FALLING IN LOVE WITH TEXAS

          I, who hate road trips, didn't want this one to end, it was so beautiful. I've missed the California landscape something fierce these nineteen months living in Texas.  Sure, I get to see the ocean on my trips to Santa Monica, but there's nothing I love more than a really broad open landscape with far away mountains containing the vast space in between, such as the Salinas Valley or the San Joaquin Valley when the mountains are capped with snow.

          No snow here, but lovely vistas of rolling cedar covered hills and plenty of yellow and orange wildflowers.  The landscape changed dramatically when I got "way out west" and poor Fort Davis is barren and dry. Two huge wildfires are raging and the air in the evenings smelled of smoke and created eerie sunsets.  I was amazed by the variety of types of mountains – one looks like a loaf of brown bread, then a few rolling hills, then steep bluffs like a thousand Buddhas standing side by side. Then out of nowhere a cone shaped mountain looks like fine black coal poured into a perfect point.  John says it's because the land "makes a transition" there, whatever that means.

          Aside from the beauty of the views I enjoyed the well maintained highway (Interstate 10 most of the way, then south on 17/118). Not one pothole or any cracked pavement the entire way. Every white and yellow line looks as if it were painted yesterday. The speed limit is 80 most of the way (I went 75) and the left lane is for passing only. I bet this results in less wear and tear on the passing lane and saves money on repairs.

          My favorite sign is triangular shaped and says, "Drive Friendly."  Instead of "$500 fines for littering" (or more) which I saw all over California, here a simple "Don’t Mess With Texas" or "Littering is unlAWFUL" seem to get the message across because I saw no litter the entire way there and back again – 770 miles round trip.  

          I liked everyone I met at the conference. Thirty-six attended.  I'm thrilled that a dynamic woman, originally from Minnesota turns out to live two blocks from me! We're going to proof read each others' manuscripts.

          I had many deep conversations on topics of religion, philosophy, the state of our schools, books, writing and personal tales.  Writers love to share ideas so there was never a lack of topics to discuss.

          Of the three presenters my favorite was Mike Blakely, singer, songwriter and historical novelist. He's married to a beautiful, graceful young woman (horse-woman, hunter, yoga teacher) who sings with him. They're an adorable couple. I fell in love with both of them and danced to Mike's music, the last night, under the stars, after our dinner and reading.

          The emphasis on sell, sell, sell by one of the presenters I found a bit off putting, especially since her genre is true crime.  The third presenter writes mysteries so there was way too much death for me.  I found our "Haiku Hike" Sunday morning to a local Catholic cemetery enlightening. I've never walked around a cemetery before. Turns out many writers get inspiration there.  The contrast between a well maintained grave with elaborate, shiny marble headstone, festooned with artificial flowers and messages like "we love you grandma" contrasted with plots that were completely neglected.  One couple, born in the mid 1930s both died on 1-1-70. Car crash on New Year's Eve?   It's always sad when a child dies before their parents.  One big family plot had grandparents, parents, sons and then "Baby Grace now an angel." The cool desert air seemed full of grief from all the tears shed in that dusty graveyard.   

          The grave I liked best consisted of a mound of real purple flowers book-ended by two small trees. In the middle, a small white statue of Mary and a simple marble slab with the woman's name.  Except for a few lone wild flowers poking out of the dirt, these were the only live flowers there.       

          Most of the people at the conference live in Alpine, a small town about 25 miles south of Fort Davis.  Fort Davis, Alpine and Marfa (which I did not visit) are "artsy" and are served by a great public radio station that I got to listen to for two full hours on my drive home.  If it weren't so damn far from everything I'd like to live there, but the closest airports are seven hours away and the same goes for big hospitals.

          Now, writing this close to Midnight on Sunday, with my dog dozing at my feet, Audrey snoring under the dining room table, and John fast asleep, I feel like Coleridge who wrote, "the inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude that suits abstruser musings. . ."         

          Perhaps a crossword will slow down my brain. Or maybe I'll just go to bed and lie still, letting the images of the vast Southwest play behind my eyelids. In my imagination I'll stretch my arms all the way from horizon to horizon touch those bizarre, beloved mountains.