Deep in the Heart of Texas

In between the Land of Enchantment (New Mexico) and the Sportsman’s Paradise (Louisiana) there is a very large piece of largely flat territory called Texas. Driving across it, as we did recently requires fortitude, patience, and strong survival skills. Texas does not make things easy.

The first thing the driver notices is that Texas highways never cross singly. Five highways come together even in small towns. This produces street signs showing the various directions and highways, generally all posted on one (or at most two) poles. Since all five highways converge within short distances, they produce high speed traffic all changing lanes at once. “I think we missed it” ought to be the state driving song. It’s like the New Jersey joke about their freeways: I can see where I want to be but not how to get there.” In Texas, on the other hand, you can’t see where you want to be. In other states, bridges fly over rivers and railroad tracks. In Texas they fly over other freeways.

Then there are the various exotic sights along the way. In Lousiana and Alabama it is highway patrol cars about every quarter of a mile, sitting in the trees beside the road or lights flashing and pulled up behind some guilty motorist. Amazingly for all that presence, speeding cars shot past us and we were doing five over. In Texas we didn’t see anyone pulled over for speeding but we did find especially fragrant dead skunks every quarter mile who seemed to come out at night to commit mass suicide. We couldn’t miss their sacrifice because the wind never stopped buffeting the car.

Epecially intriguing, however, were the towns along the highway where one stops for the night, if only to rest from the wind and avoid hitting the skunks. We settled on stopping at one (which shall be nameless) and found a motel. It was Sunday. The choices for dining were Sonic, MacDonalds, and a “family restaurant.”
“What’s a family restaurant?” I asked Sid.
“Maybe it has a kids’ menu,” he replied.
“Doubt it,” I said, “bet they don’t serve alcohol.”
We were both right. As it turned out, the town was dry, meaning there was absolutely no place we could have a beer or glass of wine. The motel clerk said we’d have to drive fifteen miles to a town that did permit alcohol but since it was Sunday they would be closed. So, after battling the Texas highways, we were forced to settle in the family restaurant for iced tea and the salad bar, which also looked as if it was at the end of a very long day. It wasn’t long before I realized that everyone in the restaurant was politely trying not to look at us. I was dressed in my Marmot purple ski jacket and felt very Denver city slicker. Added to this was the silence with which people were eating. All that could be heard was the chink of cutlery on china as people methodically ate their dinners.
“This is like the night of the living dead,” Sid whispered to me.
I waited until we were outside to sum up my feelings. I wasn’t kind. As we got in the car, I whispered back to Sid “God-fearing people, salt of the earth, voted for their native son George, and sent their sons to war.” I don’t know why I was so churlish. Maybe it was because I was still smelling skunk.

Then we drove down the road and passed the courthouse with its war memorial. It had the largest memorial I have ever seen in a small town with what looked like hundreds of tiny incised names. My god, I thought, what would the military do without the young men from these small towns? I did have the grace to feel a little bad about my earlier comment. But the guilt didn’t last long when I got back to the motel and found that the wireless access wasn’t working.

I have decided that there are certain portions of the United States that God intended should be flown over. One of those stretches is I-80 across southern Wyoming. Another is southern Idaho where the jackrabbits are said to pack lunch. But you can now add to those the entire northern part of the state of Texas.