Texas Conflagration

West Texas is ablaze right now. Several parts of West Texas are, actually. It's been pretty heavy on my heart and foremost in my mind the last few days.

One massive fire this past weekend threatened my hometown, and might still be threatening it, frankly. It burned through a nearby town, where I currently have at least one friend living, and where a few friends from my youth lived. About 70 homes and structures were destroyed. I still need to get in touch with a friend of mine to check on her family's ranch. Actually, I should ask two of my friends about their families' ranches, now that I think of it. The town that burned was evacuated, and luckily, no one died, but it's still distressing. My town and another neighboring town were on alert. Sunday afternoon, a friend posted a photo of what the blaze looked like in the wee hours of the morning, from my town, facing the burning town. Scary as shit, to see the mountains silhoutted at night in a halo of orange. It looks like the forestry service has finally managed to get some of the blaze under control. But for about two days, the local NPR station was reporting on Facebook and Twitter that the fire was 0% contained. To make matters worse, the wind gusts were massive: 50 - 60 mph. That's pretty standard for a West Texas Spring - especially in the Panhandle; more on that later - but the worst part of it was not only was it spreading the fire like, well, wildfire, it was too gusty for emergency helicopters to swoop in and douse the flames with retardant.

The same friend that posted the photo of the fire at night, posted a video this morning, edited by a local photographer who captured images in the fire's wake. It's utterly sad. There are homes smoldering - one of which looks very similar to the house some good friends grew up in; I need to contact them - charred land, flames spreading in lines and independently, and in two brief consecutive shots, dead animals. Horses. One apparently dead from inhalation, the other charred. I read in an article on the Statesman (or was it MSNBC?) that a local official talked about seeing horses on fire. I'm sure many cattle were burned, too. I really feel for those animals and for their ranchers. Horses are just magnificent creatures anyway, but I remember how the rancher kids I went to school with loved their animals. Even if the cows and sheep were reared to be slaughtered, no one wants to see their livestock suffer. They're still cared for and treasured, as creatures. In the video notes, the photographer said there were many, many animal carcasses, he actually left most of them out of his video. In one shot, there's a wild turkey running down the road, while a football field away, the hills are burning. Smoke laces throughout the hills and it's amazing to me that anyone would know which direction the fire is coming from. Presumably, you probably wouldn't. My friend who currently lives in the hardest hit town was able to return to her home yesterday. Her house was spared, thankfully. I've been thinking a lot about them. Not just because they live there, but because her husband is a minister and a volunteer fire fighter. So he's got double duty: fight the flames, comfort the afflicted.

In addition to my teenage stomping grounds burning, there is an equally large fire tearing up the Panhandle. The last I read, two towns were threatened: both towns in which I have family members. One of which is where my grandparents are buried. I haven't heard from my family up there, nor have I read any reports yet about how that fire is going. Just suffice it to say, I'm very worried. I don't want to see my family harmed or their homes - including the one my dad grew up in - destroyed.

It's not like Texas - West Texas, in particular - is unaccustomed to wildfires. I remember, when we lived in Southwest Texas, each year, it seemed, wildfires would rage south, near the border, but none ever threatened us. We kept an ear out, but they never got close to us. And it wasn't uncommon to see a grassfire burning a ways off the road as we drove from town to town. I think this year has been particularly dry, though. There are several big fires going throughout the state right now. The biggest and nastiest just happen to be in West Texas. The last I checked, there was no rain in the foreseeable forecast. At least not for the SW Texas area. Which sucks. The good news is that the winds have died down, and the big town-destroying fire is partially contained. I just read of a new one, about a mile north of my town which is also large and currently un-contained. I don't wish I were there right now, but I do wish I could hug everyone affected by the fires right now. I can't imagine their anxiety.

Sorry for the bummer post, and for the stream of consciousness style writing. (More SoC than usual, anyway.) We still need to donate to relief for the Japan earthquake, but I guess we'll add the people of West Texas to our donation list. I think we'll start here: www.arcswtx.org. It looks like you can donate to Japan relief, too. So: two birds with one stone, eh?! Sigh.

In Vinto Veritas: Homesick

It's one of those nights again: I've had a little too much wine.

And it's that time of year again: when I truly pine for Texas. It's Springtime. That means South by Southwest in Austin in March and Fiesta San Antonio in April. Neither of which I've been to, but each of which I'd love to. SXSW is more on my bucket list than Fiesta, but I've been curious about Fiesta and all the ensuing pageantry since I was a little girl.

I've also been curious to see Las Posadas in San Antonio since I was a little girl, too. It's the Christmas story told on the Riverwalk. From what I understand, Joseph and Mary float down the Riverwalk seeking shelter from those along the river. I'm not sure where it ends. But who cares? It's a Mexican tradition. And a Texas tradition.

So many Texas traditions I've not yet been a part of: Fiesta San Antonio, SXSW, Las Posadas, Tyler Rose Festival, Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, Fort Worth Stockyards Parade ... and I'm sure there are more. I just can't think of them all in my state: slightly inebriated and estranged from Texas for a decade.

Nonetheless, Spring is when the stirrings of homesickness begin. Probably with SXSW; just because I've been wanting to go since I was a young teen and first learned of it. Long before there was the film festival; long before the digital/interactive aspect. Back when it was just music. Indie music, at that. Not because I've ever been a great connoisseur of music trends, but because when you're 15 and live in the geographical middle of nowhere - where the local station (the only one for 100 miles, no kidding) plays only big band and bad country - you cling to every shred of anything that is unconventional. I have friends in Austin, which means I see the daily SXSW update on their Facebook feeds; I have friends who frequent SXSW, which means the same. And each time I read them, the 15-year-old still inside me who felt ike such a mis-fit - the rectangular peg in the oval hole of her small town (yes, I meant that) - tingles with a dash of envy and excitement.

There's also the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. A few years ago, my brother, on a whim, asked if I wanted to come down for a Robert Earl Keen concert at the Livestock Show. ... in case you haven't guessed: it's not a one-day event. It's several. It's huge. It's typically in February, which technically isn't Spring, but in Houston - yeah it is. I couldn't go. But I would've LOVED to. I love REK. And I luuuurrve my brother. Robert Earl Keen performing and me and my brother downing Shiner Bocks and whooping along would've been a fuckin' awesome night!

City festivals aside, there is also the blooming of Texas' flowers in Spring that lures my fancy. Whether the Honeysuckle that grew on our fence in the Panhandle - a scent which can still bring me great comfort, to this day - or the bluebonnets that start to sprout in the desert and central part of the state, or the tall yucca, or the little yellow dollops of sunshine along the roadsides in West Texas that a friend of ours used to call "Bouncing Betties," the local flora blooming brought me joy. As a teenager, I used to pluck the wild bluebonnets that grew in our yard and wear them in my hair.

And then there's the torrential weather. Great beauty cannot come without great torment. I am terrified of tornadoes. I won't lie. Less so than say, tsunamis or earthquakes, but probably because I grew up with a killer threat from the sky. But you know it's Spring in Texas when you've got torrential downpours and micro bursts and tornado warnings one day and then the most glorious God-kissed skies you could ever imagine for the next three days. We had a tornado warning here the other day, but I didn't bat an eye, because I know the tornadoes on the East Coast don't take you to Oz. They don't even take you to the neighborhood bar. The torrential weather in Texas doesn't take you to Oz. It's crazy enough that it brings Oz to you. I don't miss the storms. But I do miss the gorgeousness otherwise.

I miss the Spring in Texas: when things are just waking up and laughing. When the end of school is just weeks away. When Spring Break - typically the first or second week of March - is warm enough that you can stay put and it'll still feel like Spring: sunny and warmth a-breakin'. Except for in the Panhandle, where it's kind of hit or miss. Spring, when UIL One-Act plays around the state are being competed, as are other UIL academic competitions: it's like March Madness for nerds!

I don't know if I would still be homesick if friends didn't Tweet and Facebook from SXSW. Or if they didn't email me pictures of them in endless fields of bluebonnets when the trees are still barren here. Or if I didn't know that that by this Easter, the schoolkids of Texas would be counting down only 4 or 5 weeks to their summer escape, when the kids here still had 8 - 10 weeks to go. (I'm seriously in touch with my inner 4th-grader!) But I know these things; I receive these things. And so, I get a touch of homesickness.

March 2nd was Texas Independence Day. It's a day I don't recall commemorating much in Texas (at least not beyond the sesqui-centennial in 1986), but one that has carried more importance to me since I've lived on the East Coast. I ended up taking my daughter to a Texas-themed restaurant for lunch to celebrate. It's a poor facsimile, but we made do. And it was a warm blanket around my shoulders on that chilly day. It was my pretend Spring Break in my pretend Home. And I genuinely liked it for the little time I got to have.

What's Molly Dreaming Now? Aloha!

It's been weeks. I know. Not only me transmitting, but me receiving. Sorry y'all. That's the bad news. The good news? We're leaving on vacation this morning for two weeks. So guess what I'll be doing? Catching up on reading your blogs! And hopefully, blogging as well.

We're off to Hawaii! Woohoo!

Here's what I'm so far most excited about. I slept last night! Typically, the night before a travelling, long-ish vacation, I sleep very little. But last night, I fell right asleep and got some good REM sleep, at that.

What did I dream? That I was back in desert West Texas town of my youth. But this time, I was a grown up, with my parents and brother. We were back at the house we lived in there. It was late Easter Sunday or maybe the day after. My childhood dog was there, as were some miniature dachsunds we apparently had inherited from friends. What was different was that this time in this dream, I was with my family and I wasn't just gasping for breath with joy for being there. I was at peace, and happy, but almost indifferent. I say almost, because I was still very happy. I just didn't feel compelled to stay for better or for worse - which, in my dreams, I normally do.

Ponder my brain. I've got a plane to catch and some islands to visit. I'll catch up with y'all in the coming days!

The Edge of Raging Heavens

(timelapse by photographer Rafael Bellus)

I have had so many thoughts in my head to blog about lately, but have not allowed myself the time to write them. In the meantime, please enjoy the above timelapse. It was captured outside Midland, Texas - in between the two places I grew up. The camera seems to be in the perfect place to capture the churning engine action of a storm - the edge. These are the furious skies of my youth: the agitators of my panic, the sculptors of my humility and the capricious angels that demand my awe.

Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future?

Two years ago, Honey gave me my first digital camera for Christmas, a Cannon SD800 Elph, and I've run with it. I was never much of a photographer, but thanks to the miracle of digital photography, it's rapidly becoming a hobby of mine. I'm teaching myself how to compose shots. I have a photographer friend with whom, some afternoon I'm going to go on a photo safari, and at some point, I'd like to get a consumer copy of Photoshop so I can edit my work. Thanks to my new hobby, I've begun looking at the mundane with fresher, more curious eyes. It feels good.

One of the gifts I got for Christmas this year was an all-in-one printer/scanner/photo printer. I've taken all these wonderful photos, but they still live on my laptop, or in some cases, cyberspace. It would be fantastic to finally start framing some of them and dressing the very naked walls of our house. Yesterday, I spent about an hour and a half scanning old photos from my childhood. There are hundreds more to go, but I knocked out quite a few. Including some from Christmases past. The image on the right is one such photo. It's from 1988. (I'm the amber-mopped tomboy in the orange tie-dye shirt, near the center.) Our family flew down to Mexico City to spend the holiday with our many cousins there. It was the first time I'd been on a plane since I was pre-literate, and I remember being afriad to fly. Then the downing of PanAm 103 a day or two before our departure convinced me that our deaths were imminent.

It's inevitable this time of year that my thoughts turn to past Christmases and reviewing old pictures certainly aid the nostalgia. Christmas isn't as fantastical for me as it once was, and I'm trying to figure out why. It's not the Santa thing. I never believed in Santa. If not yet the why, I can at least pin down when Christmas started losing some of its pixie dust. Junior high.

1988 was probably the last truly exciting Christmas for me. I was 12. Before we flew to Mexico City, we stopped in Dallas to spend Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family, like we did virtually every Christmas Eve. I played with my cousins, we ate the tamale dinner Grandma fixed us, watched whatever Christmas special was on TV, played board games, unwrapped presents ... Christmassy stuff. When we got to Mexico, the party really began. At my cousin Carlos' church, we played with no-bullshit pinatas; no papier mache Sesame Street characters. These pinatas were star-shaped, with shells made of terra-cotta and filled with sugar cane and peanuts. And they were massive. And there were many. When a piece of pinata pottery fell on my brother's head, he sought my mom's arms for comfort until he realized that every other kid was getting beaned by breaking pinatas, and went back in. Pinatas are not for the permission-slip happy American weak in Mexico. For days we were surrounded by family. We ate good meals every night. There was laughter everywhere. The gifts we got were either homemade - like the crocheted clown doll my aunt made me - or typically Mexican-craft like the leather purse I got. I was introduced to new traditions like Dia de los Tres Reyes and la rosca. The former is also known as Epiphany or Three Kings Day, the traditional 12th day of Christmas when the wisemen's visit is celebrated. La Rosca is the bundt-like cake served on January 6, though we did ours early, on the first (we ate several, come to think of it); a baby charm is placed in the cake and whoever gets it has good luck. In Mexico City, I was tickled to discover that for every kiosk set up on the city square with Santa offering to listen to Christmas wishes, there were two or three kiosks of the magi offering to do the same. Christmas is when you get your little gifts, there; Epiphany is when you get your "real" gifts. It's something we kind of adopted when my family went broke. Our gifts were never huge to begin with - a cassette from a band I liked was usually the extent of it - but extending the gift-giving until Epiphany bought my family a little time time to buy on sale. 1988 was a Christmas brimming with non-stop celebration. It was the last one I can remember like that.

Within a month, we'd moved across the state; Dad had entered the ministry full-time (an overall great move for him, but a damper on Christmas from then out) and there was no doubt about it: puberty had completed its angsty takeover of my body. From a celestial high to a rocky low. There are many things I like about Dad being a minister: he's a good preacher; he's a great listener and a wonderfully sympathetic man; it's his passion; he's knowledgable about context (and thus not literalist). However, the one thing I really don't like about him being a minister is that he's tied to whatever church he's serving for Christmas Eve.

When I was 13, I was devastated to learn that we would not get to drive up to the panhandle or to Dallas to spend the evening with mom's entire family as I had every Christmas Eve of my life until that point. We had to stay put for our church's candlelight service. I love Chistmas Eve candlelight services. After all the happy songs, the readings and prayers, when the lights go down and the sanctuary is filled with scores of tiny flickering flames and we're all singing "Silent Night" and then the accompanist stops so that we're all just singing a capella ... damn, there are few things finer. But to be compelled to stay? Couldn't this church just wing it without a minister for Christmas? Come ON! Christmas EVE! WTF?

From then on, Christmas became less magical. The songs in school, the games and the family hoopla began disappearing. We had to stay put, so Dad could preside over Christmas Eve services and we lived in such a remote part of the state that no one ever came to visit us for the holiday. (Which made me mad, as we often piled into the car on Christmas morning to drive 10 hours across the state to Dallas. Only to miss half the cousins, as they'd all returned home; and to miss the tamales, as they'd all been eaten. Why couldn't they reciprocate?) Christmas 1993 was a lovely anomaly, however, because 8 or 9 of our Mexican cousins came up and partied with us in our burg. They visited for a week. We spoke so much Spanish in the house that I actually dreamt in Spanish. (Era fantastico!)

These days, we have no set family gatherings with our extended families. His sister lives nearby, so we often visit her family. But I often feel something just one-off is missing. Our nephews have no cousins with which to play, so they either disappear to play on the computer or whine for attention. We adults don't play board games; we just talk about work and life and it's just ... a visit. My family lives in Texas, and with Dad unable to travel due to ecclesiastical duties, it's incumbent upon us to visit if we're to celebrate Christmas together - which we've only done once in the 10 years Honey and I've been Christmassing together. But even there, my brother just watches football and we just ... visit. No music and merriment. Honey's parents live on the West Coast. Sometimes they come out for Christmas or we go there, but it's just ... a visit. Once we played poker with his dad and nephews, and frankly that afternoon saved Christmas for me. It was so good to play something. My brother is marrying a girl from Wisconsin. He's up there now. She wants to never spend Christmas away from her family, so I have no idea if we'll ever get to see him for the holiday again. Which sucks. The older I get, the more disconnected I feel from family fun. Even when we see family, it seems so chaotic and not as cheerful as it used to be. I really, really miss playing boardgames with aunts and uncles. I miss the tamale buffet. I miss the cheesy holiday TV shows playing in the room where the kids are (ahem, please not around the adults). I miss poorly banging out "Joy to the World" on whosever piano is available. I think it's time to start some new more mobile Christmas traditions that bind us together. But I don't quite know which or how.

Honey and I have an accidental tradition of listening to David Sedaris read his "Santaland Diaries," either as we trim the tree or on Christmas Eve. Maybe I'll learn to make tamales like Grandma and insist on that wherever we go. Or maybe insist on more boardgames or puzzles. I love boardgames at Christmas. Christmas, for me, is about three big things: glittery cultural accoutrement, the breathless anticipation leading up to Christmas morning, and cozying up to family and enjoying eachother. Each feels like they're falling shorter as I grow older. I want to learn how to get the magic back.

Chocolate Nutballs - The Recipe

Apparently, I made a few mouths drool with the talk of my chocolate nutballs and their picture. I've gotten requests for the treats themselves - only one of which I honored, because she happened to be in my kitchen and knows I'm easily overpowered - but I think Joe had the best idea: post the recipe.

For the last 5 or 6 years, I've been on Texas Monthly's weekly recipe list. Of the scores, if not hundreds of recipes I've gotten in that time, I think I've attempted only two or three. This recipe is one of them, reprinted here, complete with the text from the email, but the links are not hot:

You’ll find more recipes online at texasmonthly.com. You can also share recipes and food questions with other TEXAS MONTHLY readers at the Recipe Swap.

Chocolate-Grand Marnier Truffles

Recipe from Sierra Grill, Houston.

1 1/4 cups heavy cream
16 ounces Nestlé semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup Grand Marnier or Bailey’s Irish Cream
Zest of 1/2 orange 1 1/2 cups pecans, ground or finely chopped

In a heavy, nonreactive pan bring cream to a boil. Immediately remove from heat and stir in chocolate and butter until smooth. Add liqueur and orange zest and chill overnight. Shape into 3/4-inch balls and roll in pecans. Makes 6 dozen.

****************

After my first attempt, I hesitate to call what I made truffles. Hence, labeling them chocolate nutballs (because I am nothing if not mature and referential). The consummate engineer, Honey had a good idea to help me create more attractive treats that I'd be proud to call truffles and not "nutballs." He suggested that instead of rolling them between my palms like I'd do modeling clay, that instead I seek some silicon mold of half-spheres - like a novelty ice-tray - and let the chocolate chill in that. Then when it's all chilled, marry the spheres together, maybe with a little water at the seam. Since I'll be out and about today, maybe I'll swing by Sur la Table and see what they've got in that vein.

With only half the chocolate mix, I believe I made about 55 balls, following the 3/4-inch ball rule. After Darla made off like a bandit with about two dozen of them, Honey decided we needed to make them bigger and rolled the rest of the chocolate into balls about 1.5" to 2" in diameter, mixing them not only with nuts, but with confectioners sugar. Good idea. Since these balls are bigger, they're more satisfying and I, for one, am less tempted to mindlessly pop one in my mouth as I am when they're smaller.

Though we had Bailey's at home, I opted to use Grand Marnier because it gave me an excuse to buy it. Insted of Nestle, I used Ghirardelli 60% cocoa, because we had a few bags of that lying around. I grabbed another bag of the Ghirardelli 60% bittersweet and a bag of their milk chocolate when I was at the grocery store Wednesday. I'll try those next. When I feel like I've gotten the process down pat, I'll try darker cocoa, white chocolate, fair trade chocolate, rum, kahlua, cordials that a friend brought me from the Caribbean: all sorts of variations until I'm known as the truffle-lady .... not just a little nuts.

A trunk full of Shiner Bock and Lone Star

I had the pleasure this week of finally seeing a musician I really, really love and have been meaning to see live, play live. That would be the ever-lovin' Robert Earl Keen.

Having grown up in Texas, I was somewhat familiar with him - more his name than his music. Just a few songs here and there. I knew he was on Austin City Limits a lot, but as I hadn't really watched that show since the mid-80s, he didn't really resonate with me. It wasn't until the summer before my senior year in college that I picked him up. I was apartment-sitting for some friends who were doing summer stock shows around the country. One of my friends had REK's Picnic in his CD collection. As I love raiding other people's music, I made my way through his CaseLogic binder and got hooked. This really surprised me for two reasons: 1) my friend didn't seem the country music type; his collection was typified by Elliot Smith, Dave Matthews and Jamiroquai and 2) I, as a rule, don't really like country music, but Picnic was just that - a fun, tasty, "comfort-food" feast. I burned myself a copy (Shh! This was 1998, so it was okay.) and went on my merry way.

But it wasn't really until we moved to the East Coast that we slowly started collecting his albums. This is when I really started to appreciate him. Keen's voice is gravelly, nasal, a little higher register than you'd expect from a country singer and painted thick with a drawl more reminiscent of West Texas than his native Houston. More importantly, he captures the Texas experience - at least the middle, and I presume, lower class Texas experience - so bloody well. He sings the low-brow Texas fantasies (as in his signature The Road Goes on Forever, which I want played at my wake, btw), redneck realities like those in Merry Christmas from the Family (every Texan has at least one relative like those), sweet, simple pleasures as in Gringo Honeymoon and just general appreciations for the land that bore him (and me), all its people (Mariano) and all its beauty and flaws (Levelland). He's a troubadour that sings about Texas sometimes adoringly, sometimes sharply tongue in cheek, and when he's great, he accomplishes both, simultaneously. He doesn't sing only about Texas, but life in Texas inspires about 90% of his music.

Honey isn't much for him, so I talked a college girlfriend of mine, with whom I'm reconnecting, into joining me. She's a trooper. I wouldn't've been cajoled into spending $45 on a ticket to an unknown commodity the way she was by me. I'm far too cheap! But she did it and she had a blast, so I was happy, and I owe her. (As I do virtually everyone I know.)

When I saw him, he performed against black duvatene curtains. No flashy backdrop, not even a banner with his name on it, like his opener had. Just the man, his band and the music. Even the lighting was simple. It had motion, but the lighting was made up entirely of simple gelled lamps. Something I'd expect for a brand new musician playing his first "for real" gig, not for a man who has a following. And he rocked the joint! I really, really wish there had been space to dance, because there were moments when I just really wanted to two-step. My girlfriend two-stepped in place with me for a bit, but complained that I moved too much from my hips. If I don't use my hips, I betray the only Latina-seeming part of me. Plus, it's the only part of me that has any grace; I'm fairly uncoordinated and my legs often move like those of a foal when I dance. The crowd was among the whitest I'd seen in this area in quite a while, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't Texas, but it was a close enough facsimile, that I felt really at ease. My girlfriend said she felt like we were back in college in Texas, what with the frat boys and country music.

Aside from dancing like a fiend in a crowd with a red solo cup full of beer and discovering I'm really, really shitty at remembering lyrics of even some of my most favorite songs, I think the most amusing part of the evening was the "cowboys." My brother sees Robert Earl Keen live every year or so. He plays Texas a LOT. He's huge; a legend, approaching the status of Stevie Ray Vaughn, there. Bro said the crowd he usually draws is a mixture of cowboys and hippies, which in some parts of Texas (Travis Co., I'm looking at you) are not mutually exclusive categories. Our East Coast crowd was mostly transplanted Texas and southern professionals, and New Englanders who let their hair down. But we did have some cowboy-hatted guys show up. They offered my friend and me Rebel Yell. (Uh, no thanks.) They were at the foot of the stage and occasionally waved their hats around. Had I actually been in Texas, there wouldn't've been a group of 5 or 6 hatted guys in the front; there'd've been a sea of hats, and boots. All fine. What bugged me was that their hats were funny looking. By no means do I claim to be an expert on western wear, but the material looked a little cheaper and the hats overall more colonial-flavored. Like someone took the material for a tri-corn hat, began making a bowler and then decided to give it a cowboy brim. They loved the show, but I think they loved the opportunity to wear their hats in public, just as much. It reminded me of a second-hand anecdote my dad told us in the late 80s. A friend of his was visiting her daughter in New York City. They decided to go to a country western bar in Manhattan to see how the locals did it. Apparently, all the guys in Manhattan were happy to two step with the ladies and did alright, but they tucked their jeans into their boots! (This is apalling, if you missed the subtlety of the italics and exclamation mark. You don't tuck into boots unless you're a dancing extra from the cast of Oklahoma!) But really, even if people don't pull off the dress with authenticity, I suppose the attempt is evidence of the appreciation. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, even if the imitation is off. Heavens knows if I tried to emulate the fashion of subcultures I admire, I'd fall way short. I can barely keep up with the subculture I'm a part of! (Bad yuppie!)

My only complaint about the show was that he was not as talkative as I'd hoped he'd be. I like singer/songwriters who spin short yarns and give us background. I was told by a friend of a friend that REK was, indeed, chatty. However, he didn't really engage until almost the end of the concert, which was too bad. My only other complaint is that we didn't stick around for him to sign merch. I got a shot glass, 'cause I'm classy like that, but I was thinking about getting a signed t-shirt for my brother. He'd love that. But alas, I am no longer a lass, nor is my friend, and we were tired, and had work the next morning. So we ducked out during the second encore song. Next time, I'm staying for the whole megillah. And I want some talk, Robert!

Hurri-update

To the right, there is an image from the Houston Chronicle this week. I believe that's in Orange or Seabrook or some other eastern, coastal Texas town. I think it's AWESOME! Don't you think it looks like some Double Dare physical challenge?

I've been checking in on the Chronicle pretty regularly the last few days, to gather information that my family cannot access. I've been texting them updates about where FEMA has ice and food stations, how much of the metro area has power back, etc, etc, etc. Luckily (miraculously ?), their church has some power, so Mom and Dad have been spending parts of each day there, cooling off and checking email. Mom says they've lucked out in that, since Sunday, they've had at least one warm meal a day - either spaghetti made on a hot plate at church - or lunch at the slowly re-opening restaurants. The rest of their meals are typical hurricane/blizzard fare: tunafish from the can, peanut butter, breakfast bars, etc, etc. The water is still not potable, but at least it's back on.

My brother and his fiancee have skipped most of the misery hanging out in Austin. I guess nothing says "tough aftermath" like a Shiner on the roof-top of Maggie Mae's. But I think they're returning in the next few days. Bro reported that my cousin's wife pulled a 48 hour shift at the hospital for the first part of the storm. By the time she was driving home, she was so frazzled and frustrated by all the debris between the hospital and her house, she had a freakout moment and called my cousin to drive to wherever she was a pick her up. Be nice to your medical residents, people.

Folks are for the most part behaving themselves but they're wary of looters. Houston is equipped with cops who are arrest-happy right now, so I don't know that the citizenry minds that so much as they normally would.

I only lived in Houston for about a year and a half, maybe a little more. I wouldn't call it home, but I certainly have a fond attachment to the city. I never endured any hurricanes or tropical storms. My family has endured the latter more than the former. This is the first direct hurricane hit since they've lived there that I know of. What I'm trying to wrap my head around is what the city must look like right now. At roughly 4 million residents, it's the 4th largest city in the U.S. and it sprawls for-e-ver. And it's so humid. The moisture in the air is always pretty thick - not NOLA thick, but pretty darn close. Mom said the streets looked flat deserted the Sunday after the storm. I'm trying to picture the humming city silenced, dark at night, her downtown streets littered with shards of broken glass and metal scrap, the residential streets impassable because of downed trees. I think it's the dark metropolis that boggles my mind the most. No orange glow domed over the metropolis. In a small town, a dark city isn't as frightening. Comforting, even, maybe. But a sprawling city? I find no comfort in that.

... NOLA. Yeah, those are some people I'm concerned about in Houston these days. Those poor folks: displaced and the lion's share of them are in Houston, now. While the damage in Houston isn't NEARLY as bad as it was in New Orleans, it still must be disconcerting. NPR had a piece this morning about Katrina survivors in Houston now dealing with Ike. It was mostly hopeful, but I felt such a pang of sadness when one woman said that when Ike blew water under her apartment door she got scared; and when she stepped into some flooding in her street, she got a flashback.

I just hope this mess gets cleaned up to soon. I worry for my family. Even restoring power to their neighborhoods would be immeasurably helpful at this juncture.

in vino veritas: I (don't) Like Ike!

I've written several blogposts under the influence of the claret stuff. And tonight is no different. Since this seems to be a sporadic trend with me, I've decided to start placing the caveat in the title: "in vino veritas." (Sidebar: a dear friend of mine, who is frakkin' adorable and lovable when she's drunk told me I'll be a good parent and my first child will be a boy. "In vino veritas," she told me. Sweet doll! I don't care what sex my first kid will be but I'd forgotten that phrase. I'm hijacking it now.)

"I (don't) Like Ike!" This must be a post on Dwight Eisenhower's farewell speech to the nation warning against the military-industrial complex! No. I already (kinda) did that. Though, for more on that, you should rent Why We Fight; the 2005 documentary, not the Capra series. I'm sure the latter is good, the former is really great.

Nein. I mean Ike, the hurricane that hit the shores of my homeland, today. I've been busy, pretty much all day, with performances and rehearsals, so I'd been out of touch with what's been going on on the front doorsteps of my family. I talked to my brother and parents yesterday afternoon to make sure they were prepared. (For those of you just tuning in: they live in Houston.)

After evacuating for Rita, during which the normally 4-hour drive to San Antonio became 12 hours with 2 million of their best friends on the road - all fresh with images of their drowned neighbors just a few hours down I-10 - my family discovered that sometimes sheltering in place isn't the worst idea. Granted Rita was predicted to be a Cat-4 or 5 when the evac notices went out. It was a 2 or 3 when it hit Houston. Nonetheless, this time they all decided to hunker down and ride out Ike at home. As Ike was predicted to be a weak 3 (and wound up being a strong 2) when it hit Houston, and as Houston is not built below sea level, surviving at the mercy of levees, I think they made the right choice. Granted, I suppose we'll see in coming days.

My brother had been off of work since Thursday. Mom and my bro's fiancee, both teachers, had Friday off to prep for the storm. My bro filled up a bathtub. Mom and Dad boarded up the most vulnerable windows in their house (the sunroom) and tucked the grill against the house. Apparently, they don't think the wind can smash a grill into a window. Go figure.

Now my family are all without power. They anticipate this will be the case for at least a few days. Pretty much the entire metro area - 5 million people - are without power. Mom texted to say she feels so estranged from the outside world without access to the Net or national TV. Poor things. My cousin emailed to say that her brother - she, a surrogate sister to me, and her brother a surrogate bro to mine own - who happens to live a few blocks from my own Bro, is at home with the dogs while his wife, a young doctor, is a the hospital on call. He's hunkered down with a bag of chips and two packed pistols. Which cracks my shit up as he's as blue-bleeding liberal as we are. (Of course, in Texas, people aren't afraid of guns. Even bleeding libs might pack - they just want the guns regulated and legally obtained.) The worst part of all this is that Houston is a fucking hot and humid place from about February 20 to November 19. I'm specific, because I remember canvassing for the Sierra club in February of 1995 and praying for God to just please drown me in this sky sweat he created to punish the oil-drillers with. Sheer misery. I now agree with "Dad-0f-the-early 90s" who claimed any place east of the Pecos river was too hot and humid to visit. It's true. So true. Give me 120 degrees in a desert with 2% humidity any day over 72 degrees and 72% humidity. My poor family must be sweating away pounds faster than Richard Simmons right now. Ugh.

Anyway, that's what's on my mind tonight: my brother and his fiancee and their bathtub fountain; my parents and their grill; my cousin protecting his dogs with a couple of guns while his sainted wife delivers babies in the ER and no air conditioning anywhere in the god-forsaken Galveston Bay.

... I suppose I can be grateful that they don't live in Galveston. Knowing my parents, they'd've evacuated. Knowing my brother ...? Well, I'm just grateful he lives more inland!

... just got a phone call from Bro. Apparently, he had a job function in Austin on Monday anyway. So he and my future sister-in-law are high-tailing it inland where there is family to stay with and air-conditioning to relax in.

Homeward Bound

... I wish I was/ homeward bound ... home! where my thoughts escape me ... those lyrics were stuck in my head all during the last two weeks of July. Why?

I returned to the place of my birth, after an eleven-year absence, last weekend. I lived in the Texas panhandle until I was 12. It was kind of weird to me that I'd been gone from my native town for almost as long as I'd lived there to begin with.

We went for the wedding of a dear cousin and it was a much-needed escape. Frankly, I think I could've used an additional 2 or 3 days there. Going back home it felt like a favored sweater: safe and familiar. I remembered the streets and routes, for the most part. There's Grandpa's old church; there's our old church; there's my grade school; there's my favorite donut place in the world; that's where we saw a tornado in the early 80s (a field now populated by houses); there's the odor of the feed lots 60 miles away on the wind; there's where Honey and I spent an afternoon making out when we were young lovers and he came to visit me when I spent a summer here in college. It's a town that I relished revisiting and look forward to revisiting. After we moved, when I was in junior high (the wrongest time to ever uproot a child, by the way) to a very, very small town in Southwest Texas so amazingly far from anywhere that you had drive 3 hours just to do anything, my native town was even more dear to me. We returned several times a year during the 90s to visit friends and family. And my parents still trek there at least once a year.

But I also feel like my relationship with my native city has changed. I've grown and developed my own life. And as much as I love my native town, as much as it'll always be home to me, and feel safe, familiar and happy, my relationship with it is almost similar now to my relationship with my parents. I love my parents endlessly. I appreciate everything they've ever done and still do for me, but I wouldn't want to live with them again, if I could avoid it.

It's the same with the native town. It'll always be home and I want to keep revisiting it, because I love it, but I wouldn't want to live there again. There are definitely worse places to live, and if it came up that we needed to move there, I could easily do it; I just wouldn't seek it out.

However, visiting got me thinking about what kind of lifestyle I want. I think about that occasionally, but the last two or three weeks, it's really been on my mind. Going to home to a place where there is NO SUCH THING as rush hour, where family hews together and people are home by 5:15 at the latest, surged the question the front of my mind. Honey and I have always said we'll move west again, seeking a slower pace of life, and I suspect we'll do it at some point - probably after we have kids. But where west? And frankly, after a couple of years when I was aching to move west again, I'm really enjoying where we are right now, I simply want a break from the hyper-acheivement and suffocating time-crunch of this area. I typically get to work between 8:30 and 9, often earlier (though today, I'm allowing myself 9) and don't get home till well after 6, sometimes well after 7. It's often the same for Honey - worse even, seeing as how he goes in earlier than I do. It's been particularly hectic for the last two months and only promises to get worse into the fall. (That's why I've been posting and commenting so infrequently, lately.)

Calvin Trillin, in an interview with Diane Rehm, or maybe Terri Gross, once said he wanted his kids, though raised in Brooklyn, to think they were being raised in Kansas, where he grew up. I think that's what I want, not just that my kids think they're in West Texas, but I want some West Texas here, on the East Coast amidst the 70% humidity, the over-acheivers and the road rage. I really like where I live; I just want to like my life more. I want to breathe.

Oh, and as for the mixtape above. Just a sampling of the soundtrack for the weekend.
1. At the Zoo - Simon and Garfunkel. Every morning, we had a home-cooked breakfast at my aunt and uncle's house. They made sure to have music playing at meal times. One morning the selection was Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel. This was one of them. I simply included it, because I love this song and hadn't heard it in years.

2. The Dress Looks Nice on You - Sufjan Stevens. My dear, dear cousin used this as her processional. She's 22. She's one of the few youngsters who I think is mature enough to make this leap. The ceremony was really low-key (literally a backyard event) and though religious, they chose not to use any religious music. I think their recessional was from The Beatles. I'm ambivalent about the choice of song, but I love that she loved it, and that she bucked panhandle norms: a wreath of flowers and ivy on her head, little make-up, eastern-inspired jewelery, barefoot under her gown, walking herself down the aisle ... she, like me for my wedding, wanted to do henna tattoos on her hands, but didn't know anyone who could do it. (Had I known, I'd've offered Virginia Gal's talents!)

3. Our Town - Iris Dement. As we drove around town one afternoon, Mom was lamenting the changes that have occurred in our old stomping grounds. (Though I was also struck by how little had changed in decade.) This song happened to be on my iPod and popped up on our connecting flight from DFW. It just felt fitting.

4. Viva la Vida - Coldplay. Another one that popped up on my iPod, on the return flight. I'd heard it a time or two, but it hadn't really grabbed me yet. I think it ciezed me this weekend - and I've been unable to shake it since - because going home to the far slower pace of life, to sunrises unimpeded by mountains and hills and skyscrapers, to the constant 10 or 15 mph breeze and the negligible humidity, was nothing short of reviving. My happiest self is a sprite who soars among clouds and stars and skims close to the ground. This weekend tickled her again for the first time in years. I was weightless. And for some reason, this song, at this moment, found that chink in my armor to sing to that weightlessness.

A Question of "Character"

This past Wednesday, one of my best friends from college popped in for a visit. She and her family were elsewhere on the East Coast and drove to spend half a day with us. However, the half-day turned into a few hours for dinner. They figured the "4-5 hour drive" between destinations would be like that between DFW and Houston, which she and I can both do in our sleep, and undoubtedly have. They didn't count on the toll-roads, the crowded freeways, the lack of access roads, and the poorly labeled exits and exit-warnings. It was good to see them, though. We see them about once every year, or year and half when visiting friends and family in DFW. As we pulled out to grab dinner for her hungry toddler, she said something that struck me as odd. She loved our neighborhood and commented on how much "character" it had and then said Texas neighborhoods didn't have character.

I took the compliment for what it was, but was kind of amused by her observation. To begin with, I think there are plenty of people in our metro area who would look at our neighborhood and would think that it lacks "character." We live in a development built about 40 years ago in a style inspired by the older architecture of the area, but definitely in a style fitting to the late 60s, early 70s. Plenty of folks around here complain about the architecture that goes up in neighborhoods that are being "revitalized" because it looks too similar to that of everywhere America. (While I agree about the architectural conformity, I think the bigger issue is the "chainization" of decaying neighborhoods than the sameness of style. Frankly, though, "revitalization" is a topic for a whole other musing.) If she drove another 15 or 30 miles out from our neighborhood - if even that far - she'd find suburban neighborhoods and developments populated with houses that look almost exactly like hers, in her neighborhood planted between Dallas and Fort Worth. (Not Arlington; there are a bajillion bedroom communities between the two.)

I commented to my friend that the "character" is only a function of the oldness of the settlements on the East Coast. Texas, by and large, was settled much later than New York, Philly or Charleston. But, that got me thinking: what is "character" in a neighborhood? Or in architecture? Is it really about age?

Back when McMansions started cropping up in the late 80s, I remember thinking those were full of character. When we visited Mom's baby brother in a Dallas suburb and saw the two-story, high-ceilinged, attached two-car garage manse he and his wife had, I remember thinking that was the pinnacle of success. That was a unique house - one with character. But that was because in our small town, I only knew the Levittown-style shoebox houses that I, and virtually everyone around me, lived in. But now, every new house within a pretty broad price range, looks like that. Now, at least where we live, those tiny shoebox houses that felt so stifling to me growing up, are the ones with "character." And what of Santa Fe? Every building in that city is traditionally made of adobe, in keeping with its Pueblo Indian heritage. I believe there is an ordinance requiring it. Does that mean that an adobe McDonald's has "character?" Certainly, a McDonald's that is in the architectural style of a Pueblo building is less shrill amongst like buildings than a typical white box with a red roof and yellow stripes. But isn't it like slapping lipstick on a pig?

Of course, there are some communities that don't allow the proverbial pigs in in the first place. A friend of ours from Maine likes to brag that Maine doesn't have a Wal-Mart, because the locals won't permit it. Vermont also has laws that make it difficult for chains to settle in. It certainly is easier to preserve the architectural tradition of a community by disallowing the eyesore giants to enter in the first place. (Not to mention it's a great way to preserve local small businesses.) But again, is "tradition" really "character?" New Orleans has an architectural tradition, as does Brooklyn and Santa Fe. But maybe that tradition only has "character" outside of its home. America, in general, is still pretty new to have a clearly-defined architectural tradition, compared with most of Europe and Asia. We're still developing accents; our language may not be settled for a few more hundred years. ... rambling off, now ...

A house with "character," as described by a realtor, generally means one that is older, needs work and one upon which the new resident could imagine a past story (or glory?) and can write his or her own story. Really, every edifice has character of some sort. A mobile home has character as much as the White House. Just because it isn't stately with an imagined past history doesn't mean it doesn't have character. It still communicates and reflects a lifestyle. It just may not be the kind of lifestyle most of us are conditioned to aspiring toward, or the kind of lifestyle most of us would desire or envy. Just because brand new cookie-cutter houses in suburbia are the norm for a wide swath doesn't mean they aren't places where people can't write their own stories. The same holds true for condos atop Bally's gyms in "revitalized" communities. Just because they're the Trapper-Keeper notebooks of residential architecture, doesn't mean the stories that can and will be written in them won't be any less interesting or valid than those written on the pages of parchment.

... now I miss my Trapper-Keepers.

Musicky Monday

I was so thrilled late last month when I got my Texas Monthly in the mail. (After years of making a ritual of picking it up in airports on the way home, I decided to finally get a subscription.) This month's cover story celebrates Willie Nelson's 75th birthday. While I'm not the Willie zealot that some of my cousins are, I do like the man and the portrait on the cover is just beautiful. So, I decided to let that guide me for today's superhappyfuntime mixtape. I considered doing an all-Willie mix, but then decided I should do a regional exploration series - as inspired by last week's Cinco de Mayo, Mexican theme - so this is about half Willie and half random Texas artists. I do recommend Twisted Willie, a fun tribute album from my college years. Good times.

1. On the Road Again - Willie Nelson. My dad used to always sing this whenever we'd travel the next town over to visit family. Or when we'd be off to New Mexico for a camping trip. Or whenever we'd be driving home from a school function or ... anytime we were in a car. I never paid attention to the fact that it was about touring with a band. I thought it was in praise of the great American road trip.

2. Running Away - The Polyphonic Spree. I've always enjoyed them. Last fall I had the pleasure of seeing them live and it was probably in the top 3 most moving live art performances I'd ever seen. Possibly in the top 3 most spiritually satisfying moments of my life - right behind the crazy psychic connection I had with the color yellow for a fleeting moment in 1995. I think I want to be one of their choir-girls when I grow up.

3. My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys - Willie Nelson. Okay, there is no veracity in that sentiment for me. My heroes have always been people who spoke/speak truth to power. Not that that can't be a cowboy, just that I haven't idolized any particular industry laborer. However, this is another song I remember hearing around the house a lot as a child, much to the chagrin of my mother (see #5).

4. Rave On - Buddy Holly. I think I'm appreciating Buddy Holly more as I get older. Sure, he's the pride of Lubbock and we West Texans are happy to claim him, as well as Roy Orbison, but he's always just been the guy who died when the music did. But lately I think I can hear his influence in music more - "oh yeah, you do have your uncle's stubborn chin," as it were.

5. Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground - Willie Nelson. Not one I'm super familiar with, but what a great heartbreaker about a doomed love.

6. Sundress - Ben Kweller. I first heard this guy on Studio 360 on NPR. I was irritated that the host kept calling him Kweller. Since he talked about being from Texas, I assumed his name was Spanish: "Cuellar [kweh-yar], you idiot!" I yelled at my car radio. I - ahem - was wrong. In any event, I dig him. And the chorus of this makes me dance like Tracy Morgan.

7. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain - Willie Nelson. This was apparently written by the same guy who wrote "Back in the Saddle Again." It's on "Redheaded Stranger," which Dad played relentlessly when I was a tot. It's so tender and mournful.

8. Private Conversation - Lyle Lovett. Okay. I grabbed this one because I couldn't find a good version of "If I had a Boat" or "She's no Lady." But this ain't bad. I actually met Lyle Lovett at an event last year. Very kind and polite.

9. The House is a Rockin' - Stevie Ray Vaughan. I dare you not to grab a bottle of beer, a nearby warm body and cut loose to this. This just fuckin' swings. God rest you, SRV.

10. Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys - Willie Nelson/Waylon Jennings.
Just another Dad would sing and play around the house in my youth. It would drive Mom crazy. "If Willie Nelson can sing, then I'm the queen of England!" she'd spout. She still spouts it. This is for you, Mom.

11. Attesa - Balmorhea. (Not sure this one is working.) This is an artist I want to explore more. Sounds like mostly piano-driven mood music, but I'm largely curious about them because they're from (surprise, surprise) Balmorhea, TX, near where I wasted my youth.

12. Rainbow Connection - Willie Nelson. I've heard a handful of versions of this song before, but this is my favorite. Its sad earnestness reminds me of that of Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt." It sounds like a completely different song than the original in his mouth.

Filmstuffs Friday

Okay, I know I said I would start adding new mixtapes each Friday, but I thought about and decided to move the mixtapes to Monday. Why? Better alliteration: "Mixtape Monday/Music Monday" and "Film Friday/Filmstuffs Friday" just sounds better.

Today, since I'm excited to go home even for a measley 25 hours, I thought I'd add some clips from movies I like that are filmed in (and usually based in) Texas.

CLOAK AND DAGGER - old lady at Alamo

It's probably been over 20 years since I've seen this movie. I was 14 before I ever went to the Alamo. I was so disappointed that it was way smaller than it looks movies. I loved this movie as a kid, but I can't remember much of it, now.

TRUE STORIES - "Hey Now"

This is one of my favorite movies. I love that David Byrne set the movie during the Texas Sesquicentennial - a whole year of crazy celebration in the state, ignored by everyone outside the state except Prince Charlie, apparently. This movie has everything I love: lonely characters, wierdos in general, lots of bright colors, suburban satire and musical numbers. This scene comes near the top of the film.

RUSHMORE - trailer

Filmed at Saint John's School in Houston. Pretty part of the city. I think my brother used to play lacrosse against them. I like Wes Anderson. Haven't seen this one in a decade. Need to revisit that!

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN - trailer

Had to include this one. It was filmed in my old stomping grounds and for as dark and bleak as this film was, I thrilled everytime I recognized a mountain or vista. I was also just really impressed how well this movie captured the reticent West Texas man.

I feel like there's another clip I wanted to add, but I can't remember it right now. Eh.

Any movies filmed in your hometown/state that you like? It's always fun to spot a landmark.

Memory Museum

There are at least two new movies that I know of which were filmed around the town where I spent my adolescence. Luckily, they're both movies that I'd want to see anyway, with fantastic actors and directors. Last night, I got onto Apple's movie trailer site and decided to watch their trailers. The second shot in the first one, one of those outdoor shots that helps establish the physical realm in which a story unfolds, made tears well up in my eyes. I paused it. My dog, who always rushes to my side when she hears me sniffle, did not fail in her habit.

The image was of a sunrise over a mountain that overlooks my hometown. But it was shot from behind the mountain - or rather, from the side that does not face the town. I watched the rest of the trailer, scanning the horizons of the panorama shots to see if I could recognize any other geographical features. I only spotted one other which I thought I could place immediately. But either way, it was such a treat to see all of it; I still recognized the undulations and vegetation of the Southwest Texas desert floor. After I watched the whole trailer, I showed it to Honey and paused on the second shot. I explained to him where the camera was in relation to the highway connecting my town and the next, roughly how far out from the town the shot was taken (maybe 7 to 10 miles), where the town was in relation to the shot and what time of day it was, based on where the sun was. He gave a polite, "neat."

I've blogged before about my hometown and how I haven't spent more than 48 hours there, since the summer after I graduated from high school, in 1994. I haven't even seen it at all since we scattered part of my childhood dog's ashes there during an 18 hour trip in 1996. (At Christmas that year, we decided to scatter his ashes in every place he'd ever lived. This meant we drove around the state of Texas, from the Gulf Coast where we lived at the time, to the Panhandle, where both my dog and I were born, to the Big Bend and back to the coast. For those keeping track, that's about 32 hours of road time alone.) There are times in my life, when things get hectic and scary, when I retreat to my hometown in my dreams. In the past few years, each time I'm there, I convince myself that I'm actually, physically visiting the town and when I wake I'm crestfallen. As a teen I hated the isolation of my town; as an adult, it can be alluring. Lately, I have not been having those dreams. Nor have I had any dreams about tornadoes or aliens - other common themes which tell me that I'm stressed - in many, many months. But about a week ago, I dreamt I was on the road which drives right by the mountain described above. I don't know why; I haven't been missing my town or feeling too stressed. (Well, I can think of something in my life from which I'd like reprieve, but you good folks shan't be privy to that today. But the dream was still surprising.)

In any event, I think seeing my town's mountain inspired my train of thoughts when I woke. Touring the terrain of my childhood. All I could think about was the inside of my grandparents' house in the Panhandle. They moved further in-state about 5 or 6 years ago to be closer to my aunts and uncles and parents. The last time I visited them in the Panhandle was shortly after New Year of 2000, almost 8 years ago! Not that I wasn't aware of it, but I hadn't meditated on this thought in a long, long time: I'll never see that house again; certainly not from the inside. So I took a tour of it in my mind. I felt the fresh summer air from their porch, went inside to hear the whirring of the window air conditioning unit, looked at all the family photos and Grandpa's paintings on the walls, smelled the gas from the kitchen, placed my hand on the stack of books and magazines that Grandpa kept on the corner of the kitchen table ... I laid in bed tracing the terrain of their house for what felt like 10 or 15 minutes. I was kind of surprised by how much I remembered. I remember it as well as, or maybe better than, the two houses I lived in growing up. It was the constant. Then I toured what I could remember of the church we attended till I was 12 - with a brief stint out while Dad pastored a church for a few years in the mid-80s. That, I remember more in chunks: the yellow-white brick, the arched breezeway on the east side of the west wing, the L shape of the building and that the only two sets of stairs were located on the ends of the L, the brown carpet in the hallway, the library on the east end of the building, the kitchen that was right across from that, the playground just north of the parking lot where, when I was a kid, we had the old cab of a semi-truck to play in (all the kids loved pretending they were truck drivers); the vast field across the street from the church where, in 1982 on Mother's Day, I saw my first - and so far only confirmed - tornado; that field is full of houses now. Progress.

Sorry I've been absolutely awful about blogging anything this Fall. And I'm sorry my first post in over a month was pretty self-indulgent. And, I'm sorry I haven't really been cruising other blogs a lot (or at all, really) in the last 6 or 8 weeks. I'll try to be better on all counts.

Happy ... Easter?

Springtime is one of my favorite times of year out here in major metropolis East Coast America. It's truly lovely. The blooming trees and daffodils fill me with joy. Something I have noticed, however, is that for as long as we've lived here, Easter has never felt like Easter to me. That's not true, our first Easter here - 6 years ago - was beautiful: sunny, mild and glorious.

Every Easter since has seemed to follow weather pattern that is just antithetical to the point of Easter in my opinion. It basically goes like this. We have some warm days in early Spring ... or maybe we don't, but invariably, Easter Sunday is almost always overcast, wet, cold or some combination of the three. You don't feel inspired to wear sandals or pastel colors at all.

Today is of course, no different. Though it's partly sunny right now, it's also about 35 degrees outside. I believe the only reasonable response to that on an Easter Sunday is: you're bloody kidding me, right? Having spent the bulk of my childhood in the Panhandle of Texas which is prone to see it last snowstorms in mid-March and is not warm year-round like people think, I'd like to think maybe I'd be cool with this meteorological holiday abomination. But no. Because even in the Panhandle, it's generally 65 to 75 degrees on Easter Sunday, so you can still hunt eggs in short sleeves and not have to wear anything heavier than a light sweater to church. However, global climate change seems to have afflicted the native lands today as well. It's 45 degrees here, feeling 32; there it's 32 degrees feeling 22. (Note to self: never move further north than New York City.)

Why does this upset me so much? Because Easter should be mildly warm and inviting. It should be the time of the year when we feel comfortable enough to shed layers and let our bare skin soak in the first few kisses of the sun. Easter is when Jesus rose from the dead; it shouldn't feel dead and defeated outside. Rain on Easter is an unfortunate occasional occurrence. But after 7 years of rain or overcast or stupid cold as this, I'm prone to just ask Jesus to sleep in another week or so. If I were Christ, that's what I would do: hit the snooze button until it's picnic weather. "Melt the clouds of sin and sadness/ Drive the dark of night away" go some lines from "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee." How can I feel like the clouds of sin and sadness are melted when it's bloody raining outside? Even from the pagan viewpoint of Easter or Spring festivities: seriously, do you feel fertile and like you want to celebrate renewal when people are wearing dark overcoats and the sun hides her face?

Honey thinks it's odd and amusing that I am so vehement about Easter Sunday weather. (Did I tell you there was a dusting of snow o'er everything at 7AM, yesterday? Infuriating.) His viewpoint, and I hope someday I can adopt it is that it's the weather and it's beyond your control, so why get bothered? I guess I have such fond memories of new dresses and playing barefoot outdoors on Easter Sunday after church, that it saddens me to see children here bundle up at church on Easter. Plus, I'm a very solar-powered individual, I've decided. I enjoy changing seasons and appreciate what they bring to the environment, but ultimately I LOVE the sun. And once winter is over, all I want is to bathe in the sun's light and soak up her warmth.

On the upside, Honey and I did go to church this morning. It was the first time this year. Last year was the first time ever that I hadn't worshipped on Easter and I felt empty for like a week. It's so strange, not having gone to church for all intents and purposes, in over two years that some Sundays really are more impactful than others. I love celebrating the resurrection, ultimately. Miss any other Sunday but the one that celebrates the defining event of the religion. We went to a neighborhood Lutheran church. We'd not done a Lutheran service in a while and we both forgot how much they love to do readings. It was like out the wazoo - almost Catholic.

The service was fair; as first time visitors, it felt a little alien, but we acclimated decently. The sermon was okay, but no really new inspiration on the Easter story - or at least, none that I picked up on. Maybe he needed to work on the delivery. In the 10 years Honey and I have been together, the ministers of churches we've belonged to have been excellent orators. Even my dad, whose tone tends to be more colloquial and less "speakery", is a really engaging storyteller, capable of great analogies. So our expectations are kind of artificially high. We did sing "Christ the Lord is Risen Today," which to me makes any Easter service, no matter how full of flourish or understated, complete. Two years ago, at my sister-in-law's church, we didn't sing it on Easter and it felt kind of like ... "no, I don't think he is risen today."

Of course, contributing to that sentiment was that it 48 degrees and rainy outside.

yadda, yadda, red wine random ramblings yadda

This will be a rather yammering blog. I've little of import to say (do I really ever?) and I'm drinking an uninspired Shiraz right now and will probably switch to rum and Coke soon. This reminds me of a funny moment relayed to me by a friend in college.

Rob, a guy with whom I went to college, was at a party with random and assundry people. He was (maybe still is) a non-drinker. He was having pleasant conversation with a drunk girl - mostly pleasant because, as was his wont, he was endlessly amused by the intoxication of others. At some point, she slurs the request to him, "Hey, can you get me a cum and roke?" And Rob, because he is wise, witty and hilarious, thinks for a second and replies, "well, I'm not sure about the roke ..." ... and that my friends is where to end the good story.

Things are looking up at my new job. Three weeks in, still at the bottom of the food chain, but now becoming more of a "team player." While I'm expected to clear a lot of the administrative backlog, I've also been recruited to help write the proposal for a multi-layered project that's been dropped in our laps with about a week's prep. The topic of the project is extremely uninteresting to me, and I know proposal writing is kind of like eating cold oatmeal. Nonetheless, I'm very excited because I'm writing for work!! My dream is to write the creative ends of work, soon, but for now, I'm psyched to be hashing out the perfunctory ends. Tomorrow, I'll dedicate a few hours to the proposal - which, since I'll be uninterrupted, unlike I am at work, I may actually finish in a few hours - and a few more to plunking away at my thesis.

Yesterday in my post, I included a picture of a cat napping between some be-denimed knees. My brief apologies to those who thought it was my cat. I forget that now I own a digital camera (one of the last households to get one; even behind my Flintstone parents) thus, so far, the only picture of my actual animal family online is that of BabyDog on my post-Christmas post. BabyDog is the Corgi in that one. I googled the phrase "cat napping in lap" or some variation thereof and grabbed one of the first pictures I saw. It does just so happen, however, that the cat pictured does, in fact, strikingly resemble CootyCat. The resemblance is so uncanny that Honey actually thought it was CootyCat. So, way to go, random stranger on Flickr: you've duped the daddy of a kitty cat!

It was highly satisfying to read that I made Sonnjea laugh. I wasn't sure I constructed that joke well, so I'm glad it flew. Yea!

A vacation I've been wanting to take for at least 9 or 10 years now is a week out to far west Texas, where I used to live. With graduation coming up soon, and friends and family in the Lone Star state starting to have babies more and our grandparents aging and ailing more (Grandpa has some surger coming up in March), I've fantasized that flying out to DFW or Houston and driving around the state would be a great summer vacation for a week and a half or so. Honey is averse to road trips, but I was raised on them. Unfortunately, I don't have the behind-the-wheel stamina that I had as a teen or younger adult. So we'll have to see. Nonetheless, Mom called today offering hers or Dad's car if we decide to pursue that route. That would mean flying into Houston, and borrowing their car to drive 4 hours up to DFW to visit our DFW gang, then 3 hrs back to Austin to visit our Austin friends and another hour to San Antonio to visit our San Antonio family and then another 8 to 10 hours west to far West Texas to visit my old stomping grounds where I need to make my spiritual peace. The 3 and 4 hour trips are nothing. Honey and I both have made those drives solo many times. It's the 8 to 10 hour drive west I'm concerned about. We've not done a trip like that in about 3 years. And even then, I was so unused to it that Honey did most of the driving. It's really unfair. When I was 18 I could've done that length with my eyes closed, solo. If we visit our Texas kin this year en state, it will probably end up being a triangle visit (DFW, Houston, Austin/SanAntonio). A trip far west takes so much time that if we ever get to do it, it will probably be years from now. For now, I think it may stay just a fantasy. ... especially since a good friend is talking about taking a joint trip to Disney World; and Honey and I are always up for a trip to see the Mouse. You've got to tend to your inner child, you know?

Funny: when I was growing up , Disney World was so geographically and financially beyond our means that a trip there seemed completely unattainable. It was far easier to drive 10 or 12 hours to Santa Fe, NM to drop $300; or 3 or 4 hours to Chihuahua, Mexico to drop $150. Nowadays, we are so airportically linked that Disney is far more attainable than say, the ruins of Bandelier, NM. The latter is too far beyond our geography and vacation clock. It makes me sad.

... now, off to the Cuba Libre! (Sonnjea, stick with what works for you. If you do decide you need to switch to rum, I recommend Capt. Morgan's Private Stock or some other Puerto Rican good stuff. Think of it as an investment into your future. Pay a little more to inspire your muse a little more!)

From one Molly to Another

Much has happened in the week since my last post. Windows Vista was release and Barbaro was put down to name a few events. But the news that caught me off-guard and that has stuck with me, was the untimely passing of Molly Ivins.

I was first introduced to Ms. Ivins' writing my junior year in High School. A beloved aunt and uncle of mine had been reading her for years out of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and after what I'm sure was a lengthy conversation about ways to fix the state, the country, the world, etc, they clipped a few of her columns and mailed them to me. Reading those columns was like fortified cake for me. Here was a woman who was arguing points of view I agreed with not only more in depth than I would or could - almost any columnist could argue any side of any point better than I can - but with a rich colloquialism that came straight from my front porch. And her use of the language, counter to what we're conditioned to think, didn't harm the argument at all. She was "speaking Texan." I later read several of her early books and all I could do was smile. Her eloquence in the colloquial tongue and her ability to retain argumentative credibility just thrilled me.

Her use of language in any context was like walking on sunshine for me. In the early 80s, toward the end of her stint with the New York Times, covering the southwest, she reported on a ritual chicken slaughter in a small western U.S. town and referred to it as a "gang pluck." Her editor was mortified and demanded she change it. She refused. He canned her. The Times' loss was everyone else's gain. Ms. Ivins secured her niche in column writing.

There were no targets off limits to her. She has been known as - and certainly was - a liberal columnist, but she was by no means a lapdog to the democrats. If she saw injustice or flat wrongheadedness she called it and it didn't matter if the campaign sign for the subject of her piece was in her front yard. That was another thing I loved her for. And if a conservative was doing something right, she called that, too. Too bad, just days after her death, news that Gov. Rick "the Hair" Perry made Texas the first state to require HPV vaccines for girls entering 6th grade. I would have loved to have read what her response would have been.

I don't habitually read the opinion page in news papers. Most that I read anymore are in our subscription to Newsweek or online at other news sites. In the last few years, I have only read her column sporadically. In May of 2004, I sat down to read Bushwhacked. The scandal about Abu Gharib had just broken (and was breaking my heart), the divisive ire surrounding the impending election was really beginning to percolate. I found my own blood boiling so much surrounding the administration that I couldn't finish the second chapter, much less the second paragraph of any news article about them. There are times in one's life when she must simply deal with her own anger before reading more on a subject. The last 4 years have been such a time for me. I will go back to Bushwhacked sometime, but once I'm done with my blind fury. When I do, I know there will be good information delivered in linguistic gems.

I did not know that Molly Ivins had cancer. This explains why in the last year, the photo alongside her column on the Star-Telegram website showed her with closely cropped hair. Her passing is almost more of a symbolic personal loss. In the last 4 months, Anne Richards and Molly Ivins have both died. These are both women who inspired me by their language, their larger-than-lifeness, their willingness to proudly be a minority voice and their beautiful ability to hang quite easily with the good old boys. They, like my beloved aunt who turned me on to Molly Ivins, are the Texas women I crave to grow up to be: bold, socially concerned, articulate good old gals whose default countenance is a beaming grin.

To hear an interview with Molly Ivins, go here.

Molly Ivins is one of those people I'd've always loved to have had dinner with. My opportunities to do that in this life, limited here are they were, are over. I hope we can catch up in the sweet by and by when I leave this world. ... in the meantime, I guess I need to see what I can do to get on the dinner guest lists of Jimmy Carter and Bono!

They ARE after you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ... and what we remember.

I found this article on MSNBC.com about a guy in Australia who was being mauled by a great white shark from the top down. The diver pried himself off enough to poke the jurassic beast in the eye, right as he was coming down for a second munch on the noggin. Kudos to the diver! He is a fracking bad motherfucker! God bless the Aussies!

I really like this picture to the left here, by the way. It's just cool. To learn more about how predatory fish want to find you at home while you're watching Wheel of Fortune or doing Sudoku and kill you and eat you with a side of dijonnaise, please click here.

Before I go any further, I also want to extend the warmest, fuzziest and most loving of greetings to VirginiaGal, on this the eve of her 30th birthday. (Since I'm pretty sure she'll read this on the 24th, maybe I should dispense with formality and just call it her birthday.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIRGINIA GAL!!

... as Honey says, being 3o is orgasmic! all. the. time. I wish you many, many arousing days from here on out! (see how she blushes!) Seriously: Blessings to you on this milestone. May you have scores more! ... and if on this day that those who love you want to celebrate you, you post about being 30 and single, and not the good fortune to have made it this far, I will go cry in my milk.

Moving on!

I grew up in west Texas. Anyone who's read more than two posts (or who reads and knows me off-line) has probably picked up on that. My experience on the East Coast has been that people tend to think Texans are illiterate morons. (Pardon the exaggeration of their perception of us. What can I say, we're prone to hyperbole.) And frankly the current dipshit in chief does everything to perpetuate and affirm that ugly stereotype. I always find it amusing that Texas gets totally dissed for anything it doesn't do in a progressive manner, when there are many other states - some not even in the South - which have their own backwardy ways, too. But that's for another post. Nonetheless there are definitely aspects to life in Texas that many of us who no longer live there - and those who still do - are either irritated by or downright pissed off about. The amount of children uninsured for one. But as I was having drinks with friends the other night - two others of whom spent their youth in Texas - I was struck by their memories of public education.

One woman grew up in and graduated high school from Amarillo. The young man lived in a suburb of Houston till he was 15. I spent my entire life pre-18 in the Panhandle then the southwest hunk of the state. Houston to Amarillo is a 12 hour drive on a good day, to where I lived it was 13 or 14 hrs. Amarillo to the desert southwest section is about 8 hours. For Sonnjea in CA or Joe in Vegas, you may know that's not a big deal, but if I have any readers on the East Coast, it indicates that people can have very different experiences all within the same geopolitical unit.

The young man from Houston said he remembered having to get permission slips/waivers signed from his parents before his school could teach him Sex Ed or evolution. My friend from Amarillo said her school would have never even broached either. But I remember the Sex Ed section of health class pretty well - it lasted at least 2 weeks - and while I don't remember a "section" or specific class lesson about evolution, I do remember in biology, we just kind of talked about it like a given. We evolved from apes; we're adapted to this or that, etc. We never had to have waivers for either concept.

I called my brother whose adolescence was split between the middle of nowhere southwest of the state and Houston. He remembers in the small town, all the 8th grade boys were coralled into the auditorium one afternoon and one of the town doctors explained sex. As for Sex Ed in Houston, he recalls a week in health class and no waivers. He remembers nothing of evolution in science class. He remembers nothing of science class. (We're more of a word family. We're happy with the Cs we worked hard for in math.) Additionally, a friend of mine from SwTX, now in Austin, recalled with me the day all the girls in HS were given a sex ed talk from a local nurse, complete with birth control options - and how we thought it grossly unjust the too-fertile boys didn't get the same treatment. Nonetheless, no waivers. But I, unlike her, have memories of people in the town we could go to for BC if we needed/wanted it. She remembers it being not available at all.

I guess I find all this curious for two reasons. Again, as much as popular as it is to lump all Texas experiences into the same basket, the communities really do vary region by region. The second reason is this: how much of memory is accurate?

Of the 5 people referenced (my brother, me, my Amarillo friend, my Houston friend and my small town friend), our time away from high school ranges from 9 to 17 years. I barely remembered anything I was taught in high school, aside from classes I liked. Most of my memories from those days are social. And, how much of our memory is affected by the image we want to retain? Does my friend want to remember no birth control options in our town? Does my other friend want to remember Amarillo as the constrictive-Bible belt city? Do I want to remember taking evolution as a given in high school Biology? I recently discovered that what I understood to be the reason I wasn't specifically taught Greek Mythology in Junior High was inaccurate. I'd picked up somewhere along the way that it was because a religious right-wing parent demanded my school stop teaching it. I learned a decade and a half later that wasn't the case. It was simply that I missed that section because in 7th grade (generally when it's taught in TX), I had moved before my prior school got to it, and after my new school had covered it.

How accurate is memory, then? Especially memory of events that really don't seem to matter that much now? High school biology class? Sex ed? I already knew what evolution was and my parents, though not as much help in the department of the mechanics of sex, were always there to talk with us about the emotional aspects. It seems memory would be far more accurate, or at least impactful, for the moments that mattered: picking a name for my baby brother, when we had to put our dog to sleep, the mean teacher who gave me detention for something that wasn't my fault.

... something I do presume, though, is that in this country that is becoming more and more politicized, waivers may be becoming the norm in many parts of the state. But I wouldn't be surprised if they're becoming the norm in many states, period.

(You all know what a period is, right? I'm presuming you took some form of Sex Ed?)