Acton

The smallest State Park in Texas

I suspect that there comes a time in life – the result of a gradual process, even though its perception may be sudden – when it seems that the trains are not as frequent as they used to be, and that even then, they often pass right through the station with stopping. So when one stops, you have to ride it. Even if it’s going to Acton, TX.

Elizabeth Crockett

You probably don’t know this – there’s no reason why you should – but Acton is the site of the smallest State Park in Texas. Acton is a small town with a good sense of humour, as you can see from the signs outside the gas station cum convenience store, and the liquor store. For a small town, they sure must drink a lot of liquor – but if I hadn’t stopped there, I never would have found the park. It’s in the middle of (one of) the local cemeteries, and is famous only because Elizabeth Crockett (Davy’s wife) is buried there.

The gas station

The Bootlegger

On my way out I noticed an old (in the American timeframe) grave: “She’s gone to that bright land of love where death and sickness never come, where all is bliss with those above who dwell within that peaceful land”. Not an uncommon inscription for the time (1891), but touching nevertheless.

Spring flowers are in full bloom finally, and the day is warm but breezy. I’m driving with the windows open to catch the fragrance of large patches of bluebonnets, and listening to Bob Dylan (“Modern Times”) on the CD player – Workingman’s Blues is particularly poignant.

Primroses

Randomly following country roads, I stop at Cahill Methodist Church. It’s closed up, but I sit for a while in the cool shade of the cemetery – unusual in some respects, because cemeteries round here (probably for historic reasons associated with hygiene) are normally located well away from civilization. While I’m sitting, the local Sheriff’s cruiser swings by, presumably to check out the unrecognized car – I wave, but can’t see any acknowledgement through the tinted glass.

Old gravestone

Christian rock band

By chance, I end up in Cleburne, where the Spring Festival is in full swing. I park the car on the outskirts of town, and walk into the downtown area. It’s obviously a very Christian festival, with many faith-based roadside stalls, and a Christian rock band. I have to say (again) that, although it’s not really my style, the church here feels so much more alive than at home – if rock music and cowboy church is what it takes to get youth involved, a lesson could be learned.

Lunch was a BBQ sandwich – shredded smoked brisket on a hamburger bun, with barbecue sauce, onions and jalapenos – eaten at the communal table with plenty of kitchen roll for mopping sauce-soaked fingers and mouth.

Downings gun shop

In Texas, they take guns very seriously. In view of the recent Virginia Tech Massacre, it’s easy to take issue with the “gun culture”. Personally, I think the “knife culture” in England is just as insidious, and simply serves to demonstrate that we will use whatever means are available to wreak havoc. As you’ll know, Kurt Vonnegut died recently. He said, in an interview in 2005, “I think that the Earth's immune system is trying to get rid of us, as well it should.” I find it difficult to disagree.      

Tornado

What’s your idea of an exciting weekend? Would it include “teacup-sized” hailstones, tornadoes and Nascar racing? If so, I’m afraid you’ve just missed your chance.

 
This part of Texas is flat. So flat, in fact, that you can see for miles from my 9^th floor hotel window. When a significant storm swept through the area last night, there were tornado warnings, and all the hotel occupants were herded into the 1^st floor (translation into English: “ground floor”) ballrooms for safety. I soon got fed up with that, because these rooms have no windows (which is why they’re suitable shelters), and I headed back up to my room. The storm was coming in from the west, which is the direction I could see from the window of my room. There were tornadoes, but none hit directly or did too much damage (unless your house happened to be one of the unfortunate ones). There were hailstorms, but they were only minor here. I was mostly worried that my insurance on the car might not cover hail damage (and you should bear in mind that, whenever there is a significant hailstorm (which, fortunately, doesn’t happen too often), the local car dealerships are forced to offer their pockmarked stock at reduced prices). The local news media reported “teacup-sized” hailstones in some areas, and I think that even they were surprised by the analogy. These hailstones are obviously pretty big (and, as Lucy pointed out, “an umbrella wouldn’t do you much good”), but the more usual terms of reference are pea (¼”),  marble (½”), quarter (1”), ping-pong ball (1½”), golf ball (1¾”), baseball (2¾”) and softball (4½”), each of which were observed in at least one of the local areas. If you’re interested, it turns out that “teacup” is a formally recognized (by the US National Weather Service) category (3”), even though it may be oddly asymmetric (http://www.islandnet.com/~see/weather/eyes/hailsize.htm).

The hotel is mobbed this weekend by Nascar racing enthusiasts, corresponding to a major event at the nearby Texas Motor Speedway. This attracts a huge influx of rednecks from neighbouring states, and is thus the American equivalent of Formula One – needless to say, I didn’t attend, and attempted to avoid them at breakfast (they are harmless but enthusiastic).

So my Saturday (which, incidentally, was colder, at 50ºF, than England) was mostly uneventful, and involved only a haircut, the latest state quarters and two new shirts. The picture is just another addition to my collection of murals, and is not somewhere I’ve investigated any more thoroughly. For one thing, I don’t speak the language.

Antique Store

It’s strange to find an old-fashioned antique store in the middle of a modern indoor mall, but there it was. I’m physically incapable of passing (in a vehicle or on foot) an antique store, a book store or a flea market, without looking in – so I did.

As I approached the counter to pay for my purchases, an old guy with more gaps than teeth suddenly appeared. “This is a good price”, he said, thumbing through the pages of the book. “Look at those pictures – Norman Rockwell. They’re hard to find.”

“It’s a gift for my wife – I’m taking it back to England.”

“She’ll love it … so what are you doing over here?”

I explained my curious lifestyle: 2 weeks in England, 3 weeks in Dallas, which has been going on for over three years now.

“Does she miss you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yeah.”

He took my money, and walked round to my side of the counter, where there was a bench seat. He sat down, and, looking up at me, said, “So, you’re from England. Tell me what you think of the war in Iraq, and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

There was a time when this would have been a dangerous question to answer – religion, politics, and all that. Everyone should respect other people’s views, but not everyone does. It doesn’t seem to be so much a problem any more. “I think Blair and Bush should be stood up against the wall and shot.”

He smiled, and replied, “I saw a cartoon the other day of Bush and Cheney behind prison bars – that’s where they belong. Do you know how much money we’ve spent in Iraq?”

“Not exactly, but I know it’s a lot.”

“Enough to keep Social Security funded for the next 75 years. And we’ve killed more innocent men, women and children than Saddam ever did. We should put him back in power, because he can control them, and we sure as hell can’t!”

The conversation was actually much longer than this, but I’ve edited out all but the highlights. His was an interesting suggestion that hadn’t occurred to me before. It’s too outrageous to work – or is it? Before we could explore the topic, another customer appeared at the counter.

“I’m sorry – money calls. Here our friendship must end. Nice talking to ya.”

Garvin church

Garvin cemetery

At this point I felt tired of being in the city, surrounded by noise and people all the time, and wanted to get out into the country. So I bought a CD of “The Wailin’ Jennys” – a Canadian folk/country three-girl band that I’d just heard on “A Prairie Home Companion” on the radio (still going, and the way radio shows used to be) and headed out of town on Highway 114. As soon as I had thrown off the shackles of suburban Fort Worth, I turned off on a dirt track towards “Garvin United Methodist Church”. The congregation had long since disappeared, but I parked the car in the shade, and sat under an old cedar tree (you can see it in the picture) in the middle of the cemetery. It was warm and sunny, with a faint breeze on my face, and the only sound was the rustling of the leaves in the nearby trees. Looking at faded and crumbling tombstones of long-dead (and probably founders) of Garvin is a humbling experience – “Dear Clarance (sic) you was always Loving and Faithful”. I don’t know how people in these rural communities survive – where they work, what they do, how they have fun – but one day maybe I’ll knock on a door and hope someone friendly answers.

Decatur

On the way back, I stopped at Decatur – you know, “Historic Downtown Decatur”. Nothing much going on, nothing much to see, other than an interesting (from an architectural viewpoint) City Hall, and a few stalwarts still hoping that Walmart won’t completely destroy their livelihood.

By the way, I hope my politics don’t offend you. If you don’t agree with them, that’s ok – I probably don’t agree with yours either.    ;-)

Deep Ellum

When I was a teenager I had a paper round – delivering newspapers twice a day, before and after school, except on Sundays, when there was only one delivery (and, thankfully, although Sunday newspapers were somewhat larger than usual, they had not yet reached anything close to current proportions, where you need a couple of friends to help you carry it to and from the car). I also delivered magazines, which was probably my first introduction to some of the racier ones. But I was more fascinated by a particular American music magazine – you will have figured out by now that my delivery often took longer than it should have done had I not stopped occasionally to verify the contents of my deliveries. I can't remember the name of the magazine now, but it was mostly concerned with folk music, which was all the rage at the time. I read material about Odetta and the Grand Ole Opry, which meant little to me, but felt somehow magical.

Garland Opry

So, when I discovered that nearby Garland provided a show (the “Garland Opry”) every Saturday at 7:30pm, this was my chance to find out what “Opry” was all about. If you look online to Wikipedia, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opry) you will find that:

“An opry is generally an establishment that features live country music, the most famous example being the Grand Ole Opry, but it could be something as simple as the local honky tonk. The term is generally restricted to the southern United States.

The Saturday night opry is a Texas tradition. The opry provides a forum for new country music performers. In Texas the opry is an informal venue suitable for families. The local opry provides a friendly, non-threatening environment for amateur performers.

The Garland Opry claims to be the The Longest, Continuous Running Opry In The Great State Of Texas.”

The Wikipedia entry is entirely accurate. It's country music, it's amateur performers (some of whom may may not be completely in tune, but who am I to say?), but it is undoubtedly a valuable proving ground for aspiring musicians. Live performances – musical, theatrical, or whatever – have always enchanted me, and I'm happy to see community spirit alive and well, if not ubiquitous. Spilling out at the end of the performance into the still warm evening air of the square in downtown Garland, there were several pickup bands, playing anything from bluegrass to blues to country, as they do every Saturday night. It's somehow strange to find this bucolic atmosphere so close to the Dallas Metroplex, but I, for one, am glad to see old traditions continuing.

Deep Ellum graffiti

Psycho Clown Tattoo

The night was still young, and since I was so close, I headed into an area of Dallas called Deep Ellum. This area has a long history of association with the music scene, from blues (Blind Lemon Jefferson and Bessie Smith, to name but two, were regular performers) through to punk (The Dead Kennedys, The Meat Puppets), but its popularity declined in recent years, mainly due to increased crime rates. “Deep Ellum Blues” advises visitors: “When you go down to Deep Ellum, keep your money in your shoes”. I didn't go quite that far, but I didn't take my wallet with me – strictly cash. The area seems to be popular again, to the extent that the streets – deserted by day – are closed off at night, and the only way in is to park at the perimeter and walk, or take a shuttle bus, in. It's packed on a Saturday night, with everything from goths to yardies to hippie-throwbacks, and the music is similarly varied. I chose The Bone (http://www.thebone.com) to stop for a beer.

I hooked up with a friendly bunch of Aussies, on their way from home via Hawaii and California, across to Miami, before heading to Europe. I had a great time ... up to a point. And I say that not because there came a point where I wasn't having fun, but there certainly came a point where I can't remember whether I was having fun or not. I feel compelled to say that, at least on my part, there was no excessive drinking, and definitely no drugs, involved. But the next thing I remember is being in my car (which I'm certain I didn't drive) in Fort Worth (which is at least 30 miles away) at 3am, in a neighborhood that, although deserted, did not strike me as particularly salubrious, opposite a tattoo parlor (closed by this time) named Psycho Clown Tattoo. I've never been in this position before, but I can tell you that a number of questions run rapidly through your mind – I'm sure you can imagine. But I was unharmed, nothing had been stolen from me, and I had no lingering headache or hangover. I did, however, have a tattoo. I know this because I didn't have one before, and there were instructions for the “aftercare of a tattoo” on the seat next to me. (I had previously imagined that you got a tattoo, and that was it – not so. It apparently requires frequent washing with antibacterial soap, application of moisturizer, and no exposure to excessive soaking or sun for up to a month.)

The preceding paragraph is complete fantasy, and purely for literary effect, although the tattoo is real.

And no, you can't see it.