ronnie had to surrender his Derringer pistol while we toured the museum. Men and their guns! But I guess, after seeing Easy Rider in the 60's, a biker, war veteran and former police officer wants to be prepared for the worst on the road.

We learned some Texas history that we didn't know before, thanks to a documentary produced by Blinn College in nearby Brenham. Afterwards, we rode a back road to Chappell Hill. Farmers had planted bluebonnet seeds in fallow land, and we enjoyed the contrast of deep blue-purple against green clover and greener grass. A miniature pony farm caught our attention, but our tummies grumbled so we continued following the road to town. We stopped at a place that advertised great homemade pies, but stuck to roasted meat and mashed potatoes and collard greens. (I'm off sugar these days and Ronnie is supportive in that he doesn't feed his sweet tooth when I'm around. One more reason I love him.)

We found a pretty little nursery with big pots of lavender. I love the slender beauty of lavender stalks and the calming scent of its flowers. I did not know lavender is a natural mosquito repellent. Ronnie plans to return in the Jeep this week and load up 6 pots for our backyard patio. (See how easy it is for me to find reasons to loved him?)

We looked for roadside vendors selling homegrown tomatoes on our way home by way of Hempstead, but only saw truck beds loaded with watermelons. Oh well, no worries. Wed just have one more reason to mount that bike and ride the wildflowers.


What do you do to enjoy  the Texas springtime?