Never, Indeed

While talking to friend Suzi in Santa Fe this morning, I realized that today is Texas Independence Day—March 2. On this date in 1836 the signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence approved the document that would separate Texas from Mexico, creating the Republic of Texas. Four days later, the Alamo fell to Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Any Texan worth his or her salt knows the story.

Yesterday afternoon, a couple I was meeting for the first time at the home of the friend who does my taxes—he a native of Pennsylvania and she a native of Maryland—told me the story of how they had come to Texas—separately. He settled in Houston in 1953, after leaving military service. Retired from a second career, she came to Texas to live with her daughter. “She wasn’t born here, but she got here as soon as she could,” he quipped about this daughter by marriage. Such pride in an adopted place is admirable. “You can go to Hell. I’m going to Texas.” Legend attributes these words to Davy Crockett (August 17, 1786 – March 6, 1836), son of Tennessee, who had served in the legislature of his home state before becoming a hero of the Alamo. A couple of summers ago I noticed a beefy, handsome guy on the Plaza in Santa Fe wearing the t-shirt that bears this affirmation of spirit.

Sarah Dodson (1812-1848), designer of an early Texas flag, is buried in Bethel Cemetery (Grimes County), two counties over to my southeast. According to the Handbook of Texas online, Dodson made the flag for her husband’s Harrisburg (early settlement that later became part of Houston) regiment. The flag traveled with his company to the battle at Gonzales. “Lacking silk or bunting, she made the flag out of three colored squares of cotton cloth. The square nearest the flagstaff was blue with a white star centered upon it. The middle square was white, and the outermost square was red.” They call that making do.

Unlike those who boast “the Alamo…been there, done that,” I reply, “Never!” Unlike a friend in New Mexico who commented last summer, “I am a former Texan,” I reply, “Never!” On this day, when celebrations are happening around the Lone Star State, I am quietly working in the garden. Under sunny skies, I am smiling, and saying thanks to friend Eugene, who I haven’t seen since we graduated from high school in 1961, for being the second and most important reminder today that I’m digging in historic dirt here in Leon County (established in 1846). Local legend has it that there is treasure buried on this property. How appropriate that an historic Old Blush, a China rose also known as ‘Common Monthly' which has been traced as far back as 1752 in Texas, is planted just outside the front gate of my yard. Just down the fence, a Cramoisi Superieur (also a China, 1885 in Texas) flourishes. Ask Texas rosarians about roses for historical gardens, and just about any list will include these two. Wherever I hang my hat, Texas is my home. And in spite of the neglect my garden is asked to suffer while I dream elsewhere, so far it has been waiting and forgiving on my return. Never, indeed.

Never, Indeed—Normangee Texas (March 2, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis