Family Time
“We thought we’d come to Texas to say good-bye.”
Jordan had called my father to express her condolences regarding my grandmother’s death and to say that she was looking forward to seeing him in Texas. In that context, the sense of finality in my father’s comment fell like an unexpected hammer. Not expecting our panamerican voyage to be final, we hoped that my father still expected to see us again someday.
Part of our stay in Texas was to see family before leaving the States. We’ll see a lot of people on the way, but this was a good opportunity for parents and siblings to all be in one place at the same time. Jordan and I, along with my parents, sisters, boyfriends and niece Claire, spent roughly a week together exploring Bandera County and neighboring San Antonio and simply passing the time together at Anna and Greg’s ranch, the Fixin’ To.
It’s not easy to out-party a 4-year-old. In my niece Claire’s mind, every occasion is cause for celebration, there are no bad dance moves and bed time is a fairy tale to be confronted only when absolutely necessary. Living out this philosophy, Claire tore up the dance floor by herself at the 11th Street Bar in Bandera, Texas, where we had gone to enjoy grill-your-own-steak night. The crowd was a far cry from our home scene in Brooklyn. People adorned in cowboy hats, rebel flags and non-ironic mustaches passed around paper plates and condiments, flipped steaks on giant grills and clinked bottles of Lone Star and Bud. I checked our steaks next to a tall, stern-looking man wearing a cowboy hat, who had a long leather container to carry his condiments strapped to his belt. We exchanged glances at one point and I said “hi”. “Yup”, he said in return and fixed his eyes back onto his rack of lamb, the heat of his gaze crisping them from the top, as the coals roasted them from below.
Antiques and Cowboy Hats
The antique shops scattered throughout the towns of the Texas hill country were full of tools that spoke of a time when industry was a more household affair. Those relics now lived out afterlives as objects of art, or as symbols of identity that the people of this country use to link themselves to a hardscrabble past that their forefathers had dug their way out of, using their rough-hewn tools to build a better future for their children.
Perhaps as a silly way to link my own identity to this place, I bought a cowboy hat in Bandera, which bills itself as the cowboy capitol of the world. I had to think twice about buying the one that I most wanted. The shop it resided in was a cramped room, half populated with antiques and half with Confederate paraphernalia. A book rested on a shelf, its cover adorned with the Stars and Bars, its title: The South Was Right.
I had tried on other hats in other places, but I liked this one the most and it fit me far better than the others. I have a deceivingly large head. Screw it, I thought, the $28 that I’ll give the store owner will hardly fund the Second Rising of the South. The bearded shop keeper smiled and chatted amicably throughout the transaction.
I walked out of the store, still turning the hat over in my hands and smiled when I read the phrase “Elaborado por manos Mexicanos” on the inside band.
Fear and Loathing in the Hill Country
Among our Texan friends, a recurrent reaction to news of our travel plans was concern for the safety of ourselves and our belongings. Descriptions of our plans were frequently met with a worried frown and well-wishing in the form of “I wish you wouldn’t go there.” We fielded questions about what measures we planned to take to ensure our personal safety and the security of our belongings. The only solution that these questions tended to permit was not making the trip. Are you bringing a gun, one friend asked. We’re not, first of all because doing so is illegal, but also because that would actually put us in more danger. The same friend went on to talk about how a neighbor had been going around at night and shooting people’s dogs. Travel through Mexico does not top my list of fears.
Naturally, packing everything you own into a car and traveling through a wide variety of places ups your risk for losing it all. But if the only solution is to stay put and watch your door warily, then I’ll take the risk.
A week alone
We spent our third and final week at the ranch by ourselves. Family members went back to their own homes, Anna and Greg went to a friend’s wedding and we found ourselves the sole humans among a motley crew of dogs, cats, goats, chickens and other less domesticated wildlife. We made a few final touch modifications to Taiga, waited for a few last pieces of equipment to come through the mail, practiced packing and sorted out things like car and health insurance while abroad. I thought that I would have time, in that last week, to finish some revisions to my doctoral dissertation that had been asked of me. As it turned out, all the ‘final touches’ and other items made for a full week of work. It’s no simple matter, downsizing your life and making all the preparations needed to live out of a car across various countries for an extended period of time.
The night before we were to leave, some of our new Texan friends invited us out to the Four Way Bar & Grill, for dinner and a final toast before setting off on the next leg of the adventure. We were impressed by the way that they had so readily welcomed us to Lakehills. Although we had only met three weeks prior, going out with them that last night already felt like running into old friends. We sat together, eating fries and country fried steak and told each other our old stories, grateful for a new audience. A lone guitarist stood at a microphone and sang country songs, pausing frequently to joke with members of the small audience. Trish, Linda and Connie, who along with a few others are affectionately referred to as the Ladies of the Lake (the lake in question being Medina Lake), talked about their upcoming trip to Alaska and we gave advice on how to dress for the weather. Then the end of the night came and we settled our tabs and parted ways towards our own separate adventures.
We woke early the next day, packed the last of our belongings into the car, cleaned up the house, fed the animals and began to drive. Somewhere maybe an hour’s drive down the 35 from San Antonio, we crested a hill and the land fell away below us into a vast wide-angle plain that stretched to the border that separated our home from the wide-world beyond.
