The more things change, the more they stay the same (except now you’re not allowed to light a cigarette within twenty yards of Austin). This shot from 1978 was taken on The Drag, a strip on Guadalupe Street, across from the University of Texas. Cowboys vs. Dragrats? Some pictures just demand to be resurrected from the closed pages of ancient yearbooks.
We’re up all night to the sun
We’re up all night to get some
We’re up all night for good fun
We’re up all night to get lucky
( from “Get Lucky” 2014 Grammy Record of the Year)
These two barelegged cowgirls atop a cream-colored BAR-B-Q convertible are too too much! Howdy, y’all!
This lady is clearly more refined in her demeanor.
If Joan Tompkins’ smug recline doesn’t do it for you, then maybe a marching band will. 76 trombones led the big parade…
Any of you ladies ever twirled a baton? I hear fingers have muscle memory, just in case you’re planning any summertime family reunions that require talent contests. You know, like in that movie Dan In Real Life, where Steve Carell sang “Let My Love Open The Door.” Oh, that was so sweeeeet…
Oh, and one more thing. After all the floats pass by, they’re serving barbeque!
Last night’s view near twilight was a sight to behold. I could hear Eddie Rabbit rise from the dead, singing, “Well, I love a rainy night, it’s such a beautiful sight…” Of course, folks around here have learned not to get our hopes up. We’ve been (literally) burned too many times to count, hopeful at the sight of darkening clouds and ominous thunder, only to watch it pass us by. While Al Roker chats gloats about rainstorms across the country, central Texas is essentially Penny from The Rescuers, constantly passed over by would-be adoptive parents. For years.
We’ve been in drought conditions for so long, it’s nearly time for Penny’s quinceañera (were she Hispanic, which would technically make her Centavo, and that doesn’t quite have the same ring to it).
But it DID rain last night, and I even went out and danced in it, prompted by fellow blogger, Liz, if only for a few seconds. P.S. rain is cold.
So what if the lightning and thunder kept me up all night long? I’ll sacrifice my slumber for the good of our state.
Award-winning weatherman Jim Spencer keeps us abreast of local changes on his “First Warning Weather,” deciphering the Doppler Weather Radar and making predictions, but (to quote the Aussies), it’s as dry as a dead dingo’s donger.
All of our lakes are hitting record lows. The Lake Travis restaurants like The Oasis and Carlos ‘n’ Charlie’s, so popular for water fun and frolic in the 1990s, now overlook a low-lying lake covered with dune-like islands. When I visited Volente Beach on Lake Travis fourteen years ago, I could see the dry islands popping up even then.
But now it’s much, much worse.
At this point, I don’t know how we’ll ever recoup enough water to get things where they need to be. Our water bills are always in the hundreds each month; that’s par for the course to live in this area. Cattle are dropping dead right and left, reservoirs are drying up. But we won’t give up hope.
Now Elijah said to Ahab, “Go up, eat and drink; for there is the sound of the roar of a heavy shower.” 1 Kings 18:41
More rain may be just around the bend.
This is all in good fun, but folks would cry “domestic abuse” in this day and age.
When I think of Mary Wana, I think of hippies, not high school students in 1949. My bad.
Fun with intentional homicide!
Uh-oh, bestiality!
Mental illness was a laughing matter.
Hints of polygamy…
And the grand finale of I-Don’t-Get-Itness…a bowlegged sheriff fondling a cactus made of student’s heads, as a vulture flies overhead. Because that’s normal.
In a few hours, it will be 95 degrees. I dare not doubt the weatherman’s forecast, as I just left the pre-noon outdoors, and it was already volcano-lava-hot. Any exercise must be done in the wee small hours these days.
Despite getting only three hours of sleep last night, and despite the forecast of a Martha Reeve’s heatwave, I donned my jogging apparel, headed to the local soccer park, and began climbing the hills around the perimeter.
Perhaps the path was once grassy, but now it is a knobby rubble of limestone, ripe for ankle injuries and displaced hips. Save a lone runner wearing what appeared to be a long-sleeved shirt made of shimmery black Glad trash bags ( a self-sauna?), I had the path to myself.
As I ascended, I passed evening primroses, Indian paintbrushes, and daisies, bending into candy cane shapes in the 20+ mph winds. I cinched my ballcap tighter, to the point where I almost felt I was being birthed again. Small white butterflies suddenly appeared, staying two steps ahead of me, swerving about like hybrid cars steered by texting teenagers. There must have been a half dozen of them, apparently delighted by spring. So, too, was I, inhaling the syrupy scent of wafting chinaberry blossoms. I love me some chinaberry trees!
Nearby excavators kicked up limestone dust, as they prepared yet another new subdivision, rising like weeds around here. I turned away, shielding my eyes from the dust, avoiding a head-on collision with a shrubby mesquite tree, and noticing my butterfly friends had departed.
The ridge was steep, and my quads ached, but I thought of our friends at church who do marathons in wheelchairs, and, of course, I always think of Nick Vujicic, the motivational speaker who has no limbs. It hasn’t stopped him from enjoying the beach with his wife and son.
When I got to the top, I took in the sight of rooftops stretching to the horizon. There I was, queen of all I surveyed, lording over the peasant village. It felt good, being so high above other things, looking down on the soccer fields, the tennis courts, the swimming pool (getting freshly-chlorinated), and the parking lots. Perspective changes everything.
I jogged my hour, and that was enough. I didn’t want to. But I was glad I did. Did it burn off the calories I ate in a handful of raw pistachios this morning? Probably not. But sometimes Nike is right. Just do it.
* not to be confused with another cattier post, The Heat Is Not On, Glenn Frey.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
–William Wordsworth
April (minus the ominous dark clouds and lightning that never once lead to a drop of precipitation but simply pass over us like the Jake Ryans of the world to the wallflowers at a high school dance) is lovely. As you can see, I have more mint than I can shake a stick at. I doubt I’ll use it for more than one glass of iced tea. What I will eat, and what my best friend and I called “pickles” in our childhood, are these little sour cones:
I don’t know what they are, but I know you can eat them (pesticide-free!), and you won’t die. Other than that, my plant knowledge is limited. I would never make it on Naked and Afraid. I lack any survivor skills, and rather than try to determine which mushrooms are edible and non-toxic, and knowing I’m bound for eternal glory, I would simply shuffle off this mortal coil and head toward heaven’s brunch buffet. Surely they have migas!
However, while I remain in this mortal body, I have already spent (statistically) half of my years–which means half of my Aprils are gone, and that is a shame. Perhaps heaven is eternally April? But then I would miss my Octobers…
Lack of sleep is doing a number on me, so I have no clever comments about this picture from Galveston 1967. I just wanted to share. From the Wurlitzer jukebox to the formica, what a great glimpse into history. But do those ladies even look 21?
Cool image on Traces of Texas today of the 1913 San Antonio Flood.
I Don't Get It 