It was hard to miss.
As I drove by the pasture on the way to work, an irrigator was hard at work dampening the sod.
An industrial-strength spigot fired blasts of water 10 feet in the air, before gravity and the wind took over. The water would fall to the ground in a thick mist, allowing one pump to bring water to several square feet of land.
Then the fixture would rotate a bit. It would reload, firing a blast of hydration to fall on an adjoining patch of ground.
This pattern continued until the circle was complete. Then the cycle would start again.
The morning sunlight made all this quite a spectacle. The water appeared as a transparent curtain as it fell back to earth. A million tiny bubbles were transfixed in the air.
It was a sight reminiscent of an exotic destination. A waterfall secluded in the jungle, perhaps. Or the craggy cliff face where the frothy sea collided with the land.
And yet, this location was anything but.
No, this water was falling on land as flat as a pancake. Across the pasture, some longhorn steers grazed. And behind the thick mist was the asphalt of a highway and the glass façade of an office tower.
This was Texas personified. And I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.
Every fall, pictures of massive corsages proliferate through social media.
The floral displays are up to three feet high. And they often adorn the fronts of dresses that high school girls wear to the homecoming dance.
Or so I’m told.
You see, the spectacle of mums at the homecoming dance is a distinctly Texan tradition. It exemplifies the school-age experience in the Lone Star State — an experience I never had.
I was 20 years old when I first set foot in Texas, and 22 when I formally made it my home.
I still had some maturing to do in those days of early adulthood. But there was no doubt that I’d grown up elsewhere.
This dichotomy has dogged me a bit.
Sure, I chose to dig my boots into Lone Star soil at my earliest adult opportunity. But I can never claim to be a Texas Native.
The region I can claim native status in – the Northeastern United States – well, I left it at my earliest opportunity. I was a high school graduate, a teenager who realized that many of his happiest moments were found on vacations far from home.
I yearned to follow the thread of that intuition, to try out somewhere new for size. And college offered the perfect opportunity to do just that.
So, I moved from New York to Miami. And I spent my undergraduate years under the warm South Florida sun.
The experiment had mixed results. I was grateful to be out of the Northeast, harboring no real desire to return for the long haul. And I thrived in school, ultimately graduating with honors.
But as that graduation date approached, I was overcome by a certain feeling. A feeling that Florida could not be my forever home.
I belonged somewhere else. But where?
I was sorting through that question when I got a job offer in West Texas. I accepted without hesitation. And not long after moving west, I recognized that I’d found my answer.
This is where I was meant to be all along.
Growing up in America’s oldest and most populated region meant making several assumptions.
The winters would be cold. The summers would be sticky. And no matter the weather, the traffic would be awful.
From an early age, I recognized that my family’s suburban home had a modest backyard and no garage. But at least we had a yard and a car. I know plenty of people without either.
I never did ask why we all signed up for this. I didn’t have to.
Even as a child, I understood that the Northeast was a vanguard of culture and a beacon of professional opportunity. That’s why most of my family had made their home in the region. And why the families of my friends had done the same.
I respected that tradition, even as I moved to defy it. But the reactions I got for doing so caught me off guard.
Family and friends would lampoon my new home, evoking the most outlandish stereotypes. They’d rail against politics in Texas. Or they’d derisively refer to the state as The Flyover Zone.
I brought this on myself to some degree. On my first trip north after my move, I sported boots, Wrangler jeans, and a belt buckle – in the middle of summer.
But as the years flew by — and it became clear that I wasn’t moving back — the derision continued. It was as if my choice to swap zip codes was a betrayal. A wayward trek that flaunted an invisible boundary.
This rankled me.
The winding road had finally led me home. Yet, I was still the only one to accept it.
The pasture was now in my rearview mirror.
As the shadow of the office tower hovered over me, my mind began to wander.
I saw beauty all around me. In the rustic cattle patch bathed in sunlight. In the curtain of mechanical mist dampening it. And in the modern marvels – the highway and the office building – providing a backdrop.
Maybe that vista wasn’t everyone else’s cup of tea. But it sure was mine.
I suppose this is a prime reason why I’ve remained steadfast in my devotion to the Lone Star State. Perhaps it’s why I’ve grudgingly endured the underhandedness from those who reside far beyond the Pine Curtain.
Texas is deep in the heart of me. I’ve found beauty in both its grandeur and its monotony. I’ve found grace in the kindness of its populace. I’ve found grit through its tradition of resilience.
I’ve found myself through it all.
Others might not see what I see here. And ultimately, they don’t have to.
I just hope that they respect my decision. My right to put a stake in Lone Star ground. And to find peace on the Southern Plains.
Home is where the heart is. Mine resides here.