RANCH NOTES: FINDING TWO SPARK
July 8, 2023
What is it about the Lone Star State that draws attention like a fly trap, then drags folks in, whether to live or visit, and never lets them go? The lucky get to relocate, the others wish they could. In my mind it’s our legacy: the fight for freedom. It’s “Remember the Alamo” — and the fact that we do. It’s the idea of wide-open spaces, which still exists despite a handful of mega-cities dotting the map like age spots on the back of my hand.
And it’s the love for our land, our individual slices of Texas, best served with bluebonnets and hay fields, a cold Dr. Pepper or Lone Star beer. Our buffalo may have disappeared, but longhorns still roam our fields, and dreams still come true if we’re willing to work hard enough.
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I’m a Native Texan, a proud Boomer who grew up on bar-b-que, country music, and westerns. John Wayne, Marshall Matt Dillon, and Ben Cartwright were the yardsticks by which I measured my father. And I swore I’d never marry unless Little Joe Cartwright or Rowdy Yates became available. Preferably Rowdy Yates. Little Joe was too short.
Anyone who knows Texas understands we compartmentalize her regions, not only because of her size but because each region is so diverse. Corpus Christi, where I was born and raised, belongs to the area known as South Texas. She’s found on most maps wearing only a string bikini to separate her nakedness from the Gulf of Mexico, an enormous expanse of warm water that welcomes in hurricanes like a whistle-blowing traffic cop motioning motorists to keep moving.
The only elevation for miles around is found among white sandy beaches that glow under mostly cloudless skies. Wandering the dunes we loved to explore when I was a kid was the closest we got to altitudes higher than sea level. I loved the beach and the white-tipped muddy-green water that crashed against its shore. And I adored the sun that bleached highlights into my otherwise chocolate-brown hair and darkened every inch of my body not covered by a few bits of colorful cloth.
Our family’s flag flew from smack dab in the center of the middle class. We took only one vacation when I was growing up — to Disneyland in 1964. The rest of the time, if we were going to get away from the flat coastline, we’d pack up the station wagon and head for San Antonio, gateway to the Texas Hill Country. As my father drove the hundred and thirty miles from Corpus, I’d watch green hills rising and rolling like Gulf swells under a giant blue sky. Live oaks and mesquites decorated those hills and colorful bouquets rose out of them in Spring. Bluebonnets and Indian Blankets, Brown-eyed Susans, and Evening Primrose dotted the landscape like artwork. Inserting myself into the painting in my mind, black dirt creeping between my sandals and toes, I’d imagine owning land just like it one day. I’d raise children and daisies and write best-selling novels about life on the ranch.
Life had a different plan.
