Long time, no see

Dear Diary, e.g., Blog,

It's been a long time. Since Facebook came into my life, I've been sadly neglecting you, and for that I am sorry.

Hopefully, we can get reacquainted soon!

Your friend, Cowgirl

My Declaration of Independence

I want to:

**Smell stargazer lilies and carnations and roses instead of automobile exhaust fumes and unwashed bodies of poor homeless and helpless people wandering the streets downtown.

**Leisurely stroll the grounds at Lady Bird’s Wildflower center or the Natural Gardner, watching butterflies flit from bush to bush, both of us aimless in our destinations, not continue to stumble along broken concrete sidewalks or be bound by the clock on the wall or the one wound around my wrist, hurrying to get nowhere fast.

**Read, read, read - endlessly enchanting, rich novels or cheap, silly, frou-frou magazines of my own choosing, whenever and as long as I’d like, not have to read or watch depressing news, which never seems to change, and which I cannot do anything about anyway.

**Have dinner or tea and crumpets with friends whose company delights me and who honestly really like me, not have to endure another bad hotel meal with hordes of people whom I barely know and who could not care less about me after I leave their sight or they realize I can’t do anything more for them.

**Drive a borrowed Maserati - really fast! - on a winding Italian road - just once - not have to worry over my sensible, paid-for, ten-year-old Toyota Camry, which may decide to conk out on me at any moment no matter how much I’ve spent trying to maintain it.

**Ride horseback on a beautiful beach somewhere at sunset. Or just be on a beach somewhere - anywhere! - with my toes digging into the wet sand as I amble along, looking for shells and sea glass, listening to seagulls calling above me and smelling the salty air and feeling comforting, wet waves lapping up to greet me.

**Go to sappy chick flicks and cry shamelessly and eat as much buttered popcorn as I want and not have to share it with anybody.

**Love to be loved, truly loved by my own big, strong, selfless, teddy bear of a man, with a heart of gold and no addictions other than to me, and no other agenda in his brain or in his pants.

**See my grandsons with big, happy smiles on their shiny young faces and know they have enough food to eat and are reasonably happy, safe and secure, not worry about their mental state over their parents imminent divorce and whether or not my daughter will be able to pay her bills and feed them.

**Have friends and associates of every color and creed, any and all political persuasions, with whom I can talk freely and express our varied, different views without vitriol and bias and hate and cynicism, or someone having to be all Right or all Left or all Wrong.

**Travel the country in a nice, comfortable little RV, visiting my friends along the way and making new ones, visiting national and state parks and staying in campgrounds, sitting by a campfire under the stars, wrapped in a quilt and sipping brandy.

**Be guiltlessly proud of my country and not hear negative remarks being made by her own citizens or those abroad who do not have any idea of what it means to be an American. I’d like to know that the taxes I have paid will go for good purpose, not another useless war in an ungrateful foreign country, or to bail out a company that should never have been in business in the first place, especially when I might need that money to bail out myself or my own family.

**Be able to retire on what little money I do have and take care of myself, go to the doctor when I need to and not have to rely on the charity of others. But I’d like to know that true charity does exist, just for it’s own sake, not the tax break it will provide.

**Never have to pay taxes again. But I’d also like to live forever, and that ain’t going to happen either.

Mother's Day Tribute

An excerpt from my book, "There was a Little Girl," the chapter titled, "Yankee Gal"....a short tribute to my mother, Catherine Schwobel Lewis.

Some of my fondest memories of my mother were the times she and I attended plays or performances together after I was an adult. My father was never much for that sort of thing, so I was glad to fill in and escort my mother to these events.

Once, because of my marketing position at RepublicBank, I was able to procure a couple of tickets to see a ballet featuring Mikhail Baryshnikov. We attended the performance at the University of Texas’ Performing Arts Center and were invited backstage for the party afterwards. Baryshnikov walked within arms’ distance from my mother. She was as thrilled as a little girl at Christmas and I’ll never forget the look of joy on her face. She was in heaven.

Another memorable performance was A Streetcar Named Desire at St. Edwards University Theater in the Round. I had asked for front row seats so Mom could hear. Jim Smith (of Rich Man, Poor Man television fame) starred as a very muscular, sexy Stanley. In one scene, Stella served him dinner in the kitchen. There were real pork chops, mashed potatoes and black-eyed peas on the plates. We could actually smell the food we were so close. Boy, did it smell tasty! In this particular scene, Stanley proceeded to have one of his temper tantrums and threw his plate. We got black-eyed peas in our laps and hair. Again, the look on Mom’s face was priceless.

When I took Mom to the Paramount Theater to see the play Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, I thought I had made a big mistake when the curtains went up. The opening scene was a pretty graphic depiction of all the goings on at the famed Chicken Ranch along with all alot of hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancing. Even I was a little shocked. I glanced over at Mom who had a dazed and confused look on her face. Fortunately, she got into the spirit of the raucous play and we ended up having a great time.

There is not a day that goes by that I don't miss my mother - and she's been gone for over 20 years now. Ours was a complicated, sometimes difficult, relationship - aren't they all? Yet I'd give everything I own for one more play with her...one more conversation...one more head full of black-eyed peas.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Mystery Man

Austin has got its fair share of seemingly homeless folks all over town, but especially in the downtown area where services and handouts are more accessible for them.

And, as much as most of us would like to think we are open-minded, generous, more inclusive and/or liberal in our views of this sociological situation of homelessness, when it comes down to it, we probably don’t really want to be bothered. Especially when that homeless person is in our face begging for pocket change for some bogus reason when we are just trying to walk to our car after a long day at the office. Or when that homeless person’s lack of personal hygiene makes it impossible to be in their vicinity without our gag reflex kicking into gear. Oh, we might make an anonymous contribution to our favorite charity, but we’d prefer not to get personally involved.

Let’s face it, we would all rather not see or have to deal with this blight on society. We cannot help but make judgments about why and how “these people” managed to find themselves in these unfortunate circumstances. Though we really don’t know…we’re just making assumptions…because of course, we probably haven’t had an actual conversation with any of these homeless folks to find out what happened in their lives to cause them to sleep on iron benches on downtown sidewalks and urinate in hidden corners for lack of a proper toilet. Yet, if we’re honest, we have to admit that the majority of Americans, ourselves included, are just a few paychecks away from being in the same scary situation. It could happen to any of us - even if we’re not a derelict, a psych case or a hopeless alcoholic.

There is one particular middle-aged gentleman I see almost everyday, sitting alone on one of those iron benches near my office, who does not seem to fit any of the aforementioned categories. This mystery man is not harassing anyone for change, nor is he a stumbling drunk. He seems pretty clean, even well-kept, and though he’s not dressed in Abercrombie & Fitch, his clothes are not tattered or shabby. He is pretty thin - I’ve also never seen him eat or drink anything - and his skin is weathered from being outside every day. He just sits there, doing crossword puzzles, hour after hour, with his well-worn backpack at his feet. Occasionally, I think he works Sodoku puzzles. Sometimes, he’s just basking in the sunshine. But he is always alone; I’ve never seen him even speak to another human being. I assume he’s homeless, but I don’t know for sure. Again, I’m making assumptions based on what I see. Why else would anyone be hanging around downtown, if they don’t have a job there, day after day, just sitting on a bench? Doesn’t he have a home to go to?

Often I’ve been tempted to stop and sit quietly next to him on the bench and have even fantasized about engaging him in conversation, to learn his story, to let him know someone cares. If it were me, sitting on that bench, I’d want someone to talk to me.

But he is not me. And that would be too presumptuous of me. I definitely don’t want to intrude on his space or frighten him or embarrass him. What if it’s the only place where he feels OK about himself? Or where he feels safe in his own private inner world? I tell myself that I can’t take the chance of ruining that for him.

On the other hand, what if he is waiting for someone to just talk to him - to simply recognize his existence? Then it would seem I am the one who is derelict, if I don’t do or say something.

Maybe I will - someday.

The Dance

The sounds of an old fashioned Texas thunderstorm woke me one morning. Drowsily, I crept out of bed and cracked open my bedroom balcony door, so I could better see, hear and smell nature’s extravaganza. Then I slid back under my comfortable, warm covers to enjoy the show. The tiny Christmas lights I had hung on my balcony twinkled through the opening, casting a marvelous Technicolor spectrum on my ceiling. As I stared out into the early morning darkness, peacefully reveling in the beautiful multi-sensory experience, suddenly I was jolted into reminiscences of another storm, long ago and far away.

There was nothing beautiful about that storm. It was a frightening test of endurance for me, on an otherwise delightful camping trip with my fiancé. Before that Thanksgiving trip through Arkansas, I was pretty much a virgin when it came to outdoor activities, especially camping. On the other hand, I was anything but virginal when it came to my favorite indoor sport of dancing, being known for tripping the light fantastic at nightclubs around town. As I hovered between dreamland and consciousness in the rainy morning dampness, memories of both twirled around, like well choreographed lovers on the dance floor of my mind.

We were hunting for a place to camp near Ft. Smith, when looming, ominous thunderclouds overtook us late in the afternoon. Abruptly, the worst storm I had ever seen struck with a pillaging, gnashing fury. Ping pong ball hail and sheets of rain were so intense we could not see the cars in front of us. Earth quaking thunder roared and lightning swords slashed open the countryside. The car radio reported roads closed due to widespread flooding. There was no let up in sight. I begged him to pull over, to seek shelter, at which point my Prince Charming rabidly morphed into the Prince of Darkness.

He yelled and cursed at me, insisting that pulling over would be more dangerous. Frightened out of my mind, I cried and begged some more. I could see other cars pulling over along both sides of the highway. But no, inexplicably, he seemed compelled to drive on through that Hell. Finally, furiously, he pulled over under the protection of an overpass. At that point I was not sure if I was more afraid of the storm outside or him, because he was boiling over with hatred, seemingly directed at me.

In the few minutes of respite under that pass, I pled my case for finding a motel for the night. Surely he could not expect to find a place to camp in weather like that, I reasoned. But camping was all he could think about. When he finally did relent, it was with bitter malice spit at me through his clenched teeth. We managed to find a cheap, no-tell-motel just off the highway. He sulked and complained all evening at the motel. He tried his best to make me feel guilty for expecting such an extravagance, insinuating I was less than the ideal companion because I could not tough it out. He completely forgot that I had already successfully and cheerfully camped out several nights on this winter escapade in the rain, wind and cold. Even when we were the only people around who were stupid enough to do so. Even when we had to put up tarps to block the biting wind so that we could light the Coleman stove to cook a meal. Even when I could barely stand because I had horrible menstrual cramps. Yes, I remember that storm.

Later, on the home stretch of that fateful camping trip, my trickster companion shape-shifted back into Prince Charming. That was how our relationship went. One day was horror and the next day was bliss. Heck, sometimes one hour was horror, the next was bliss. It was a constant, vacillating dichotomy of emotions, a roller coaster ride. Yet, when I reflect back and try to remember why I loved him and how much I loved him, and wonder, “Did he ever really love me?” I cannot help but recall another night on that same trip, one of the most romantic evenings we ever spent and how much love we did share, once upon a time.

On that evening, we found ourselves dancing the night away, in spite of the fact that I was not in a dancing mood and probably never felt or looked uglier in my life. Sometimes there is no defining love. It just is. Where it is, when it is, with whom it is. If only we can hold onto, remember those moments.

We had survived Hell Night in the Arkansas storm and were headed south, thankful to be homeward bound. When it was time to stop for the day, we located a place to set up our tent at a Corps of Engineers lakeside park, closed for the season. There was no one else around to object. We finished our spaghetti dinner behind the flapping blue tarp, secured to nearby tree trunks, somewhat protected from the howling winter winds and rain - again. Though it was already pitch dark, it was still early evening, and somehow several hours of playing tiddlywinks in the tent did not sound very appealing. So we opted to venture into town, such as it was, in hopes of finding another way to pass the shank of the evening. There is not much to do in Durant, Oklahoma, but there was a small neighborhood tavern whose winking neon sign beckoned us.

By that time, I was not feeling very well or very pretty, thanks to another bout of menstrual cramps, being bone-tired, stone-cold and road-weary. But for the sake of peace, I was still trying to be a good sport. My hair had not been washed in days. It was plastered to my head, pulled back in a pitiful excuse for a ponytail. My face was also unwashed and had not seen makeup in over twenty-four hours. I was wearing all the clothes I could pile on, plus my clunky, lace-up hiking boots. For a Southern gal who never even goes to the grocery store without her full makeup regalia, this was a definite departure for me. The only way I was able to pull off walking inside that place, was by thinking to myself that those people would never see me again.

Like most establishments of its sort, this one was dingy and smoke-filled. There were only a few folks inside, mostly seated at the bar. Feeling like the wayfarers we were, we sought refuge at a rickety table off to the side in no man’s land, where a tired waitress appeared to take our order. Before we finished our first drinks, we were joined by the establishment’s owner and his faithful dog, Larry, a large, crippled and shaggy, Golden Retriever whose coat had grayed to a mottled blond. His owner, Dwight, was similarly crippled and wheezed from emphysema while he confessed to us he was slowly dying of cancer as well. Nevertheless, daring Death to come get him, Dwight defiantly puffed on his cigarettes the entire evening. Both owner and dog seemed genuinely delighted to have some new folks to hear their stories. Larry instantly fell in love with me and possessively lay himself down on top of my feet under the table. A little bourbon and Coke helped warm me so I could quit worrying about my limp hairdo and lack of makeup. The evening wore on as we all chatted amiably.

Somebody put a quarter in the corner jukebox and a familiar country western tune started to play. Lover Boy looked over at me with a characteristically mischievous twinkle in his eye and asked if I wanted to dance. Reluctant, because I was not wearing my usual high-heeled dancing shoes, I nevertheless demurely acquiesced like Scarlett to Rhett at the Confederate Ball. Of course we were the only ones dancing on that bare concrete floor. But while we were out there, he cajoled me by telling me how sexy he thought I was in those damned hiking boots. And how he loved my chocolate eyes. Shamelessly, I swooned in his big, warm, safe arms as we swayed a simple two-step. And when I looked up into his azure blue eyes that night, I believed everything was possible. I saw nothing but love coming back at me. And we danced. Oh, how we danced.

Eric the Great

My oldest grandson, Eric Miguel, has begun shaving.

He’s only fourteen, but he’s already several inches taller than my daughter, his mom. And there is definitely a little stubble on his upper lip and sideburn area - as I personally inspected. After enduring his grandmother’s scrutiny of his new facial hair, he proudly pointed to his muscular chest which also sports a few nubile hairs and then to his matching tummy fuzz. His voice began changing last year and has finally evened out to a nice baritone. He barely squeaks anymore.

This fall, because of her busy schedule, a couple of times, my daughter asked me to pick Eric up from football practice, which I did gladly to have some alone time with him. Knowing he’d come off the practice field all sweaty and dirty, I was armed with a protective covering for my front passenger seat. As I waited in the parking lot, hoping not to embarrass him in any way with his friends, I witnessed a phenomenon. As he and his buddies click-clacked past me with their football-player cleated feet, there was an ephemeral haze or halo surrounding the boy cluster. I recognized it as a fog of testosterone.

When Eric was born, I was right there in the room, watching the whole wondrous event as he slipped out into the world. Of course it was love at first sight, and I’ve always felt a special bond with him because he was the first grandchild. I have relished watching him grow from a curious, tow-headed toddler busily inspecting the contents of my suitcase, to this budding young man whose vocabulary now includes words I’ve never heard.

At dinner recently, he was telling me about acing a quiz in his Logics class, explaining the finer points of logistical thinking when the light bulb of understanding went off in his own head. Syllogism was the word of the day, meaning “a logical argument involving three propositions: a formal deductive argument made up of a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion.” Truthfully, it was the first time I had ever heard that particular word. Ergo, a vocabulary lesson from my eighth-grader grandson.

Logics is one of the mandatory classes at his Ivy League private, preparatory school. Every high school graduate is required to give a senior thesis, subject yet-to-be-determined, which they will have to present verbally in front of a large audience of teachers, parents and the general public. They are then expected to answer questions in support of their own theses. Quite a lofty undertaking. A lot of people expect great things from these kids. No doubt his class will produce some doctors, lawyers, professors and maybe a senator or two. So what does it matter if a few words are foreign to his ol’ Nana?

Eric’s younger brothers, whom I love equally, both came by their affectionate “Nana Nicknames” easily. For some reason they just rolled out of my head in the process of being around them. Ethan Ricardo, my middle grandson, became “Ethan Ricardo Montalban,” much to everyone’s amusement. Baby Eli became “Elias Augustus” and holds court at every opportunity, living up to Caesar’s standards. But for some reason, I just could never hit on a catchey nickname for Eric - until now.

There is no disputing that Eric is no longer a baby. He’s much closer to a man now than a baby. Witnessing his maturation has finally unveiled an appropriate nickname for him in my mind. He will be “Eric the Great” for the rest of his life - whether he likes it or not.

-30-

Returning to My Roots

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.

-30-