Texas is an ugly state. That was sort of my view 38 years ago,
traveling from the base of Mt. Rainier to the southern tip of Texas.
Begrudgingly, I noticed the bigness. Near Pecos, I was puzzled by
a large dry arroyo bed. A rabbit kicked up a plume of dust as he
crossed. Thunder cracked and it began to rain. In minutes, the
dry arroyo became a raging river. I understood.
I scoffed at the Texas Hill Country. Why even mention hills? Talk
about your mountains if you have them. But the rythmic, rolling
nature of the hill country is mesmorizing. The valleys are wide
and peaceful. Scrubby cedar trees and grass has a beauty of its
own. Austin and San Antonio are unique cities with personalities
that can't be duplicated in the rust belt.
If the Rio Grande Valley doesn't blow your mind, nothing else will.
Without road signs try proving this area is not part of Mexico.
So much for the ugly terrain. What about the people?
In the north Texas town of Weatherford, I failed to notice an elderly
lady struggling with the cafe door. A lanky cowboy nearly jumped over
me to open the door for her.
North of Houston, an elderly couple put a "Barbeque" sign in front
of their white bungalow. Grandpa smoked meats in the backyard.
Grandma waitressed the living room. Several small tables were
covered with red/white checkered plastic cloths. In our frequent
trips to Houston and beyond, we knew where to stop. The house
remains, in disrepair.
For over thirty years a farmer in the Rio Grande Valley had his lunch
from April to October at 11:00 a.m. He refused to recognize "Johnson Time."
I rest my case.
tms