Corn maze

A disappointing day. I can’t complain, because it doesn’t happen often. I’d heard on local TV about a “corn maze” on a farm down near Waxahachie, and headed off there, buying sun-block on the way, because it’s pretty warm round here in July. When I got there, I discovered it was only open in the evenings – this makes sense, if I’d stopped to think about it. You’d have to be insane to wander about in a cornfield in the middle of the day in Texas (something about mad dogs and Englishman springs to mind …).

So I took the scenic route back to Dallas, passing through Avalon (which was definitely not the inspiration for Roxy Music’s hit song) and Italy (there’s a disturbingly dull theme cropping up here, so to spare you a recurrence, here’s a brief, and certainly incomplete, of funny place names in Texas: Gordon, Vernon, Seymour, Chester, Sidney, Smiley, Leroy, Dabney, Tarzan, Happy, Gun Sight, Point Blank, Cut and Shoot, Elysian Fields, Utopia, Paradise, Munday, Friday, Telephone, Telegraph, Energy, Raisin, Oatmeal, Rice, Noodle, Hot Coffee, Kickapoo … I could go on, but I won’t. The very last time I’ll mention the topic is to suggest you check out http://www.floydpinkerton.net/fun/citynames.html.

And so I did what any American does when it’s this hot – I went to the mall. I walked around the food court, but couldn’t find anything I fancied to eat. And around the multiplex, but couldn’t find a movie I was prepared to pay to see.

After a while, I left, and stopped off at Red Lobster, hoping the meal might lift my spirits; it might have done, had not a couple with one misbehaving toddler and one screaming baby not sat in the booth next to mine. I knew I should have gone to Cowboy Church again this morning!

On a completely different topic, you probably know that state license plates in the States typically have their state motto on the bottom, like: The Constitution State (Connecticut), The Empire State (New York), The Sunshine State (Florida), The Lone Star State (Texas). As I came out of the hotel the other morning, the car in the parking space next to mine was from Idaho. “Famous Potatoes”. I’m not kidding. It’s made me even more determined to get to Idaho one day, so I can find out if their tourist brochure is as inspired as their state motto.

Paris, TX

If you don’t know where you’re going, you can’t get lost. I’m sure somebody else has already said that, but, if they haven’t, they should have. (As I think about it, this could easily be a philosophy of life – not “should be”, but “could be”). Several times today I’ve had no idea where I was, but I wasn’t lost. It helps if you’re not in a hurry, too. These are certainly basic principles for a road trip.

Oh, and by the way, I know all about Fate – I’ve been there today. Well, through it, really. And it’s definitely not all it’s cracked up to be.

I felt like going to Paris for lunch (as you do), so headed out on Interstate 30 towards Texarkana. I mention the highway names only for Henry, since he loves looking at maps, and I owe him a map of Texas. I pulled off to visit the “Ammo Depot”, since I’d never been inside a gun shop before. I admitted to the owner that I had no intention of buying anything, since I could hardly take it home. This didn’t bother him in the least, and he was happy just to talk about the guns he had for sale. I relinquished his attention when he needed to serve a young-ish female customer who wanted to buy a 9mm Beretta. Scary.

Not the Eiffel Tower

Jesus

Back on the highway, I cut off north on Route 24 towards Paris. I know you don’t want to hear me going on about “Historic Downtown Paris”; suffice it to say I was not disappointed. Does Paris have a replica of the Eiffel Tower? You need hardly ask. It also has, in a very large local cemetery, a statue of Jesus, complete with cross, with his raiments hiked up just far enough that you can see his cowboy boots. There are some who would disapprove of messing with religious icons, but the truth is that we don’t know what kind of shoes Jesus wore, and, in my experience, cowboy boots are very comfortable. To paraphrase the poet Rod McKuen: “It doesn’t matter who you believe, or how you believe, but that you believe”.

At the entrance to the cemetery was a roadside shack: Mike’s BBQ. I have to tell you that, if you’re ever in Texas and want to try real Texas food, forget all the Tex-Mex and fast food chains, and go for BBQ. I had a sliced beef sandwich, which is thickly sliced, very tender, slowly grilled beef, slathered in home-made BBQ sauce, and served in a hamburger bun. Plain iced water, or ice-tea is the preferred accompaniment. A hamburger will never be a match for a real Texas BBQ beef sandwich.

BBQ Hut

Downtown Hugo

Since I was now only 20 miles south of Oklahoma, I headed north to Hugo. I couldn’t decide if the town center was half-renovated, or half-dilapidated. I crossed the Red River into Oklahoma and the Choctaw Nation. (Historical aside: in America’s bloodstained history (no less bloodstained than our own, I should add), Andrew Jackson forced the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek and Seminole tribes to abandon their homes east of the Mississippi and move to the “Indian Territory”, of which Oklahoma is part; this enforced removal is commonly known as the “Trail of Tears”). Then west on Route 70, through Soper, the home of the world champion bull-rider, who hopefully doesn’t live there any more, since it has nothing to commend it. At Durant, I turned south towards Dallas on Route 75, and cut across back to the hotel on Route 121.

A round trip of 250 miles or so, but then it’s not every day you get to say you had lunch in Paris.

Athens and Palestine, TX

Today I went to Athens and Palestine. No, I didn’t have access to the corporate jet, just my rented Chevy Malibu (don’t even bother asking – it’s a car, and it’s brown (oh, it has quite a kick, too – not that I care about such things …)). We should be grateful we come from a small country, so that naming towns is not really a problem. Because if you have lots of towns, you run out of decent names pretty quickly, and finish up with towns called “Mildred”, “Coffee City” and “Lollipop” – I know this because I’ve passed through all three today. The streets in Lollipop have names like Pineapple, Lime, Mint and Raspberry. And all this is true. I imagine that kids who grow up in Lollipop are scarred for life: it’s ok while you’re young and cocooned, but sooner or later you have to venture into the world outside. “Where you from?”. An innocuous question, but it’s probably been answered several times with “Lollipop”, whilst watching the questioner dissolve into helpless laughter before you figure out it’s better to just say: “Oh, a small town in Texas … errm … you’ve probably never heard of it”. By then the damage is done.

By the way, you probably already know the joke about the wagon train, back in pioneering days, that is surrounded by Indians. They circle the wagons (as you do) and manage to fight off their attackers with only one casualty; as he lies dying, surrounded by the other pioneers, he has one last request: “When you get where you’re going, please name the town after me”. “Sure we will, Mr. Buquerque”.

anyway, as you’ve probably gathered, Athens and Palestine (pronounced Palesteen) are both in north-east Texas – so is Paris, and several other similar, no doubt, but I didn’t want to go overboard. The only disadvantage of going in this direction is that you have to pass Dallas. I don’t know if there’s an architectural equivalent of dyslexia, but, if there is, the Dallas town planners suffer from it. The buildings in, say, New York City, are different, but they fit together. Dallas is an architectural rag-bag.

On the way to Athens, I picked up a hitch-hiker (I know … I shouldn’t do this sort of thing … it’s dangerous, you don’t know who they are … yada yada yada). It was very hot, and he was clean and sober. Turns out he had a mini-stroke last night, and the ambulance took him to Baylor Hospital, in Dallas (this is the best-known local teaching hospital, and has an excellent reputation). After he’d been there 5 hours, and still not been seen by a doctor, he tried to stand up, found out he could, and checked himself out. The ambulance wouldn’t take him home, so he made his own way. He’d worked for a gas company for 13 years, hurt his back, and could no longer work. He has no family that he gets on with, no plans for July 4^th, and is trying to move from a house next to the “town sweat”, where he’s kept awake at night by cop cars chasing down drunks (I hadn’t heard the expression “town sweat” before: it’s a cheap bar in the center of town). As I said, he was clean and sober; not very talkative, but pleasant when he did. I’m glad I picked him up.

You’ve heard me say before how similar American small towns are, so I don’t know really why I choose places to go to that all look the same: Arby’s, Taco Bueno, Pizza Hut, Waffle House, Jack In The Box, Churchs Chicken (no, I didn’t miss the apostrophe – they did), Ducks and Bucks Taxidermy. Well, ok, you don’t see the last one quite so often, but it’s not unusual. But, of course, it’s the journey, and not the destination. The countryside in that area is beautiful. The main roads are similar to the southern part of the Garden State Parkway, near Cape May: wide tree-lined grass verges, green and voluptuous. The lakes (and I passed several) are truly Texas-sized – more like mini-oceans, with the opposite shore almost on the horizon. At this time of year, the roadside is peppered with firework stands (they’re there all year, but only allowed to be open for two weeks before July 4^th and New Year).

I stopped at the East Texas Arboretum and Botanical Gardens. There was only one other car in the parking lot. It was delightful to walk the forest trails – almost like being back at home, except for the heat and the constant backdrop of cicadas. The other car belonged to a young couple that I thought exercised considerable restraint until after I left, though it was obviously difficult. Perhaps they couldn’t afford to rent a room.

I stopped for lunch at a small roadhouse between Athens and Palestine: Judy’s Kountry Kitchen, in the city of Poyner (pop. 237). I know – hardly a city. Sticky plastic tablecloths that certainly discourage elbows on the table. I ordered sweet iced-tea, catfish, fries and pinto beans – in Texas, you get what we call baked beans at BBQ joints; elsewhere, it’s pinto beans. The waitress offered tartare sauce, and I acquiesced. It came in a refillable squeezy bottle that was also sticky – sticky from the many hands that had squeezed it before mine. Luckily, I have a strong constitution.

On the way back, as I approached Dallas, I noticed a night club set back off the highway: “Stallions. Ladies only Wednesday – Sunday”. I wonder what kind of club that is?

Fahrenheit 9/11

It’s been blisteringly hot today. 96’F (36’C). Too hot even to go down to the pool – it would probably be like swimming in gravy anyway. Flags everywhere are flying at half-mast. I’d like to think this has nothing to do with Marlon Brando’s death, but I suspect it has.

I worked this morning, even though it was Saturday, and to reward myself I went to see Michael Moore’s “Fahrenheit 9/11”. The usual multiplex I go to watch movies, on Route 635, wasn’t showing it (I guess it’s controversial, so some will choose to ignore it), but I found it playing at the Grapevine Mills Mall. I understand why it won an award at Cannes – it is candid and revealing, sometimes humorous, sometimes appalling, but always honest. It’s not often that the audience claps to commend a particular scene in a movie, and, in this “movie”, that happened several times.

I came away with a profound sense of sadness, but not for the obvious reasons. I shared the sorrow of the mother who had lost her son – he had joined the army because he thought it was the right thing to do; tears welled up at the sight of young Iraqi children with their limbs or faces torn apart; I sympathized with the soldier (still on active duty, but currently Stateside) who would face jail rather than go back to Iraq to a war he didn’t believe in; and I was angry at the corruption evident within both the government and the directors of the large companies that are growing fat from Iraq’s despair.

Those were not the reasons for my sadness. I feel like I think a drug addict must feel when they finally realize they are addicted – helpless. I didn’t want to come to this party, but it snuck up on me, and, now I’m here, I can’t do anything about it. It’s just too late. History is full of atrocities that “will never happen again”. But they do, though they return cunningly disguised.

We live in a world that has completely lost its sense of direction. I’m looking around for someone to blame, but there’s only me here …