Springtime in Texas

Uncertain?

 

Springtime is coming to North Texas. I should know – I’ve been wandering all over North Texas and the bayous of Northern Louisiana all day. I wasn’t lost, you understand. Just curious. I always know where I am, and can usually pinpoint my position to the exact state. Besides, it’s not possible to be lost with a full tank of gas. If there was a moment that I might have been temporarily at a loss, it’s depicted here.

The daffodils are out; the grass is greening up – patches of life emerging from the scrubby brown-ness of winter; virgin foliage still has the unsullied pale green of youth. The soon-to-come carpets of bluebonnets will be the final confirmation.

So where was I wandering? Or, more to the point, why? MapQuest, on the internet, assured me that the town of Brian, Louisiana is located slightly north of Shreveport, about 200 miles from Dallas. I had a mind to persuade someone to take a photo of me in front of the Post Office. I’ve done plenty of stupider things.

Bayou tapestry

Anyway, as far as I was able to determine, Brian LA doesn’t exist. I think a number of puzzled Louisianans would agree with me, especially the very sympathetic lady who answered the door of her house in the middle of nowhere (which was supposed to be in the middle of Brian!). Not that it matters. I decided to make my way back by a different route, and without the aid of a map – this always has a tendency to make things more interesting. Take, for instance, this “bayou tapestry” (I’m really sorry about that). (I don’t know what the birds were, but they looked really mean.) Of course I was so busy taking pictures that I only thought about the potential (non-human) residents of bayous that I might have inadvertently disturbed after I was safely back in the car.

Louisiana is very much a hunting and fishing state, and also has legalised gambling, so that almost every gas station had a “casino” attached and was full of people in heavy boots and camouflage stocking up on beer and chewing tobacco. I didn’t venture into any of the casinos, but I have a sneaking suspicion that most of them would just have been row upon row of slot machines.

The weather was not great, but it was still awe-inspiring to drive by populations of the most beautiful of all the “dirty blondes” – the Charolais – and “Toon Town Texotics”, with fields full of camels, llamas, and a host of other breeds that I didn’t have time to recognise. Louisiana is a poor state, and would be pretty if they’d clean up the litter. Still, “Worthy are the simple – they're happy in their ways” (Runrig, of course).

The great shame about American back-roads is that they are only used by locals. The interstate highway system is so good that most people will pass through entire states without seeing much more than the chain fast-food, gas and grocery stores that are by now so standardised and amorphous that it’s almost impossible to tell where you are. Corporate America seems to have convinced us that it’s a good thing to lack personality, except insomuch as it distinguishes you from your competitors. In the same way, they managed to persuade us that “fruit-on-the-bottom” yoghourt was for our benefit rather than an effort to reduce their manufacturing costs; that sixteen varieties of toothpaste are an absolute prerequisite for a civilized existence; and that we need to change our mobile phones at least every year.

I apologize for ranting, but it can’t be just me. Can it?

(PS. Since I’m ranting anyway, I re-entered Texas on a two-way road, with a half-shoulder on either side. That’s when I see, coming towards me at what I’d guess was about 45mph, a car with its headlights steadily flashing on and off, with a stream of cars backed up behind it; and on my side of the road, an accompanying SUV, definitely not a patrol car, with a blue light flashing on top. I was forced off the road, and that’s when I noticed that it was a funeral cortege. Call me old-fashioned, but I think courtesy goes both ways. If it had been driving at a sedate 25mph, I’d have had time to figure out what was going on, and take appropriate action. If my brain had worked quicker, I’d have stopped exactly where I was, held up the cortege, and demanded to know what the rush was all about, since the guy was presumably dead already. But that’s just because I’m bloody-minded.)