Life in TX

People have been asking me to update and tell them what’s been going on. My Texas adventure began a little bit over 21 days ago. Clawson calls it my very own reversed “Blue like Jazz” even if it really would be a reverse “Through Painted Deserts.” Instead of leaving Texas to come to storied land of trees and lumberjacks, I left Portland and came to cattle country.

We drove through the desert for days, my mother, my brother, and me. Each day we would put the convertible top down until our skin began to prickle. Then we’d put it back up quickly, trapping my little brother in the back behind the roll bar. I don’t think he’ll ever want to sit in the back seat again. Once the driving was over, we’d strip down to our swimming suits and jump into the cool water, feeling as alive as our wearied bodies would let us. My brother would practice his cannonballs and I would be content to sit in the hot-tub and suck in the dry air. Then we’d pad through the lobby, our wet feet slapping against the cool tile, grab freshly baked chocoalte chip cookies and sit on our beds and watch George Clooney movies on HBO or episodes of Billy the Exterminator. The staples of any healthy TV diet.

The only time I cried was when I had to say goodbye to my grandparents. Grampy told me he’d miss me, which was so bittersweet considering he has altzheimers and can’t ever remember my name. But he knew I belonged there and told me he was sorry to see me go. My grandparents hold a special place in my heart. A place where few others dwell. In some ways, they raised me more than my parents did. They are the ones who gave me my love of travel, art, and adventure.

I’m happily ensconced in my air conditioned bungalow. I don’t know if there are such things as brick bungalows but there might as well be. My beautiful car (which I should still blog about at some point) sits on the lawn, polished and bright. Katydids make a terrible racket outside, thousands of whirring wings croaking. Tiny sugar ants march like lice through the grass that is sparse like the top of a balding man’s head. Large bugs, walking sticks that look like yard sticks, roam freely. The days of throwing myself on the grass to watch the clouds float by are long gone. I don’t know what I’d land on.

Herds of deer roam the neighborhood, something I’m not accustomed to. Spotted twins wait gawkishly on the side of the road while my car passes slowly. I’m always afraid that something will spook them and they’ll come crashing into me. My coworkers discuss who has hit the most deer. The current winner is five deer. I’d rather like to keep my track record, and car, clean.

I don’t know how long I’ll be on this adventure. That’s what sets it apart from my Euro adventures in my mind. I always had a return ticket in my hand. This time, I don’t. Which makes it all that much more exhilerating. I’d like to stare this adventure in the eyeballs and have it blink first.

We’ll see who wins.


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