Labor Day

It’s been a long weekend here, with the Labor Day holiday, and temperatures still in the upper 90’s. Since Tim’s wedding is coming up, and I don’t plan to wear my morning suit for the evening’s celebrations, I thought the very least I could do is turn out in a clean pair of boots. So on Saturday I went to Leddy’s in Sundance Square in Fort Worth to have them professionally polished. Shoe-shine, as far as I’m aware, has disappeared in the UK, but is still alive in certain areas of the US. A good pair of boots costs enough that you’d want to keep them clean and in good repair.

Leddy's

Leddy’s is one of the oldest stores in Fort Worth, dating back to 1929. They specialize in Western apparel, and were the first store to offer “re-manufactured weather” – now, we call it “air-conditioning”. I sat, as you can see, in the window, and Todd commented on the attire (due to the heat) of the young ladies passing by – he added, flashing his ring-finger, that he “still had the appetite, but had to eat at home”. The boot I’m holding, by the way, is worth $3125, which is half of the $6250 that the pair would cost. These are hand-made Lucchese alligator boots – way out of my league, but he insisted I hold it up for the photograph. Lucchese are based in Fort Worth, and, if you want a pair of made-to-measure boots, you’ll have to wait about 9 months! These days, we’ve lost the idea that it’s worth paying more for something you can repair, because it’s cheaper to buy new, and discard the old.

After Leddy’s, I went to Starbucks for an “Iced tazo lemonade tea” – I don’t know what it is either, but it was refreshing.

Today, I headed for Wichita Falls, just because I haven’t been there before. By happenstance, I turned off the highway at Bowie, and found the older Rte 81 – still headed in the same direction (the old Chisholm Trail), but much less traveled. In Bowie, Krispy Chicken manages to survive against Sonic and McDonalds; and the Budget Motel against its newer rivals. But I don’t know for how long – like every other small town, its heart is being slowly ripped out. When I see buildings, especially businesses, falling prey to dereliction, I can’t help thinking that they were once new; that their gaudy signs once proclaimed a new era; that their owners once stood proudly outside. Slowly, those hopes and dreams have leached back into the earth from which they sprang. The way of all things, I suppose.

Driving up Rte 81 was liberating, in a way I can’t describe. It’s not surprising, if you’ve ever thought about it, that highways follow railroads – any divergence tends to be for one of two reasons: highways go up and over hills, while railroads try to go through or around them. So the highways are long and straight, through featureless, but not empty, landscapes. It feels different here, but I don’t know why – the “open road”, and all that the phrase embodies. So I drove, almost imperceptibly crossing the state line into Oklahoma, and back into Texas – through Byers, Waurika, Petrolia, Jolly and Henrietta.

The small towns each have their murals – it seems a point of pride. Many are nothing more than a church, a bank and a diner (not necessarily in that order), but a local artist will have adorned one, or more, of the buildings with a painting identifying their association with the Chisholm Trail, and with the “new frontier”.

Mural in Byers

Mural in Petrolia

I shouldn’t really dodge commenting on Katrina and New Orleans, but there isn’t much I can say that hasn’t been said already. A colleague at work made the (I think) original comment that “the fabric of society is soluble in water”. Eloquent, and sadly true.

Train journey

Earlier in the week, I had to travel up to London for the day. Normally, I would have driven to Heathrow, parked, and taken the Underground into the city centre, but, on Elliot’s advice, I took the train instead: the Tarka Line from Eggesford (a few hundred yards walk from the house) to Exeter St David’s, and the Great Western from there to Paddington.

It’s been years since I travelled on the train, but I’m glad I did. In a car, I am rarely a passenger, and usually have to concentrate on driving on our cramped English roads; now, I could concentrate on the view.

Tall stands of yellow rape, escaped from cultivation, blaze defiantly from odd corners of pasture. Narrow boats glide lazily along almost forgotten canals, waiting patiently at the locks in a surreal, parallel, slow-motion world. Rivers meander, a temporary refuge for elegant swans and their cygnets, flanked by majestic willows casually draped over the water, their long fingers barely touching the surface. Cattle – black and white Holstein, golden-red Limousin – graze unconcerned in green fields spattered with thistles. Youthful, exuberant poplars tower over older, wiser oaks; frivolous birch flutter their leaves precociously in the breeze; horse chestnut grow heavy with their fruit, the “conkers” that will provide amusement for schoolboys in the autumn. Noiseless distant tractors ply through the fields or along country roads, past old brick farmhouses with tall chimneys; fresh cut hay lays drying in the sun, and fields are full of baled hay, in black polyurethane, or in rounds, or in squares. Church spires peep over the tops of trees, belittling their squat Norman peers – you can almost hear their peal, carried on the wind.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.

Dairy farmers are going out of business, because it costs more to produce milk than we will pay them. Every now and then the train rattles through the cesspools of our towns and cities, with their graffiti and their supermarkets. Even the shiny new buildings are tomorrow’s urban decay. And the ebullient young man who has been talking to his “muvver” in “Redroof” (which may or may not be near Redruth, Cornwall) on his mobile phone in the “quiet” carriage of the train, announces loudly, on completion of his call: “Sorry to all the ‘quiet’ people. I paid for my ticket like everybody else, and if I want to talk on my mobile phone, I will.”

Lager brings out the best in everyone, doesn’t it?

“Every day it gets a little harder to believe in magic, and people” – Mindy Smith.

AQYHA

It’s 96ºF (38ºC) today, and so humid that your clothes stick to you everywhere (yes … everywhere). It’s overcast, and there’s the occasional rumble of thunder, but I think it’s all big girls’ blouses, because it’s been like that all day and we haven’t had a drop of rain.

The heat doesn’t bother me too much – if it did, I’d have to head over to the mall, and shuffle round shoulder-to-shoulder with the thousands of others that decided to do the same, and I couldn’t stand that. So instead I headed over to Fort Worth’s best-kept secret – a day of free entertainment at the Will Rogers Equestrian Center. First, I went to the flea market, in barn Number 1 (apparently reserved for the porcine community, though I’ve never seen anything but horses and cattle in the whole place). I really like this flea market, though I’m not sure why – it’s indoors, it’s big, but not too big, the people are friendly, and there’s always little nooks and crannies I haven’t noticed before.

Cowgirl

There’s almost always something going on in the Equestrian Center – this week it was the American Quarter Horse Youth Association (AQHYA) championships. I swear there are a thousand of these associations: the American Paint Horse Association, the National Reining Horse Association, the National Cutting Horse Association, the National Barrel Horse Association – need I go on? Of course, you can Google it for yourself. And every one has a youth chapter. Today I found out what a “snaffle bit” is. It seems I no longer have to explain how ignorant I am when I ask people these patently silly questions – I suppose, by now, I must exude a general aura of ignorance in this area. And talking of exuding: you know how people who smoke think they’re being very noble by going outside to smoke, but then come back inside completely oblivious to the fact that every item of their clothing (and probably every pore in their skin) exudes the smell of smoke? Well, I think that also happens to people (including me) who partake of watching indoor equestrian events – except that the aroma in this case is of a combination of cow and horse poop (or “divots” as those of us immersed in the cowboy lifestyle prefer to call them). Note also my careful, and quite deliberate, use of the word “cows”. We’re in Texas here, not Wisconsin, so the female of the species has only one role in life. So it’s hardly worth the bother of distinguishing between them: cows, calves, bulls – they’re all just “cows” to us cowboys (otherwise, I suppose, we might be “calfboys”, and that wouldn’t suit the image at all).

Although the event is completely free, you’d be wise to dress appropriately. As is the case in the rest of life, the ladies can wear anything and get away with it. You guys should at least spring for the boots, jeans and belt-buckle. You can wear your Justin boots, but everyone will know you bought them at WalMart. Better stick to Lucchese or Mercedes – after all, a good pair of boots will last a lifetime: it’s not worth skimping. And not just any jeans. If you turn up in your stone-washed, aesthetically-ripped designer jeans, you’ll be laughed out of the arena. And forget Levi’s. It’s Wranglers. Dark blue. The finishing touches would include spurs and a hat. I don’t bother with the spurs, mostly because I find them difficult to drive in. As for the hat, I’m tall enough as it is – with built up heels and a hat I’d be hunched over in the car, so I give that a miss, too. Otherwise, I fit in pretty well.

Roping

Today’s event was … well, I don’t know what it’s called, but a friendly cowboy explained that they had to run a pattern (a sort of convoluted figure-of-eight) in the arena, then bring the horse to a sudden, sliding stop; then spin the horse around three times (the judges are looking for a rear foot firmly planted, and a fast spin); then do the same on the other side of the arena (sounds a bit like country dancing, doesn’t it?); then a “cow” (alright, alright, it’s really a calf) is let into the arena, and – well, you’re probably not interested in the details, but they have to move it around according to some bizarre rules known only within AQHA circles.

These were all teenagers, and a lot of them – from just about every state. I’ve never owned a horse, but I think there’s a lot of responsibility goes along with the job. Watching these kids, that was very evident. I’m sure they let their hair down just like everyone else, but they were all well-dressed, polite and well-behaved – unlike the hooligans that were running around in the hotel last night (I soon put a stop to that!).

So I’m learning a lot about horses, which makes me a little sad that the only time I did take riding lessons (a birthday gift from Val), I never got past the “me-going-down-when-the-horse-was-coming-up” stage. But I know enough not to longe when I’m not supposed to.

Murals

Yesterday I found an unusual vase at a flea market in one of the barns at the Will Rogers Equestrian Center in Fort Worth. I knew Val loves “interesting” vases, but this was a little too large and awkwardly shaped for me to easily get back to England, so I didn’t buy it. When I spoke to Val this morning, she was intrigued, so I decided to return – if it was still for sale, that was a sign that I was meant to buy it (and I’d figure out how to get it back somehow).

I parked the car (they gave me a red Chevy Malibu this time), and started walking towards the barn where the flea market is held every Saturday and Sunday. You have to remember that the Will Rogers Memorial Center is a huge custom-built center for anything to do with horses and cattle – large areas of stabling, several arenas, parking for vast numbers of horse trailers – and this weekend it is hosting the cutting-horse championships (a cutting horse is used for “cutting” selected cattle out of the main herd, and requires precision horsemanship). As I’m walking, I hear a “clink, clink” behind me, and I turned to see the cutest cowgirl, complete with hat, neatly pressed jeans, and boots with spurs that were clinking as she walked. Naturally, I took the opportunity to ask some of the dumb questions that have been bothering me since I’ve been watching the equine events that seem so much a part of life here (and, no, I wasn’t chatting her up – she was probably only Amy’s age, with an armful of school books). Do they wear the spurs just for show, or are they really necessary? How do spurs fit onto boots? Do they hurt the horses they ride?

She didn’t find the questions at all dumb, and was happy to answer. If these are questions that bother you, too, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find your own cowgirl.

The vase, by the way, was still there, and only $8. I told the woman behind the counter that my wife was worth it – not the $8, but the grief associated with trying to get it home in one piece!

Duty done, I looked for something more … recreational. I’ve noticed while driving around the concrete jungle that is the DFW “metroplex” that several valiant attempts have been made to brighten things up with murals. You may have noticed, in some earlier notes, murals from Corsicana (the dilapidated railroad town) or Olney (whose only claim to fame is as the home of the “one-armed dove hunt”). It would take a lot more than a mural to make these towns anything more than what they are, but I came across some today that are quite extraordinary. Take, for example, the one (or two, if you count both sides) on the underpass where Belt Line meets Interstate-30 in Grand Prairie, just a few miles south of my hotel – scenes of wild horses, deer and buffalo on the plains, wolves in the forest, and egrets in the bayou. The whole mural is probably about eight feet high by a hundred yards long.

Or how about the mural on the wall of the Cowgirl Museum, within the Will Rogers Center – obviously professionally done, but still magnificent.

As you’re driving towards Fort Worth along Interstate 30, there is a tantalizing glimpse of a Hispanic-flavoured mural to the south. I tried to find it today, and it probably took me over an hour of driving round some of the backroads surrounding the Union Pacific railyards (where you definitely drive with the doors locked) before I found it. It was worth it – a ray of hope in an otherwise decaying area that will one day be the place to live, once the yuppies and the financiers realize the potential of these once splendid buildings (from a time when “architecture” meant more than the variety of things you can do with concrete, steel and glass). And I wonder where the poorer people will be living then?

The first IKEA in the area will be opening next week. This is only the 2^nd in Texas, but don’t worry if you missed it – there’s bound to be more (http://www.ikea.com).

The 10^th execution in Texas this year took place on Friday. Don’t worry if you missed it – there are 8 more scheduled for this year (http://www.tdcj.state.tx.us/stat/scheduledexecutions.htm).

APHA

Team Penning

Cowboy Zamboni

The Cowgirl Museum

There’s a great “antique mall” on the south-western edge of Fort Worth. The quickest way to get there is on Interstate 30. As you drive along I30, you come around a slight curve to see downtown Fort Worth in the distance. Most downtown areas have a distinct skyline; Fort Worth, unfortunately, does not – one of the few advantages that Dallas has over Fort Worth.

I spent a couple of hours in the antique mall, and decided to come back to the hotel a different way. Only a few blocks down Montgomery Street I saw the Will Rogers Equestrian Center on the right, surrounded by trucks, campers and horse trailers, so I pulled in to investigate. The first thing I found was a flea market in one of the barns. The heat was stifling, and the antiquated fans merely moved steamy hot air from the adjoining stables into the market, but it was a very interesting flea market nevertheless.

When I came out, I saw the 2005 APHA World Show opposite. It was free, so I went in, and soon discovered that APHA is the American Paint Horse Association. At this point, probably the same question pops into your mind as popped into mine, so I asked the cowgirl behind the Information Desk. It seems that a Paint Horse has to be registered, and the offspring of registered Paint Horses, or perhaps a Paint Horse and a Quarter Horse, or, more rarely two Quarter Horses … yes, I stopped her and asked that question too. She laughed (in a nice way) and explained that Quarter Horses are pedigree North American working horses, and that they have very strict specifications on the coloring of the horse: some white on the nose or around the hooves is permissible, but those with large blotches can’t be registered as Quarter Horses. Fed up with this, owners of Paints, sometimes called Pintos (although Pintos don’t have to be registered), formed their own association. The various colorings have names like Palomino, Sorrel, Buckskin and Blue Roan. It was a trade show as well as a competition, and the place was full of working cowboys in cowboy hats, jeans, and well-worn boots with spurs attached.


Today was the last day of the show, and they were finishing up at 6pm with the final competitions. I went back to the hotel, and returned at 6pm to a packed arena. The first competition was “team penning”: 30 young steers are grouped at one end of the arena, and each has a number from 0 to 9 on its back; a team of three riders enter the arena, and are given a number as they approach the herd – their job is to break out the three steers with that number on their back, and pen them in the shortest possible time.

You may have been to an ice hockey game, or watched ice skating, at some time – if so, you’ll have seen the Zamboni going round at half time, smoothing the ice. The cowboy equivalent of this is a machine that sprays some sort of disinfectant on the sand and cattle poop before blending it together to that delightful consistency and aroma that gives the typical arena its distinctive smell.

The next competition was “bridleless western pleasure” – sounds interesting, but is really quite similar to watching paint dry. Cowboys (and cowgirls) take their mounts through a series of manoevres without the use of a bridle. I think “unbridled western pleasure” may have been worth the wait, but this wasn’t.

Heading back to the hotel at 8:30, it was still hot. I passed Hurricane Harbor (water park) and Six Flags over Texas (theme park), both still in full swing.

Driving along, it occurred to me that, although I’ve been trying to resist mentioning it, cowgirls are cute. I think it’s something about the hats, the highly embroidered tops, leather chaps, and coloured boots with spurs.

They really are magnificent.

July 4th 2005

We’ve spent many happy and memorable July 4^th’s in the States, so that just being here stirs many memories of barbecues and pool parties with friends and loved ones.

As I usually do when I’m at a loose end on a weekend, I got in the car after breakfast (two eggs over-easy on toast and fruit juice – I’m sadly predictable in some ways!), and headed off in a random direction. The direction I chose took me through some of the poorest Hispanic areas just south of downtown Dallas. It was appropriate timing, I thought, just as the G8 is about to meet, and protesters are gathering to call for an “end to poverty in the developing world, especially Africa” (Reuters). I suppose that poverty in the developed world is ok, magnified though it is by higher expectations and the surrounding environment extolling consumerism as a virtue.

The Herding Dog Association

Serendipity brought me to Dallas’ Old City Park, where they were staging an “Old-Fashioned Fourth”. The ceremonies started with the swearing in of 50 new American citizens. Had I been one of the 50, I can guarantee that I would not have turned up in shorts, t-shirt and sneakers, as quite a few did. We’ve attended graduation ceremonies in the past where the graduates have worn a cloak and mortar-board over similar attire. I know it gets hot here, but the sense of occasion seems to have been lost! A very good (American) friend said to me recently (via email) that “the USA doesn't have much political action about which to be proud these days so I am reaching way back for the sense of pride that used to come rather easily,” in which there is a similar sentiment. Maybe it’s a “generation thing”.

Parade

Gunfight!

At least I enjoyed the rest of the festivities: the parade, the demonstration by the East Texas Herding Dog Association, the Frontier Brigade Band on the bandstand, and the “shootout” on Main Street. And you can’t have July 4^th without a hot dog and a cold beer! On the way out, the temporary illusion was somewhat shattered by the sight of a young lady in a full-length hooped skirt and straw hat sneaking a cigarette behind the log-cabin, whilst furiously lifting her skirt bottom up and down to ameliorate what must have been a most uncomfortable outfit, given the weather. I laughed, made some comment, and she fortunately saw the humour of the situation!

Up here on the 8^th floor of the hotel, I have a clear view, over the flat Texas landscape, of “Six Flags over Texas” – a theme park four or five miles away. I’m sure they’ll have a great firework display, and I don’t even have to leave the hotel!

Driving back to the hotel through similar, but all too frequent, impoverished areas, I wondered which is worse: to live in abject poverty … or to die in it.