Arrived in Houston, Texas November 16th, 6 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 193,868
Trip: 2,859
Deep in the Heart of Texas, the Eyes of the Parks upon me…
I made it to Jackson, Mississippi the day before, cutting the longest leg of the odyssey so far in half. I knew I was in for a pretty wicked and eventful 10 days when I called Sarah around four o’clock, just after crossing the Louisiana-Texas border, and what sounded like military-conducted bomb testing was, in fact, just Frances, Thomas, Elizabeth and Hannah playing like usual in the backyard.
Shortly after sundown I pulled into the driveway on Graceland, logged my miles, and carried my bag onto the front porch. Frances swung the door open and bear-hugged me, along with Thomas and Elizabeth. Hannah took one look at the grizzly and bearded, unfamiliar man, hung her head in fear, sobbed, and then dove into Peter’s arms. I was 3 for 4 to start, and 10 days ahead of me to warm up to the only Spanish-speaking and only gringo-looking one of the bunch.
The funny thing about visiting Sarah and Peter is that little has changed since they were a couple of co-eds at Franciscan, and I was seeking whatever guidance I could find, entrenched in the forever-lost grounds of adolescence. Of course they’ve grown, and I’ve grown, and their love has blossomed five times over, but the formula of our visits remain the same: I seek guidance and bring humor, they offer support and yield laugh after laugh after laugh, because, I’m sure you know, I’m that funny.
But seriously, there’s definitely a recurring theme on this odyssey—I’m the little brother, and that won’t ever change. So, like Ali and the water-pump, Missy and carving pumpkins, Karen and making dinner and washing dishes, and Diane and dusting off the old gym shoes, I woke up the first morning to yet another task, just a different sister. Sarah says, “I was wondering if you could touch up a few spots on the back windows with some paint. Just two. Won’t take very long.” Of course I agree, and of course I find myself wrapping up the eighth window (scraping, priming, taping, and painting) five days later. It’s all just a part of the gig, I understand, yet I get suckered in from the start every single time. I guess I’ll just chalk it up to all of the little jobs I never got to do for my mother.
In short, here are a few things to keep in mind if you plan a trip to South Texas:
1. There is a leader of the chaos. She reads a lot under a pair of plastic-rimmed spectacles, very respectfully asks for “seconds” at the dinner table, and will be the first one to ‘plead the fifth’ when justice is being sought by the patriarch. She’s a doll, but she’s the leader nonetheless.
2. There’s a cowboy in the bunch. He likes fast cars, books about fast cars and super-heroes, and he’ll surely but slowly find a liking for football—he’s growing up in Texas, after all. And finally, if he says there’s a large June Bug in the room, listen to him, and don’t just tell him to go back to bed and shut the door, the way the grizzly, bearded, unfamiliar man did.
3. If there is a culprit, a master-mind of the plan, don’t look to the oldest or the only boy, but rather, look no further than the one who is the smallest, giggles the most, and defies physics by the way her tiny lungs emit sound the way lightening causes thunder.
4. If you find yourself thinking, “Where did she come from?” or “Is the white girl speaking Spanish?” you’ve found the toughest nut to crack. To answer the previous questions: nature has a sense of humor, and yes, the gringo is the only one who knows Spanish. However, once that nut is cracked, what is inside is well worth it. The giggles alone are worth the cracking.
5. Just pick her up. It doesn’t matter if you’re her mother, father, or God-father with a lumberjack’s whiskers, the sweetest pea west of the Mississippi will smile and laugh and do the same for you, as long as she’s in your arms. My favorite time of the entire trip was rocking this sweet pea the first morning I was there, while saying a Rosary and asking the Blessed Mother to protect her with my love when I have to go away.
Also, don’t expect to make a trip to Texas without being invited to go fishing, hunting, or just meet up with a bunch of other guys on a Saturday afternoon to shoot shotguns at piles of dirt in a backyard somewhere. I passed on the last one, but I cordially accepted on the first two, and I have the pictures to prove a Midwestern-boy can catch a few red fish on the Gulf—even if it is his first day. As for the hunting, no luck, but I was only out there for an hour or so before it got dark. I had the chance to go on Thanksgiving morning, but a few Shiner Blondes kept me up late enough with Sarah to pass.
We spent the last three days of my Texas trip at the Parks’ seasonal abode on Lake Travis. And no trip to Texas can be complete without a full rundown of Texas history with Mr. Park—the born and bred Texas patriarch. I could probably fill another ten paragraphs with the information he conveyed to me, but I’ll spare you until I pair up with him for a full-length book in the future.
Finally, after watching Ohio State kick that school up north’s ass yet again—7 in a row—I packed up the Jeep once more, with a brief stop at a friend’s in downtown Austin ahead of me, and then the long trek across west Texas and southern New Mexico, with Telluride still fully in mind, still fully in heart. I took a few pictures with Sarah, Peter and the kids, and then I made my farewell. There was nothing in front of me but my destiny—the concluding legs of my 2010 Westward Odyssey.
