Medical Exam

I think the insurance companies hire retired GPs as their itinerant “medical examiners”. It’s great that they come to you, though I can’t help thinking that, one way or another, you wind up paying for it.

Anyway, this morning was my turn to be examined for mortgage insurance. An elderly, wheezingly asthmatic, trousers slung loosely beneath his low-hanging gut, gentleman appeared at the door, umbrella in one hand and black plastic suitcase in the other. It was pouring with rain, and I felt slightly sorry for him, but I imagine he’s handsomely paid for a task that’s not very demanding.

First a battery of questions – my parents, my siblings, my general health, any medication, any recent doctor’s visits.

Then he conducted a fairly comprehensive exam, continuously pulling yet more instruments out of his apparently bottomless case.

Bathroom scales, to weigh me – 12st 12lbs (which doesn’t mean anything to me these days unless I convert it into 180lbs).

“Is this about the same as you weighed a year ago?”

“I don’t know – I never weigh myself.”

Then out with a grubby tape measure. Waist 36” (“It’s allowed for you to breathe in, if you like”), hips 38”. As he leaned close to me, I could smell tobacco on his clothes.

“How tall are you?”

“About 6’1” or 6’2”.”

“Hmmm …”, looking me up and down, “… I’ll give you 6’1”.”

Then the blood pressure, pulse (squinting at his wristwatch – I suppose this is not an exact science), and blowing into a tube (twice, because “most people do better the second time”) – all “within normal limits”. Of course, there was the obligatory stethoscope to listen to my chest and back – all normal.

“Now a test of manual dexterity and coordination – take this plastic tub and pee in it. Leave it in the bathroom, and I’ll test it in there”.

My aim was perfect.

Now the mouth swab – to make sure I was a non-smoker. All the time, he was complaining about excessive packaging on the disposable items, and about the inclusion of instructions with each:

“If I didn’t know how to do a blood test, I damned well shouldn’t be doing it!”

“Any operations?”

“Just tonsils when I was 7.”

“Vasectomy?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Everyone forgets that one.”

“But it was in the States, in the doctor’s surgery – not really an operation.”

Judging from his expression, that’s not normal over here.

“Oh well, prevents the worst STD – children!”

I managed to crack a smile. I suspect the same jokes are trotted out at every exam.

Then I had to lie down on the sofa, and loosen my pants. Press here, press there, “Breathe in deeply,” “Cough.” Take the pulse at my ankles.

“Have to do all this – you look as though you have good circulation, but if I don’t check, one day I’ll report good circulation to extremities, and the guy will have a wooden leg!”

Then a check of my reflexes, arms and legs.

“Well, I can’t think of anything else nasty to do to you, and everything looks ok.”

He re-packed his disheveled suitcase, hitched up his pants which were by now sliding dangerously low, slung his jacket over his arm, grabbed his umbrella, and disappeared out into the mostly abated rain.

I’m sure he’s very good at what he does, but, if I thought something might be wrong, I don’t think I’d hesitate to get a second opinion … and maybe a third.

Brad Hines

It wasn’t a busy weekend, which was a pleasant change, but I did meet a couple of people who may (one day) be really famous – I got their autographs, and their pictures.

On Saturday evening, I went to the Love and War in Texas in Grapevine, which is much closer than the Plano one. I’ve mentioned this place before – it’s a bar and grill with an outdoor patio featuring live music of (mostly) local musicians. “Texas food, Texas music”.  I was assuming that Grapevine would be a clone of Plano, but I was wrong. The building was formerly a Trail Dust Steak House, and is an acoustic disaster. The steak was fabulous, but it didn’t make up for the music (Keith Davis) being way too loud, and I left early. I bought his CD to listen to under more favourable circumstances. I wasn’t aware, until I listened to it, that he is a “Christian rock” musician. This isn’t music that appeals to me generally, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – these musicians are bringing youth into the churches in a way in which we (in England) have failed dismally. They must be doing something right.

Les Crocker

On Sunday, I went top a Book Fair in Fort Worth. There were many signed or first edition books, and almost all collectible with a price tag to match, so I had to keep my eyes firmly ahead. I did spot a couple of small, self-published books called “The Vagabond Chronicles”. They were handwritten and illustrated, and only $3 apiece. When I bought them, the guy behind the counter, Les Crocker, told me that he was the author, and that they were really just a collection of musings and observations about life. A man after my own heart – and of course, I asked him to sign the books for me.

Brad Hines

On Sunday evening, I went to the Fort Worth Stockyards, to the White Elephant Saloon, a favourite haunt (and, no, I don’t spend my life hanging out in bars – I go for the music). Brad Hines, whom I’d seen before, was playing next door, at the Love Shack (just an outdoor bar, not what it sounds like!). During one of his breaks, I bought a CD, and asked if he would sign it for me. There weren’t too many people there at the time, so he came over to my table, and we chatted (“yapped”, as he would say) for a while.

Two things that are definitely not in short supply here: Texas food, Texas music!

“Remember, drinking and chasing women don’t mix – you start staggering, and they get away.”

Les Crocker

Austin yet again

Last week, I went over to Fort Worth, to my usual flea market. I don’t think I bought anything, although I was sorely tempted by the offer of $20 for “all knowledge”. At my age, I have learned that you get what you pay for, so I passed on this one. If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, who knows how “all knowledge” might work out!

I had to change my rental car, and they gave me a Chevrolet HHR – the “HHR” stands for “Heritage High Roof”, and I think is supposed to refer to its heritage as a “mini-Suburban” (a huge gas-guzzler, designed with the “soccer Mom” in mind, that is, surprisingly, still available). The reality is that it can’t seem to make up its mind whether it wants to be an SUV or a station-wagon, has virtually no acceleration (unless you think that an upright piano has acceleration), and makes you duck in and out of it lest someone you know might see you. Fortunately, it has tiny darkened windows, so that, although it’s difficult to see out, it’s also difficult to see in.

Dancers at the Broken Spoke

It made it to Austin and back this weekend, which I suppose is all you should expect from vehicular transport. Austin is just a fun place to be – there’s always something going on, for whatever mood you are in. I stayed at the same hotel as previously, but, because it was weekend, and because the University of Texas (the Longhorns) were playing Kansas State (the Wildcats) in the first game of the season of college football, I didn’t get the luxurious room I got last time. No matter – it had a bed, a bathroom and free breakfast.

On Saturday evening, I went to the Broken Spoke – a dance hall, or honky-tonk. We don’t have anything comparable in England. It’s very basic – plastic tablecloths over functional furniture – the type of place where everything goes quiet when you walk in, because everybody knows everybody else, and you’re a new face. But if you look around, there are young couples, old couples, families with young children, and singles of every age looking for a dancing partner. The music is traditional country, and the dancing mostly swing country, but with some jitterbug and more modern thrown in. I’d like to emphasize that nobody does line-dancing – I know that’s the popular image, but that’s all it is – an image.

In the men's room at the Broken Spoke

In the men’s room,  I fed 50c into “Pandora’s Box” (“a grab bag of sexy surprises – 6 different – you’ll want them all”) three times before I decided I didn’t want them all. On the way back to the hotel I stopped off at the Magnolia Café (open 24 hours) at about midnight for a “Siam Tiger” – noodles with stir fried vegetables in a soya sauce and spicy thai sauce. I’m not used to eating so late, but it was delicious.

Art de Vitalis at the Style Station

The road back took me past the “Style Station”, off Interstate 35. I almost passed it completely, until something made me double back to check it out. It turned out to be a “retro” store, at which I bought a pair of “vintage” boots, and spent a long time chatting to owner Art de Vitalis. He’s pretty much a retired hippie, who used to play in a band, is very anti-establishment, vegetarian, and seems to know antique/vintage dealers all over the world (including one from the Portobello Road). He was truly a character, but with “more rabbit than Sainsbury’s”. The store has no running water, and electricity that probably violates every building code regulation.

They want to flatten his store to widen the highway, but he’s lived through, and participated in, protest in its many forms. Good luck to them!

Austin again

Austin is a city that, as a former hippie, I have a great affinity for. I’d booked a room, using Marriott reward points, at the Renaissance. They upgraded me to a corner room that featured a dining/work area, lounge with leather reclining chairs, bedroom with a Californian king bed, and bathroom. It was difficult not to rattle around in it!

Arriving on Friday evening, I checked in and headed downtown to 6^th Street. There was live music in every bar, though much of it was too loud (or too energetic) for me. Finally, I found Maggie Mae’s, featuring a lone singer/guitarist who appealed to me. I suspect he’s unknown at the moment, but, if that ever changes, listen out for a song called “Patience, Texas” that I requested him to repeat. He was the intro for a band that was due to start at midnight – I’m getting past staying up to listen to a band that starts at midnight, though I hate to admit it, so I didn’t get to hear them.

Breakfast Saturday morning was at the Magnolia Café on South Congress (I was collecting typical diner menus for Ben, and this is the place to go for breakfast in Austin). After that, I headed to the Colorado River to see the commemorative statue of the legendary Stevie Ray Vaughan. Lunch (because Austin, among many other things, is about eating, and enjoying eating) was at the Shady Grove Café (still collecting menus). I could easily have stayed there all afternoon, but there were people to go, places to see ☺.

After lunch, I went to the headquarters of Wholefoods Market. When I mentioned to the girls behind the cheese counter (after taking a photo that I wasn’t strictly allowed to take!) that my daughter worked at Wholefoods in Bristol, they scurried round the store to collect goodies for me to send to her. They came up with an apron, a “lemur” t-shirt (that even the people who worked in the store fought over), and wrote a lovely note to Amy.

It’s impossible to see Austin in a couple of days – the best you can do is to hit the major sights. “Sights” for me doesn’t necessarily mean the usual tourist locations. So, on to Taco Express, and then to the Broken Spoke (dance hall).

Finally, on the “scenic route” back, I stopped at the Iguana Grill overlooking Lake Travis, and listened to an hour or so of Bo Porter (who struggled to remember “Pancho and Lefty” for me, but did a great rendering), before heading back to the hotel in Dallas.

Put Austin on your list of “places to visit”.

Smokestack Restaurant, Thurber

I mentioned recently that I met Randy Brown, a “swing” country singer. His website has, among other things, a link to some of his friends, amongst whom are the Bennett family and their Smokestack Restaurant. At first glance, this seems to be nothing particularly noteworthy. If you delve slightly deeper, however, you discover that it’s located in the town of “Thurber, population 5”. It was once (around the turn of the last century) the largest town between El Paso and Fort Worth, and that’s a distance of around 600 miles, which is significant, even by Texas standards. It was a coal-mining town, owned and run completely by the coal company. As oil replaced coal as a cheaper fuel, the town declined, and has been a “ghost town” since around 1936.

Something to do while you're waiting for food

Fortunately, the town is just off Interstate-20, a major thoroughfare between East Texas and North Carolina, running for over 1500 miles and passing through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. If the restaurant had to survive catering for the 5 local residents, it would have disappeared long ago. Judging from the clientele when I was there, it is visited by truckers, tourists and locals alike. It’s a traditional diner, offering traditional diner fare, and is well-known for its “chicken fried steak”. I think I’ve explained this before, but in case I haven’t (or you have forgotten), this is steak beaten to within an inch of its life, battered and breaded, and deep fried – that is, it’s “minute steak” cooked in the southern “fried chicken” style. If you like that sort of thing, this is exactly the sort of thing you’d like. It’s served smothered with southern white gravy (which is really odd for Brits), mashed potatoes and corn (although you can substitute fried okra). It also comes with a home-cooked bread roll, which is every bit as good as they say it is. Soft drinks, as in most diners, are “bottomless” – as soon as you get halfway through, they top it up. I had lemonade. The waitresses were friendly (and I mention this only because, although this is nothing surprising here, it is strangely unfamiliar in so many places these days); to while away the time between ordering and receiving the meal, they provided a solitaire game at the table (which could be purchased – and I did – at the register) – I’m reliably informed that this is a common game here, although I’ve never encountered it before; and, as I left, the waitress offered me lemonade to go. Such hospitality is rare anywhere.

Weatherford mural

I didn’t return on I-20. I headed north until I hit 180, and then east through Mineral Springs and Weatherford to Fort Worth. Weatherford had a couple of murals on the side of a western furniture store – and, as you know, I always stop for murals! “Western” furniture is typically chunky, primitive-style, wood and leather – in keeping with the surroundings.

Even though I’ve been coming here for four years, there are still places I haven’t discovered, and they are often on the doorstep – Thurber is only about 90 minutes west of my hotel. Beyond everything else, you can’t help noticing that going south in the US is like going north in the UK – the atmosphere seems more relaxed, and the people just get friendlier.

Love & War in Texas

It was a musical weekend. On Friday evening I went to “Love and War in Texas”, a restaurant/bar in Plano that features live music on the patio (and Cowboy Church on Sunday – only in Texas would you find such duality). Houston Marchman and The Contraband were playing – I had never heard of them, but a quick google revealed that he had released 9 CDs, so that, in the words of a friend, “Sounds like he knows what he's doing, then...and that everything he does won't sound the same”. How true that was – the venue was small enough that I was able to chat with him in the bar during a break. He spent 10 years in Nashville, and then left, disillusioned, because they had such a narrow perspective of country music – in Texas, Stevie Ray Vaughan is considered “country”. He had CDs for sale (of course) and I asked him which one I should buy. They were selling all 4 currently available CDs for $30, so I bought them all. Several days (and several listening hours) later, I remain impressed.

On Saturday, after working for most of the day, I went to the movies. “The Ten” was rated a stellar 7.2/10 on IMDB – it was “Ten stories, each inspired by one of the ten commandments”, but seemed to me more like ten Saturday Night Live sketches, back-to-back. It had its moments (the highlight was possibly Winona Ryder screwing a ventriloquist’s dummy), but I wouldn’t recommend it, nor see it again.

On Sunday, after several hours at Traders Village (which I’ve mentioned before), I headed over to the White Elephant Saloon in the stockyards area of Fort Worth. There’s always live music going on there. That night it was Don Burke, accompanied by a guy who is a regular, very talented, backing guitar (and whose name I can’t recall), and fueled by beer and tequila. In the middle of one of their sets, a guy, who they obviously knew, asked if he could sing a song he’d written out on a pile of paper napkins. They agreed. I was dreading the outcome, having been at an earlier “amateur night”, but he had a powerful (perhaps a little too powerful) voice, and Don and friend improvised beautifully. It turned out the singer was a well-known local “rancher and lawyer” – the song may not have been memorable for its lyrics, but it certainly was for its delivery! Don was also accompanied by another singer, whose name I didn’t catch initially, but who obviously had a certain stage presence.

During a break, I spoke to Don. He gave me one of his CDs, and refused to accept payment. There are many people out there trying to make a living doing what they love to do – more power to them. I asked Don who the “mystery singer” was – he told me he was Randy Brown, a local guy who had a number one hit on the Swing Charts, and called him over to introduce me. The White Elephant Saloon (Amy has a t-shirt) is listed as one of the top 100 bars in the US – I can tell you why. Put it on your list of places to visit. Randy had been playing at Pearl’s, a dance hall just up the street. He’s from around here – Aledo. The music scene here is almost a victim of its own success – country music (in its many incarnations) is experiencing a revival that has been quietly going on for years. The Austin City Limits music festival is now huge – I might consider going if I thought I could get anywhere near enough to see anything.

“You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.”

Illinois Bend

Today I went to Illinois Bend, expecting to see nothing, but saw the opposite. If you’re wondering why I’d go anywhere to see nothing, I should probably explain.

It is commonly supposed that the “disposable” society is a relatively modern phenomenon. Not so. The US is littered with “ghost towns”: towns that once thrived, but are now little more than an uninhabited shell, or even ruins. There are many reasons for a community to die out – the most obvious are:

• If the community was founded on a natural resource, such as gold or coal, then when the resource dries up, so does the community.
• If the community relies on the railroad for its revenue, and the railroad is re-routed, or no longer has a need to stop there, it dies.
• If the community relies on through-traffic for its income, and is subsequently bypassed by “super-highways”, the residents are forced to relocate.

There are other reasons, of course, and many counter-examples – some sufficiently enterprising communities “reinvented” themselves, instead of giving up. I’m sure there are earlier examples of the “disposable” society – all it takes is enough space for man’s natural lethargy to triumph over good sense, and you finish up with the desertification of Africa, the ghost-towns of America, Australia and Canada, and, more recently, crumbling ex-Walmart buildings.

I found on the internet (http://www.ghosttowns.com/states/tx/tx.html) a list of Texas ghost-towns, and fully intend, one day, to visit some of the remoter ones in West Texas. For today, however, I found Illinois Bend, in North Texas – east of the panhandle and just below the Oklahoma border. “Illinois Bend was named by homesick settlers from Illinois - who moved to Texas in 1862. Before their arrival it had been named Wardville after a local landowner, C. M. Ward. The name was changed to Illinois Bend in 1877 when a post office was granted for the community. Illinois Bend had a population of 300 by the mid-1880s.”

To get there, as you’d imagine, you travel into rural North Texas, where I was surprised to see the kind of panoramic view that is more common in the Hill Country than in the northern Plains. It is particularly pretty because, after the wettest June since 1928, the flora is still lush, instead of the more typical scorched appearance of the Texas July.

Illinois Bend Church

The Community Club

The high fences on either side of the road were an obvious sign that I was in deer-ranching country, and Illinois Bend was well signposted – a little odd, I thought, for a ghost town to be signposted just like any of the neighboring towns. In spite of the internet reference to its location (20 miles northwest of Montague) being wrong (it’s northeast), I’d already determined the route, and soon found myself in a town which, while possibly not actually thriving, was certainly not a ghost town! Perhaps somebody should tell the residents to stop building their new Community Center, and terminate the weekly meetings there, although it’s certainly true that the church could use a little work (I think just writing “Revival” on a sign outside the church won’t cut it).

I started to wonder if there could be two Illinois Bends, or if they could have relocated? The answer was to be found at the local cemetery. Such a peaceful place – the sultry air punctuated only by bird-calls, cicadas chirping and the buzzing of flies. It looks to me as though people have been dying round here for quite a while (the earliest recorded death I could read on a headstone was in 1898), so I think that this is the one and only Illinois Bend. Either my internet reference is wrong (surely not? Ed.), or the town has been resurrected. In any case, I wish them luck – it was like discovering an ancient relative, whom you had assumed had long since passed on, to be alive and well.

Here’s an image that you’ll only see twice a year around here: fireworks on sale. By law, fireworks in Texas can only be sold from June 24^th – July 4^th, and December 20^th – January 1^st.

Happy July 4^th!