Okay, so it’s not exactly a waltz across Texas. It’s a drive. A long drive.
Last week we went to South Padre, at the tip of Texas. This week we’re in Amarillo, at almost the top of Texas. Padre was for vacation. Amarillo is for a funeral for someone gone too soon. The day after I return, I’ll drive to San Antonio, and the day after that, to Waco. Such is the life of a Texan.
I drive, therefore I am.
When you drive the middle section of the state, the only hills are where I currently live. Lots of flat land on either end of the state. The mountains are out west. The pine trees are in the east. No autumn color yet. The only thing to see is the sky.
I’m used to driving. I like it. When I have the wheel, I don’t like to relinquish it (just ask my husband).
But this trip I hitch a ride with other family members. We travel interstates and U.S. highways and state highways. Maybe even a farm-to-market road or two. Our family converges not only from all parts of Texas but also New Mexico and Oklahoma. The Californians are now Austinites.
We drop everything and come because that’s what family does. We spend money intended for something else, and we don’t think twice. We give each other space to grieve loudly or quietly or to run necessary errands or to be busy in the kitchen.
But we do not understand. Not at all.
