The Haenisch Cars

Kerrville, pronounced cur-vil, is about an hour and a half away from Marble Falls.  It’s a tourist draw because the Guadalupe River runs right through it; it hosts the Texas Arts and Crafts Fair; and it’s home to the Kerrville Folk Festival.  

“I hear there’s a four-mile walk along the river that’s nice,” David tells me. 

A walk by a river sounds good.  I’m busy pondering many important matters, so I leave David to plan the excursion.  We pull out of the driveway at eight-thirty.  I drive because that’s the way we do it—I drive going, David drives returning.  The route is simple—281 toward San Antonio, right on 290, left on 16.  We reach Kerrville at ten.  We know the exact time because Kerrville seems to be a place of chimes and bell towers, all of which ring on the hour.  It’s quite noisy. 

“Where is this walk?” I ask as we pass under I-10.

“Oh,” David says, “I just figured we’d drive around until we found it.” 

“This place has a population of over 22,000.”  I know this because we passed the sign about a half-mile back.   “I just drove an hour and a half to get to a specific location and now I find out we haven’t got a clue where it is.” 

Irritated, I turn into an empty pitted lot.  We pull out our phones, call up the maps, find our blue dots, and look in all directions for the Guadalupe River.  We can’t find it anywhere. 

“It doesn’t exist,” I say.  “Where did you hear of this river?  Who told you this wild tale of a river in Kerrville?”

“Seriously, I think we’ll find it by driving through town.”

With a derisive snort, I pull back on to the busy street.  Drive through town.  What kind of a weak-ass plan is that?  More often than not, not knowing means getting lost. 

Pretty soon strip malls give way to gracious buildings; and a courthouse, surrounded by a commercial square, rises up on our left.  As with most of the Hill Country towns we’ve explored, the square offers trendy restaurants and art galleries, which we’ll check out later, after we have our stroll along the shore of the imaginary river.  To my surprise (at this point my expectations are low) a sign at the next intersection indicates a river walk.  We cross the bridge, and there it is, just to the right—a lovely broad park with playgrounds and picnic areas, footbridges across calm water. 

“Why wasn’t it on the map?”  I am truly flummoxed.  If I can’t trust the map on my phone, what can I trust? 

I park.  We do the walk.  Blue sky, clear water trickling over stones, well-maintained walkway, unseasonably warm.  While pleasant, the only feature that stands out in any way is the restroom.  I have never seen a cleaner restroom in a public park, so impressively pristine that I take a picture. 

We walk in one direction for forty-five minutes, then turn around.  We’re hungry.  I steer the car back toward the square, where there are many bustling lunch venues.  We choose The Legendary Hill Country Cafe, famous because it’s located at the site of the first HEB.  People of Texas know how stupendous this is.  For people from elsewhere, I’ll simply define HEB as the best grocery store chain since the beginning of time.  David requests liver and onions, and I order off the sides menu—fried okra and a scoop of cottage cheese. 

After lunch I insist on hitting the Antique Mall across the street.  I don’t know why I enjoy Antique Malls the way I do.  I’m fascinated with old stuff, helplessly compelled to meander through and gawk.  David’s usually a good sport about it.  I purchase a snub-nosed pitcher, a clever item for pouring.  I don’t know how I’ve lived without it.  I’ll post a picture. 

On the way back, I feel it’s my duty to entertain David as he drives.  I regale him with a list of the cars my family had when I was a child.

“A yellow Oldsmobile.  That’s what we had when I was born.”

“You can’t possibly remember the car your parents drove when you were born.”

“They told me about it.  I saw pictures.”  We’re on a stretch that doesn’t allow passing.  The speed limit’s seventy, and ten cars ahead a Toyota, going fifty, holds up traffic.  “We also had a Studebaker at one time.  And a Goliath.”

“I’ve never heard of a Goliath.”

“The Buick, a Rambler, a Nova, a Charger.  Daddy had a VW bus, then an Econoline.  Then he got that Chevy pick-up that he kept forever.”

Talking about the string of cars makes me miss my mother.  There was a time when she would have reminisced, shared experiences about all those cars, why we got them in the first place, and why we got rid of them.  Each car would have provoked an entertaining story.  She would have remembered cars I've forgotten.  But she hasn't been capable of having a conversation in years.  There's no memory of anything in her head.  She is an empty vessel clunking her walker around in my sister's house.  

David's happy by the river.

Seriously, the cleanest public toilet ever.  

Everybody needs one of these, and it was only three dollars.  

A great place to grab lunch next time you're in Kerrville.  

Teal

We hear Keri has cancer. 

“Oh no,” we say.  But I’m optimistic.  It’ll be a miserable slog, but people fight it and win. 

Teal.

Neighbor to turquoise, deeper than aquamarine. 

An appealing blend of blue and green. 

A shade found at the edge of dusk, in water shadows.

Silk scarf, wool sweater, quilt border, leather purse.

The color of dragons.

The color of ovarian cancer.

The color that defines Keri.

Keri.

A strong woman.  A warrior.  She races to battle the teal dragon.  Spear in one hand, whip in the other, teeth clinched to stifle her enraged scream.  Prepared to endure, determined to conquer. 

Skinny, sick, hair gone.  Parts removed. 

Doctors and nurses, dedicated and wise.  They bring powerful weapons.  They tell her they’re her team.  She trusts their knowledge, relies on their encouragement. 

Complications.  So many complications. 

She whips her foe with long violent strokes—get back, get back.   She stabs its warty teal hide until it retreats, crouching and humbled, bitter and surly, rendered so tiny it cannot be seen. 

Yay Keri, mighty dragon slayer. 

She gains weight, looks good. 

That’s it, we all think.  She’s won.

We hear it’s come back.  

“Oh no,” we say again.  More cautious this time.  More scared for Keri.

New treatment.  Stronger?  Better?  More effective?  Supposed to be. 

This time the battle is longer and harder.  Keri’s mantra:  FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT.  She wants to think of other things—her grandson, her husband, dinner, new appliances, the latest movies.  But first she must be strong when she feels weak.  Survival trumps life.

In and out of the hospital.

The dragon retreats.  It returns.  Retreats.  Returns, stronger each time. 

Three years. 

One by one her teammates peel away.   They’re someone else’s team now. 

She lies in a hospital bed in her living room.  Small.  Gray.  Voice thready, barely audible.  Doesn’t eat; can’t. 

No more cancer meds, no more treatment.  Pain control. 

The family, every one of us.  Husband.  Grandson, nine years old; she’s raised him since he was a baby.  Mother, brother.  Aunts, uncles, cousins.  And so many friends. 

Stunned.  Helpless.  Paralyzed. 

Teal.

No longer such a pretty color.   

Teal is to ovarian cancer what pink is to breast cancer.  

Keri, with her mother, Leanne.  You can tell what a sweetheart Keri is.  

Llano: Not as Cool as Marble Falls

At Mahjong a woman tells of hitting a deer with her car.

“Totalled the car,” she says.  “It was terrifying.”

Then another woman tells her story of when she hit a deer.  Then another woman shares about the time it happened to her. 

“It’s not a matter of if,” says the woman next to me, her voice dragging with doom.  “It’s a matter of when.”

After Mahjong (a good day; Mahjonged practically every other hand!) I rush home and tell David about the deer. 

“The damn things are leaping from everywhere,” I say.  “They’re practically suicidal.”

“Let’s buy deer whistles for both vehicles,” he suggests.  And we do it right away.  Six ninety-nine at O’Reilly’s Auto Parts. 

The next afternoon I must go to Llano to purchase batting for the quilt I’m making.  I invite David along. 

“We can eat lunch there,” I tell him.  “I’ll blog about it.  We’ll take pictures.”

Before we go we install the deer whistles on the sides of the front bumper of my car—and by we I mean David.   It’s not a major project—peel the cover off the two-sided tape and stick’ em on.  But David likes to keep busy, and I help him with that. 

Llano is pronounced Lann-o, a delivery that feels wrong to any person who sat through beginning Spanish; but this misguided diction simply serves to prove the intransigence of the area’s anglo-redneck etymology. 

The trip to Llano is a thirty-five minute drive up Seventy-one.  The topography is complex, both austere and lush—scrubby cedar next to green live oaks; graceful ups and downs, with the occasional dramatic jut of granite.  Though it’s cold out, and windy, the sky is cloudless blue.  We cross over creeks trickling around gray boulders.  Though the Austin-bound lane is busy, we make the drive to Llano without passing another car.  Not many people want to go to Llano, probably because they’re unaware of the exceptional quilt shop that’s four blocks past the Llano River Bridge.

The way we know we’re getting close to Llano is that the speed limit goes from seventy to fifty-five.  Then we pass a horse farm and the school; and the water tower rises up in front of us.  There isn’t much to Llano.  Highway Seventy-one passes right through it, leading to Brady (never heard of it) and then on to somewhere else.  Years ago, effort was made to attract visitors—there are boutiques, gift shops, and antique shops.  Two restaurants look interesting, but when we approach their doors, hungry for our meal, it’s to find that they’re closed.  Upon further inspection, as we stroll around the square surrounding the courthouse, it becomes evident that, though the bright signage broadcasts antiques and gifts and food, more than half the shops display Out of Business or For Sale signs. 

Not to disparage Llano—but really?  In all fairness, their population of thirty-three hundred is half that of Marble Falls.  But they have a pretty courthouse and an old-timey square.  Surely some savvy capitalist among their citizenry could use these assets to turn a profit.  No wonder people would rather live in Marble Falls, where the antique stores are actually open and the quaint Main Street is thriving; also, there’s a movie theater with six screens and at least eight fast food restaurants. 

All Llano has to offer, as far as I can tell, is the quilt shop, which is where we head next.  I love fabric; and they’ve changed things around since I was last in, which makes the whole set-up all the more intriguing.  The batik’s are now where the solids once were.  The brights and pastels have switched places.  It’s all I can do not to touch, to match, to buy.  But I have no current need for fabric.  The proprietor leads me to the back room, where we work together to cut batting from a massive mounted bolt.  David busily takes pictures around the shop.

“Usually I buy it packaged,” I tell her.

“It’s half the price this way,” she says. 

She folds the batting and transfers it to the front counter.  The price is, as predicted, half of what I usually pay.  I ask her if there’s a good place in town for Mexican Food.  She recommends Rosita’s and gives us directions.  Also, and this is one of the many things I appreciate about this quilt shop, it’s their policy that, if you don’t want a bag for your purchase, you receive a free fat square from the basket on the counter.  Yippee!  I select a square of blue floral. 

Rosita’s, not surprisingly, is not nearly as good as Janey’s or Marguerita’s, the two Tex-Mex restaurants in Marble Falls. 

The notable outcome of the day is—the deer whistles worked!  We drove all the way to Llano and back and didn’t hit a single deer. 

To prove we were really there.  This is true, not made up.  

The courthouse is lovely, which should be conducive to successful enterprise in the surrounding square.  

The only reason to ever go to Llano.  

Me, wandering around in Fabric Heaven.  

This is Llano's idea of art.  Pathetic.  

This is in Marble Falls, where there are interesting statues on every corner of Main Street.  

This bronze, also in Marble Falls, is called Dragon Dreaming.  I imagine it wasn't hard to capture because dragons sleep a lot.  

Becky and Bob: True, Not Fiction

Becky is one of my oldest friends.  We played flute together in high school.  She and her husband, Bob, teach at the International American School in Lagos.  She, music; he, math.  They have a permanent home in Switzerland, and that’s where they go for the summer and most holidays; but Bob feels the need to get back to Texas every once in a while to check in with his parents and his grown kids, and Becky’s got people in Arizona.  After the time spent with their families, they arrive at our door drained of energy and longing for the wine that’s on offer. 

(David and I can identify.  In the beginning of our time overseas, we made annual visits back to the states, wanting the kids to know their extended families; but after a few years the trips became a quagmire of miscommunications and failed expectations, and we realized that we were an interruption, not a joy.  People back home were busy, focused on their day-to-day, and they didn’t want to know about our lives in Cairo or Holland or London.  Finally, we gave up.  Raised overseas, the boys never bonded with grandparents and cousins; but in the end, this wasn’t important at all.) 

I show Becky and Bob to the guest room where they drop their small bags (they always travel light), and I lead them out the back door where, as it’s a pleasant day, we take seats around the fire pit.  We’ve used our warm circle several times now and it’s proving to be an asset in our entertaining.  It’s been a year since we’ve seen these two and there’s no lack of topics—David’s retirement, improvements we’ve made to the house, their plans for the next year, life in Nigeria, life in Marble Falls; everything from Fitbits to politics.  I bring out hummus and pita; David pours more wine.  And more wine.  Two hours later we move inside for dinner. 

For Christmas Anna brought us lemons from her parents' tree in Houston.  Because I know how Houstonians nurture and take pride in their lemons, I want to make good use of these.  The marinade for the chicken is a squeezed lemon, half a stick of butter, garlic, chicken bullion, and oregano.  I sprinkle the cauliflower with curry powder and salt, massage it with olive oil, add a splash of water, and bake at 350 for thirty minutes.  David butters the corn, covers it with foil, and puts it on the grill with the chicken.  A nice meal. 

Our friends tell us that there’s no place to walk in Lagos and that fresh fruits and vegetables are rare and expensive.  It’s hot and humid there; the air smells of sewage, rot, and burning trash; the kids at the school are sheltered and sweet; the teachers live in a compound; and the swimming pool is right outside their door.  We compare our safari experiences, our flight experiences, our airline preferences, our favorite cities.  The four of us, we think we’re cool because we know the world. 

By now it’s nine o’clock and we’ve had lots of wine. 

I set out a narrow platter of sliced pumpkin bread and, as David and Becky and Bob take seats on the other side of the bar, I stand on the kitchen side of the counter and share some tale that requires extravagant gestures.  A sweep of my hand sends an almost full glass of wine flying—a sea of red across my pale tile, splashing the cabinets, seeping into drawers, dripping from the refrigerator.  It’s such an overwhelming mess that there is nothing to do but laugh and wipe it up.  Definitely time to call it a night. 

The next morning we have big headaches.  After breakfast tacos and lots of water and moaning, we walk up 401.  We take them to Deadman’s Hole.  They are not impressed.  It’s a hole.  We startle a deer.  We walk around curves and up and down hills until we get to the RV Park, an ugly square cut out of the native wooded surroundings.  Divided into fourteen stations, with plumbing and electrical hook-ups thrusting from the earth like trolls, the place is an insult.  There has been no attempt at landscaping.  Hauled up during the clearing of the area, massive rocks remain, scattered throughout the property.  There are no central structures, no office, picnic, play, or shower areas.  The sign at the entrance, reading WWW.MARBLEFALLSRVPARK.COM, hangs between two posts, purchased at Home Depot for four dollars a piece.  David searched for the website and there’s simply no such thing.  There are two shabby vehicles in residence.  Both have been there since it opened, a couple of months ago.  The one at the back is a fifth wheel, and the one nearest the entrance is an RV.  No one else has come. 

“See?” I say.  “I’ve mentioned it several times on my blog.  An abomination.”

“Yup, it’s pretty hideous,” Becky says.

“I think they're cooking meth in the back trailer,” I tell them. 

“I can see how that could be,” Bob says.  “The dealer lives in the front one, a safe distance away in case the back one blows up.”

It’s satisfying to have my suspicions corroborated.

“Whose picture is that in the window?” David asks.

We all squint at the small poster, a square in the driver’s window of the RV.  A dark face with red letters across the top. 

“It’s Ben Carson,” Bob tells us.  And he’s right.  That’s exactly who it is. 

And we walk on, flummoxed that a meth dealer in the hill country of Texas would support Ben Carson. 

The four of us, plus Trip, on the couch.  I'm not really choking my dog; I'm just trying to get his cute little face up for the camera.  David's had this green sweatshirt since Scotland.  Now that he's retired, he plans never to wear anything but soft clothes again.  It's just a matter of time before he shows up at church in sweatpants.   

See?  Shameful.