My latest sojourn took me to my roots in the Texas Hill Country, a place where my paternal grandmother’s folks, the Bergmann family, originally set down theirs, in Boerne. The Bergmann Lumber Company building is still the most prominent on Main Street.The new writers group I’ve joined, Texas Non-Fiction Writers, held its first conference there at the Cibolo Nature Center, and as soon as I learned about it, I signed myself up. The price was right, and the place was certainly right - I’ve always enjoyed Boerne with its quaint shops and overall relaxed, pastoral atmosphere, plus I was intrigued by an opportunity to see the Cibolo preserve.
Shopping online for a place to stay for the weekend was fairly painless, quick and easy. I chose what I thought to be a quaint, inexpensive old, circa 1950’s hotel downtown called the Vistro and made my reservation. Apparently there were several things going on in town that weekend which caused a shortage of hotel or B&B space - usually my favorite way to go, but there were none of those left. There was a huge antique show which draws dozens of dealers from all over, a couple of large weddings and the writers conference. So I was lucky to get a room of any kind.
Or so I thought.
As soon as I hit town, I stopped by the hotel to check in and freshen up; the conference started after lunch which I had eaten on the road. Right away, I became worried because there didn’t seem to be anyone to check me in…at the adjoining restaurant which doubled as a reservation desk. Finally a woman came around to do the honors and give me a room key, though she said the room was not ready yet. I said OK, fine, I’ll come back later, took the key and left for my conference - a bit hurried by then and un-freshened.
Boerne is a fairly small town so it didn’t take ten minutes to get to the Nature Center, which was a feast for the senses, yet peaceful and serene. The education room was filled with interesting folks, both attendees and speakers. Being a self-proclaimed ignoramus, embarrassingly enough, I knew little to nothing about the presenters before the show began. But they were all illustrious in their own rights and I was impressed with the credentials of each one. They all brought their own books to sell and sign at the breaks between speakers.
One of my favorites was James Haley, who authored One Ranger Returns, a sequel biography for Joaquin Jackson, the retired Texas Ranger who had been a speaker at my conference in Waco, and whom I truly admire. Haley was entertaining and enthusiastic as well as a Texas history expert, in particular, with regard to Sam Houston.
My next favorite speaker was Andrew Sansom, who is definitely the subject expert on water in Texas, and who has written several books of environmental importance. He had in fact been a former director of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department. The fact that Mr. Sansom was not only knowledgeable about his chosen topic, but had an ease of speaking, engaging the audience in a non-assuming way, which combined with the most touching personal stories, made him the best speaker of the whole lot, in my opinion.
Not to be outdone, were two women speakers who brought humor and entertainment into the program, along with their various areas of expertise. Jan Wrede is the Director of Education at the Cibolo Nature Center and has written and self-published a field guide of the native plants there. She could also do stand up comedy - had a natural sense of comedic timing with kind of a ditzy twist.
Dr. Kathleen Hudson, professor of English at Schreiner University in Kerrville, presented in the form of her alter ego, Belle Star, and dressed to fit the character. Her writing subject, her passion (a common thread with all the presenters was writing about your passion) is Texas Music, so I knew right away that she and I were soul sisters. Her other passion is horses and that sealed the deal for me. Her most recent book, Women in Texas Music, features one of my favorite singers, Carolyn Wonderland, on its cover. I asked for and received some private time to visit with her later in the afternoon, about our many synchronistic paths.
The common threads with all the writer presenters were: (1) not to expect to get rich as a writer; (2) write about your passion; (3) for dedicated writers, writing is a compulsion, something that just must be done; (4) self-publishing and self-promotion is highly encouraged. While in the company of these great minds and experts in various fields, I felt totally inept and unworthy, yet I found all of these points to be validating.
During one of the many breaks, where refreshments were served on the wonderful wrap around porch, I realized one of my fellow attendees was Carmen Goldthwaite, with whom I share a mutual friend, my dinner buddy, Kathi. It was a pleasant surprise and we agreed to meet for dinner that evening in town.
After the sessions were over, I returned to my as-yet-unseen hotel room to finally freshen up so I could meet Carmen and her friend for dinner. The room was wide open to the world when I got there with its antique air conditioner running full blast. Hmmm. It didn’t take long to figure out why that was the case…the carpet was soaking wet, recently “cleaned.” Oh, well, it would dry soon, surely, I hoped, plus I had to meet the ladies, so I didn’t take time to complain.
We had to hunt for a new dinner place - derailed by one of the weddings taking over the whole restaurant. I happened to know about another good restaurant from a previous trip, so we enjoyed a lovely dinner on the porch at the Kendall Inn, an historic spot. It got a little chilly later, but the hotel had a wonderful outdoor fireplace which we enjoyed as we strolled around the grounds of the hotel.
That night back in my hotel room was the worst night I can remember…miserable. The room stank of moldy, wet carpet, not unlike a wet dog. Even after finally complaining to the management about the carpet, there was nothing to be done about it, because there were no other rooms available.
So the staff put an armload of bath towels down from the bed to the bathroom for me, in an attempt to make my walking path more comfortable. But it was so wet, I was literally slogging through water all night on my trips to potty. By morning those towels were soaked with no dry carpet in sight. The only safe, dry place was in the bed and I wasn’t all that sure about the sheets. I had vowed to check out the next morning whether I was able to find another hotel or not - assuming I didn’t wake up dead of Legionnaire’s Disease. I promised myself that I’d call a couple of the other hotels and if they could take me, fine. But if not, I’d just drive home and not stay over as planned.
By 7am the next morning, I was phoning. One hotel never answered the phone; only had a machine doing the job. But then I tried the Kendall Inn where we had dinner the night before. That young man was very helpful but the reservation computer was down. So I had to continue calling back at each break until finally, he got me a room because of a cancellation. Eureka!
The Wet Dog No-Tell Motel was very apologetic and refunded me one half of the night and released me from my reservation. I left the conference during lunch to switch hotels and was gleefully surprised with a gorgeous, clean and comfortable room at the Kendall with beautiful, dry hardwood floors. I was in heaven. And much relieved.
There was a nice little welcome basket of goodies in my room. From a gilded letter inside, I learned its intended recipient had been a guest of the wedding party which was obviously supposed to be staying there too. Their cancellation, my salvation.
After the conference, I did a little obligatory shopping and drove around town looking at real estate and searching for the cemetery where I knew several of my relatives must be buried, but I never found it. Later I treated myself to a gourmet dinner at yet another restaurant before retiring to my decadent little nest for the evening. I was looking forward to lounging and reading and relaxing the night away, and fell asleep, book in hand, because I had had virtually no sleep at the Wet Dog Motel the night before.
Wrong!
Around 8pm, I was practically knocked out of bed with sounds of a very loud, big band. And I do mean LOUD. They were playing on the patio between my cabin and the main hotel area. Dancing, drinking and partying were obviously going on.
OK. I can deal with this, I thought to myself. Surely it can’t go on all night. Don’t be a stick in the mud, Gail. It’s a wedding reception. They’re having fun. So I decided to just read and hope it was over soon. The silver lining was that this band was the absolute best party band I’ve ever heard. Bar none. And I’ve heard some bands in my time.
The Jokers Wild, they are called, out of San Antonio, I later learned from the young man at the front desk. This band reeled off every single best, top 40 song you could think of, every genre from country to blues and even rap, and did not even take a break for over 2 hours. They rocked the house. Hell, they rocked the whole dang town. I thoroughly enjoyed it! Even thought of getting dressed again and going out to join in the dancing. Hey, I’m not so old and jaded that I’ve forgotten how! I figured the party goers wouldn’t know the difference anyway. They’d probably just figure I was somebody’s crazy old Aunt Maude or something. But I didn’t.
Finally, gratefully, they did quit playing around 10pm, the town curfew. Unfortunately, however, that was not the end of the partying. Oh, no. They were just getting ginned up! And I do mean ginned up! I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next couple of hours as the whooping and laughing and joking and squealing continued right outside my door. At 2am, I said to myself that was enough and called the front desk. Shortly after, there was peace in the valley again. And sleep. Blissful sleep.
I slept in Sunday morning a bit, took a leisurely shower and had a wonderful breakfast, again on the veranda...remnants from the partying still laying around the hotel grounds. Slowly, a few hungover-looking individuals began creeping about by the time I checked out. All that pain after all that fun. Another dichotomy of life.
My drive home was another. I chose to go the back roads, a favorite scenic route from Blanco through Wimberley. Trouble was, so did a pack of hundreds of Lance Armstrong bicyclers out on a Sunday benefit ride. Weaving in and around those bikers on a hilly, narrow country road did not lend itself to fondly observing the flora and fauna as I had hoped. But maybe it wasn’t supposed to.
All of my adventures seem fraught with dichotomies - extremes of good and bad, nasty wet carpet and gleaming hardwood floors, rain storms and sunshine. This one was no different.
The conference was better than expected, the location was comfortable and comforting despite my experience at the Wet Dog Hotel. My roots are still there - the Bergmann’s chiseled limestone building still standing even though I didn’t find the cemetery. It’s all still there. I can go back anytime I want. Or not.
No matter what I do or don’t do, write or don’t write, publish or don’t publish, bikers will always ride, bands will always play, birds will always chirp, and there will always be another starry-eyed young couple getting married whether I dance at their wedding or not.
During one of the many breaks, where refreshments were served on the wonderful wrap around porch, I realized one of my fellow attendees was Carmen Goldthwaite, with whom I share a mutual friend, my dinner buddy, Kathi. It was a pleasant surprise and we agreed to meet for dinner that evening in town.
After the sessions were over, I returned to my as-yet-unseen hotel room to finally freshen up so I could meet Carmen and her friend for dinner. The room was wide open to the world when I got there with its antique air conditioner running full blast. Hmmm. It didn’t take long to figure out why that was the case…the carpet was soaking wet, recently “cleaned.” Oh, well, it would dry soon, surely, I hoped, plus I had to meet the ladies, so I didn’t take time to complain.
We had to hunt for a new dinner place - derailed by one of the weddings taking over the whole restaurant. I happened to know about another good restaurant from a previous trip, so we enjoyed a lovely dinner on the porch at the Kendall Inn, an historic spot. It got a little chilly later, but the hotel had a wonderful outdoor fireplace which we enjoyed as we strolled around the grounds of the hotel.
That night back in my hotel room was the worst night I can remember…miserable. The room stank of moldy, wet carpet, not unlike a wet dog. Even after finally complaining to the management about the carpet, there was nothing to be done about it, because there were no other rooms available.
So the staff put an armload of bath towels down from the bed to the bathroom for me, in an attempt to make my walking path more comfortable. But it was so wet, I was literally slogging through water all night on my trips to potty. By morning those towels were soaked with no dry carpet in sight. The only safe, dry place was in the bed and I wasn’t all that sure about the sheets. I had vowed to check out the next morning whether I was able to find another hotel or not - assuming I didn’t wake up dead of Legionnaire’s Disease. I promised myself that I’d call a couple of the other hotels and if they could take me, fine. But if not, I’d just drive home and not stay over as planned.
By 7am the next morning, I was phoning. One hotel never answered the phone; only had a machine doing the job. But then I tried the Kendall Inn where we had dinner the night before. That young man was very helpful but the reservation computer was down. So I had to continue calling back at each break until finally, he got me a room because of a cancellation. Eureka!
The Wet Dog No-Tell Motel was very apologetic and refunded me one half of the night and released me from my reservation. I left the conference during lunch to switch hotels and was gleefully surprised with a gorgeous, clean and comfortable room at the Kendall with beautiful, dry hardwood floors. I was in heaven. And much relieved.There was a nice little welcome basket of goodies in my room. From a gilded letter inside, I learned its intended recipient had been a guest of the wedding party which was obviously supposed to be staying there too. Their cancellation, my salvation.
After the conference, I did a little obligatory shopping and drove around town looking at real estate and searching for the cemetery where I knew several of my relatives must be buried, but I never found it. Later I treated myself to a gourmet dinner at yet another restaurant before retiring to my decadent little nest for the evening. I was looking forward to lounging and reading and relaxing the night away, and fell asleep, book in hand, because I had had virtually no sleep at the Wet Dog Motel the night before.
Wrong!
Around 8pm, I was practically knocked out of bed with sounds of a very loud, big band. And I do mean LOUD. They were playing on the patio between my cabin and the main hotel area. Dancing, drinking and partying were obviously going on.
OK. I can deal with this, I thought to myself. Surely it can’t go on all night. Don’t be a stick in the mud, Gail. It’s a wedding reception. They’re having fun. So I decided to just read and hope it was over soon. The silver lining was that this band was the absolute best party band I’ve ever heard. Bar none. And I’ve heard some bands in my time.
The Jokers Wild, they are called, out of San Antonio, I later learned from the young man at the front desk. This band reeled off every single best, top 40 song you could think of, every genre from country to blues and even rap, and did not even take a break for over 2 hours. They rocked the house. Hell, they rocked the whole dang town. I thoroughly enjoyed it! Even thought of getting dressed again and going out to join in the dancing. Hey, I’m not so old and jaded that I’ve forgotten how! I figured the party goers wouldn’t know the difference anyway. They’d probably just figure I was somebody’s crazy old Aunt Maude or something. But I didn’t.
Finally, gratefully, they did quit playing around 10pm, the town curfew. Unfortunately, however, that was not the end of the partying. Oh, no. They were just getting ginned up! And I do mean ginned up! I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next couple of hours as the whooping and laughing and joking and squealing continued right outside my door. At 2am, I said to myself that was enough and called the front desk. Shortly after, there was peace in the valley again. And sleep. Blissful sleep.
I slept in Sunday morning a bit, took a leisurely shower and had a wonderful breakfast, again on the veranda...remnants from the partying still laying around the hotel grounds. Slowly, a few hungover-looking individuals began creeping about by the time I checked out. All that pain after all that fun. Another dichotomy of life.
My drive home was another. I chose to go the back roads, a favorite scenic route from Blanco through Wimberley. Trouble was, so did a pack of hundreds of Lance Armstrong bicyclers out on a Sunday benefit ride. Weaving in and around those bikers on a hilly, narrow country road did not lend itself to fondly observing the flora and fauna as I had hoped. But maybe it wasn’t supposed to.
All of my adventures seem fraught with dichotomies - extremes of good and bad, nasty wet carpet and gleaming hardwood floors, rain storms and sunshine. This one was no different.
The conference was better than expected, the location was comfortable and comforting despite my experience at the Wet Dog Hotel. My roots are still there - the Bergmann’s chiseled limestone building still standing even though I didn’t find the cemetery. It’s all still there. I can go back anytime I want. Or not.
No matter what I do or don’t do, write or don’t write, publish or don’t publish, bikers will always ride, bands will always play, birds will always chirp, and there will always be another starry-eyed young couple getting married whether I dance at their wedding or not.
-30-
