Wind in the Trees

Last night I went to bed early. Because of that, I woke up very early this morning: about 4:30 if we are being honest. I was laying on my stomach trying to go back to sleep when I gradually became aware that I could hear the wind in the trees outside. Somewhere a neighbor's wind chime jingled in random dis-resonance.  

I realized that in about a month we would be moving into an apartment and there are no trees anywhere around.  This was rather depressing but rather than dwell on it, I took a deep breath and buried myself in the soft wooshing outside my window. 

Nature is hard enough to find in the city and its hard enough for man to find his connection there. It's easy to lose oneself in the false connections of possession   and position with a healthy dose of alcohol or other drug to bookend your week of toil with an alternate consciousness. None of it can take the place of grass beneath your feet or dark chilly water slipping past your body.

The apartment is a smart choice and I feel that it is the right choice. But there is no part of me that doesn't already mourn the breathy voice of the wind, whispering her past and future In The arms de los arboles at 430 in the morning. 

Violent Collision of Awesome - Transition to Allowing

Toying with the idea today that too often we try to over-architect a situation in order to try and build it and in the interim, we miss out on enjoyment of life and often dont feel like we have ended up with success.  In trying so hard to define success, we feel like a failure.

We want to know what the end answer is in order to choose the correct path to it.  For example, if we want money, we want to know what outcome will give us that money so that we can work steadily towards that when that particular outcome may not actually be what we want at all.  Or, if we do not know how to get there or cant think of an outcome that will net the result, we feel like a failure.  

My own struggle is, "Where will we live."  I try and try to define a location, a city, an ultimate answer so that I can begin building the path that will ultimately lead to there.  So that I can feel secure knowing a certain timeline.  So that I can feel reassured that it WILL happen.  It's like trying to extract information from an alligator.  I wrestle this aligator in the muddy pit of need and determination but it always ends in a draw.  I'm never able to tussle that alligator into divulging the information I so desperately need to put my mind at ease.

But who ever heard of getting advice from an alligator?

Enter the new idea, that is that I should be focussing a little less specifically on an absolute answer of where and concentrate more on the what - what does that place give me, do for me, what is available to me there, what will make it enjoyable.  And in focussing on that, that life will put me on a path to recieve exactly what I want and need.

It feels a bit irresponsible, chancy, belly-button-contemplative which everyone around me has always said is useless.  But here I am 42 with this insane drive to know the ending and it makes me feel like a failure that I cant get there from here.  So, what good is that advice doing me?  Absolutely nothing good.

I'm going to endeavor to be open to life's timeline for me and trust that what I need is on it's own path to me and, at some point, we cant help but colide in a violent and impressive explosion of complete awesomeness.  With or without alligators.

Making Your Own Meme

I havent always been the most confident person, but when the most recent Facebook Meme ap surfaced, I coudnt resist rejecting the canned selections for something a bit more personal.  That Facebook gent's got nothing on me! 

Be like you.

Of Jerky and Bear Skin Coats: The Knowing

I've almost finished reading two Louis LAmour books in as many weeks (Dont hack on me, I've read two Hemingway, two Jane Austen, Two Charles Portis - among others - and am trying to hack through George Eliot's Silas Marner off and on). Then, last night, I watched the move The Revenant. 

All of my side imagination thoughts are filled with flying arrows, my fingers are cold, and I have the overwhelming urge to lay in an outrageous cache of jerky.  I also may or may not be shopping for a bear skin coat.  Where does a person go to find year end bear fur coats on sale?  

I dont know why the stories and movies of the west so thoroughly capture my imagination.  When I was only six weeks old, my parents rode with a man who packed them into the mountains on horseback for a camping trip.  I rode along.  This is not every six week old child's experience but I'm sure it was quite enjoyable for me.  I was swaddled tightly and rode in a sling tightly secured to Mom and rocked to sleep by the quiet, even sway of the horse's movements.  

During the trip, my parents both relate that they would lay me on my back and I would stare up at the treetops swaying in the gentle summer breeze, and the light filtering through the branches.  Well, it's not like I could play gin-rummy, y'all, but still I think some of that early imprinting must have stayed with me.  Laying there, with the breeze making it's quiet whoosh like the vacuum of air, seeing the rhythmic too and fro of the branches.  Well, I must have been the most relaxed child on earth!

I dont miss the mountains like I thought I would when I moved away.  I dont ache for their towing heights around me.  Yes, they are undoubtedly beautiful and I relish my time spent there, but here is something intoxicating about the openness of the sky stretching from end to end of reality above you that only wide open spaces can provide.  But when I find myself back in their , there is an immediate recognition.  A sense of rightness.  It's like I'm amongst friends again.  I look around and watch the light change.  I know you, I say to them.  And I think they know me.

Some days I feel like a wanderer.  In a painful exodus, I ripped my roots from the earth where they were planted and I moved a lifetime away.  I had never planned to stay away but life happens as it will.  Way leads upon way, as the poem goes.  If I were a tree, then it's like i fell into the river and it has carried me to the sea, and the sea to another shore, and then someone made me into a boat and I just keep on moving.  

Those stories and movies ground me, though.  I recognize a piece of myself in them.  Not the grubbing,  or the fighting amongst men or the never taking a bath parts.  It's not the activities of the characters but the recognition of something more ancient.  It's like the face of an ancestor.  Mother Nature is my homegirl.  The city will shine lights and try to distract you with its tinsel brightness but there is only one place of stillness and of knowing.  That's the piece of me that gets stirred by those stories.

The end.  Lets get some Jerky.  

Ryan Bingham Concert

Monday night we had the opportunity to attend a Ryan Bingham concert downtown.  Red Dirt and Texas Country music dont make it to El Paso very often, so even though it was a Monday night we decided to go.  From the outset I will admit that I made the primary mistake of the music lover: a patent lack of enthusiasm and a conviction that I already I knew what his music was about.

Since I am 100% honest with you and would never tell you a lie, I will admit I had the impression that Mr. Bingham's music was slow and mournful.  Yes, I have heard Bread and Water on the radio and I'm sure a couple of others, but the only thing I could think of were songs like Junky Star and The Weary Kind.  While I recognize those songs as truly creative achievements on their own (oh, just an  Academy Award, Golden Globe Award, and Critics' Choice Award for “Best Song” in 2010, the Americana Music Association Artist of the Year 2010, oh and a Grammy Award for "Best Song Written for a Motion Picture, Television or Other Visual Media" in 2011) , I could think of nothing less inviting than a late school night watching a doleful troubadour pick a guitar in one mournful soliloquy after another.  Honestly, I would have rather been sleeping.

Wow.  OK - Even I hear how that sounds.  Give me time RB Super Fans, it gets better.

The band took the stage and I was surprised to see more than just Mr. Bingham, but in surveying them, I did not feel buoyed.  Both the guitar and bass player appeared oblivious (high) and the fiddle player, a  short stopped man with tight, curly grey hair showing from the bottom of his plain dark felt Oktoberfest hat, did not look promising.  The drummer looked able, but infinitely bored.  The only person I approved of was the stage guy wearing the wool button-up sweater and baseball cap.  "You gotta love a man in a button up wool sweater and baseball cap." I said to my husband, who gave me that "Whatchou talkin' bout, Willis?!" out of the corner of his eye.

Come on.  You know you love a man in a button-up wool sweater and a baseball cap.  Hang in there, I said it would get better.

All things considered, this was the only thing I had gotten right up until now (Come on,  you KNOW you love a man in a button-up wool sweater and a baseball cap!) and after such admissions, I'm fairly certain the state of New Mexico is in the process of drafting a writ of non-entry emblazoned my likeness and a dedicated group of citizens is on their way to my house to dispatch me in a hale of green chilies and turkey feathers.  Not a bad way to go.

But let me tell you this my brothers and sisters - let me now confess.  There, just over the border into Texas and upon the doorstep of Juarez, a new Ryan Bingham fan was born.  In a dark corner of that 101 year old theater in El Paso,  I proceeded to watch, enraptured, what I can only describe as the best rock and roll performance I have ever had the privilege of being present at.  (Sorry Five Finger Death Punch and U2)

OK, so they are not a rock band in the same sense, but their live show with all band members present was anything but a doleful troubadour selling sadness.  Maybe it was the new mexico caballeros standing next to us, their hats and fists in the air, all heads bobbing in time.  Or maybe it was the guitar and bass player hitting those licks like a hammer, or maybe it was the man with the tight curly grey hair and Oktoberfest hat fiddling so hard and fast I thought his instrument would burst into a torch of sound and madness at any moment.  Their show absolutely rocked and had a sound that I feel sure would have broad appeal.

Not only did it sound great, but it was mesmerizing to watch.  Out from the stage would roll a raucous wall of sound that was returned by the clapping and cat calls of all the true Bingham Believers.  The result was a wave of energy that rolled from the stage, to the crowd, and back to the stage, in a sort of infinite ebb and flow; First it was high then low, then ecstatic, then bright-eyed expectant waiting again.  With the gospel of his guitar, I witnessed Mr. Bingham raise his fans into a worshipful frenzy of whoops and foot-stomps that put any 808 drum or Oklahoman to shame.

Hearing him on the radio, one cant help but note Mr. Bingham's raspy voice.  In person, his tall and lean appearance only cements the vocal impression that he is a stovepipe filled with creosote, or a caliche riverbed, long dry in some southwest arroyo.  If that be the case, then this show was a chimney fire, hot and bright and burning down the house.  This performance was desert flood, raging waters tearing rocks from the earth and carrying away anything in it's path.  This show was a force of nature.

His concert was what I call a Green Flash performance. Green flashes are optical phenomena that sometimes occur right after sunset or right before sunrise. The green appearance usually lasts for no more than a second or two.  Green flashes occur because the atmosphere can cause the light from the sun to separate out into different colors.  And just like a green flash, I was blinded by a prism of sound, and then it was midnight on Monday and the show was over.

Now, here I sit.  For three days, somewhat bereft, I have played the part of Deep-Track-Dougie on YouTube.  I have read articles and listened to several surreal stories about travels and cowboys and indians.  I have developed a rather strong crush on Mr Bingham's dog, Boo. I have leanred of the esteemed careers of the band members, including the fiddling man in the oktoberfest hat, and the man in the wool sweater.  These and  a whole host of other facts!  I have researched record players and I have an alarm set to try and buy an autographed copy of Mr. Bingham's Mescalito album when it goes on sale on Monday.

Perhaps most notable, is that when I listen to some of the more slow songs, I no longer hear them as doleful or sad.  Instead, I am transported back to sounds of stomping feet and see a bemused smile beneath a black hat.  The good feelings from that night envelop me wherever I am listening. In that moment, I am suffused with the pride of those New Mexicans as they watch and hear their native son come home to play for them here in the great desert Southwest.  As the saying goes, the desert is alive, and that is certainly true of the talent and future of Mr. Bingham's career - something the Grammy folks managed to figure out long before I did.

I can only hope my admissions will suffice a sort of apology to the kind residents of New Mexico, the band, the ever faithful Boo, Mrs and Baby Bingham, and Mr Bingham himself.  But if not, perhaps we can find time enough to enjoy a beer or two  before they proceed to dispatch me unto my heavenly (or hellish) rewards.  If my time should come I can only hope they play Hallelujah and hoist another round while my new vinyl spins.

Boo and Bingham signing Monday's purchase.

Malaguena and Borracho Station

Sunrise 

Nobody knows my trouble

Top shelf drug

Website: binghammusic.com

Let the Music Play

This morning, I sat in traffic while tears streamed down my cheeks.  The woman in the car next to mine made eye contact with me, briefly, then looked away.  I turned my eyes back through the front windshield and wondered what she might be thinking just then.

What she didn't know, what she couldn't know, was no sadness or tragedy that had befallen me.  No lovers quarrel or death of a family member.  I had not just had to put my beloved dog to sleep.  It was all quite the opposite, actually.  What she was seeing was the indescribable joy that only a music lover knows; The spontaneous welling of celebratory emotion when the music is THAT good.

I don't mind admitting that it always makes me feel more than a little bit like that sweet blonde girl in the viral dating video that, "just loves cats so much." but for me, the insane addiction is to the music.

It is a feeling that is hard to describe it.  It's immediate and sharp, like biting into tin foil, but entirely more pleasant.  I am the glass that shatters when the tune and the tone team up in a vibrating wall of sound. It hits me like a freight train. My eyes well up and tears spill over.  It comes from the heart and when my heart runs out of room, I suppose it just finds another way out.

For a moment there in traffic, I thought about rolling down my window and reassuring the sweet woman that it was all ok.  This isnt what it looks like. It's actually a celebration. Let's call in sick and get a beer!

But the light turned green just then.Her car pulled away from mine as if she was in a hurry to escape the sight of my tears.    I wiped my cheek and reached down.  With the light touch of a finger I pressed the replay button and did it all again.

Future - Salvage as Income

Today, I remembered a neat article about a couple of guys who started a sawmill in Washington.  Their idea was to salvage those lovely trees in the yards and developments that would otherwise end up as garbage or wood chips.  These are trees that have to come down, or that are damaged in some way.  Sometimes they are lovely, old trees.  They mill the wood and sell it or make custom furniture pieces with it.

Also, yesterday, I was watching a Youtube video about a community garden allotment and the girl said that in Germany, the yard debris is collected and turned into mulch, which people can then go get to put back on their yards or gardens.

I thought this sounded like a smashing endeavor to look into - perhaps for cash on the side outside of any job I might have.

This is not the original video I watched; I regret that I cannot find that one.  In my memory, it was much longer and I remember one conversation, in particular, where one of the gentlemen said that he was not sure if it would work at first but that it just seemed to work out that trees came to him until they had built up quite a stock.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHkMh9CXVHI

Here is the video on composting (Though it's not terribly exciting).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7yZiDIiusM

In other news, Mom is still looking for a house.  She is trying to decide whether to stay where she is or move out of state.  I know how expensive it is there, but once you leave something special, you cant go back.  So, I'm torn for her.  I did speak with her.  A year from now we will know the answer to this story.

Beer Sadness

Yesterday, Jason and I stopped by Specs to see if they had a particular brand of beer from the Dallas region.  We had heard they delivered out this way.  Turns out, they had what we were looking for.  In an odd fluke of distribution, the beer goes from Dallas about 5 hours SW down to Houston, where there is a distributor that actually distributes out west here in El Paso (roughly 12? hours west of Houston).  If you are keeping up - that's an odd route.  Whatev's.  The beer drinker does not question.

WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN KEYED IN when the employee looks keenly at the flat of beer in the basket and says, I dont think you want this one.  Turns out it it had a hole in the top and was an empty.

We pay and head out the door and take a sort of roundabout way home.  ALL OF A SUDDEN.... there is a loud bang in the back of the 4 Runner and the sticky sweet smell of brown beer wafts to us up front.  Well crap... a beer just exploded in the back! (it's pretty loud by the way).  While we were disappointed, it still really didnt kick in just what, exactly, the possibilities of what was about to happen were.

We made one stop and opened the back to check how much of the beer might of spilled outside of the black rubber mat tray.  As soon as we touched the beer POPPOP POP POP!  I looked around expecting to see a middle eastern man on the sidewalk playing a guitar.

At that point, a writhing brown foamy geyser of beer foam rose like a chocolate milk shake Old Faithful from the floorboard and random pinpricks of beer sprayed the roof, seats, and windows.  I threw a carrhart jacket that was handy over the spouting brown whale and we looked each other with shock and sadness as a pool of brown beer slowly filled up the cargo mat tray.  After looking at it dumbly for probably a full 30 seconds, I said ,"Well, lets get this cleaned up".  I carefully pulled the mat to the edge of the rear door and, with great bit crocodile tears flowing down my cheeks, I dumped a lake of porter onto the hot El Paso asphalt.  I momentarily considered dropping to my knees and cupping my hands in a frantic effort to drink from the cascading sadness.  I felt like the kid in the Never Ending Story when his horse dies.

We drove home in silence.  I postulated that somehow there was too much carbonation and just wanted to cool the beer off before we lost anymore.  After cleaning up the trunk region of the 4Runner as best as we could and getting the beer iced down in an old cooler (I think we only lost 1 more), I dutifully set about pouring the remainder from each can and we sat  on the back porch to enjoy what was left - I think we got about 4 beers worth out of the approximately 12 we lost.

Jason messaged the company about the issue in case they were unaware.  They said it was a known issue - a filter had malfunctioned leaving more yeast than intended and, when at room temps, the yeast wakes up to have a nosh.  So - yeah - CO2.  They apologized and are sending him a shirt (even though we didnt buy it from them).

Jason left early morning and headed the 8 or so hours back to Central Texas on a couple of errands.  He just messaged me to research the "Best product to remove beer smell".  Its just like college all over.

I am left on beer sitting duty. My job is to keep the little yeasties cold until there due to be drank date.  But when I look at them there, so secure in their blanket of ice, little tops bulging ever so slightly, I feel a bit like Yosemite Sam eyeing Bugs Bunny in cauldron of hot water.

Captain Jerry Yellin, pilot.

Totally humbled and inspired today by this.  My gratitude and awe know no bounds.  The honesty and humanity

 Link:
http://www.dvidshub.net/video/embed/395572

Cresting the Ridge Line

You know sometimes when you crest the ridge line, with its poor soil and rocky outcroppings. You can feel the sun is hot on your skin but the breeze at that altitude is chilly through your shirt sleeves. You contemplate your layers at that moment. 

As your focus shifts from awareness of the arduous demands of the climb, your elevated heart rate and breathing rate, to the vast horizon spread before you now, like a king at the head of the table of your visible feast, you notice the soft vacuum sound of the wind through the tree limbs. You smell the warm dry sent of the shrubs. You hear a few birds or maybe the random scolding Jay. 

It is quiet, but not quiet. Solitary, yet busy.

Rolling by

Well let me just tell you about a beautiful thing I witnessed outside of my door.  It's spring in Texas and with the warm and cold undulating weather comes spring storms.  Here in Central Texas, we dont get the kind of wild weather they do up in Tornado Alley, nor do we get the kind of lightning and precipitation they get down on the Gulf or in Houston.  Even so, we get some beautiful and sometimes violent spring and fall storms. 

Tonight a storm rolled through flashing it's usual brilliant electric effervescence, but this time was the first time I had heard the continuous rumble of thunder, like a passing train.  Flash after flash of lighting in the clouds, one overlapping the other meant the rumbles never began, never middled, never ended.  The sky just rumbled and rumbled.  Finally, big spats of rain began to fall.  Faster and faster until it was a rumbling tumbling flashing downpour.

There are some who are afraid of storms but I just sat outside with my eyes and ears and a big fat grin pointed skywards. 

Gorgeous.

Today is Eternity

It's all just waiting and learning and loving; learning and loving and waiting.  The Buddhas and Christs and Prophets will tell you it is.  Just loving and waiting and learning what the universe wants to teach you.  And when you have waited long enough and learned what you can and loved with the expanse of your heart, then your time will come. And if you should happen to cross the river before you realize it's just waiting and learning and loving, perhaps you will come back again.  Perhaps there is hope for me, time to do it better again; Tomorrow, next season, next time.  They say we don't have  much time, but Baby, I think that's ALL we have.  Today is eternity

On Margaritas and Dogs

Recently, I was reflecting on the happiness that a good dog can bring into one's life.  My favorite quip to come out of that was, "Typically, dogs make terrible margaritas but wonderful pals."  I still feel this was an accurate assessment.

Moving

This Friday marks the ramp up to a full week our moving activities that include finishing the painting, fixing the kitchen lino, possibly replacing the carpet in the project room with self stick tiles, and .. oh yeah .. moving boxes. 

I wont miss the apartment where we have been living and I do not relish the idea that our poor, blind dog has to get used to a new house.  However, when I was there last night I had to spend some time waiting for Jason to return.  I had no lawn chair yet so I just laid out on the cement slab in the back yard and looked up at the sky.  I listened to the wonder that is the mocking bird, cycling through it's warbles and chirps and watching him flit back and forth between the tops of two telephone poles.  A plane flew overhead and the contrails were pink against a darkening sky.  I had no telephone.  No distractions.  It was peaceful.  

I look forward to a garden and a little bit of a yard to enjoy privately.  No apartment neighbors spying in on us.  I look forward to BBQ and Grilling and smoking.  I look forward to the new projects I can try out back on the generous cement slab.  I look forward to having my earthly "things" around me in the house, instead of in a storage unit down the street.  I look forward to having a spare room where people can stay instead of lodging them on the sofa. 

So, it is another tale of hard work that achieves something important to the heart.  That is usually the most satisfying work of all. 

Judith Mountain Cabin

One of the tools I have used to help me save me from impulse purchases is to use the following simple rule: Leave the store without purchasing.  If you are still thinking about the item several days later, then consider returning to purchase it. 

That's how it is for me and the Judith Mountain Cabin.  They say when something rings true in your heart, you just know it.  That happened for me sometime around the year 2001 (yes, I remember when it was) when I first saw this cabin on the back cover of a popular book in the housing section of the local book store.  It seemed to me to be the perfect confluence of my love of cabins, my childhood memories of lookout towers in the Pacific Northwest, and my desire to live in a cozy small house. 

I still love all of those things and, to this day, this house still haunts my imagination: The Judith Mountain cabin. 

Yes, I'm still tracing floorplans.  The Question: So when do I build it?

The following images can be seen hosted on Wanken Blog

Drawing Credit (Below): Seth McWhorter

Book excerpt credit (Below): Shelter Publications

Revolver Brewing Is On Target

Deep in the heart of Texas the Microbrew revolution is growing.  I couldn't be happier!  When I woke up yesterday morning, I had no idea how the day would end.  But, once I laid eyes on the logo of this great young brewery, I knew I had to go.  So, Jason and I piled into the new car (Jinro) and motored the two and half hours north to Granbury, TX.  

Spring is springing and the countryside is looking quite beautiful in Central Texas.  It was the perfect day for the drive.

Revolver Brewing did not disappoint!  The brewers have a nice little business going on, complete with live music and tables to sit and enjoy the warm spring sun.  They have games of horse shoes and "corn hole". 

I took this photo in the highly polished reflection of their Airstream trailer.  Very fun-house!

 

Blood and Honey brew is approved, slightly spicy with a hint of blood orange and honey.  Their stout is solid and enjoyable (I'm still more of a Porter girl).  Jason enjoyed the High Brass blonde ale.

 Great live music!  We noticed the logo looks a little like the Atari logo of our youth.

 Games of horse shoes and corn hole.

$10 Entry fee gains you a commemorative pint glass and two generous half-glass tastings.  But, of course, I still bought the tshirt ;) 

Update November 2016 - Revolver Brewing announced it has entered into a definitive purchase agreement with MillerCoors.

Running

You can forget how to run.

You think you still remember.  Your mind imagines you surging and flowing over the landscape.  You remember the exhilaration. 

But sit too long and you will forget.  You grow heavy and clumsy and your lungs hurt.  Short seems far.

But here's the thing ... life ends.  Are you ready to stiffen and slow and be sedentary like mud at the bottom of a river?  

Everything you want is there before you.  There is nothing to do but learn again.  Start slow.  The flow is still there.  Every day it come to you a little more than before.  There is time enough to die tomorrow. 

Today, run.

Horsemeat Scandal Widens, 'May Be Donkey'

Horsemeat Scandal Widens, 'May Be Donkey

..... And in a timely news story ..... vive meat smugglers!

Better, not Bitter. Or, The Time I Smuggled Tacos Across International Borders and Flaunted European Union Rules on Trade

It's not often you get the opportunity to smuggle illegal contraband across international borders and risk incarceration, deportment, or worse.  That's why, when the opportunity presented itself to smuggle tacos into Germany, I didnt just say yes but  MUAH HA HA HA HA - YES!

Let me back up a little and reflect, for a moment, with all seriousness.  There was a long time I would not have blogged about this story.  Life has a way of not turning out like you expect it to (and from where I stand today can I just say thank goodness for that!) and the reason I took this trip would turn out to be something I was ashamed of for a while.  It was easier not to talk about it than to suffer the reproving or I-told-you-so looks of others.  But, darned it, it's a good story!  I can't stay ashamed my whole life of a decision I made in good faith just because someone else flaked out.  So, today is the day I blog about it --- the great Taco Caper of November 2012.

There I was, on the brink of finally using my passport again!  I was excited.  I wished there was something I could take to my host that would really be a piece of the States.  And then it hit me!  The gift that tops all other gifts.  The gift that makes Hallmark cry itself to sleep.

TACOS!

Wait, ... what?  

Not a scarf. 

Not a book. 

Tacos. 

OK.  Tacos.  Let's talk about this option.  Cautions-self asked, "Do they even allow meat from the United States into Germany?"  To which, Einstiein-self responded, "Problem solved, I will check it!  If I cook it, then freeze it, then wrap it tightly in my suitcase, the cold belly of the bird should just keep it frozen."  Ok Selves, it's a plan.

Fast forward Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam.  I had followed the plan to the letter but now I began to wonder ... Have I really made the right decision here?  Those Germans, they have historically taken their policing pretty seriously.  Maybe I should dump it down the toilet before I go through customs ... the Mad Cow Kilo .. the ...  Oh look, this of coffee cup has my initial's on it! SQUIRREL!

 

SO ... next thing I knew, there I was, disembarking in Germany with a baggie of crumbled cold beef laced with cumin and maltodextrin undeniably lodged into the corner of my luggage, just waiting for me to claim it.  

"Anysing to declare?" The sullen thin man asked me.  ...  Errrr.... I briefly considered throwing myself prostrate on the floor, confessing all.  

"Noo?" I faltered.  KACHINK went the stamp.  Next Please.  There was no where for me to go but forward.

I snaked down a long corridor with other travelers from all over the world.  I felt a little clammy.  Hey, it's not so bad, is it?  I mean, come on, it was just a little ground sirloin, right?  HOW BAD could the penalty be?  

The hallway emptied into a large room filled with several baggage carousels.  I scanned them briefly but did not spot my bag.  Several young airport policemen sauntered about, scanning the crowds.  Oh God, oh God.  Why couldn't I have just brought a book?  A nice, fat, coffee table book about mountains or midgets or postcards from Route 66.  Tacos?  Who brings tacos?  Crazy incarcerated carnivore prisoners, that's who.  WHERE IS MY BAG?

I ducked into a nearby door with the word Toilet over the door.  I looked in the mirror.  Did I look guilty?  I turned my head from side to side and tried to ascertain whether or not I looked shifty.  I was sweaty and had to pee.  Logical motherly-self advised I should probably take this opportunity to go.  I didnt know how long I would be in transit between the airport and my final destination and ... when in Rome.. right? These boots were made for walking and this room was made for ... well you get it. 

Problem number 2.  Well, not NUMBER TWO, but the second issue.  I'm looking at the toilet but I do not see any way to flush it.  No wall flusher.  No auto light sensing eye.  This was not my first international toilet experience and my pride was a little bruised.  I was a bit embarrased and flummoxed.  Look as I might throughout the stall, it was just me, a bowl of yellow water and nowhere to make it go.  I'm serious when I said I probably looked for five minutes.  Four other people came and went in the stall next to me.  Still I puzzled.  Should I just walk away and leave it?  No, no.  All of my collective raising nixed that idea.  I could not just walk away and leave it.  Then .... does that tile depress?  WHOOOSH!   The thrill of potty training rushed through me.  Potty go bye-bye.

And so it was that, after washing up, combing my hair, and a few deep breaths to steel myself, I walked out the door  to claim my bag.

Everyone was GONE.  And not just gone but FLAT GONE.  Litterally gone.  How long had I been in there, anyway?  Where had everyone GONE?  Had they cleared the room in preparation for the big takedown?    This did not look suspicious at all.... noooo.  

There, ahead, I saw it.  My bag.  It had been pulled off of the carousel.  The rubber carosel track circled emptily with my lone black bag propped conspicuously against it.  Had it been opened?  Did it look rifled?  My eyes darted about the room.  My belly felt queesy, as if there was an entire Six-Flags worth of carnival rides in there. 

Five feet to my right, a small group of airport police stood tightly clustered, chatting quietly.  The roller coaster in my belly dropped straight down into my feet.  With a deep breath I straitened my back and walked toward my bag with purpose, trying to look confident while secretly eyeing them out of the corner of my eye.  Were they readying the taser?  The cuffs?  Tranquilizer darts? I bent and picked up my bag and turned to go.

One of them nodded.

I slowly nodded  ...back?

One of the young men said something and they all cracked up laughing.  

Could it be?  Did they really have no idea?  I could quite possibly be carrying the next black plague in my satchel and yet here I was, on my way into the Fatherland.  I pointed myself toward the nearest exit door and pushed through.  

Over the cold, clammy scent of sweat clinging to my jacket there was another smell ... the smell of freedom!  I had done it!  Like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape!  (Well, all except for the part where he goes in a ditch and is recaptured.)  I was free!!  MUAH HA HA HA HA - YES!  Take that, coffee table books!  VIVA LOS TACOS!

Later that night I heated the still somewhat frozen beef and served it with Tillamook cheese from Oregon and Tortillas from Texas.  They tasted ....... a little bland, to tell you the truth.  But my victory, well now, my victory tasted very sweet indeed.

Its full of stars ...

Last night we traveled to Waco to see the hardest working musicians in Texas/Red Dirt music, Jason Boland and the Stragglers.  In the last year we have managed to catch the sedulous  Oklahoman Hell Pony  in Houston,  Mason, Luckenbach and now Waco.  With lyrics like, "And I believe in ghosts and democracy and that each man should leave his legacy, be that mans work great or be it small. I don’t believe in everything like the designated hitter or that diamond rings will make love last forever for one and all..." (Proud Souls) his songs are easy to love.  Not to mention he is the only man I trust to sing covers by two of the saints of country,  Don Williams (Livin' on Tulsa Time) and Waylon Jennings (Dont y'all think this outlaw bit's done got out of hand).

Despite how this story begins, it is not a story about the gritty heritage sound that Mr. Boland and his Stragglers never fail to deliver, or the amazing interpretive "Appalachia Dance" performed by our cohort on the trip, his eminence, Sir John, or even the moving tale of no pancakes or 5 egg special at Ihop. No.

The story I would like to tell is of the smile that spread across my lips at the camaraderie and celebration of life of a slightly intoxicated Jason and Sir John singing along with Pat Green "Songs About Texas".

I sing songs about Texas,
I sing them often as if she were some old lover,
When the night is real real still,
I swear I could hear a whippoorwill,
She knows there's music in the dirt down there,
So sing me one more song about old San Antone,
it seems like a dream now it was so long ago,
and old Guy Clark he can be just like a coat from the cold, well I'm going home
 

It's also a story about the joy at finally spending a brief but appreciative moment contemplating the Milky Way. So many nights pass in the city in which you can only see the brightest of stars. The full glory of the heavens is elusive in a place where people need the reassurance of fully lit streets, even as they sleep.Man loses his sense of place in the order of things when he is separated from the darkness.

But last night, I looked up and there it was, that fuzzy, hazy blur that many poor, unknowing souls simply assume is cloud. I grinned and nodded. "There you are, my old friend."

My heart is big when I am made small by my place in the Universe.  

Photo credit: Starlight Theater Cafe and Bar in Terlingua, TX.