Trudging Through Texas

by Dennis Goza
May 2003

1. Miles and Miles

The late comedian Red Skelton once observed that Texas has "miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles". You know exactly what he meant if you've ever driven across the sagebrush empire on Interstate 10.

If you enter Texas from Arizona heading east, you'll find yourself in the vicinity of El Paso---and you can thumb your nose at the folks headed the other way, who have to face the Border Patrol trying to prevent people from sneaking into the country uninvited the way their ancestors did.

So far, not so bad. We've never really spent any time in El Paso, but it doesn't appear to be the worst place for a layover---particularly if you glance across the border and see how much worse things look in Mexico.

If you have the time and like to walk, you might even take a hike across the bridge going into Ciudad Juarez. Just don't drive your own vehicle across. On the southbound trip, the guards don't even give you a second glance, but when you're returning to the U.S., your I.D. may be scrutinized, you may be questioned and searched, and your vehicle might have all of its contents emptied into the streets, leaving you to clean up the mess. There are even horror stories about drugs being planted on someone's car by border guards eager to make an arrest. Could be just rumors, but why take a chance? (And do you really know what the previous owner of your vehicle did as a sideline?)

We took a stroll into Juarez one day a few years back, and the first thing I noticed was how old and dirty everything looked. Buildings appeared as if they were about to collapse as soon as someone sneezed on them, and the city buses were straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie. The police cars, though fairly late model, were coated with a patina of dust that made them look as if they belonged on the moon. Kimberly, who previously had visited Mexico on a cruise with her parents, commented about how "clean" the streets looked in comparison to what she had seen before. Ouch. We browsed in a couple of the shops that cater to gullible tourists, but ended up not buying anything. We just weren't in the mood to play the dickering game; it's apparently customary for Mexican merchants to post a ridiculously high price for goods, expecting that the customers will bargain them down. Anyone who pays the initial asking price is considered a fool---and just might be.

On our most recent passage, we didn't really have time to take an international jaunt at all, so we just stopped in El Paso long enough to get a tire replaced, and then we zoomed on through.

Then began the ordeal, the torturous 600-mile stretch of desolation between El Paso and San Antonio. On our prior expeditions through here, it was winter, so the temperature was tolerably cool and we even passed through a thunderstorm---one of the more glorious sights the desert has to offer. And we also found a bit of sport in trying to dodge the numerous tumbleweeds that blew across the road---some of them as big as the national debt---and counting how many became entangled in our grill.

This is the kind of desolate landscape which couldn't possibly be put to any constructive use. So naturally, it was inherited by Native Americans. As we usually do whenever possible, we bought our gas at one of their stations. The "liberal" in me does it to appease a demanding social conscience; the "conservative" in me does it because they always have the cheapest gas for miles around; the pragmatist in me does it because they often have the ONLY gas for miles around.

We stopped at another station that wasn't even close to the middle of nowhere to make use of their microwave to heat up our dinner. I noticed that the walls inside were lined with dozens and dozens of headshots of celebrities---some that were famous although unknown and others that were both famous and well known. It appeared that they all had stopped and autographed their photos for the proprietors and at first glance it seemed quite an oddity that so many entertainers would have passed though this vacuum; but when you think about it, you realize that this road is the only direct path from point A to point B, so of course they come this way.

2. Remembering the Alamo

Point B in this case is San Antonio, which is (like Houston and Dallas) one of the ten most populous cities in the nation. And we were quite relieved when we began to approach its perimeter; I don't know when I've ever been so happy to see a Wal-Mart or McDonald's or ugly strip mall loom into view.

San Antonio always has been our favorite destination in Texas. The Riverwalk sector of downtown has an artsy ambience that we haven't encountered anywhere else in the state (though in all fairness, we haven't spent much time in Austin, Houston or Dallas), and the neighborhood also is rich in history. Above all, there's the Alamo.

We have a special affinity for this historic landmark, because we have staged (several times, in fact) some of the backwoods tall tales that the legendary congressman Col. David (" Davy" ) Crockett told---or that were told about him by others. (read some stories here) We'd visited the Alamo twice previously, but the last time was when Zephyr was only 4. It was time to freshen up the history lesson a bit.

The first hurdle was just finding the Alamo. It was marked rather inconspicuously on our map, and we saw no signs on the street pointing the way. There was plenty of advertisement for the Alamodome, (obviously a sporting arena, judging by how much promotion it receives) but virtually nothing promoting the cultural landmark that gave the city its jumpstart. If Santa Ana had had such a hard time getting there, Crockett might have died an old man.

And then, there was worming our way through the traffic, followed by a scouting expedition for a parking space Our other visits occurred when tourists were sparse and parking was ample, even for an oversize vehicle. This time, it really took some maneuvering. And once we managed to park, we discovered that there were also, of course, more people to bump elbows with, including several field trip contingents from schools.

Still, it's always worth the trouble to see the Alamo, the place where men became military heroes by losing a battle. (Although an officer on the winning side commented, "Another such victory and we are done for." ) Nobody knows exactly whether they were massacred in the conflict or were overtaken and killed later, and/or surrendered when they saw it was hopeless, and then were killed. None of them lived to tell the tale, and many Americans have been reluctant to believe the accounts given by soldiers fighting on the other side---they were "only Mexicans", after all. The women who were holed up in the complex while the battle raged did survive; after questioning them, Gen. Santa Ana gave them each two pesos and a blanket and sent them on their way, ordering one of them to journey to a nearby settlement and warn the colonists there that they faced the same fate if they rebelled. None of the females, however, had been in a position to observe the fighting, and therefore could not report the details. One of them did report seeing David Crockett's mutilated body, indicating he had been tortured to death.

The fate of these valiant Texicans is sometimes a matter of impassioned debate. The legend is that Crockett fought to the bitter end, and when he ran out of ammunition, began swinging his rifle like a club. After I suggested in another location on this web site that he in fact may have surrendered, I received an email from an indignant history buff and (apparently) Crockett fan and expert who insisted that it absolutely "didn't happen". So there. He may be right; Santa Ana advanced under a red flag, which signifies "no quarter" Why would anyone surrender facing certain death? (Answer: surrender might buy some precious time, however brief---time enough, perhaps, to launch a suicide attack on an important officer, or otherwise make a dent. And who knows, an earthquake might strike in the meantime.) One alleged witness from the Mexican army reported that Crockett was captured along with five others, and they were all executed; that Crockett tried to use his skill as an orator to talk his way out of death; but when that failed, he made a last-second lunge at one of the officers. If the latter is true, it's likely that several soldiers pounced on him and hacked him to death, thus giving his body the appearance of having been tortured.

Col. Jim Bowie (whose name is well known thanks to the knife that actually was designed by his brother) originally was in command of the Alamo troops, but he became severely ill (nobody knows exactly what he caught) so he was relieved by 27-year-old Col. William Travis. On the eve of the big clash, when it became clear that the 200 rebels inside the compound would not receive any reinforcements in time to stave off the 7000 Mexican soldiers, Col. Travis---according to legend--- assembled his company in the courtyard and drew a line in the sand, telling them that whoever wanted to stay and fight should step over the line, and whoever wanted to leave could do so with no hard feelings. Only one man decided not to cross the line, but nobody knows who he was or what became of him. Bowie was still too ill to get out of bed, so he supposedly had two of his comrades carry his cot across the line. This latter episode may well be true, for when Bowie's mother was informed of his death, she commented, "I'll wager they found no wounds in his back." On the other hand, Santa Ana stated that he "died like a cowardly dog", whatever that means. The debates go on.

What's certain is that the Alamo is a fantastic deal for the money---particularly since admission is free. That's right, one of the most momentous milestones on the American landscape is yours for the entering---donations are accepted, of course, but we never felt any pressure to make any. We were astonished when we realized that the place is not, as we would have expected, managed by the National Park Service. Instead, it's in the hands of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, which sounds for all the world like a circle of little old ladies who raised the money to buy the Alamo by quilting or making preserves. That's the impression you get, too, when you enter and see a sign that says "Gentlemen Remove Hats".

Anyway, it was quite amazing to see some of the artifacts on display. These include an actual lock of Crockett's hair (maybe he'll be cloned someday) and a rifle he once owned---possibly the one he called Old Betsy in some of his windy narratives.

Another big surprise is that the little arch-like facade on top of the chapel, which gives the building its distinctive and easily identifiable outline, was not added until years later. At the time of the battle, the buildings apparently were flat-roofed and pretty monotonous-looking---not that soldiers expect to be enthralled by architectural treasures anyway. The Alamo was, in fact a failure as a mission---which means, I suppose, that it had not converted as many natives as the head honchos of the church had hoped---and so it had been ordered closed. Later, one of the buildings was used as a hospital, and at one point a convent was situated on the grounds.

And there you have it. A failed mission, a failed hospital, a failed convent and a failed military fortress eventually became a highly successful tourist attraction. Even if they don't make it particularly easy to find.

3. Shooting the Moon

We stopped in Houston, fourth largest city in the U.S., just long enough to examine a van for sale that a friend found listed online. We were quite impressed with it, but in the end we decided it just didn't quite suit our needs. Then we drove a few miles south to Lake Jackson to do some last-minute shopping, laundry and other errands before burrowing into our lodgings for a week to make final preparations for our new show. It was here that we finally felt that we were in Texas proper. (And it's properly pronounced TEK-SIZZ, don't you know.)

You know you're in the thick of Dixie when grease is the foundation of the food pyramid; when the nonsmoking section is a couple of seats surrounded by the smoking section; when Folger's is considered gourmet coffee, and is brewed thin enough to read your insurance policy through it (and don't even ask about decaf, you commie); when radio stations play a variety of music---both country and western; when every pickup has a gun rack; when Confederate flags almost outnumber U.S. flags and often accompany, with no intended irony, stickers that say "United We Stand" ; and when stores feel obliged to inform you, via signs posted on the door, not only that they are closed on Sundays, but that they are closed on Sundays "so our employees may worship with their families."

But there are plenty of endearing qualities about Texas and Texans. When folks here say "have a nice day", they usually mean it, and they have no reservations about striking up a chat with a total stranger in a checkout line, or assisting a stranger in need. One great asset is that Texans often have a self-spoofing awareness of their own folksiness, whether real or stereotypical. (More about this when we get to Galveston.) It was amusing, but shouldn't have been too surprising, to find streets in Lake Jackson named This Way, That Way and Other Way.

Other street names however, are not quite so quaint. These include designations like Glycol Way and Propylene Rd. Lake Jackson seems to be a hub of the refinery/ chemical plant industry that caused Houston to surpass Los Angeles as the smoggiest of American municipalities, belching out exhaust so thick that sometimes you can climb on it. (The previous governor told state industries that they could come up with their own pollution guidelines---and follow them only if they really felt like it. Amazingly, they've all managed to comply with at least one provision of this directive.) We were beginning to wonder just how pleasant our little resort at which we were booked was going to be---a trepidation which, as it turns out, was quite unfounded.

Fortunately, the haze did not interfere that night with our witnessing an amazing and rare phenomenon: a total eclipse of the moon, unhampered by clouds or city lights. We were shopping at a Target store when it first became visible, so we quickly assembled in the parking lot with our binoculars, telescope, camera, tripod and astonishment. Two hours later, after the stores had closed and the parking lot was essentially abandoned, we were still there gazing skyward. But as phenomenal as the eclipse itself was, it was perhaps even more astounding to see how everyone else seemed to ignore it, as if they saw this sort of thing every night.

4. Cowboy Surfers

The next day, we proceeded down the coast a few miles to our "home" for the coming week: the Peregrine Suites. I'm still not sure about the place's actual address, because it's miles away from anything approximating a town. Nearby we saw nothing but a vast expanse of marsh, dotted with a few houses---all built upon stilts, in readiness for the occasional hurricane (which, as it turns out, hit the area pretty hard not long after we left). Oh yes, and on the other side there was the ocean, or rather the Gulf of Mexico. Our digs were literally right on the beach. I'd had a very hard time picturing beachfront property in Texas, but here it was.

The first thing we noticed was that there had been a fire recently---at least two of the units were demolished. This, we learned, was from an accident that occurred when roofers were working on the building. Our host apologized for the unsightliness, but with our flair for the dramatic, we thought it looked rather fascinating. And anyway, there was no inconvenience to us as long as our own room wasn't destroyed.

Our "room" turned out to be a palatial two-bedroom, TWO-STORY townhouse (minus the town), with a complete kitchen and plenty of room to rehearse and spread out the pieces of our set on the floor as Kimberly stitched them together with her sewing machine set up on the dining room table. It was every bit as spacious as one might expect of a spread in Teksizz.

In fact, there were only three drawbacks. First, there were no stores nearby, except for a bait shop or two, which didn't even sell newspapers. If you wanted anything resembling groceries, you had to drive a good 15 miles. Second, there were no phones in the units. That's right, NO PHONES. We had to use our cell phone (which was having technical difficulties) or the pay phone in a little alcove near the laundry room. This is also where we had to go in order to get online. Just a minor convenience, really, except for the third drawback: mosquitoes. I would have expected the little varmints anywhere else in the South, but somehow, I didn't expect them to be such a problem so near the ocean. But by doggies they were there, in Texas-size herds.

All told, though, we had a most pleasant stay, made even more pleasant by the management, who seemed to be out to validate in spades the traditional image of southern hospitality. It's hard to believe that this facility actually is on the same planet as the Reno Econo Lodge. I could tell right away that we'd be leaving a healthy tip when we checked out.

During our week here, I encountered a birthday, and it was, as Kimberly is fond of reminding me, a "big one". Just to rub it in, she conspired with several friends and relatives---from as far away as Japan---to bombard me with Happy Birthday emails. Well, it didn't work. Despite her best efforts, I felt younger than ever---even if I don't look it. Not only did I execute my traditional barefooted birthday cartwheel in the grass with greater agility than ever, but I raced my wife swimming the length of the pool, and for the first time ever, I tied with her---not just once, but twice. And if you think maybe she just took it easy on an old man, you don't know her very well.

Zephyr also got in on the act. While Kimberly and I were out for a clichéd moonlight stroll on the beach, he decorated the place with some of his special effects tricks, designed to take me back in time, he said, to the era when I was born. Accordingly, he wore a caveman costume. My kid is such a card.

I didn't really do anything to celebrate my birthday---I never do. I did bake cornbread for the first time ever ( It turned out rather flat, but Zephyr wolfed it down, so it must have been good). And I listened a couple of times to my all-time favorite record album : "Flood" by They Might Be Giants. Music doesn't get any better. Life itself doesn't get any better.

Zephyr and I soon developed a daily routine of taking a dip in the Gulf, then going to the pool to work on his scouting requirements in swimming. We noticed several differences between the Gulf water and the ocean water to which we were accustomed. First, the former looked brown as opposed to green or blue. This initially caused me some concern, as I had visions of the nearby factories dumping pollutants into the water. But I soon realized that the brown tint was due largely to the extremely gradual slope of the shelf; we found that we could wade out more than 100 yards without even going waist deep. This would be unheard of in California. The shallowness also no doubt contributed to another major difference: it was the warmest salt water I've ever seen, except for what I've gargled with. In fact, it was the first time we've ever been able to stay in sea water without rushing out periodically to thaw.

Unfortunately, another big difference was that the waves were pretty wimpy. We took along our "boogie board" to ride, but we very rarely caught anything that moved us more than ten feet. But then Kimberly, who spent part of her childhood in Hawaii, had to come along and show us how it's really done. Even with the Lilliputian waves she had to work with, she was able to scud along some 50 yards, like a cowboy on a wild bronco.

The beach itself was also different from any we'd ever seen before---mostly because there were vehicles parked on it. What was even more amazing was that these motorists were not charged an access fee. That's right, folks actually can drive their cars, pickups and Rv's right up as close to the water's edge as they dare and hang out their fishing poles. And fishing is THE leisure activity in these parts, pardner. On a typical ocean beach on the West Coast, you might see an isolated fisherperson here and there, but on Teksizz beaches, they are the dominant species by far; and we lonely swimmers have to exercise a great deal of care to avoid straying into the path of a long string with a metal hook at the end.

All too soon, our week at Peregrine came to an end, and we had to pack up and head out into the Texas heat once again.

5. Catching "Tuna"

Before we left the state, we wanted to swing through Galveston, which we've always heard was a favorite vacation destination. We found it to be overrated, but we had a particular reason for wanting to go there: a theatre in town was hosting performances of "Greater Tuna", now in its 20th season of touring.

In case you're unfamiliar with it, "Greater Tuna" is a side-splitting portrait of Tuna, the mythical "third smallest town" in Texas, where "the Lions Club is too liberal, and Patsy Cline never dies". The production started out as a party skit in Austin in 1983, and it was such a big hit that it was developed into a full-scale production by creators Joe Sears, Jaston Williams and Ed Howard, with Sears and Williams performing. It was picked up by a San Francisco producer, and within two years it was the most produced play in the nation. It soon became a franchise with multiple-city (and multiple-cast ) tours, an HBO special, an appearance at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (mentioned in our piece on Seattle), an Off-Broadway incarnation, numerous honors (including a Tony nomination for Sears), two sequels, and two appearances at The White House.

Kimberly and I caught a performance by Sears and Williams 15 years ago in San Francisco, and really loved it. But that, of course, was in our pre-Zephyr days, and we always wished he'd had a chance to see it too. And now, finally, he did. With the original cast, no less.

The show opens with the pair portraying deejays on Tuna's radio station (OKKK) making announcements of local interest, including the auditions for a forthcoming musical theatre production. They emphasize that this is intended to be a racially integrated cast, so minorities are encouraged to "try out for the chorus".

Once we've had a brief introduction to the characters, we start to see them in action---all of whom, male and female, are portrayed by Sears and Williams. It's just about worth the price of admission to see the tall, portly, balding Sears in a dress. The short, rail-thin Williams is a perfect contrast (when we saw him before, he had shoulder-length hair, though now it's closely cropped) and the two play off each other beautifully. In one of his feminine roles, Sears is a busybody who is part of a civic group trying to censor "Romeo and Juliet" at the school library; and Williams, a city reporter, is interviewing "her" about it and asks, "are you aware that Romeo and Juliet was written by William Shakespeare?" To which Sears replies, "yes, and we're thinking about looking into some of his other stuff too." In another scene I particularly like, it's Williams portraying the female, complaining about the homeless problem, with so many of the indigent sleeping under the overpass that "you can't even throw your garbage down there anymore."

In seemed to me that their timing had grown a bit stale over the years, and their diction a bit sloppy---or maybe it was just bad acoustics. But these objections were minor, and overall it was well worth seeing the show again. I recalled how the sophisticated theatre audiences in San Francisco had responded enthusiastically to the Jed-and-Jethro style humor, and I was curious to see how it would play on its home turf, as it were. Well, I do believe that the audience in Teksizz laughed even harder and more frequently. It's been said that part of the appeal of "Greater Tuna" is that anyone who's lived in a small town and/or in the South (I've done both) will find the characters quite familiar. The recognition factor seemed to be quite high indeed on this night in Galveston.

6. Small Steps, Giant Leaps And One Little Miracle

This left one more obligatory stop on our sweep through Lone Star territory. We had to return to the Johnson Space Center in Houston---actually closer to Pasadena, but somehow it just wouldn't sound as somber to say "Pasadena, we have a problem". (Take note o ye conspiracy buffs: the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory is located in Pasadena, California. Just coincidence? Hmmm….

We'd visited the center many years ago (ten? eleven?) when Zephyr was still in diapers, and at that time, we took a tour of the old Mission Control center. I remember the tour guide commenting on how much larger the room looks on TV, and he certainly was right. It was amazing to see how one little room could be the brain center of such a titanic undertaking.

This time, we toured the mock-up center where astronauts train for their missions. It was a Sunday, so the place was abandoned, but we got a rather impressive catwalk view of the numerous space capsules on the floor of the facility.

And then we were on the road again. Actually, we had one more stop in Texas, although a decidedly unplanned one. When our van started acting up (as if it ever stopped), we paused at a shop in Beaumont to have them look at it. All they did was diagnose it and replace a fuel filter, but even so, they accomplished the task with unheard-of speed. From the time we pulled in until the time we left was, I swear, less than an hour---even though they were woefully short-handed because it was Memorial Day. So a big tip of the ten-gallon hat to the boys at Firestone in Beaumont. For a state where folks are reputed to poke along slower than molasses flowing uphill in January, they did their job with legendary swiftness and efficiency.