Jim Reeves

It might be an old-fashioned word to use, but abundant is the only one I can think of to adequately describe the harvest in England this Fall. Last year was so disappointing that it makes it even more satisfying to see bulging berries of sloe, blackberry, elderberry, hawthorn and rosehip vibrantly punctuating the hedgerows. And so we’ll have sloe gin, blackberry gin, damson gin and elderberry wine for Christmas; and raspberries, and apple and elderberry crumble, when the weather turns colder and we need comfort food to remind us that Spring is not so far away.

The Texas Country Music Hall of Fame

Fall in East Texas is similarly impressive. The grass is green again, and the temperature is pleasantly warm. This year’s pecans, soft and creamy, are on sale at the fruit stands, and gloriously orange pumpkins are everywhere. The smell of fresh-mown grass, wood-smoke, and horses, drifts through the air as I drive down almost empty highways lined with cedar and live oak. Snapping turtles try to grab the last of the sun, crowded on every rock on every pond.

Jim Reeves Memorial

I was in East Texas yesterday to get away from the hotel in Dallas. The Razorbacks (University of Arkansas) played the Aggies (Texas A&M) at the new Cowboys Stadium in Arlington. The Razorbacks thrashed the Aggies. The difference between the two cultures is easily observed. The parking lot has more than the usual number of beaten-up trucks, mostly with Arkansas plates. The drivers of those trucks (and their passengers) have no idea how to comport themselves in social situations. I can forgive exuberance, but not blatant disregard for the sleep requirements of (albeit temporary) neighbors. They check in to the hotel carrying oversize cooler chests. But when I challenged an Aggie t-shirt wearer at breakfast this morning, commenting on how brave I thought he was, and that (in his situation) I’d probably be keeping my head down, he made reference to a recent magazine article, that stated that “Texas A&M University now ranks No. 1 in Smart Money magazine’s national ratings for “payback ratio” — the earnings levels of an institution’s graduates compared to what they paid in tuition, fees and related costs for their undergraduate educations”. That’s just sour grapes, of course, but he has a point (although, having just seen Michael Moore’s new movie – Capitalism, A Love Story – I’m not at all prepared to agree with it).

Carthage is about a 3-hour drive from the hotel, and is far enough east to be close to Louisiana. It doesn’t have much to recommend it, but it does have a memorial to one of the all-time great country singers, Jim Reeves, and is home to the Texas Country Music Hall of Fame. I should stress that I’m not a fan of Jim Reeves’ music, but I have a great respect for the man, and what he achieved. (Parenthetically (because that’s what parentheses are for) I should add that I also don’t like punk or hip-hop. Nevertheless, they were necessary to throw a wrench into the otherwise complacently boring middle-of-the-road musical desert of their respective eras).

I was the only visitor at the Hall of Fame (apart from an intensely annoying guy from Baltimore that you’ll have to ask me about when I’ve calmed down[1]), and I have to say that I was surprised by the number of artists that I had never heard of, despite listening to quite a variety of country music. Almost everyone, on both sides of the Atlantic, will have heard of Roger Miller and Willie Nelson; if you’re older, you may have heard of Waylon Jennings, Dale Evans (partner to Roy Rogers) and Bob Wills. Most of the others have not made it outside the USA, and, I suspect, in some cases, outside Texas. Texas may be unique among all the states in its view of itself. It is alternately (depending on where you are) sophisticatedly Eastern (like Dallas), or “cowboy country” (like much of West Texas), or South-Western (like the border towns), or infuriatingly different (like Austin, which is often referred to as “California in Texas”). Above all, it regards itself almost as a separate, independent country, and so it is perhaps not surprising that some of its most acclaimed celebrities are not so well known outside the state.

On an entirely different topic, I recently heard that Roman Polanski is apparently the original five-foot Pole with which nobody would touch anything …

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[1] Him: “Oh, you’re from England! Let’s see, what could we talk about … how about the way that country music was received in England versus here, when you were growing up?”

Me (sotto voce): “Bugger off!”

Purple Hull Peas

It’s warmed up again, after a cool-ish week. The daytime temperatures are typically in the 80s at this time of year (that’s around 30 Centigrade). Just as well, since the Texas State Fair started yesterday – it runs through October 18^th. I’ve been before, so I probably won’t be going this year – even though the highlight will be deep fried butter … They try to come up with some innovative new deep fried snack each year – when I went it was deep fried Twinkies!

This morning I went to the Dallas Farmers’ Market to pick up fresh fruits and vegetables. I’ve been on the lookout for fresh purple hull peas since I first encountered them on my way back from New Orleans – and there they were. I bought two pints for $7. They’re just one of a variety of peas grown in Texas, which also include Texas cream peas and black-eyed peas (sometimes called “Texas caviar”). In case you’re not aware, what we typically call “beans” are called “peas” throughout the Caribbean and the southern states of America. We don’t get them (at least, not fresh) in England. Last time I cooked them, it was on the stovetop, but now I have only a microwave and a crockpot. A microwave is not suitable for the long slow cooking that’s required for peas, so I experimented, and it turned out amazingly well.

Here’s the recipe:

There don’t seem to be enough ingredients to make this very appetizing, but the peas soak up the flavour of the salt pork, and it’s actually delicious.

I’m not sure how I’d reproduce this in England, but it would be worth trying with any small, white dried beans that have been pre-soaked.

Charlene Richard

As I was driving back to Dallas from New Orleans, I saw a sign to “the gravesite of Charlene Richard”. I had no idea who she was, but I had plenty of time, and decided to investigate. I followed the signs for about 10 miles, at which point they petered out. A little further along the road, I came across a cemetery, and stopped to see if this could be the place.

A group of people – 3 women and 2 men – were standing just inside the gate, and so I asked them if this was where Charlene Richard was buried. They said it was, and pointed out the grave to me. I asked, somewhat sheepishly, if they knew who she was. They explained that she was a young girl who had died of leukemia in 1959, but bore her suffering bravely and with great faith. To cut a long story short, she is said to be responsible for several miracles, one of which was witnessed by two of the people I was talking to. The mother and daughter had both been diagnosed with cancer on the same day. They sought intercession from Charlene Richard, and are currently both in remission. They are part of a group that is seeking canonization for her, and offered me a “prayer cloth” if it might be useful to anyone I knew.

I’m not really a religious person, but I think that my being there, at that time and in that place, was much more than a coincidence.

Manure

My mother came to stay with us for the weekend, and as usual I drove her home this morning. I came back across country to avoid Exeter, which has a traffic system that requires more patience than I seem to have these days. Passing a farm entrance, I saw a sign: “Fresh Manure £1 - Large bag”. I don’t think I’ve ever had occasion to buy manure, so it’s not an area of expertise for me, but I suppose I’d always naively supposed that manure just came in a bag of unspecified size.

“A bag of manure, please.”

“Certainly – would sir like a large, medium or small bag?”

Doesn’t sound right, does it?

My entrepreneurial side – and, in the interests of full disclosure, I have to admit that I’m not known for that particular set of skills: I’m 62 and still working – and not through choice; I once invested $100 in beer-flavoured ice cream, because I liked the taste, and I felt sure it couldn’t fail – that’s $100 I’ll never see again.

Anyway, my entrepreneurial side started thinking of a nationwide franchise – Poobuck’s, say – which would take manure to a whole new level.

“A bag of manure, please.”

“Certainly, sir – tall, grande or venti?”

“Oh, venti, I think.”

“Cinnamon or nutmeg?”

“No thank you – I take my manure straight. Don’t get me started on that Mocha Choka Skinny Caramel Cappucino stuff – it’s bad enough I pay $4 for a cup of coffee, without going all froo-froo …”

Think of the benefits. Manure buyers would no longer need to sneak around under cover of dusk to furtively purchase the wonder waste. New derivative markets would open up: designer bags depicting pastoral scenes in pastel colours; clever advertising slogans – “Ordure, ordure!”; manure-to-go, or home delivery (“half-an-hour or it’s FREE”); manure futures on Wall Street; an advice column in Composters Weekly (“Send in your questions – we’ll get to the bottom of it”) …

I really think I’m onto something – now, who wants to invest $100?

Genetic Diversity

I just picked up my favorite pair of boots from the repair shop, and I feel good about it. It has nothing to do with being “green” – the new soles are leather, and stitched on, and the “Cat’s Paw” heels are meticulously pinned in place. It’s unusual these days to find anything done with such obvious care. The boots themselves are a little ratty, but they’re comfortable, and that’s what’s important.

Almost any of these boots are repairable, and worth repairing. And, as I said before, it has nothing to do with being “green”. It has to do with not discarding things for the flimsiest of reasons, about finding something you like and sticking with it, about not just changing for the sake of change. I’m part of probably the first generation that hasn’t done this automatically, without having to think about it. My parents, and their parents, wouldn’t have wasted anything; they wouldn’t have thrown away something that could be repaired; and they wouldn’t have bought anything simply because they felt like a change. For the most part, we probably never stop to think how lucky we are to have the choices we have; or how cursed we are to have to spend the time to make them.

In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not really into “saving the planet”. For one thing, I’m not sure what we’re saving it for – it’s a finite resource, and will run out eventually no matter how hard we try to prevent it. And for another thing, I think that the best thing we could do for the planet is to allow ourselves to become extinct. A hundred years on there would be little trace of humanity.

And talking of extinction, we seem to spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about endangered species. It’s true that it would be sad to see no more tigers or polar bears (especially if you happen to be a tiger or a polar bear), but in earlier times we had another name for it – evolution. We commonly regard genetic diversity as a good thing – after all, it’s why cousins can’t marry cousins (a general rule from which royal families seem exempt, with observable results).

Coming into my hotel via a side entrance the other day, I saw a cricket in the stairwell. Do you know how many crickets there are in the world? Hmmm … neither do I, but I can tell you that it is estimated that there are 200 million insects for every human. I began to wonder if perhaps their DNA might not be unique for any individual insect. Indeed, if perhaps their DNA might not all be the same. And, if it was, that perhaps they have reached a perfect stage of evolution, and that our genetic diversity, far from being an advantage, might simply indicate that we are a long way from perfection. Think how easy it would be to find a mate if everybody was exactly the same!

I’m being ridiculous, of course, but I’m sure you get my point. Just because we think it’s a good idea doesn’t make it a good idea. And although we’re at the top of the food chain right now, it’s only a couple of millennia since Italy had an empire.

Discuss.

New Orleans

It’s over 500 miles from “The Big D” to “The Big Easy” – about 10 hours of driving (or, if you select “walking” on Google Maps, 7 days!). At this time of year, New Orleans is hot and humid, but none the less alluring for that. I chose to drive there staying on the highways, and return by a more leisurely route. So I left Dallas on Interstate 20 (I-20), headed south on I-49, and then west on I-10. In case you’re not familiar with the US road system, I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast highway, stretching from Santa Monica in California to Jacksonville in Florida – almost 2,500 miles; in contrast, I-90 is the northernmost, and also the longest at over 3,000 miles – it runs from Seattle to Boston. In between, the major highways increase in number identification as you go north, except that there is no I-50 or I-60. You probably don’t care to know any more than that.

I-10 took me through Lafayette, on an elevated highway across the Henderson Swamp to Baton Rouge, and over Lake Pontchartrain to New Orleans. After checking in at the hotel, I took a cab into the French Quarter for dinner. July 4^th is not the best time to visit the Crescent City – every year for the last 15 years it has hosted the Essence Music Festival. Even my Sri Lankan taxi driver complained about the number of African-Americans that inundated the town. I have nothing against any ethnic minority, but moderation is the key, I think.

I found a café with outdoor seating and live jazz, and enjoyed a large plate of etouffee – spiced seafood (shrimp, crawfish, oysters) served over rice. If you’re feeling uncharitable, it’s sort of leftovers-stew – but good nonetheless. Thus fortified, I went to see what Bourbon Street was all about. If you’re young, you would find it fun and vibrant; if you’re older (like me), your jaded palate might find it just a little too much like the “party district” in many other cities. My mental snapshots, which probably would not coincide with yours, include: a pale white girl in a short skirt and impossibly high heels, crying as she is hustled along by her black pimp; a young guy in dirty clothes crouched by the roadside devouring the remnants of a slice of pizza; whiffs of cigar smoke; jelly shots, “big ass beers” and “hand grenades” to go; big bubble-butted black girls with gelatinous breasts squeezed into space-age fabric that defies the normal laws of physics; drains full of old Mardi Gras beads; scantily clad girls trying to attract men inside Larry Flynt’s Barely Legal club, or Babe’s Cabaret, or the Stiletto Club, or Little Darlings, or …

Coffee and beignets - the breakfast of champions!

One block away from Bourbon Street you could be in a different world – art galleries, upscale hotels, a classical guitarist accompanied by a singer with angelic range, a restaurant almost hidden in a courtyard at the end of a small alleyway. I think it is probably this variety that makes New Orleans, and the French Quarter in particular, such a unique experience.

The next morning, I was back in the French Quarter, at the Café du Monde for a breakfast of coffee and beignets. The coffee is different – it contains chicory, and is served half coffee, half hot milk – and so are the beignets – a French doughnut that is square, has no hole, and is drenched in powdered sugar. Beignets are the official State Doughnut (I know …). The café has been there since 1862, and the beignets are the only food item they serve. They’re open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

A born hunter ...

A blue crane in the bayou

When the temperature is above 100  ̊F (38  ̊C), it’s too hot to walk around for long, so I signed up for a “swamp tour”. At 11am I boarded the bus that was to take me to Jean Lafitte’s Swamp Tours, and along the way, the driver explained some of Louisiana’s history – that it has parishes instead of counties, which is a relic of its predominantly Catholic roots (while most of the rest of the US was Protestant); that Creoles are different from Cajuns – Creoles are of mixed race, black and white, and Cajuns were originally refugees of Arcadia (the name is a corruption of “Arcadians”) in Canada (now Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island), and French-speaking[1]; that New Orleans is the second largest port in the US (after New York), which is why the government will continue rescuing it from hurricane damage, even if most of it is 100 feet below sea level; that bodies are buried in above-ground concrete tombs (as in much of the Caribbean) because the water table is so high.

The swamp tour itself followed man-made canals through swamps (some navigable, some treacherous) and into the bayous. The landscape is similar to Florida’s Everglades, but a different experience – the airboats are replaced with a puttering barge, which probably reflects the laid-back Louisiana lifestyle, and they have only alligators, rather than both alligators and crocodiles (shame on you if you didn’t know they were different – try looking here: http://lmgtfy.com ).

Swamp panorama

After the tour, I went looking for a Cajun restaurant, hoping for catfish and Zydeco music. I got the catfish, but, because the restaurant was close to the Convention Center where the Essence Festival was based, they were playing Michael Jackson[2] music. It’s entirely beyond me why the black population would take to their bosom someone who attempted to “adjust” his heritage for most of his life.

I watched the July 4^th firework display from Washington on television. The fife and drum bands made me think that the US is quietly acquiring tradition – I wonder if perhaps nations turn to the past when they no longer have confidence in the future.

Fausto's

Crossroads to Everywhere?

Later, from my room on the 9^th floor of the hotel, I watched the New Orleans firework display. It’s comforting to know that, even in these recessionary times, we still have money to burn …

The journey back took me almost 12 hours, but was relaxing – driving along roads that were sometimes lined with cypress and live oak, sometimes by fields of sugar cane or corn, but almost always flanked by the railroad that predates the road; diverting briefly to visit the gravesite of Charlene Richards; stopping for a crawfish po’boy at Ken’s Fausto’s restaurant in Kinder; pausing at a produce stand for fresh tomatoes, noonday onions and purple hull peas, and scribbling down a recipe or two from the proprietor. I love to drive.

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[1] If you’ve ever heard Cajun music, or heard a “real” Cajun speak, you’ll know that, although they speak a sort of French, it’s probably not anything that a French person would recognize. I doubt any self-respecting Frenchman would say “Laissez les bon temps roulez”.

[2] When Neda was killed by a Basij bullet recently in Tehran, “the world was watching”; as soon as Michael Jackson died, “Errm, we’re busy right now – could you come back in a couple of weeks?”

Something Misunderstood

“This movie has been formatted to fit your screen.”

I used to think, when I was younger and so much more naïve, that technology was wonderful. How do they do that? I am older now, and my attitudes are tempered with the cynicism that, unfortunately, comes only with age. Now, I find myself thinking, “That’s scary – how do they know how big my television screen is?”

At the end of national news, there is always an announcement, “And now we take you to your local news team, to find out what’s happening where you are.” They know where I am. If I’m visiting friends or relatives, they still know where I am. It almost seems superfluous to worry about protecting my credit cards, or identity theft, if they always know where to find me.

Vacuum flasks seem pretty straightforward. They keep hot things hot, and cold things cold. But how do they know? I’ve dismantled one of these things, and I can’t figure it out.

I’d like to think that there are just some things we’re not meant to understand, but we no longer live in a world where we can afford to be so innocent.

Many years ago, the pilgrims left Plymouth, England, in the Mayflower, and made landfall in 1620 in America at Plymouth Rock; more recently, in 1941, the famous baseball player Lou Gehrig died – of Lou Gehrig’s disease! 

In Psalm 46 of the King James Bible, published in the year that Shakespeare turned 46, the 46^th word is "shake" and the 46^th word from the end is "spear."

You could say these things are coincidence, but I know there’s something more sinister going on. The mathematician John Allen Paulos tells us that "the most astonishingly incredible coincidence imaginable would be the complete absence of all coincidences." You can believe that if you like.

My birthday falls on the same day every year. Yours probably does, too. It certainly makes it easy to remember, but, if you think about it, what are the odds on something happening every single year on exactly the same day?

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” He knew a thing or two, that Shakespeare guy.

Bonnie and Clyde

Just a week ago, in 1934, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow died suddenly in a hail of bullets, ambushed outside a small Louisiana town by six police officers. Their criminal career had lasted only a couple of years, but was no less bloody for that. Even though they were apparently besotted with each other in life, in death they are separated – at least physically – because the Parker family would not allow them to be buried together.

Clyde Barrow is buried in Western Heights Cemetery – 1617, Fort Worth Avenue; Bonnie Parker is buried 12 miles away, in Crown Hill Cemetery – 9700 Webb Chapel Road. Both addresses are in Dallas, which is where they met, living in the abject poverty that engulfed so many during the Great Depression.

I heard all this on an early morning television “magazine” program (Sunday Morning, on CBS) this morning, and it was enough to give me a goal for my otherwise unplanned Sunday.

My GPS guided me to the Crown Hill cemetery first. The cemetery is surprisingly sparsely populated, given that it is a small oasis in a city of over a million people. Even more surprising was the prominence of Indian (Asian Indian, that is) names on the headstones. I spoke to someone in the funeral parlor next door (mostly because I needed help in locating Bonnie), and he explained that the Indian community in Dallas had a special arrangement with the cemetery, so that the “catchment area” was larger than just the immediate surroundings. Bonnie is buried next to her mother, in a grave that belies the enormity of her exploits: “As the flowers are all made sweeter by the sunshine and the dew, So this old world is made brighter by the lives of folks like you.” Hmmm … more colorful, perhaps – but brighter?

I knew exactly where to find Clyde’s grave in the Western Heights cemetery, because I had seen a reference to it on the internet – “…on the left hand corner just as you enter the gate. The gate seems locked but it is not. Just lift the latch, it is open” – as indeed it was. The cemetery is small and peaceful, in spite of the fact that, from this vantage point, you can almost see downtown Dallas. He is buried next to his brother Marvin: “Gone but not forgotten.”

It was still early in the day, and I was in an unfamiliar part of Dallas, so I followed the road – Fort Worth Avenue – to see if it would ultimately lead to Fort Worth, as the name implied. It did, but I couldn’t resist stopping on the way to take a picture of the “Convience Store” in one of the predominantly Spanish-speaking parts of Irving.

I passed south of Fort Worth, and continued on to Weatherford, where I pulled into “Skinny’s Hamburgers” for a late lunch. It doesn’t sound great, but, like so many of the old-style hamburger places, it is so much better than any of the chains. I had a cheeseburger with mustard, and “all the way on the vegetables” – onions, lettuce and tomato. The tables were covered in a red-checkered plastic tablecloth, and uniformly bedecked with a roll of kitchen towel, ketchup, and Louisiana hot sauce. Other items on the menu included: Chicken fried steak, with fries, gravy, salad and Texas toast[1]; Catfish basket with fries, hush puppies and tarter (sic) sauce; Bowl of chili with onions and crackers; Stuffed jalapenos; Corny dogs. It might not sound like gourmet food – and it isn’t. But at least it’s honest, and cooked from scratch. Wash that down with a tall glass of sweet tea, and I’m ready for the journey back to the hotel! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] In England, we’d call this “doorsteps”!

Fort Worth

St Paul's Lutheran Church

It’s been a Fort Worth kinda day. We went to the flea market this morning – the vendors take over the “small exhibits” barn at the Will Rogers Memorial Center –  it’s much larger than it sounds. On the way we passed a scene you seldom see in England – a Lutheran tent revival that, like all the churches here on a Sunday, was packed to overflowing. When I stopped to take a photo, the attendants rushed over to help me park. I explained that I only wanted a photo because church attendance in England is falling, and so it would be an unusual sight for “folks back home”. When they pressed me to join them (in the nicest possible way), I declined, suggesting that I (not alone, you understand, but as a representative, though not statistically valid, sample) was probably the reason for declining congregations.

Val at Joe T Garcia's

After the flea market, we headed north to the Stockyards – significant historically because Fort Worth was once the last outpost of civilization before the cattle drives hit the Chisholm Trail and the plains, bound for the railheads in Kansas. These days, they are more of a tourist trap. We had lunch at Joe T Garcia’s, a famous local landmark that has featured traditional Mexican food in an outdoor garden since 1935. This is the place to go for “real” guacamole and margaritas.

The Opry

Cattle drive

The Stockyards area has all kinds of entertainment for visitors. Some of it is fake (like the daily cattle drive down Main Street), and some of it is not (like many of the cowboys that drive the cattle, and the White Horse Saloon, where local musicians play most days of the week, and the Fort Worth Opry that play just for the fun of it). I’ve heard it said that the American love affair with Harley Davidson motorcycles is in no small part due to a latent desire to keep the “cowboy culture” alive. The Stockyards, particularly at night, is a magnet for both.

Cowboys old and new

Playing in the Love Shack next door to the White Elephant I found Brad Hines. I didn’t recognize him at first – he’s lost 220 pounds! It was his voice, and his chewing-tobacco habit, that gave him away. It’s amazing what lap band surgery can achieve – he certainly looks much better for it.

Brad Hines

Gruene Hall Again

The fastest way to New Braunfels (which is the nearest sizeable town to Gruene, home of Gruene Hall, the oldest continuously operating dance hall in Texas) is down I35, through Austin. The more interesting way is through the Texas Hill Country. The former takes about 4 hours; the latter, about 6.

I’ve been moved to a new hotel – from the Embassy Suites to the Holiday Inn. It’s not as bad as it sounds. The “Holiday Inn” brand is re-inventing itself, and the new hotel is not only new – it’s also half the price. Nevertheless, after 3 years of staying at the Embassy Suites, I’ve made a number of friends, and we went back to visit on Saturday morning. The maitre d’, Henry, welcomed us, and insisted on providing free breakfast.

Chili cook-off

After breakfast, we headed over to the Harley-Davidson dealership at Hurst, where a colleague from work was participating in a chili cook-off. His recipe incorporated venison, and, at my suggestion, chocolate. The combination of “venison” and “chocolate” led to the cryptic name “Ohio Convalescent Chili”; using only “deer” and “chocolate” yields “Doc Heat’s Creole Chili”. He won the last round, but, this time, managed only an honorable mention. Oh well – at least he promised me the recipe.

 Ken’s wife organizes social events for a Harley-Davidson dealership a few miles south on Route 20, and so we stopped off there on our way to Gruene.

Hector's bike

We arrived before the Mardi Gras celebrations got under way, but couldn’t help noticing a spectacular bike out front customized with a fairly dark theme. This was Hector’s bike. Hector is a Bandido. Most motorcycle gangs are benign these days; the Bandidos are not, and so we were not disappointed that we didn’t actually meet Hector.

We traveled down through the Hill Country, on Route 281 through Lampasas, Blanco and Marble Falls. I’m happy to say that I can save you some time here. If you’re ever thinking of visiting Lampasas, I’m including a picture of the only thing worth seeing, to save you the bother. Similarly for Blanco, the “lavender capital” of Texas. Unless you’re a particular fan of lavender, you can skip this, save time and fuel, and then I’ve done my bit towards saving the planet.

Lampasas mural

Blanco

Marble Falls is a different story. It’s worth going there to the Bluebonnet Café for pie and coffee, as we did. They’ve been around since 1930 (immediately after the Depression, which has to count as a gutsy move). I can particularly recommend the cherry pie ala mode.

Gruene is not far from San Antonio, and only an hour or two from the Mexican border. Its main claim to fame is Gruene Hall, the oldest continuously operating dance hall in Texas – where George Strait, among others, got started. We can personally testify that the steak and ribs at the Grist Mill restaurant are excellent.

Cactus

Gruene Hall

On the way back, still through the Hill Country but via a different route, Val was fascinated by the cactus growing wild. It has been a dry winter …

Evolution

The world is constantly changing around us. This is nothing new, but what is new is the speed at which it is happening. We human beings are not accustomed to handle evolution at such a rapid pace. We like to think we are in control, that we influence the things that happen around us. And so we focus our feeble attention on global warming, endangered species, “conflict resolution” by means other than violence, world poverty, and the financial crisis, when, in fact, all these things transcend our existence – we are the only really endangered species. I have a collection of “reusable” shopping bags at home, because I always forget to take them with me, and feel obliged to buy more rather than ask for plastic bags. I suspect my collection has depleted the planet’s resources far more than the plastic bags that I would otherwise have used, and it is for that reason that, although I will dutifully recycle where I can, I think that saving the species is probably not in the best interests of the planet.

I’m not a Luddite – things have to change, and I know that. But there needs to be a reason for change. As many words do, the word “progress” has morphed into a synonym for “change”, and progress, as a result, is no longer necessarily a good thing. Realizing this takes the edge off the satisfaction of going to the mall and buying 4 shirts and a pair of jeans for $60 at the Western Wearhouse (sic), because they’re going out of business; and walking through the skeleton of Virgin Records, where even the fixtures and fittings are up for sale; and seeing any store that isn’t offering 70% discount devoid of customers. It’s evolution, it’s a natural process – the strong will survive, and the weak will not. But Western Wearhouse is where I bought my first pair of boots, and I’ve spent time at the listening stations in Virgin Records, discovering new artists. I’ll miss them both. Having said that, of course, it’s slightly hypocritical that I think GM, Chrysler and Ford deserve to go under – their arrogance is finally rewarded.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older that I have trouble with the ground shifting under me. These days it seems more like a threat than an “opportunity.” I went to see two movies this weekend – Gran Torino, with Clint Eastwood, and The Wrestler, with Mickey Rourke. In both, the protagonist is an older man coming to grips with the human frailty to which we all eventually succumb. They deal with it in very different ways, however – one with dignity, and the other, in the only way he can. I won’t spoil it for you by telling you which is which. I’d recommend Gran Torino for “guys and gals”, but The Wrestler probably for guys only – not because of the storyline, or the acting, or the underlying morality (which are all superlative), but simply because The Wrestler pulls no punches in representing the violence of the world of “fake” wrestling.

I was upset when they decided that Black Rod no longer should walk backwards at the opening of Parliament – that’s how much of a traditionalist I am. I’m sure there’s room for a happy medium, and I’m willing to negotiate.