Texas

Lonestar Cow

I have been to Texas. I have fed cows, seen the Hill Country in moonlight, dined outside at ten, heard shots from the roof, driven through the Guadalupe river in a venerable pick-up, been followed down a dusty road by a little blue-eyed cat, eaten wild pig and axis deer, picked rosemary from bushes big as New England yews.

Now I know what space means because Texas is about space, miles and miles of it. It’s space that shapes the accent: slow, easy, broad “A’s” and breaks words down into two syllables, sings the sounds. Space that shapes the character: steady, open, blunt, earthy, and can-do. Space that frees the imagination to roam the land, get lost in the sky, breathe in the air redolent with cedar, dung, the bones of ancient oaks.

I went with friends and stayed with their friends who live in a grand old limestone house on a 400-acre ranch. The original walls are thick and quiet, built by two German brothers in the late 1800s. There are fireplaces big enough to camp in, 20-foot ceilings, concrete chandeliers that look like gnarled branches, stone floors polished by years of workboots, deer hides slung over big leather sofas.

Up on the third floor, my room caught in the mossy treetops, I dreamed of my father singing love songs to my mother as she fried eggs in the iron pan. I dreamed of my little Main Street house becoming decidedly less well mannered. I dreamed of deer in flight and the canines of wild boar, and I dreamed of sunrises as far as I could see.

My friends’ friends were warm, gracious, generous…with hearts as big as the land in their care. They took us hither and yon, from a margarita-splashed San Antonio River Walk to a winery out on Rt. 290, where the owner himself told us that to make a great Texas wine, you have to think like a mother vine and act accordingly.

We went to Fredericksburg where I ate mustard, sausages, and sauerkraut and visited my design mecca: the Laboratoire de Design of Carol Hicks Bolton on Warehouse Road. I wanted to live in that vast space, settle into the jumble of rust, wood, tapestry, iron, and stone, study the warped French books, savor the Belgian linens, so crisp and thick, you could eat them like a sandwich.

Texas made my imagination bigger, open to wilder, freer possibilities. Since I’ve returned, I find myself saying “Yes” to more invitations, pushing the boundaries of the old, fixed comfort zones. If there’s a cowgirl in there, buried under years of habit, reserve, ennui, and obedience, I aim to find her, give her free rein.