Out of the Past

The two inches of rain was a hot topic even before I landed. My seat-mate told me. Central Texas is in a deep drought. A drought is a big thing in a town of cattle ranchers and farmers. Mother and George collect me at the airport and talk with relief about the rain marveling at the resiliency of the grass. Sure ‘nough, the broad fields between the Austin airport and Smithville are the pale green of hope.

The talk of rain like everything else is familiar. My head rattles with distant dialogue. “We sure need rain.” “Will have to start feedin’ early this year unless we get rain soon.” My grandmother knew rain was coming by the smell of the air. My granddad would put a newly killed rattlesnake on the fence to bring the rain. Now, rolling thunder makes me nostalgic.

Like the grass, my roots are in Smithville. For years I couldn’t wait to leave; now I look forward to coming back. There’s a comfortable familiarity with it. I return to see Mother and George (my honorary step-dad). This is my excuse. It’s only later that I realize I come here for the grounding, to know the familiarity of three generations on my mother’s side who made Smithville their home. I feel connected here, more so than ever before. Maybe it’s because my life feels so disconnected otherwise – weekdays in DC and a quick visit to Annapolis on the weekends. It's like floating in a sea of uncertainty.

In Smithville, I’m recognized as being “from around here” which means I get special treatment. At the Post Office, Edward patiently helps me mail a box then smiles and waves as I leave. I hear, “It’s great to see you again!” This is because he remembers me from high school.

Memories return at each corner and with each spreading oak tree. Oh, it has changed for sure. Smithville has a feeling now of making-do. That started with the highway by-pass. It took away the Austin to Houston traffic that used to go through the middle of town. From the highway interchange all that’s visible of Smithville is the one-runway airport (which my dad helped start), and Smith’s Supply. Smith’s Supply sprawls next to the overpass with piles of culvert pipes of various sizes, rolled cyclone fencing, posts and PVC pipe.

Smithville is mostly left to the locals and the residents of neighboring towns, like Rosanky, Kovar and Cistern. For me, that’s just fine. The streets are in an orderly grid with familiar names– Burleson, Gresham, Olive, Hudgins. Tall sycamores, pecans and magnolias shade the streets, and crepe myrtles sprout tassels of pink blooms. But, the grand matrons are the live oak trees with trunks too big to reach around and limbs that canopy an entire yard. I love these trees. I remember them as a kid. They are still there. Still growing. Still making me stop and stare in awe.

Every morning, before the heavy heat sets in, I walk through town. The air is fresh. Dark clouds tease with a ghostly mist that doesn’t even leave a whisper of moisture on the ground. In its heyday, Smithville was a major railroad town. Walking, I hear the sounds of Smithville’s past. A train whistles as it comes through the yard, “Whoooon.” The wheels click on the rails and cars clank together like a giant slinky.

There are two main roads in Smithville – Main Street and the old highway. Our traffic signal hangs where they intersect. Memories line both streets. On Main Street, antique stores like “Out of the Past” alternate with “For Rent” signs. It’s quiet except for the bustle of recollections. Ken’s Pharmacy where my grandmother worked used to be here. My sister and I would walk in, get a hug, and wave to Ken – or Mr. Blaschke, as we knew him. In the back we sat on chrome bar stools at the soda fountain and Elizabeth made chocolate milk shakes for us.

Farther down Main Street was Mikeska’s barbeque. My granddad took me there. We entered through swinging, screen doors to smells of mesquite and the warmth of barbeque pits that had been cooking since the early morning hours. Our barbeque brisket was served on brown paper, and, yes, my granddad ate his with his pocket knife. I still have that knife. Oh – and there was sawdust on the floor.


Mikeska's has been gone for years. Now we go to Zimmerhanzel’s. It has a real door and I’m okay with the plastic fork and knife. Everyone in town lines up for their barbeque. I watch for people I know. They spot me first and I struggle to put this new face with the high school face in my mind. Lunch comes early here. The old ladies are the first. They finishing as we arrived at 11:30AM. Next are the working men – road crews, farm and ranch hands – whose day starts early. When lunch is in full swing, you share tables. Our table’s conversation centered on the rain. “How’re you?” “Awrite.” “How much rain you git?” “Inch and eight tenths.” “My grass greened up.” “My grass had to come up from the roots.”

Billy Davis’ Texaco is on the highway near Zimmerhanzel's. As a girl, Mother and I went to Billy Davis’ to fill up our big Pontiac. We’d sing, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star. The big, bright, Texaco star!” Mother and Billy played a game where Mother would look at the gas gauge and guess how many gallons it would take to fill it up. She was right EVERY TIME.
I thought she was the smartest mom ever. In hindsight, I think I was being duped. (It's not nice to fool a little girl, Mother!) Billy is still there so we stop by to say hello. The Texaco is mostly a hang out for George and his buddies who pass time gossiping on a bench. They probably wouldn’t agree about the gossiping part, but they are.

On the other end of the highway is the Donut Shop in a red tin building and the washateria in a silver tin building.
Both have pick up trucks parked out front. Tacos and tamales are sold from a pink school bus next to a chartreuse shaved ice stand. There is, of course, a Dairy Queen that, when I was young was where we went after church on Sunday nights.

I love the wooden houses in artfully chosen colors. The wide-blade carpet grass is lush and thick –due to attentive watering. Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed, except the paint. The most noticeable difference is the large corner property with a delicate, old farm house that was once a stage coach stop. The new owner repainted it pink and green. Not pale, soft, subtle colors. Bright, vibrant, can’t-believe-your-eyes pink and green.

I come out of the past when Mother and George tell me about the people. Some have died, others are sick, and all are older. Mother’s friends who have been in my life for my whole life are here. We interrupt Jeannette baking zucchini-pineapple bread. Tuffy jumps best he can with his four-inch long dachshund legs, but he soon lies quietly in the floor with a chew bone. He chews until one end is left, then he wants a new bone. Chew bone ends fill his basket. Joyce tells us about her twin great-grand daughters while we admire her garden. Silky with her sleek grey hair, even at 90+, meets us at the door. We visit sitting in a rocking chair that belonged to her grandmother.

George takes me on a ride through his pastures. It’s a pastime in Smithville – riding around, looking at the cows, and assessing the water level of ponds (Tanks as they are known here). Bouncing along the rutted, dirt road in the truck takes me back and I'm riding in my granddad's 1946 green, Chevy pickup with the wood-slat sides. George gets out of the truck to open his wide, aluminum gate. It swings open smoothly with one easy push. Not like the gates at my granddad’s pastures. They were made of barbed wire and a post. When I was old enough, he let me open the gate. I had to be strong enough to lean against the post and loosen it enough to pull it out of the wire loops at the top and bottom. I walked it to the ditch, tromping through the grasses to avoid prickly bull nettle and cow pies.


The film industry discovered Smithville. There was a hubbub in town when Hope Floats (Sandra Bullock, Harry Connick, Jr.) was filmed here. My dad was a parishioner in the church scene. Most recently, Smithville was the set for the Tree of Life (Brad Pitt, Sean Penn). I think this is just dandy. The streets are preserved on film and not just in my memory. There may be a drought in Central Texas and the tanks in Smithville may be low, but I’m floating in a lifetime of memories.

Boogie Back to Texas

As we walked off the plane in Austin, I experienced that odd combination of surprise and familiarity. There, across from the gate was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign above read “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this was a litter campaign slogan started by the Department of Transportation decades ago). It made my head spin with culture shock. Downstairs I felt like a stranger in my own homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place midst the jeans, tee-shirts and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.

We had our own gigantor pick-up truck to claim us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. We felt like locals as we stowed all the luggage in the bed of the truck and piled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.

We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at Guadalajara. We barely sat down before chips and salsa appeared. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. He was lucky to be spared breakfast. I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. My mother hadn’t been feeling well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Diary Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.

With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3500) and is laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets where I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make the most comforting sound in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Blue bonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked its head out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from my mother’s front porch. Its red balls, bows and festive bird nest seemed a little out of place in March. But, when I reached to grab it, the tiny brown bird in the nest moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will have to stay on the wall a little longer.

One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and running into all the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived I bumped into Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and she reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids. Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She’s still like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the Post Office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant, and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.

A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie Sue and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. Wow – it was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as, javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. Then Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!

It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’ soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to here myself say, “How’r yu?” I can go along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived along that street. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them as a part of my life. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But, at the same time, I’m that woman in the little, black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and, here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? As many times as I’ve asked myself that question, there’s never an answer. I’ll just have to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.

The main event was a joint 80th birthday party for my mother and George. Mother and George have known each other every day for those 80 years. I love listening to them tell stories of growing up on farms during the Depression. After raising their separate families and suffering through the death of spouses, they have shared the last several years together. George is the best thing that’s happened to all of us in a very long time even though our families couldn’t be more different. George’s is large – both in number and in size. He had five kids all of whom I’ve known forever, and his extended family seems to encompass most of Smithville. While they are many, we are few. We could have used Alison's husband, Jerry, to boost our numbers, but he was not able to make it. And then there’s scale. All of George’s kids are tall – and that’s putting it mildly. I barely come up to Bubba, Andy or Stewart’s chest. I have to look up to talk to their arm pit! They may all be tall, but they and their families have embraced my teeny, tiny mother into their family. George’s great grand children – Ryan and Will – run to her and crawl into her lap as she walks in the door (Six year old Ryan stayed with us the following evening. He and Mike bonded over shared interests like watching ghost stories on TV.).





The birthday party was held at George’s grand daughter’s house. Kristin, Allison and Katelyn made all the arrangements; Stewart, Shawn and friends cooked. This was another feast – fried fish, fried onion rings, fried fritters, fired poppers, fried mozzarella sticks, and fried potatoes (and there was grilled fish, salsa, and pinto beans, too). We opted not to fry the birthday cake or ice cream! Mother and George received lots of nice gifts but the best gift was to be surrounded by family and close friends who represent a life time of togetherness. (As an added treat, George presented his grandson, Jarold, with his acceptance letter to law school.) When the time came to go home, we all laughed as Mother, Jeannette and George’s sister, Irene, grabbed their walking canes and were individually escorted to the car and carefully loaded inside. It was quite a procession! Smiling and laughing, Jeannette said, “That’s okay! Y’all be old someday, too.” I sure hope so.

By the way, as we were leaving for the birthday party, Bobbie called to say, "There's a huge forest fire between Smithville and Bastrop, and it's all your fault!" Our reputation for leaving a trail of mayhem and destruction is following us!

All too quickly, George’s truck unloaded us and our mountain of luggage at the Austin airport. With reluctance and a few tears, I said good-bye to my mother and promised that I’d be back in a couple of months. In the words of Asleep at the Wheel, I’ll “Boogie back to Texas; Back to my hometown.” I can’t wait, y’all.