Gone to Texas

“Make me to know your ways, O Lord;
teach me your paths.
Lead me in your truth, and teach me…” (Psalm 25:4-5)

I must go again. I must head southeast through the grassy plains of eastern New Mexico, the Texas Panhandle, down in the direction of the coast where the land rolls a little, and Post Oak trees heavily populate the Savannah that carries their name—that area between the Pineywoods of East Texas and the Blackland Prairies farther to the west. Texas is big.

I am a southerner, reared within smelling distance of the Gulf, and unlike some who would deny their Texas heritage, I embrace it, in spite of the misbehaving ways of some Texans here in New Mexico—the ones who have made it tough for all whose heritage is the Alamo, both in New Mexico and Colorado—the ones who have big money to spend on second homes that most folks would gladly sacrifice—well, something vitally important—to just call “home”—the ones sporting high end cowboy boots and hats, neither of which has ever seen the likes of a dusty cow lot—the women, some still honoring their hair, adorned in silver and turquoise—the ones driving Cadillac Escalades and other gas hog SUVs, Hummers and Range Rovers—the ones who talk, if not outright, then in such a way as to establish who they are, about their ranches and their “earl” royalties. I’m just a plain, old Texan, from humble but honest roots, the product of a practical German mother and a dreamer Scots-Irish daddy, whose depression upbringing nurtured his generosity. Let me know your ways.

I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that Virgos—of which I am one—have the reputation of just headin’ out, once the scent of already-hatched travel plans takes root in their brains. I guess if I had been paying attention to my habits, I would have recognized my ways long ago. Now, I just laugh with my friend who has named my behavior as familiar. I had planned to remain here on the high desert until the end of February. Instead, I’m pacing myself to keep from loading up and, well, going—going in a maroon Ford crew cab truck with Texas license plates whose appearance doesn’t help my appearance. Apparently, there is something they say about little guys with big trucks.

So this week I’ve given myself permission to just wait out my urge to bolt. I made a trip to Taos, my first in almost three months. There and back I gorged on the mountains, I feasted on the Rio Grande surging its way south. I imagined its taste. Alone, I’ve hiked the arroyo above my condo home, taking in the late-day light, and in the company of a friend—also a native Texan—I’ve tramped the arroyo that runs near Atalaya Mountain Trail, still spotted with blankets of snow, in spite of a mild winter, some remnants crusted to ice, lingering. Needing to imprint this place on my spirit, yesterday I imprinted my hands, as I fought to keep from landing on my butt or my knees. I’ve already taken one fall this winter, in a canyon just north, where it snows more and remains frigid in the dense national forest.

While gardening is but a thought here in the high desert, something for a spring that arrives past the official date, my Texas land is ripe for digging. Threescore rose bushes await pruning, ornamental grasses allowed to emerge for too many years need to be burned, beds and paths want weeding, and what promises to be another Texas summer from hell begs hardwood mulch to save the precious little water that will fall come July-August. Absentee landlord I am—northern cardinals and their friends in flight the overseers as I make my way elsewhere. Let me not rush. Let my mind rest in today.

I’m headed back to the Texas I know for awhile, to take care of my modest interests there. I will celebrate with family and with friends. If I permit myself, I will roam the roads that called me when my free time was a lot less free. I will embrace the garden that was my sanctuary during some tough times not too long ago, on land to which our family’s rights can be traced to the Prussian farmer immigrants who landed at Galveston in 1866. I will give thanks.

Gone to Texas—Santa Fe, New Mexico (February 14, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis