Texas Men and Texas

There’s nothing like the smell of a cleaned up Texas man.  Those of  you, who have grown up in West Texas or small-town Texas or have roots there, know what I’m talking about.  These are the men who go out and work the pasture or land, whether be it farming, ranching, working out in the oil fields or in the oil or gas refineries, out on the feedlots, or any other trade.  These men go work hard all day and come home in their dirty shirts, oily, smelling like the tractor or truck and dirt, hair disheveled (if they have their hair under their sweaty hat--maybe they already have that hat-induced receding hairline), kick off their boots and take a deep breath and go, “Whew!”  There’s nothing like receiving a hug from a dirty Texas man.  Then, for public or special occasions, they “get cleaned up.”  They go wash off the dirt and grit from a long day of work, put on their best starched and pressed button up shirt, tuck it into their starched wranglers with the permanent crease-line down the middle of the front of the pant-legs, buckle their belt buckle, put on their shiny “dress” boots, dab on a little of that cologne that every clean Texas man seems to wear, and they’re ready for whatever occasion awaits.  Maybe it’s their kid’s ballgame.  Maybe it’s a party.  Maybe it’s dinner out with the family or a holiday dinner.  But, there’s nothing quite like seeing and smelling and receiving a hug from a “cleaned up” Texas man.

A handsome Texas man sat next to me on the flight from Austin to Dallas this morning and, like so many of the other sights and sounds and smells I’ve experienced on this little mini-pilgrimmage back to my “homeland,” it made me feel like I was "home."  He reminded me of all the Texas men in my family who get cleaned up and smell so good.  There’s nothing like hugging a clean Texas man and burying your face into his neck and taking a big whiff of whatever secret cologne it is they wear.  But, my Granddaddy wears it. My Daddy wears it. My uncles wear it.  I just wanted to give that man, who was about the same age as my Daddy and uncles, a big hug and take a big whiff.  And, it seems to me, that that dress and that smell is usually accompanied by a gentlemanly, teddy bear heart.  I am home, indeed.

So, as I was sitting there, in the airport of my state’s capital, listening to sweet country music play over the public speakers, watching people slowly stroll by in their unique Texas style, as I was looking out the windows at the green grass the spring rains bring, after having driven past ditches and medians full of bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush and other wildflowers I can’t name but are still familiar, feeling especially nostalgic on this week-long trip back home to Texas to visit family and friends and to take “Texas” in, my thoughts turned to “Texas” and “home” and “who I am” and “where I come from.” What is “Texas”? Where is “home”?  “Who am I?” And, “where do I come from?”

In California, I’ve noted some general animosity towards “Texas” and often wait for a look of surprise and possible disgust or judgment as I tell them where I’m from.  There are many stereotypes out there, about Texas as well as California.  We in Texas, tend to think of our “good ol’ southern values” and open hearts and friendly smiles and waves while others outside of Texas may think of our radical gun-blazin’, big mouthin‘, radical conservatism, capital punishment and “the axis of evil.”  People in California (okay, northern California) tend to think of their beautiful landscapes, the mountains, the Bay, the ocean and beaches, the embrace of people from anywhere and everywhere and accepting people for who they are, allowing them to express themselves while others outside of California may think of radical liberalism, hippies, drugs, mohawks, piercings, tats, lipo-suction, facelifts, boob jobs and The Housewives of Orange County (which is in Southern California).  While some of these things in the accounts of both Texas and California are somewhat true in some instances, I’ve learned misperceptions and inaccurate preconceptions are ubiquitous in both areas and probably all over the world concerning everywhere else in the world.

So, Texas.  Ah, Texas!  Maybe I will momentarily become the stereotypical “Texan” as I recount all the glories Texas has to offer!  I can’t help it, Texas is home and Texas is in me.  Besides, haven’t all my other blog entries been about the glories of California?  I don’t want to over-glorify Texas, although this still may qualify. She has her many problems, as does everywhere else.  But, this is Texas to me:  Good-smellin’, cleaned up, pressed and starched Wranglers-wearin’ men; dirty trucks on dusty roads and kids, like myself, boppin up and down in the passenger seat as we bounce down the road on the farm, or standing in the bed of the truck, holdin’ on to the headache rack with our faces in the wind as our hair is blown crazy, smilin' and laughin’; Dad stopping the truck, getting out the shovel and killin' a rattler; learnin’ how to siphen water over the waterin' ditch so it flows down the rows to water the corn (shake the pipe first, so you don’t git bit by snake!); barbed wire fences; breathtaking sunsets;  the best Tex-Mex in the world ( ! ); amazing barbeque; mesquite trees; yucca; dodging tumbleweeds in the car; having at least one dent or scratch on your car from a tumble-weed as big as your car; running from tornadoes (literally, running down the street, seeing tornadoes and funnels on three sides, carrying all of our pets down to the cellar, the tornado siren blaring, on more than one occasion!); knowing exactly what shade of green of the sky means to keep an eye out and ears perked for tornadoes;  a good and exciting electrical storm with thunder that makes you jump and rattles the windows; the low, slow roll of thunder as a thunderstorm rolls out; the sound of the breeze through the cottonwood trees; the sound of locusts proclaiming the heat of the summer; the annoying but still somehow awesome brown dust-storm of the LBK; and, one of my favorites, the slow drawl and sweet twang of country talkin’ Texans, like saying “tar” for “tire” or “reckon” or “darlin’” or the tell-tale “fixin’ to” . . .

Why are we Texans so darn proud?  I’m not sure. It’s probably nothin’ but good ol’ brainwashin’ since we were just tiny Texas toots.  Even so, Texas is where I’m from and will always be from.  It’s where my Granny used to fix us chocolate gravy and we used to sit around the bar while she made more toast and wait for the next slice because she couldn’t make them fast enough for us and we would immediately smother the toast with the delectable chocolate gravy and dip our bacon in it.  It’s where I rode a tractor and combine and Daddy let me pull the levers and I watched the corn fall into the grain cart, wide-eyed and fascinated.  It’s where my brother and I got “lost” in the canyon by the lake.  It’s where we changed the rock-sign on the hill at the lake that read “Lee Hill” to “Crowe Hill” : ).  It’s where I learned to always watch for rattlesnakes.  It’s where “somebody” shot an arrow into our neighbor’s car at the lake (it wasn't me). It’s where countless slumber parties took place, including one the night before prom when we got rained in at Cortney’s house, down the mile-long muddy road and I drove backwards all the way to get out because I would get stuck going forwards.  It’s where Jayme’s mom had cookies waiting for us the first time I rode the bus out to her house to spend the night.  It’s where I drove a 1987 black Chevy van, Cortney an old blue pickup truck with the shift on the column, Amy-big red, and Jayme--the train whistle buick.  It’s where I graduated high school and college.  It’s where all my friends got married.  It’s where I was born and where my Granny and cousin died.   And, it’s where we remember the Alamo!!!


That’s why I’m proud I’m a Texan, I suppose.  All this, and so much more, has happened in Texas.

So, this week, I got to see friends and family in Austin and Sunray. I saw how we've grown up and aren't little kids anymore.  We have grownup jobs, grownup spouses, are grownup parents . . . I saw how things have changed and how they have stayed the same.  I got to eat the same El Rancho Mexican food I grew up on and is legendary in these parts.  I got to enjoy my Texas heritage, my Texas friends, and my Texas family.  And, I remembered, I still love Texas!  Yes-sir-ee Bob, I still love Texas!

My great-granddad, "Grandpa Gibson," helped lay these tracks north of Sunray.

He met his bride-to-be when he was injured on the job, working on the railroad, 

and "Grandma Gibson" and her family nursed him back to health in their home.

Let's go fly a kite!

Last week, Heather, who seems to be the main character of my stories these days since we live in the same bed and breakfast, received a package from someone special.  In her package were two kites, on which were batman and one of the smurfs!  So, thanks to her special someone, Heather, Batman, Smurfie and I went to Venice Beach at Halfmoon Bay and flew her kites!  We had a fun time getting the kites up (it had been many years for the both of us, since either of us have attempted to fly kites!).  I tried to run with mine just dragging behind me to get mine (Batman) up.  Then, it turned out, the breeze off of the ocean was enough that all we had to do was simply hold it up and let the string out.  Oh.  So, we help up our kites, slowly let the string out and watched them float higher and higher until they were just little diamonds in the sky. We laughed at the fact that we are in our late 20's flying little flimsy Batman and Smurf kites on the beach and laughed because it was so much fun.  We walked around the beach a little with our kites flying, checked out the little natural streams going into the ocean from the land, watched the huge waves roll in, Heather did some dance kicks on the beach, and we shivered a little in the cold.  It was a great time.  We also laughed as each of our kites came diving down at least once and gladly blamed it on the upper level wind changes and not our kite-flying skills. It was as much fun flying kites on the beach as I expect it would be if we were children again.  We became little girls again, at least for a couple of hours.

Heather and Smurfie enjoying their long walk on the beach. 

This is the last time we saw Smurfie alive.

  

This is Heather chasing Smurfie after he jumped out of her hands and into the little stream which consequently washed him into the ocean.  And it was much too cold for us to dive in after him. Bye, bye Smurfie. RIP.

I yelled at the seagulls flying above to not bomb me.  One guess as to what happened . . . 

You guessed it.

So, for consolation, we drove down the coast and stopped at this homemade jam place and tasted some jam and had some really great strawberry apple cider to warm us up. It was a thrilling and funny day. : )

Happy Easter, everybody!