Gone to Texas

Okay, so I’m not excited about being back in Texas. I left a northern New Mexico ripe for fall—highs hovering around 80, lows dipping well into the 50s, humidity just above 20%. I imagine taking a breath that feels, well, unbearably light. Give thanks for refrigerated air on this hot and muggy—at least by comparison—September 1st, where by noon we’re breathing hard down the neck of another 90-degree day, in cow town—Ft. Worth, where the west begins.

I awoke this morning in Muleshoe, just about 30 miles across the New Mexico – Texas border. As I headed toward Lubbock, I scanned the radio for a National Public Radio station. And so the day began in the Bible belt. “Jesus radio” a voice announced, as I hit the Seek button again.

As I made my way down U.S. 84 South, I was pummeled one way and another by all of the conflicting messages—“Does the road you’re on lead to me? God”, “If you have to curse, use your own name. God”, “Don’t worry about the future. I’m already there. God” read billboards below Lubbock. The messages continued to and beyond Abilene—home to Abilene Christian University (Church of Christ), McMurry University (steeped in United Methodist tradition), and Hardin-Simmons University (Baptist General Convention of Texas).

Yes, I was in the Texas Bible belt—but wait, what part of the state does the belt not include? More than a few cars carrying women with uncut tresses piled high atop faces unadorned by makeup passed me. Because I’m pulling a 6 x 12’ trailer loaded with treasure, I’m sticking to the right lane and 60 m.p.h., which is over the recommend 55 m.p.h. posted on the trailer fender. In contrast were billboards advertising “Rock ‘n Roll Cowgirls”, bosoms oozing to burst out of spaghetti strap—western?—blouses. What’s happened to the Misses Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn and Kitty Wells? I think I know the origin of the old saying, “rode hard and put up wet”.

I had to be on my toes for the likes of the late model black Cadillac sedan that cut in front of me, only to take the next, and very immediate, exit to Snyder. Could he have been headed for a Tuesday morning gathering at one of several churches that can be found on the Internet for Snyder—Primitive Baptist Church, Apostolic Faith Church, Church of God, Faith Baptist Church, Bautista Primera Iglesia Church, First Baptist Church, Colonial Hill Baptist Church. These are the first seven churches listed for Snyder at www.city-data.com/city/Snyder-Texas.html.

Along with the church ladies, big trucks and Bubbas owned the road as I made my way south toward the greater Dallas-Ft. Worth metroplex. I noticed a pink version of cojones suspended from the rear bumper of a Dodge 4 x 4—just like the metallic silver ones I saw on a truck with New Mexico plates as I was about to cross the New Mexico – Texas border late yesterday. That’s a new one for me—large fabric-filled testicle whimseys for, no doubt, the guys who have to walk with legs spread so as not to crush their manhood. The two guys, apparently hungry to be back in Texas and burning up the road, riding in a big Chevy V-8 carrying a pair of ATVs in the bed, and mindless of the posted 45 m.p.h through a construction zone just west of Clovis—well, I guess they didn’t count on the New Mexico State Police actually being out and about. I didn’t notice any cojones suspended from the bumper, however. Nor did I see them on the truck of the Bubba west of Abilene on I-20—ball cap pulled down, sporting a well-fed tummy that was tucked under the wheel of his “big ‘un” and pulling a fifth wheel with the name Shady Brook Lite stamped across the rear of the trailer. He passed me as well.

At the Muleshoe McDonald’s this morning, as I waited for a breakfast sandwich and small cup of coffee, Waylon Jennings and Jessie Coulter huffed out their version of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”. Hearing the words, I appreciate more and more why Uncle Ray, toasted on a few too many long necks (more likely, it was cocktails) at a summer barbecue gathering of family and friends some time in the '50s, called out to the band hired for the day, “I’ll give you $10 if you don’t play ‘Davy Crockett’.” Yes, I’m gone to Texas, as they said in the early 19th century—G.T.T.—gone to Texas, to fight for freedom—and according to documented history, to escape debt—and the culture shock becomes greater each time I return here to my home. Hanging out in the likes of liberal Santa Fe, I forget that my great home state is not all that different from most of New Mexico. They’d likely elect the “W” again, as hard as that is to believe. In the words of the late Molly Ivins, Texas is a “…damned peculiar place.” I’ll always be a Texan, however, and I claim the right to make fun of my own. Pardon me, but we’re not all like that.

Gone to Texas—Ft. Worth, Texas (September 1, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis