The Willow City Loop

We’ve got a free afternoon, which hasn’t been happening a lot lately mainly because David has become so deeply entrenched in volunteerism that he has little time for anything else. Having been raised in a household where we were instructed to keep our heads down and never volunteer, the motivation behind his need to be of help to others eludes me. On the other hand, I’m cheerfully discovering that I receive credit through association. Because David’s so obliging, people automatically assume that I am, too.

We set out around one, head toward LBJ’s hometown, Johnson City, on 281, but take a right turn before we get there.  And now we find ourselves on a modest two-lane country road, recently resurfaced. We pass only two cars on our way to Willow City and, though the speed limit is sixty, these other vehicles are going forty. Country drivers in no hurry. And neither are we, but twenty miles below the posted limit is too much. Are they driving so slowly because they’re oohing and aahing over the bluebonnets that line the verges? If so, these folks need to get over it. This time of year you can’t take two steps without tripping over a wildflower. 

Pretty pictures of bluebonnets are all over the Internet right now, even shared by people who aren’t Texans; and the Willow City Loop is the best place to go to view their splendor. Everyone says so. There’s a sign as we approach the loop that tells us we are no longer allowed to pull to the side, stop, and get out and take pictures. A neighbor warned me. Apparently this time of year there are so many tourists going at the slowest pace possible that, most especially on weekends, it takes two hours to do a drive that would ordinarily take about forty minutes. 

Thankfully this is a weekday and the place isn’t crowded. We’re amazed by the beauty of the area right from the start. The people in charge of the loop (no idea who that is) have gone to some trouble to please the tourists. Boots of every ilk are hooked upside down on fence posts. We turn a corner and come upon a rusted tractor beneath a windmill, posed perfectly for picture taking. And charred trees amidst the blossoms. 

It’s not long before people are pulling off the road and stopping to take photos. It’s the way of things—tell someone what they can’t do and they do it anyway. 

“Pull over here,” David tells me. 

“But the sign said not to!”

“Everyone else is doing it.”

“If everyone else were leaping off a cliff would you do it, too?”

“There are no cliffs around here.”

I pull over and he gets out. Before us is a sparkling creek with small dunes poking up through the water, bluebonnets dotting the green banks, and willows leaning in. Lovely. David walks around talking to strangers about how pretty this spot is, how there are so many flowers this year, how great it is that spring’s here. Words. He can talk to anybody about anything. And the same way people assume that I’m helpful because he is, they also assume that I’m friendly simply because I’m married to a friendly person. And sometimes I am friendly, but usually I keep my tongue still. 

I stay in the car because Dilly’s with us and I don’t want the hassle of leashing her, which she dislikes, or stuffing her into the front-riding halter, which she also dislikes. And now you’re wondering why I don’t just let her out, set her free to smell the damp earth and priss around in the shallow water. Because once she takes off the only way I can get her to come back is to bribe her with treats and I didn’t bring any. I suck at dog training.

Every time we take a curve we come upon more periwinkle majesty, but not only shades of blue; Indian paintbrush, vivid coral; Mexican blankets, fiery yellow and red; winecups, well-named, literally the color of red wine and shaped like cups; Black-eyed Susans, yellow with brown centers; evening primroses, the softest pink. 

Beneath a sky so clear that looking at it makes my eyes tear up. All these flowers against green fields, surrounded by ancient live oaks. There’s a beautiful view in every direction. The air smells heavenly. 

We’re glad we came. 

Look beyond the near ones and you see that the whole field beyond is covered with them.

And more of them.

And bluebonnets aren’t the only wildflowers here.

New Habitat House in Marble Falls

It’s been a month since our carpet and tile was taken out and the reflooring was interrupted by the discovery of a leak in the master shower. Since that time we’ve been living with and walking on unfinished cement floors, which are in a constant state of erosion. The furniture still sits where it doesn’t belong and my clothes, the counters, the dishes and glasses, the bath towels, and the bedding are all coated with dust. At this point I have been gritty for weeks and my dust allergy has me popping Sudafed and Claritin several times a day. 

Since I’m inhaling grit in my home, it’s no wonder that I feel the need for some fresh air. And what a happy coincidence that the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity decided that quick, they’d better get that house painted because we’re fixing to have several days of rain. 

Habitat’s David’s thing, not mine, but this isn’t their scheduled day, which means many of the regulars won’t be available. 

“I’ll come and paint as long as I won’t end up standing around waiting for decisions to be made.” 

I have a picture in my head of several well-intentioned workers slumping aimlessly in a circle around a can of paint, brushes in hand, as they await direction, but the people in charge are so reluctant to sound bossy that the workers never receive clear instructions. Being subjected to dithering leaders is the worst thing about charity work. 

“We’ll be happy to have you,” David says, glad that I’m coming out of my house-focused funk. “There’s plenty of painting to go around.”

Seventy degrees and humid with a pleasant breeze. Hard to believe that three days ago it was down to twenty-seven. I arrive late because I must let our work crew in before taking off. At the Habitat House I’m greeted and made to feel welcome by the other volunteers. I’m given a paintbrush and told to get started. So much for my fear of ditherers. 

I introduce myself to the man painting to my right. He tells me that he’s been building Habitat houses since 2001. Worked on twenty of them. Good for him. 

I dip my brush and start poking at the wall. I’m not gifted in this area. I tend to scrub instead of stroke. 

“I’ve got to leave for a doctor’s appointment,” one guy announces to the whole group. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

This draws laughter because the guy’s delusional. A doctor appointment eats up at least two hours. 

Another painter calls the shade of paint “Babyshit,” which is funny because it’s true. 

One thing about Marble Falls is that there are no zoning restrictions. You might find a real nice house adjacent to a falling down one. Next to this house on one side is another house, similar because it’s also Habitat-built. However, on the other side is a property that’s a cluttered disturbing slummy mess—leaning walls, bald roof, screens curled, dirty walls surrounded by dirt. Old stuff propped against more old stuff—mattresses, poles that serve no purpose, rusted tools. 

The man and woman who live in this long-neglected house wander over. The woman is tall and thin and there’s something disarranged about her features. She walks up the steps and enters the house as though she has a place here. She remarks on the progress and when people cease to pay attention she continues talk, talk, talking to no one as she shuffles through the construction zone like a spook. The man who came with her takes a place on a bench and, with a vacant eye, watches us paint. He seems to possess no volition. I find the pair disturbing. 

“What’s with those two?” I ask my co-workers.

“They hang out and watch.” The man on my right is clearly confounded.  “We’re they entertainment. Like they have nothing better to do.”

“Looks like mental illness to me.” I say this because this couple is acting crazy and they must be doing it for a reason.

 “The city’s fined ’em twenty-five thousand on account of the state of that lot,” says the guy on my left. 

“I think they’re trying to get ’em out of there.” From the right. 

“It’s their home. Where would they go?” I ask. “Marble Falls isn’t in the business of creating a homeless class.”

“It’s a puzzle.”

Mostly the conversation is made up of grumbling about the lack of a leader in the building of this house. From the beginning a lot of bickering and hurt feelings took place and continued to take place until the person who had agreed to take on the role of Head Guy resigned. These people I’m working with today view this as a hindrance, but I’m not seeing it. The house looks good and it will be finished on schedule. Everyone’s working together and they’re all getting along. The electrician, roofer, and plumber have done what they said they’d do. All this success without somebody hovering around dithering over what to do next and how to do it. What could be better than that?

Our friend, Tom Luckenbach, tall enough to paint a ceiling without a ladder.

Dan’s been working on Habitat houses since 2001

This is Reverend Perry. He and his family are the recipients of the house. The foundation behind him is for the next house to be built in this row.

They let me use a roller! The bright colors chosen by the owner of the house behind me caused quite a stir. But I imagine that nice woman is happy in her cheerful yellow house. I call it the Easter egg house.

Backyard Thug

Seven o’clock a.m. For the last couple of hours I’ve been working on my current project, Clarence’s Wheelbarrow. It’s my habit to leave myself something to ponder and a vague plan about what I’ll write tomorrow. Today the prompts I’ve left on the screen are Where is Caroline Rush? and Does Grace really drink too much?

That’s enough to get me started. Hopefully by tomorrow morning I’ll know where Caroline is. Not sure what to do about Grace’s drinking though. The people who know her best tell her she drinks too much but, stubbornly oblivious, she thinks she drinks just the right amount. 

Pushing back from the desk, I go into the kitchen and put my empty water glass in the sink. Then I shuffle to the back window to look outside because it’s always best to let the sunrise give you an idea of what the day will hold.

There’s an animal grazing beneath the birdfeeder. Because it’s that time of day when everything is shadowy and gray, my vision isn’t clear. It’s one of the woodland creatures that are of a certain size. Here’s what it could be: skunk, raccoon, rabbit, armadillo, badger, possum, or feral cat. Here’s what lives in this area that it’s definitely not: bird, coyote, deer, fox, snake, feral hog. 

I go into the bedroom where David’s just kicking back the covers.

“There’s an animal in the backyard,” I tell him, “and I can’t tell what it is.”

Pulling on a sweatshirt, he follows me out to the living room. Because our house is still torn up from the Shower Disaster of 2019, we must make our way around a dresser, a chest, and a couple of tables. In the murky light we bump into things. 

And at the window we stand, squinting. 

“I don’t know what it is,” he says. “Let Dilly out.”

He says it to get a rise. He knows I’d never purposely let my delicate magnolia blossom confront a beast of nature. 

“I’m going out,” I say, fearful yet brave.

“Don’t let it get you.”

I step out on to the porch, drawing the animal’s attention so that it turns and shows me its face, which is almost elegant. A long snout, markings around its eyes that run up and down enhancing the elongated snout; and an exaggerated widow’s peak that adds to the overall vertical appearance. 

“Too bad about your goofy ears and pink nose,” I tell it. “They’re ridiculous.”

I go back inside. 

“Possum.”

“You didn’t scare it away. It’s still out there.”

 “It’s mangy and its tail is hideous.”

Mange is a pestilence I’ve had experience with. There were mangy foxes in England and our then dog, Charlie, got it just from hanging out in the yard. He lost almost all of his hair and was tragically humiliated. 

Now I have that to worry about. 

I also worry about Grace’s drinking. She’s too young to be drinking so much and so regularly. In her early thirties her favorite thing to do is drink wine while watching her favorite shows on television. She recently resigned from teaching so she no longer has that social outlet. And now, isolated, she spends her days looking forward to her first gulp of Malbec. She’s been depressed and experiencing panic attacks so her few friends think she’s self-medicating; and I agree. 

How am I going to find humor in a young woman sinking into the abyss of alcoholism? How could this possibly be funny? For the amusement factor I look to her neighbors, an absurd chorus of elderly do-gooders who are determined to see Grace through.  

As her creator the problem I’ve run into is that I must be true to her character. She loves her wine so why would she give it up? Yet giving it up is a must if this story is going to end on a hopeful note. 

So I’ve decided to give her something she wants more than wine. Also there must be some sort of wakeup call, a fright of some sort. 

But what will she love more than her TV and her drink? And what traumatic event must take place in order for her to realize that she needs to make a change?

This is what I ponder as I glare at the stupid possum who has laid claim to our backyard. He’s out there every time Dilly needs to go out. I have to chase him off just so she can pee and believe me, this backyard thug doesn’t move fast. How do I get it to go away? 

Too bad the foxes left. A couple of years ago they were plentiful. I can still remember the heartrending scream at dusk when a fox got the last rabbit. At that point, because the food supply was gone, the foxes moved on. At least the rabbits were cute. Homely and waddling, this beast has an inexplicable sense of entitlement. It thinks it owns Dilly’s backyard. 

I am very mad at it. 

How do I make it go away?

Travertine 2019

Because we’re having old carpet pulled up and tile installed, we decide to take a little holiday, Monday through Friday, and leave the guys to it. We hear it will be a dusty venture. We’re not familiar with the Corpus Christi/Port Aransas area so we decide to spend a few days there. We hear that the Padre Island beaches are nice. 

Don, the contractor is claiming that the work will be done by Friday, but David and I have doubts. It’s a large area to cover—four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a large den, and the kitchen. We get away noonish and the trip is uneventful, three and a half hours on mostly good road, though San Antonio’s highways are a disgrace. We’re staying in Corpus Christi, at The Residence Inn, a Marriot offshoot, which proves to be nicer than we expect, with two desks, two comfortable bedrooms with bathrooms, three TV’s, and a kitchen/dining area. 

On Monday evening we take a walk along the water, have dinner at Landry’s, then turn in early. On Tuesday morning we look forward to going for a walk along the beach out on the island. But as we’re preparing to leave David gets a call. He goes still and I can tell by his dreadful calmness that something bad has happened. 

“That’s the last thing I wanted to hear,” he replies to whatever’s been said. 

Once again he goes silent, leaving me curious and trepidacious. 

“What’s the next step?” he asks. 

More of the caller talking while David holds the phone to his ear. At last, obviously troubled, he gives a good-bye and ends the call.

“Who was it? What’s wrong?”

“The tear-out exposed a water leak in the shower of the master,” he tells me. 

I replay the grandiose phrase in my head. The Shower of the Master. My imagination interrupts my anxiety. What does the Master’s shower look like? Is it bedecked in gemstones and gold? What has the Master done to deserve this magnificent shower? Does his possession of this shower create resentment amongst the staff that must keep it free from mildew and lime deposits? 

I return to reality. This is terrible. But Don assured David that, though his crew can’t do any further work in the master until the leak is fixed, they will do the other rooms and return after the shower has been deconstructed and rebuilt.

We drive to Port Aransas through the thickest fog either one of us has ever seen. Visibility is no more than a hundred feet. The island town is still rebuilding from Hurricane Harvey. Crumbling walls and rotting roofs stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the pristine new-builds. 

The beach is as great as we’ve been led to believe. Broad and flat with firm sand. Very clean. I never thought I’d see a beach comparable to the beaches of Goa, but the beach outside of Port Aransas is that nice. Also, much easier to get to. 

David’s on the phone for the whole walk. He calls a friend of his who knows a contractor and then he calls the contractor. He calls a neighbor and asks him please to stop by the house, take a look, and let us know if it’s really as serious as Don says it is. He gets a call from Don telling us that it’s worse than he originally thought. They think the pan is compromised. The water’s been standing for a long time. There will be mold. Poor David is hardly getting to enjoy the beach.

While he’s handling the situation I watch people play with their dogs and I wave to men who take their fishing seriously; and I judge the dozing geezers in their lounge chairs whose bare abdomens rise high like round mountains. 

Our plan is to stay in Corpus for a couple of days, then spend a night in a hotel along the River Walk in San Antonio, where we’ll drink bloody marys and wonder about the people who stroll by; and after that, a night at a multi-starred B&B in Fredericksburg. Home on Friday. But the next morning the report we receive from Don is even more dire than yesterday’s. The wall and floor of the bedroom that abuts the shower has also sustained damage.

Together we sigh a sad sigh. 

“We’re going to have to go home and see for ourselves.”

“Our house, our responsibility.”

“What was supposed to take a week is going to take two months.”

“It’s going to cost at least twenty thousand.”

“If we hadn’t decided to retile we never would have known.”

We turn into the neighborhood at around two. Trucks line our driveway. The interior of our home is a construction site. Floors are torn up. Dust coats everything. Pieces of furniture have been taken from places that make sense and scattered willy-nilly throughout the house. We have a working toilet in one bathroom and a working sink in another. The toilet in the master leans at a precarious angle in the tub. The refrigerator is in the middle of the kitchen and the stove has been moved to the dining room, along with a mattress, a chest, three office chairs, a desk, and tons of other stuff. Our formal living area, which ordinarily holds a couch, a chair, and a central table now holds sixteen pieces of furniture, all crammed together and I can’t get to any of them. 

We’re advised not to take any action toward repair until we talk to our insurance agent, who ignores our calls for two days. When we finally hear from him he tells us he can’t get out here for five days. We can’t get started on the work until he does his assessment. Also, it’ll take time to find a contractor. What we thought would be a two-month ordeal is going to turn into a three-month ordeal. 

I don’t do well in chaos.

MacDaddy’s, tasty food for lunch in Port Aransas.

The bar draped in plastic. Can you tell how dusty it is? That much dust is everywhere.

The dining room.

The front room.