Monday, November 2, 2009
Starting from a slightly different location, farther to the east than was typical of past trips, they soon approached and adjoined her favorite expanses of blacktop that kept countless fond memories and inspired so many emotions and thoughts. In Lampasas they merged onto Highway 281 and so began the connectivity of all those small towns, many of which possessed names that people had a strong likelihood of mispronouncing if they weren’t from around those parts. It was a compilation of roads that flowed through the heart of the Texas Hill Country like one of its own rivers; not too loud or boisterous like the Colorado or the Brazos but calmer and slower like the Pecos, Bosque, or Leon. She always likened herself to a river- a Texas river. While some people consider themselves beach people or mountain folks, she knew if her spirit was to take a more literal earthly form she would have been a river. Her life's path had been less than linear and was relentlessly changing course.
Reaching one town she would immediately recall which one was to come next while driving through the current, looking for, and finding each of the normal landmarks encountered in years past. All the usual suspects were there. The cafes still served the same pies with mile-high meringue. The churches, rooted and devout in the sun, still wanted for the shade found over the adjacent graveyards with the small, weathered markers and plastic wreathes with red flowers faded pink over time. The old men wearing belted Wrangler’s and boots, collared shirts, and old vinyl ball caps, who spoke only when needed, were found as expected- sitting on the benches outside of the smoke-filled filling stations. They always reminded her of the Farmer's Almanac, the smell of stale tobacco, and manners long ago neglected by most. At times she envied them because she imagined their lifestyle was mostly consumed with the present need of producing what was needed to subsist today. Therefore, they had little time to contemplate the inadequacies of their lives but could enjoy living in the now, rather than always wanting for something more or better. The antique stores still attempted to peddle wares that had been there for ages. One aspect of these towns that rang most special to her was their structure and layout- all oriented around the town square so that one would drive right past the courthouse (most were county seats); dating the towns and reminding one of a time when justice was more prominently on display. With the onset of winter and the Christmas holiday, these courthouses would be elaborately decorated with strands of crystal white lights and shiny red and green garlands. The streetlights throughout town would be decorated as well so that if one drove through at night, it was if you were passing under and elaborate promenade of tinsel and light. For her, those trips became most special when they happened to reach some of the towns further south at night and they would be transformed into small vignettes that could be peered into, much like the quaint village figurines and displays individuals collect and display in their own homes during the holidays.
It had proven to be quite a beautiful fall day and in between cities and towns, the landscape varied from pleasant to breath taking as they traveled further north. The colors had begun to change and the oranges and shocking reds blazing on the flame leaf sumac and red oaks were stunning. This was the first week in November and fall had just hit Texas, yet another reminder of how the state seemed to take its time with almost everything it did- completely unprogressive and unconcerned with the trends around it. Even the King Ranch bluestem had turned a to a deep purple/mauve at its seed head, and cast the surrounding fields with a dark tint. She had a shade of eye shadow in that exact purple hue. As the cars ahead speed past, the grass stands growing adjacent to the shoulder of the road protested against the force of the air in a perfect rolling wave- the purple seed heads reaching towards the ground and flashing a bit of straw colored stem before snapping upright again in an undulating motion.
They passed various fixtures typical to a rural backdrop that hinted to a lifestyle almost forgotten: houses with screened-in wrap-around porches, an old truck on cinder blocks without its wheels, a hand-placed stone fence of unquestionable age bisecting a pasture. She smiled when they reached the house completely surrounded by a dike that could not be missed, and one could not wonder what neurosis had inspired such an undertaking. In addition to the earthen barrier surrounding the house, was a series of American flags across the property. This had to be the surest bastion of American patriotism, and by the looks of the earthen barrier around the house, the inhabitants were ready to uphold that status come hell or high water. North of Hamilton, they had to break quickly as four deer leaped the fence to the right and crossed the road in front of them before another leap easily and gracefully carried them across the fence on their left. It was odd to see them so active at the noon hour, but from the number of dead deer they had encountered, remnants from last night’s collisions, she thought they must really be on the move with the cooler weather and the subliminal changes in behavior that the waning daylight brought about in the species this time of year. Last night had not been a good night for the deer.
She mused that it had always been the deer that had brought them up and down these roads, for what seemed must have been a thousand times before, as well as she knew them. Each trip had taken place before she was yet old enough to drive, at least a portion of that 8-hour trip from the Metroplex to a remote portion of South Texas brush country where they spent weekends and a few remaining days of holiday breaks during hunting season on a highly coveted hunting lease. Land so rough and hardscrabble that most would consider it desolate despite the variety and abundance of life that flourished there. They spent hours on those roads covering the distance between two places so distinctly disparate they almost seemed to be alternate experiences in space and time. She loved every minute spent on the road with him. She would spend her time in the back seat, pretending not to be paying attention while listening to him as he talked to the other companions in the car- the adults telling stories and jokes. Some times he would earnestly break into song or start humming a favorite tune with great fervor, but mostly for amusement's sake, and she would just laugh. As much as she loved the time spent in that south Texas landscape, early steps in the development of her appreciation for natural systems and land stewardship, she most treasured the time spent in the car on those roads. The endless possibilities of new places and people one might chance upon, with a host of new stories and adventures created a sense of wonder in her and created a longing to find new routes to wander.
Small towns were different than what she knew. Each time she traveled these roads she wondered what it might be like to have grown up in one. A place where most folks knew one another just as well as they knew where the sidewalks in town would lead. What impact would such an upbringing have made on her life? More often than not she considered her upbringing and exposure to diversity a blessing, but had the availability of luxuries of urban life made her complacent? Would a longing for more, experienced in a town that had little to offer (at least on the surface), driven her to achieve more in her life? Would she have fought harder to reach her goals the first go-around if she had grown up with an ache for a life outside of a small town?
The thoughts played round and round while they continued to travel north. Soon, they began to notice more cars on the road and traffic increased. Around Granbury it became an annoyance and she realized with a start that what she was feeling was not disgruntlement for the traffic but for that gnawing concern in the pit of the stomach. She kept telling herself it was not necessary as everything would work out as it should, statistically speaking, but she couldn't ignore the queasy anticipation anymore. It had begun about a month before when she received the news. He had not acted concerned at the time, and still did not, but delivered what was to happen in a simple email with little detail: a surgery, a time, and a place. It would all work out fine, he reassured. She took the news in stride, but now, as they approached their destination and knew she would be seeing him soon, maybe for the last time, she couldn't stop the worry and the thoughts just came forth…
At dawn tomorrow they will shave your chest, put you to sleep, and open up your torso. They will keep you alive for those few precious hours with artificial life offered up from computers and machines and, potentially, others’ blood. They will cut out that small piece of your heart that has never worked correctly but they say now has reached a point of inefficiency it can no longer meet the demands of your body and sustain your life. Then, they will replace it with a foreign object, make repairs, stitch you up, and wait as you wake from slumber. And I’m so scared. Not at the thought of what is to happen, the procedure itself, but what I have come to realize life would be like without you. You are my guiding light; I would be utterly lost without you. You, who taught me how to appreciate, how to dream, how to be proud, how to take life, how to respect life, how one person can love more than I thought would ever be possible by loving others more than themselves. Where would I turn for the advice and comfort that only a father can render at 2 am in the morning when things have fallen apart and his little girl is in trouble? You were not always so good at it though, and in awkward times didn’t always know how to talk to us. You learned, however, and the comfort you bring has meant so much to us. And all of this time of knowing what was coming, you have been the strongest. You have remained calm and not once shown a single sign of worry, because you put us three before yourself. You have unselfishly kept us safe.
A couple of tears fell as they pulled into the subdivision she remembered but had grown so big. She hoped her sister didn’t notice and didn’t think she had because of the sunglasses that covered her face. Knowing what tomorrow could bring, she’s had her moment of weakness and then hardened. Tomorrow the roles would change- he would be rendered weak and they would be strong for him.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Smaller indicators to this conclusion had materialized through-out my childhood but were easily dismissed at the time. After reaching an appropriate age to not only become acquainted with, but to also appreciate our parents' surviving vinyl collection, Sara and I knew that our mother and father must have once been pretty cool folks. Two people still holding onto the albums of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, The Beetles, The Stones, Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, James Taylor, Simon & Garfunkle, Chicago, Led Zeppelin, Elton John, The Grateful Dead, Crosby, Still, Nash & Young, Harry Nilsson, Willie Nelson, Ray Price, Dolly Parton, and Jerry Jeff Walker (amongst others) had inevitably had some fun at one point in their lives. We had heard tales about attendance at 4th of July picnic's with Willie Nelson, concerts witnessed at the now extinct Armadillo World Headquarters, as well as adventures and misadventures about and around Austin involving such spots as Barton Springs, Deep Eddie, and Hippie Hollow. But that was in their pasts- their distant pasts. Careers, children, suburbans, PTA meetings, political and social shifts had happened since. The former-life Austin hippies had grown up to be respectable, moderately conservative, middle-class professional parents. Most importantly, in my eyes, they were about as far from hip as I could imagine. And I was comfortable with that arrangement. Sure, they set a good example for me- a great example- but it was one that I would be able to benefit from and one day out-perform. I thought that Sara and I would always prevail as the hip duo in the relationship. We would now set the example for them as to what was socially acceptable and what should be aspired to. When, exactly, had things started to change? When had the shift begun to occur and how had I ignored the implications?
Perhaps the first step on their path towards this new status occurred during the presidential election campaigns of 2000 when my father shocked us by declaring his intent to vote for a non-conventional candidate. Yes, the man who had adamantly defended Bush Sr. and his stance on US and UN involvement during the first Gulf War was now going to vote for Ralph Nader- of the Green Party! Perhaps the growing cracks and flaws in the policies of the Republican party had finally shaken his miss-held belief in the party's miss-stated values and focus. For my farther, his admission was a turning point- almost as if the statement was a vocalization of some new resolution to change. My mother, on the other hand, had somehow managed to remain truer to her political roots by largely tending to vote Democrat if the candidate was acceptable. As such, I do not include this as a defining moment for her; Dad was simply catching up-to-speed. Regardless, this new perspective on political responsibility- that now included more areas and avenues of accountability, such as environmental stewardship and social and cultural awareness- would ultimately materialize in both my parents' lives in very tangible ways. Another step, that was more accurately a large leap in the procession, was their purchase, upon my father's retirement, 0f 160 acres just outside of Comanche, Texas with the intent to farm, ranch, and live off the land- well, at least in some respects. In fact, this move was the true catalyst in what had become the outwardly spiraling movement toward "hip-dom".
Comanche Ridge, as the farm later became Christened, provided the venue through which Mom and Dad could live-out their socially and environmentally conscious pursuits. Although, during the origins of Comanche Ridge, I think it was more of a subconscious movement rather than a waking venture. Days became filled with the activities associated with raising free-roaming Red Angus, establishing organic gardens, dabbling in apiculture, raising chickens for egg production; and as more time was spent upon farm improvements and adventures, the more Mom and Dad became impassioned with these pursuits and found new avenues for their implementation. It was no longer apparent which entity was the driving force in this operation- were my parents domesticating and cultivating the farm to their bidding, or was the farm fostering and breeding new ideas and thoughts of environmental sustainability in my folks? Clearly, the answer was that this had become a mutually beneficial symbiosis in which stimulation of one entity upon the other brought about maturity and progression- an earthly and spiritual manifestation of the natural force of succession.
Socially, they began to flourish as well. After successfully establishing a local cycling group, they set about the ambitious task of organizing and hosting a bike ride - The Comanche Cyclone- to benefit the Comanche Hospital Auxiliary. The resultant success of the event in its inaugural year and years to follow was something that caused an enormous feeling of pride in me for my parents. It was warming to watch their approach to the new community they were now a part of and hoping to advance. At times, though, I wondered who these people were, and where they came from; the characters they were becoming appeared in such moments to be larger than life, at least certainly larger than anything I had witnessed in them before. While Mom continued to work part-time in her long-held career as a lactation consultant, she became the soul bread-winner in the relationship. Holding fast to her convictions and the small contributions she made in the fight to eradicate misconceptions and prejudices about breastfeeding, she continued to save another baby from formula feeding, two boobs at at time. With the new-found freedom from work, at least in a professional form, Dad began to master various form of media. What began with an unhealthy obsession with CNN and Book TV, brought about by the acquisition of satellite television as few other options for media connections exist in rural communities, crept slowly into web-surfing and blogging. Although we didn't have cable television or even an answering machine growing up, Dad had become so immersed in political blogging that it began to inhibit his farming obligations. Mom had to step-in, putting her foot down and curtailing his on-line activities as other domestic responsibilities were being neglected. I was beside myself when I discovered that the man had carved out a niche for himself, and not to mention a considerable following, on the Huffington Post blog site. For chrissakes, he had become an actual 0n-line character, offering up all sorts of commentary and often engaging others on the site.
Naively, I thought this final act had been revolutionary enough in itself. Then, the email hit. They were purchasing a Prius. For those individuals that live in urban hubs, this is nothing out of the ordinary- plenty of people drive hybrids these days; for Comanche, Texas, however, it's down-right unthinkable. Comanche just isn't Prius country. To be exact, it's pick-up's, tail gates, hay bales, dairy farms, simple thoughts, simple lives, and hard work, I'm not quite certain how the transition from an urban metropolis of concrete jungle mixed with the perfect ration of manicured suburbia to rural existence had so seamlessly rendered my parents hip, but it had. This troubled me- deeply. I had to look at myself and ask myself some hard questions. If they could be so personally aware and render such effective measures of change, hope, and perseverance in their own lives while living in Podunk Ville, what was my excuse for remaining so less overtly involved while residing in Austin, the mecca of everything associate with anything hip? Was I not reacting to social stimuli in the appropriate manner? Could I find new areas for activism that I had been turning a blind eye to? How could I not feel embarrassed about having parents far more hip than myself? I imagined a chorus of everyone around me asking the same question, almost in unison: "Sandra's parents are SO GREAT, where did she go wrong?". Helplessly I scrambled to come up with creative solutions to this quandary, but nothing seemed to offer any relief.
In the space of the week or two that followed my receipt of the picture of Mom silently posing before the new vehicle, I have decidedly become more resigned to the thought that my parents are more hip than myself. Through their actions in these past few years, they have silently and unassumingly set a new bar or standard for Sara and I to strive for. After all, isn't that what parenting is meant to be- an example of proper behaviour for your children? And why should such an endeavor end when one's children become adults or parents themselves? Proudly, I realize that they love us, and this world that Sara and I are a part of, enough to react and adapt to that world so as not to be left behind but to always be able to shine a light on a proper path for us.
What is next for my parents? Of this I'm not certain, but as they are now poised for the future- with a vehicle that best resembles a spaceship rather than a car restricted to travel upon paved roads- I am convinced that the sky might not be the limit. And, after further consideration of the situation, I am more secure and comfortable with the idea that as I age, I will have something to aspire to as well as look forward to. Because if my parents' lives are any indication, it should be a fun and exhilarating ride. So, maybe the old adage should be changed to read that with age comes wisdom and hip-dom.
Friday, June 12, 2009
In fact, I nearly had the place to myself. Good time to get lost in my own thoughts as the usual distractions of hundreds of other runners one typically encounters at this hub of physical activity were absent this morning. No paying attention to the whispers of their conversations I usually catch as they amble- or fly- past. No casting envious sideways glances at their flashy tech running garb. No setting my sights on the individual several yards ahead, telling myself I can and have to reel them in and then triumphantly put them behind me. No competition, just peace. It was a rarity that I welcomed eagerly as I usually select other routes seeking this type of experience. For the first time, I was able to enjoy Town Lake as a serene setting for forward motion rather than for the provision of pulsing energy driven by a community of pedestrians relying upon each other for motivation.
Within moments of setting out I predicted that by the end of my run I would, much to my chagrin, be soaking with sweat as there was no possibility of any evaporating from my body and into the fully saturated air. I felt nearly certain that if I looked hard enough I would be able to decipher droplets of moisture in a state of suspension all around me. Such oppressive humidity can tend to slow one down and threaten to even stop one in their tracks; however, the water, which seemed to be everywhere, had brought a life-force of its own. Although the skies were faded, the layer of remaining moisture made every surface of the trail reflect a deeper shade of green. Animate and inanimate objects alike seemed to snap to attention and make their presence known most distinctly by their smell. Intensified by the lingering water, that would not dissipate until mid-day sun and the vaporizing power of 100 degree heat, the organic matter emitted a cacophony of odors that were at once pleasant and soothing, acrid and pungent, and overtly sweet. Almost as if the underlying detritus of the plant kingdom, not having been disturbed in ages, was laying and wanting for this particular opportunity to announce its power with the ferocity and force of carrion.
But, this wasn’t the vile smell of death. This was the smell of earth returning to earth and the inescapable, evolving odors seemed to provide their own force for me to draw on. It pushed me forward and told me to keep moving; this place is alive. I will treasure today's run as an experience to escape in the power of oneself in relation to nature rather than the power afforded by one in a group of many with a similar goal; an event not often allowed here. Many days I run Town Lake and as the extremes of summer and winter settle in, dryness seems to sap the lifeblood from the surrounding natural system. Today was not such a day. Today, water brought life.