Home Again, Home Again

It’s difficult to believe that just a day ago, we were in Texas. We arose very early in the hot darkness and pointed ourselves northeast. I started to say that we arose at zero-dark-thirty, but Hollywood has ruined yet another Marine Corps/military/masculine phrase by poaching it and using it as the title of one of its predictable, degenerate flicks some years ago. They did the same with neat phrases like “Whisky Tango Foxtrot” and will likely continue doing this until the men who once used such phrases as a brotherly jargon will never again speak them aloud.

But I am writing of Texas, not Hollywood. By the time we reached our little farm more than sixteen hours later, we were dizzy with roads and signs and speed limits and exit ramps. Mrs. Orr and I are renowned for being able to arrive home and unpack and put everything away within a half-hour –no exaggeration — but this time, we simply tossed perishables into the fridge, crawled under the covers, and slept for about four hours just to feel halfway normal.

When we awakened, it was time to go get the hounds. There was no way in the everlovin’ world we were going to try to take Jinx and Dixee on a road trip, especially in the same car, so we boarded them at a local place where they receive good care and attention. I will confess that it was difficult to leave Jinx. He was trembling when I hugged him good-bye. “I’ll come back for you. Promise.” I whispered. He stared at me, whimpering, as I walked down the hallway and left him with strangers.

So after our nap, my wife and I drove down into town and fetched our dogs. They were electric in their joy to see us, knowing that they had just been paroled. Jinx almost knocked me down, and he joy-mauled me pretty good while one of the staff members in the parking lot laughed good-naturedly at our reunion. Dixee seemed stunned but happy, so we packed ’em into the car and headed off to pick up a few essential groceries. I sat in the car with the hounds while Mrs. Orr tore through the grocery store and returned to us, just as a thunderstorm parked itself over us. We could feel the air changing even then, and by the time we arose this morning, a cold front had pushed in. As I write this, I am wearing a sweatshirt over a t-shirt and my wife is closing one of the family room windows due to the chilly breeze. Two days ago, I was sitting outside with the family, sweating through shirt and jeans in the withering weather that Texas writer John Graves called “the damp, malarial windlessness of East Texas.” What a difference a day makes, aye, wot?

I certainly missed my dog while we were in Texas, but it was a delight to finally meet the kids’ two new dogs. May-May, a tiny chihuahua/poodle mix, and Chief, a massive and gorgeous Golden Retriever. When we arrived at the kids’ house, I saw May-May first and burst out laughing. “Who’s the rat?” I asked. She has a sweet disposition (read: not a yippy, high-strung pest) and is clearly very intelligent and playful.

Chief huffed a low bark when I stepped up on the back porch. Wanting to establish a good relationship with the dog I’ve looked forward to meeting for so long, I sat right down on the ground and started talking quietly to him. Chief came right to me and gave me a kiss, then explored my hands and pockets and beard. I gave him one of the treats I habitually carry in my pocket, and we remained buddies for the duration of our visit.

Chief and May-May play very well together and seem genuinely fond of each other. I sat and played with them on the living room rug and thought again and again of Dixee’s relentless and waspish jealousy towards the easy-going Jinx and mused, “Must be nice to have two dogs that get along...” Our daughter-in-law, known affectionately as Moo-Moo, told us that if one of the dogs gets a stick to play with, the other will join in and they chew on the stick and toss it around together. Not long after she mentioned this, the dogs did just that.

I am unapologetic in my gluttony when we are in Texas, because I miss so much of the food that one simply cannot get anywhere else. Mind you, Mrs. Orr is a superb cook who can make almost all of my favorites like tacos and burritos and chicken-fried steak. But neither she nor I have ever mastered tamales or barbecued brisket. We keep making plans to undertake these culinary tasks, and perhaps one day we shall. But during this visit, we ducked in at various places and indulged in many of our favorite treats.

We were deeply, deeply disappointed at the first place we stopped the first day home. There’s a local donut shop franchise called Donut Palace that makes THE BEST kolaches and cinnamon rolls in the history of Texas. Too road-weary to drive 20 miles to the Palace we usually frequent, we stopped at one in another town. Mistake, mistake, mistake. The kolaches were so-so, the cinnamon rolls were room temperature and smaller than the standard plate-sized Donut Palace variety, and we were served by a little weirdo who looked and talked like a transsexual Hervé Villechaize with a Tom-Hulce-as-Mozart giggle. I can usually pick up a bit of Spanish when I eavesdrop on a conversation, but this persyn’s accent, speed of delivery, and high-pitched, nether-regions-in-a-vice timbre made it impossible for me to understand what he was saying to the woman at the cash register. I’d bet my last peso that they were making fun of my brand new walking shoes.

But the memory of the crappy kolache place was sponged away later that day when we stopped in at a Mexican restaurant for lunch. Mrs. Orr got a combination platter that was so good, she barely spoke a half-dozen words to me during the meal. She was convinced that the frijoles refritos were superior to hers; I disagree. I tasted the ones there at the restaurant and found them superb, but my wife’s are the better bean.

Man, there’s a flashback memory. First time my mother met my wife-to-be, we were chatting amiably in Mother’s living room, and the conversation turned to food. Mother expressed her appreciation for some Tex-Mex dishes, and my then-fiance replied, “Oh, I was raised on Mexican food!”

Mother turned to stone, glanced at me, then back at my sweetheart. My blood turned to ice water, because I knew verbatim what was about to come out of her mouth.

“Yore parents Mexicans?” she asked with the game-hunter eye contact.

“Oh, no, no,” said my sweetheart. “I just meant that we ate it a lot…”

Still makes me laugh.

Anyway, I ordered the pork carnitas tacos in flour tortillas. I can say without hyperbole that they were the best carnitas and the best tacos I have ever eaten in more than six decades on this earth. Sitting here now with a relatively full belly, my mouth waters just remembering the texture, the moist flavor, the rich mouth-feel. I made a point of telling our waitress and the cashier how much I enjoyed them. Mrs. Orr has added a new entry to the Dishes We Must Master list.

That evening, Joshie-O grilled chicken wings and Moo-Moo made purple hull peas and cornbread for supper, both of which were ek-se-lent. Joshie-O was multi-tasking, too. While tending the wings, he was also manning the big smoker where he was working up a massive brisket he’d started on that morning (we were to have it the next day for lunch). I’m adequate-but-erratic on a smoker, so I was watching him closely and peppering him with questions about his technique, use of wood, etc. Perhaps the tutorial will pay off someday.

It was a little sad, predictably, I suppose, to watch the grandsons as they played and ate and talked. Are they really that tall now? Is the time really rocketing past us so quickly? My delight in their sharp minds and quick smiles is offset by the grim reality of the world they’re growing up in. Their world will be entirely different from the one their parents and their grandparents knew, and a knot of worry burns in me when I think on this. Mrs. Orr and I talked about them all during the long drive back home, and we returned again and again to the well-worn phrase, “All we can really do is pray for them, because life is going to happen to them, just as it happened to us.” God grant that their lives are better than my somber vision of the future.

The brisket was worth the wait and more, as we found out at one p.m. the next day. Moist and tender and hearty, it was truly a masterpiece. When we left, Joshie-O packed a sizeable portion for us to take home. Which we did. And which we have already eaten most of. With a Lone Star, also transported across state lines at great danger to ourselves and our family’s reputation.

It was interesting to people-watch while we were back in Texas. The older I get, the more attentive I am to peoples’ habits and mannerisms. The area in which we live in the Appalachian mountains is a beautiful place, and we have a lot in common with the local populace. But one thing that has long bothered me is the softness of too many of the men. Even the big, beefy farm boys or the wannabe bikers or the cops seem to be whiny and petulant, with ears that are too quick to be “offended” at a slight and eyes that fill too quickly with tears if someone sticks a microphone in their face. But the Texans I watched for the past week exhibited the laconic toughness that many feel is a stereotype from tv and movies. It’s a genuine thing, let me state plainly. There’s a self-confident toughness in Texas men that can never really be imitated, and it’s very difficult to describe. But it’s a quiet wonder to behold.

But we’re back in the mountains again, and it’s good to be home, and it’s Memorial Day Weekend, meaning that I don’t have to go to work on Monday, and there’s still a little brisket in the fridge, and Mrs. Orr is cooking fresh cream peas she bought at a farmer’s market in Texas, and I’m working my way through an ancient Catholic prayer book I found in an East Texas antiques store, and the dogs just ate a big supper, and Kris Kristofferson is playing in the background, and I just might watch Hud later, that’s right, Hud, and the garden and the flowers all made it through the untended week just fine, and it’s cool and misty as Scotland here, and the laundry’s done, and no man can ever accuse me of being ungrateful. I’m grateful for all that I have, and grateful that we drove three thousand miles over the past week without any troubles. Except for that fruity little oddball at the kolache house.

This morning, Jinx and I went for our walk just as the sun peeked up. He let me know with facial expression and jaunty gait that he is happy to be free from a kennel and back home where he can torment Dixee and chouse a cow if he feels like it. I’m right there with him.

“Told you I’d come back for you.”

And the spotted menace said, “Knew you would, old man.”

~ S.K. Orr