Coming To You Live….

… from the Lone Star State.

We’re on our summer jaunt to Texas, visiting son and daughter-in-law and two grandsons, soaking up the heat and the singular atmospheric vibe that is The Republic of Texas. We’ve been rained on, slobbered on by a beautiful Golden Retriever, nibbled on by a tiny rat masquerading as a chihuahua/poodle mix, read to by an intense and beaming blonde boy, treated to homemade purple hull peas and jalapeno poppers courtesy of MooMoo, wooed with promises of smoked brisket by Joshie-O, serenaded by another blonde grandson with a two-fisted corndog technique, watched a diamondback rattler making his way through a busy intersection, and have been enchanted yet again by the wide vistas and dramatic sunsets and Texas Texasness of Texas.

Being back in Texas makes me wistful, nudges me to second-guess myself about certain decisions I’ve made in the past, enriches my appreciation for people who are like me and my bewilderment at those who are not. The men in Texas are more courtly and more masculine; the women are less garishly tattooed, pieced, and strident. I enjoy the serene gaze of Longhorns across a pasture, and the slow whisper of starched snap-buttons shirts tucked into Wranglers in a land where such things are not affectations, but are instead as natural as a child’s unforced laughter and the splash of a frog in a rain-swollen pond.

Ah, wistful. I feel old and wistful tonight, but as happy as I can remember being. Seeing beloved family in a place of magic like Texas has this effect. But to the wistful part of my insides, let me speak with this lovely song by the Cherokee Cowboy himself, Ray Price. Mrs. Orr and I were delighted to see Mr. Price, the bourbon-voiced Marine Corps veteran, open for Dwight Yoakam at the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo in 2002. He was a singular musical presence that night, as always.

Buenos noches from a peaceful room, amigos.

~ S.K. Orr