Finding roots in a rootless world
An old man is exiting his truck in that wobbly, ponderous way that says: "I'm from here. My grandparents were from here, and I'm in no hurry to get inside." Metal chairs are in rows under a gingham tent on the lawn. More men are keeping guard of the barbecue pits while women huddle together off to the side and tell stories. Our car creeps past and they look up for only a moment, just enough time for the gaze of curiosity to ripen to resignation. We are not from here.
Down the road we turn onto a gravel road into old West tourist town. The Tin Star Ranch is a huddle of log cabins, an ancient church and a plastic-bottomed pond. We are staying on the end in the Frontier Cabin. A creaky porch with requisite rocking chairs leads inside to a chair made of cow horns and animal hides. In the bedroom, under a poster for Buckskin Bill's Wild West Show is our rustic bedroom and Jacuzzi tub. I turn the air conditioning down to arctic and my wife Tiffany and I settle in.
This is our latest Hill Country getaway. When Austin, the city of my birth, gets too hectic, we head to the Gasthaus Schmidt reservation service in Fredericksburg, plop down a credit card and take up residence in nature, or reasonable facsimile of.
We picked up the bed and breakfast keys earlier in the afternoon and wandered Fredericksburg's Main Street, a marvel of conspicuous Texas chic consumption--quilts and potholders with American flag themes, overpriced antiques from France, aromatic candles and soaps in tasty flavors like ginger and peach, Texas stars, fruity wine.
We've been coming to Fredericksburg for a decade but have begun to talk about it in the past tense. The Admiral Nimitz birthplace on Main was our first favorite bed and breakfast, its walls thick with permanence. I pictured my wife, then a new source of beauty in my life. She sat cross-legged in the doorway holding a glass wine and gazing into the courtyard at the light rain drizzling atop an old-fashioned well. Now the house was full of shops. The Jacuzzi location was now fresh wood and a makeshift changing room. Fredericksburg's former hospital, which remained open as a doctors' office until recently, was filled with more shops. Cabinets that once held patient charts were stuffed with trinkets. The nurse's window served up coffee and snacks.
Down the street, the Palace Theater logo still promised once-nightly first-run features. We wandered inside fondly recalling the sticky floors, salty sweet snacks and squeaky seats. The screen was now painted with a Southwestern motif of clouds and mountains as part of its transformation to a link in an upscale clothing chain with outlets in Santa Fe and California. The balcony held a faux pueblo dwelling reeking of New Mexico. Rack upon rack of brightly colored clothing filled the auditorium.
I had no right to complain. A fraud, remember? This was not my town. I was a visitor, the sales clerk's unseeing eyes said. Another just like the others. Part of the problem.
I think of the Californication of Austin. How I cringe when I hear the complaint: "Everything has changed so much since I moved here." Six months ago. A year back. In the '80s. The string of corpses fallen to the bottom line: Liberty Lunch, the Stallion, the Americana, the Armadillo World Headquarters. Blah, blah, blah, blah.
Across the street from my Austin home a string of shiny SUVs constantly idle next to the pricey private school, all pretending to ignore the NO STOPPING, NO STANDING signs as traffic stalls like a vein congesting with cholesterol. I saw identical faces in the Fredericksburg shops and bury the wisdom in my brain: I have no right to complain.
We stopped at the Main Book Store and flipped through the Texana section. Tiffany, the daughter of German and Czech pioneers of Texas, bought a book about her ancestors. I grabbed "Southwest Stories," a compilation of short fiction by people who all seem to be from somewhere else. Chicago's Sandra Cisneros writes about San Antonio. Kentucky's Barbara Kingsolver opines about the Arizona heat. Larry McMurtry, a Texas nerd, pens tales of manly Texas cowboys.
Back at the Tin Star Ranch we pull up rocking chairs and read amid the neener-neener-neener of playful birds. Grasshoppers pop over our feet. Across the pecan bottom authentic longhorns moan as if asking wwwhhhyyy? Why are you here?