Tag: Texas

Deep in the Heart

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.

Lone Star

The building was nondescript.

Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.

It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.

Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.

I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.

The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.

After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.

She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.

My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.

Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.

A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.

In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.

It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.

It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.

I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.

Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.

Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.

But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.

I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.

When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.

In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.

But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.

Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.

I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.

I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.

That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.

I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.

That was probably for the best.

“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush

Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.

My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.

So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.

Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.

Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.

I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.

As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.

Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.

Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.

After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.

I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.

But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.

Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland

About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.

I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.

I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.

Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.

But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.

Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.

And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.

The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.

As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.

I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.

The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.

I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.

But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.

I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.

I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.

Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.

River Tales

I recently took a trip with some friends down to Central Texas to float the Guadalupe River. It was an epic weekend filled with hot sun, cold beers and adventure. A summertime treat.

Tubing might seem like a simple venture, but here in Texas, it’s a sacred pastime — a fact that becomes ever more apparent to me each time I do it. For while Texas has countless rivers and lakes, thousands of people converge upon two of them — the Comal and the Guadalupe — in and around the city of New Braunfels each summer. So, on a scorching afternoon, you’re likely to see the river packed with inner tubes and floating coolers. It’s like a giant floating fiesta.

Still, for all the tradition and pageantry of tubing the Guadalupe, it’s a bit surprising that I’ve taken to this activity the way I have. I abhor mud and rocky rapids, and I’ve historically been more inclined to be in the water than on it —  particularly when the mercury hits triple digits. On the surface, tubing would not appear to be “my jam.”

Yet, every time I wade into the refreshingly cool water and climb up into my inner tube, it’s like I’m born again. What gives?

I gave this contradiction much thought during this most recent trip. Then I opened my eyes and realized my answer was all around me.

You see, tubing combines the best of what Texas has to offer in one setting. It melds the serenity of rivers in the picturesque Hill Country with cold beers and friendly people out to have a good time. It’s both individual and communal, peaceful and exciting. There’s something in it for everyone.

And while there are some drawbacks to setting a bunch of people and booze on a natural current, the plusses are that much greater. Tubing has turned New Braunfels — a small city between San Antonio and Austin — into a summertime mecca, complete with more hotels and restaurants than many Texas towns its size can boast. This, in turn, has produced plenty of jobs around town for the locals — to go along with those offered by the tube rental businesses upriver.

Just as importantly, tubing allows Texans of all origins to come together in one place. On my most recent journey downriver, I met people from Houston and Odessa — two cities 500 miles apart. While it’s no secret that Texas is a big state, it is a secret outside these parts that Texas is the Caddo word for “friend.” And while some like to spin the narrative that Texans are angry gun-wielding pickup truck drivers, the real narrative is right there on that river — where strangers from far corners of the state gather as friends in peaceful recreation.

Yes, the stories are what I love the most about tubing the Guadalupe. The story of the river winding through limestone hills, same is it did back when the buffalo roamed free. The story of how some pioneering Texans created a summer recreational paradise on those waters, all while taking little more than what the river and hills already gave them. The story of how a small Texas town became a renowned destination. The story of how people from all over Texas take part in the experience, socializing with strangers along the way. And yes, the stories of the adventures you encounter on the way downstream.

(Those tend to be a doozy, as was the case on this recent trip.)

These stories are what makes this activity so timeless and resonant. At the core, these stories what it means to be Texan.

I realize how special all of that is. And it’s why I’m already excited for my next trip down the river, whenever that may be.

The Essence of Texas

I am a proud Texan. I drink my coffee from a Come and Take It mug, have a Lone Star flag emblem on the back of my SUV and care about March 2nd more than y’all do. Texas soil is sacred to me, and I consider it an honor to live on top of it.

But I’m not a native Texan. Far from it.

So how does someone who spends his childhood more than a thousand miles from the banks of the Red River identify with the land that lies between it and the Rio Grande? Safe to say, this uniquely authentic place has captivated me like none other.

And I’m not alone. Over the years, I’ve gotten dozens of non-Texans addicted to Torchys Tacos. My barbeque brisket has gotten such rave reviews up north that it’s become a holiday tradition. And I’ve been promised return visits from out-of-state family and friends who were pleasantly surprised by how much they enjoyed their time here. Yes, I’m sure my presence has something to do with it, but the unique aura of Texas has had some effect.

But my enveloping connection with Texas goes much deeper than exposure to good food, warm weather and Lone Star charm. Being a Texan has as much to do with the way you live your life as where you live it.

Values are everything in Texas. Doing the right thing matters here, and that includes treating others the right way. This is a breath of fresh air in a world that seems to glorify self-aggrandizement, entitlement, indulgence and misbehavior. Texas hospitality is relic of a more decent time, one which has been sustained into a more advanced and inclusive era.

Of course, Texan values are about more than how you treat others. They’re also about standing up for yourself. It’s a doctrine that found its roots within the walls of the Alamo, and is rooted within the souls of Texans today.

Don’t Mess With Texas is more than just a hollow saying, as Jose Bautista recently found out. (It should be noted that the source of that right hook — Venezuela native Rougned Odor — has quickly ascended to the status of Texan for his very public display of this value.) While violence is not encouraged, standing up for oneself most certainly is.

This complex mix of values serves the backbone of the collective spirit known as Texanism. We are proud to be Texans; by and large, we see no shame in publicizing that.

This is not always an easy concept for others to grasp. A recent New York Times article — written by a Texas resident who grew up in California — passed off Texanism as a regional, commercialized resistance to America’s rapidly evolving culture. I couldn’t disagree more.

Texanism is quite authentic; it’s a tacit solidarity embedded within the souls of those who do right by each other and stand up for themselves. Texanism not about resisting change; it’s about respectfully and gracefully accepting it without sacrificing our identity.

This is what makes Texas uniquely special, this compromise between new ideals and time-honored traditions. Openness is demanded, but heritage is still protected. Independence is lauded but respect is expected. Standing up for yourself is on equal footing with looking out for others. And morality is both a personal and collective responsibility.

Ultimately, the essence of Texas is finding balance in ideals — a concept I believe quite strongly in.

This is why Texas is a part of me. And I’m a part of it.

I am a Texan. I wouldn’t have it any other way.