I'm Just Being Frank

Some days my walks are just that, walks.  Other days they are filled with connections and happenstance.  Today was just such a day and I’m all the richer for it, both literally and figuratively.

I started my walk by greeting and introducing myself to new neighbors, two lovely young women named Shauna and Danielle.  Shauna recently bought a house on my street and Danielle purchased one a couple of blocks from me. I actually met Shauna for the first time a few weeks ago.  An older gentleman, and by older I mean my age, was working near the sidewalk in the yard of a house that had recently sold. I stopped and asked him if he was the new owner.  He told me that he wasn’t but that his daughter was.  About that time Shauna walked up and we had a delightful exchange.  She told me that she was enjoying living here and that just the other day a gentleman had stopped and sung to her while standing in her driveway.  I told her as long as he was wearing clothes she had no need to be concerned.

In something of a Ground Hog Day moment, this morning I came upon an older gentleman who was working in the yard of a house that had recently sold and I asked him if he was the new owner.  He told me that he wasn’t but that his daughter was at which point Danielle appeared.  She had moved from a nearby condo and was somewhat familiar with the neighborhood eccentricities though she didn’t mention if the driveway crooner had stopped by yet.  

I remember what it was like moving into an older established neighborhood and being a newcomer. I’ve told this story many times and I never tire of it: Shortly after I moved in two of my then new neighbors came over and introduced themselves to me one evening as I walked out to the curb to retrieve the mail. Gene said he had been in his home since 1963 and Charlie told me that he and his wife had lived in their home since 1961. Gene then informed me that the next day was trash and recycling day. He said that he goes around to the nearby houses after the trucks have come through and moves everyone’s carts out of the street and next to their garage so for me not to worry about retrieving them myself. I have never forgotten that feeling of being welcomed and have endeavored to pass it on to others when they move here though I don’t offer to haul in their trash and recycling bins. Gene still has that covered.

It was also heartening to see these fathers helping their daughters with their new homes.  My father passed away before I bought my first house, but my mother was there to help me get my yard whipped into shape and whip it she did.  Julia was a contradiction in a lot of ways and could wield a sharp shooter shovel like a pro while wearing a skirt and blouse.  I hope both Shauna and Danielle enjoy their homes, and yards, for years to come even after their fathers are no longer there to help them.

My next encounter was a discussion of the current state of the neighborhood guinea fowl with Donna. She told me that at one time there were as many 20 guineas living in and about Dawson but now there are only two, both hens.  They are always together and roam the neighborhood at will. I imagine them as an aging lesbian couple doddering about and seeking out yards with ample sources of food and an adjacent house where the residents are playing Wynona Judd with the windows open.

As I continued on my walk I was stopped by one of the many talented artists in the neighborhood, Lucy MacQueen and her partner, Craig.  They were returning from a Sunday morning of playing pickleball at the nearby rec center.  Pickleball has just recently come onto my radar.  Craig described it as “tennis for old people.”  Color me intrigued.  More research is needed as to the required outfit/attire, but I may be on board.

I eventually made it over to St. Edwards.  You may recall I wrote about my encounter with “Question Rock” on the SEU campus a few weeks ago. 

Imagine my surprise when I walked past Question Rock’s usual location and it wasn’t there.  Or so I thought.  Even in its imagined absence I had questions namely,  what had become of Question Rock?  I walked another 20 feet or so and then for some reason, turned around.  I walked back to where Question Rock had been and picked up a rock that looked similar, flipped it over, and lo and behold, it was the same rock.  Someone had turned Question Rock face down!  Obviously Question Rock had asked the wrong person the wrong question. I for one was not going to allow it to be silenced.  I left Question Rock facing up and hope it later asked Lisa about her poor judgment regarding that hookup on Rainey Street last Thursday.

But the highlight of my walk came when I was walking down a nearby street and encountered TWO one dollar bills in the middle of the street.  I would say that I’ve bent over for less than $2 before but that wouldn’t sound quite right.  I will say that $2 well exceeds my threshold for picking up loose money and so I snapped it right up.  Even before I could get home with it I began thinking about what I could purchase with my windfall.  If I had a smart speaker I could ask, “Alexa, what can I get for two dollars?”  If her response was, “Well, hello sailor!” I would totally embrace the technology.  As it is, I fired up the Google and asked the same question with some amusing results. So if you’re looking for a way to waste a little time and a little money this Labor Day weekend here is a list of random things you can buy for $2 on Amazon.  And of course Alexa will be happy to assist you with your purchase.

This photo both amuses and delights me. It was in the stash of photos I found recently when rummaging through a box of papers and such that belonged to my aunt.

A bit of background: My Aunt Alice was born in 1910 in Taylor, TX. just north of Austin. She was one of five children (my dad was the youngest). She came to San Antonio as a young woman where she went to business college. After completing her coursework she began a career in civil service working at one of the many army bases in San Antonio where she stayed until she retired. She passed away in 1992. She never married. She was what was referred to back in the day as an “old maid”. She lived with two sisters, Pearl and Laverne, who were also old maids. Laverne passed away when I was a child and I have no memory of her, but I got to know Pearl quite well. Pearl was crazier than a Kraft Food recipe. And she was LOUD. One of my favorite memories of her was when I invited my aunt and her to lunch at my home shortly after I bought it. Pearl liked her beer (though oddly, not Pearl) so I made sure I had a cold one ready for her when they got there. She proceeded to get settled on the sofa and told me that she wanted to call her nephew who lived in Austin (this was 1990, pre-cell phone) and so I handed her my cordless phone that was the size of a brick. Her nephew answered and after exchanging their hellos, she bellowed into the phone, “WHAT AM I DOING? I’M SITTING ON A BLACK LEATHER SOFA DRINKING A BEER AND TALKING TO YOU ON A CORDLESS TELEPHONE, THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING!” Living large came easily to Pearl.

But back to my aunt; she lived a comfortable life without trappings or pretense. She owned a modest home. She drove a Dodge. When I was in San Antonio and would take her to dinner at Earl Abel’s you would have thought we were dining at Alinea. She would order a Whiskey Sour before dinner and afterwards she would take any leftover scraps from her meal (admittedly there weren’t many) and put them in a baggie she kept in her purse to give to her dog when she got home. In her world little things took on far greater significance than they do for most of us today.

The photo is dated May 1973 and if I had to guess, I would say that that was probably a brand new color TV she had purchased, undoubtedly her first. And she was so proud of it she took a photo of it. Can you imagine being so excited about your new flat screen HDTV that you wanted to take a picture of it? And with a camera that that used film that you had to drop off at the Photo Hut for 24 hour processing? Yeah, I’m down for double prints.

What once was considered extravagant is now common place. We are jaded. And while I don’t advocate worshiping at the altar of consumer goods, wouldn’t it be nice to experience that kind of excitement again? The closest present day thing I can think of that generates a fever pitch is each subsequent release of the iPhone. This go around should be even more so since the iPhone X promises to be the very definition of Go Big or Go Home.

I can only hope that when I’m 80 I get invited to one of my friend’s children’s homes and ask to use their phone so I can tell the person I’m calling, “WHAT AM I DOING? I’M SITTING ON A SOFA UPHOLSTERED IN WHALE FORESKINS DRINKING A HANDCRAFTED ELDERFLOWER CORDIAL AND TALKING TO YOU ON AN IPHONE XX, THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING!” I shall live large to the end.

Tapioca pudding just like Mama used to make! Well not exactly. She would have never garnished it with fresh berries that my 9 year old self would have picked off before eating. However, that is one of the little scalloped Pyrex glass bowls that she used to serve it in. Also, it’s a tad lumpy, but it tastes just like I remember.

Tapioca pudding was hardly my mother’s crowning achievement in the kitchen. She was a great cook, albeit a practical one. I still have her recipe file containing dozens of handwritten recipes for things like “Ritz Cracker Pie” and “Crunchy Date Rounds” as well as numerous ones clipped from the local newspaper and magazines like Family Circle or Woman’s Day. Some of them she probably never made; they just looked interesting. I can promise you we never had “Cabbage Fruit Salad” (yes, there’s a recipe for that). Some she annotated with “Good!” I can only assume the ones that were “Bad!” ended up in the trash after one go at it.

Cooking, and food in general, has been elevated to a level far above what it was 50 years ago. Websites like Epicurious offer a world of exotic recipes at our fingertips and stores like Whole Foods and Central Market have the ingredients needed to prepare them. High end appliances like Wolf ovens have become status symbols, even if they’re only used to heat water for hard boiled eggs. And who among us hasn’t walked into Williams Sonoma and purchased an overpriced kitchen gadget just because we thought it was cool? Yes, I own an asparagus steamer; don’t judge.

I do wonder what childhood food memories kids today will carry with them into adulthood. Fifty years from now will they be standing in their kitchens thinking, “I sure could go for some creme brulee right about now. I wonder if I still have Mama’s old chef’s torch?”

This photo is a treasure. I’m not sure what the occasion was, but based on the colors I would say that Team Pepto brought the numbers while Team Pistachio gets the nod for style.

Actually, I think I know the background. My aunt was a joiner. I’ve found all kinds of memorabilia relating to her garden club, bridge club, church, etc. She was actively involved in Beautify San Antonio for years and was an elected officer at one time. She even had the requisite equipment for being a joiner, a punch bowl set and a 24-cup coffee maker.

She was also very involved in an organization called the International Toastmistress Club. This was before the term “mistress” took on the more tawdry connotation it has today. Toaststrumpets they were not. A trip down the Wiki rabbit hole tells us that the International Toastmistress Club was formed as an offshoot of Toastmasters International which still exists today. 1938 is considered to be the date of origin of the organization, but actually the beginning reached back more than ten years before when clubs for women around California were organized under the title “Women’s Oral Expression Club.” Ahem. In 1984 the name was changed from International Toastmistress Club to International Training in Communication (thus retaining the “ITC”) and now goes by POWERtalk. For those of you not familiar with Toastmasters International it’s a nonprofit educational organization that operates clubs worldwide for the purpose of helping members improve their communication, public speaking, and leadership skills.

What makes it all the more interesting that my aunt was involved in an organization that promoted public speaking was the fact that she had a lisp to the point that she could be difficult to understand at times. I’ve read many times that most people’s number one fear is public speaking. Not surprisingly it’s not mine. When I walk into HEB I don’t see people shopping for groceries, I see a potential audience. Even people with perfect diction can get tongue tied when speaking to more than a couple of folks at once. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to stand up in front of a group and try to be understood? When my aunt was a young girl there were no resources to help overcome her speech impediment. She didn’t let that hold her back and that she worked diligently to overcome it as an adult by joining a group of like minded people is pretty inspiring.

Back to the photo, it’s dated July of 1968. I’m guessing this was the annual ball or gala for the San Antonio chapter of ITC or it may have been a national or international gathering given San Antonio’s reputation for being a convention city even then. It was also the year the World’s Fair, Hemisfair, was held in SA.

The details are rich; the gal on the right is channeling Jackie O for Team Pistachio with those white opera-length gloves. The one on the left, undoubtedly the group’s captain, appears to be looking at Team Pepto’s leader like, “Bitch, you better have more than a tube of lipstick, a condom and a dime for the payphone in that evening clutch because IT IS GOING DOWN.”

My aunt is in the middle on the left and I’m sure was delighted to be there and probably did feel like a debutante. We would all do ourselves a world of good if we worked as hard as she did to try to overcome personal obstacles. Sometimes you just have to put on your white opera-length gloves and go forth. And if you don’t have a pair you can borrow mine.

And we’re off! Two of the three vegetable garden beds have been planted. Maiden crops include tomatoes (3 types), peppers (3 types), sweet basil, Japanese eggplant and marigolds for the good juju they bring. Not yet pictured, but hopefully soon: cucumbers, okra and nasturtium for salads because I am all about the presentation (as if you didn’t know that already).

It seems only fitting that I should plant it today, Mother’s Day, as my mother was a green thumb par excellence. She could grow ornamental plants like nobody’s business just by putting a stick in the dirt, watering it and then no doubt telling it that if it didn’t grow there would be consequences. It was my father, however, who was the one who enjoyed growing fruits and vegetables and I can remember having everything from corn to papayas planted in our backyard. Alas, he found his greatest success with radishes and to this day I still kind of wince when I see them in a salad (though I do dig watermelon radishes).

Vegetable gardens have become a hobby for most folks and an expensive one at that. Case in point: A 40 lb. bag of herb and vegetable soil from the nursery around the corner from me costs $9.99. I won’t tell you how many bags I used to fill those beds (the third one is only partially full because I bought all they had), but let’s just say you could buy a lot of organic watermelon radishes at Whole Foods for what that dirt cost me.

For people like my parents who grew up during The Great Depression gardens were anything but a hobby. If you wanted to eat, you grew and picked vegetables. If you wanted to get paid, you picked cotton. Looking back on my father’s suburban garden I can’t help but think that it was a way for him to reconnect with his past. Given that our own backyard crops could be a bit lean at times I can remember loading up the trunk of our green Oldsmobile sedan with buckets and going to the pick-your-own fields on the outskirts of town where we would harvest purple hull peas, cucumbers and sweet corn. As a kid I thought it was a great fun, but I wonder if my dad looked over at that shiny green Oldsmobile parked on the side of the road as he was out in the field pulling peas off the vines and thought to himself, “Yeah, I’ve come a long way.”

I will never know what it’s like to have to grow my own food if I want to eat. But I hope that I still have some of that humble DNA coursing through my veins that reminds me that I’m just one generation removed from those who did. And if there’s a better metaphor for remembering one’s roots than planting your own garden I don’t know what it is. Even if it’s not dirt cheap. Or cheap dirt, I suppose.

Got back from my daily walk around the neighborhood a little while ago. While the weather was not as glorious as it had been the last several days, it was still nice to get out. In addition to the physical benefits, one of the things I enjoy about walking around my neighborhood is the sense of being connected to the world at large. You don’t really get that on a treadmill with an electronic device. Some of the people I encounter on my walk I know by name. Some I’ve made up names for. One couple I see regularly I refer to as Smiley & Chuckles because they both look like they could bite a nail in half. Others, I know their dogs’ names but not theirs. And then there are those who pass me going in the opposite direction looking straight ahead avoiding all eye contact. I respect that, but if they let their guard down and so much as cast a furtive glance in my direction I will HELLO! them into next week.

This morning I came upon a car parked on the street facing my direction. A woman my age or perhaps slightly older, who I’m pretty sure lives in the house which the car was parked in front of, had the rear driver-side door open and was arranging items in the backseat. As I approached she was closing the rear door and opening the front door to get in when she noticed me. She stopped and said, “You’re limping; do you need a ride somewhere?” In that moment I was struck by several thoughts:

One, I do walk with a slight limp but maybe it’s not as slight as I think it is.

Two, I should probably do something about that.

And three, I felt grateful that I live in the neighborhood/city/state/country/world in which I do. Kind people are all around us; it’s the asshats that get our mind share most of the time unfortunately.

This afternoon I have to make a trip that will require me to drive on South IH 35. I’m going to imagine that every driver around me is like that woman. I’m also going to imagine that I have the gait of a gazelle. No doubt reality will come crashing down around me when I get cut off and have to hit the brake pedal using my gimp leg.

And as for my concerned neighbor, I thanked her for her kindness and told her that that’s just how I roll. Kind of like that one shopping cart with the wonky wheel that you always manage to grab at the grocery store.

Austin has been blessed with an extremely mild winter this year, the 7th warmest on record for those of you who keep track of such things. Nature doesn’t follow the calendar and even though it’s the end of February the annual rebirth of green has begun in earnest. This has prompted folks to get out and begin the joyful, or arduous depending on your perspective, task of readying their yards for Spring. The vestiges of cold weather damage are trimmed back, leaves and detritus are gathered up and bagged or composted, beds are thinned of overgrowth and rogue pups, tubers and seedlings are either transplanted or discarded.

This is the time of year when it’s possible to enhance one’s landscaping by just walking around your neighborhood. Case in point, the other day on my walk I found a perfectly good bulbine plant, roots and all, tossed to the curb. For those of you not familiar with it, bulbine is a popular landscape plant that’s sort of a distant cousin of the aloe vera. It’s easy to grow, tolerates drought conditions and has either yellow or orange blooms. It does however freeze, which is why I no longer have any. Until now.

You’re probably thinking, well, if you wanted bulbine couldn’t you just go to the garden center at Home Depot and buy a pot of it for $4.95? Yes, I could, except I would also buy 3 hibiscus, 2 flats of begonias and a mandevilla vine that I have no idea where I’m going to plant but I’ll worry about that when I get home. I have no self control in plant nurseries.

But secondly, and more importantly, that’s not the point. I walked 2 miles holding a bulbine plant in my hand until I got home, found a pot and some soil, planted and watered it. Before long bulbine will abound. And all because I happened to find a discarded one that I put some effort into. Needless to say, there’s something immensely gratifying about that.

By the same token I put out a lot of landscaping material from my yard; ruella, spider plants, sedum, cannas, blue agave pups, etc. and if someone spies them by the curb and helps themselves it makes my green thumb shoot up in approval.

Springtime only comes once a year. Enjoy it to the fullest. Go for a walk. Get your hands dirty. Or better yet, both.

I made a new friend on my walk around the neighborhood today – Mario. I learned more about Mario in our 15 minutes together than I could have possibly imagined. But first, let me tell you how our meeting came to pass.

When I would walk in the mornings I would encounter an older woman and her yellow lab usually walking in the opposite direction. Even though she was getting her exercise on she was always well put together; hair, make up, neatly pressed shorts and top and blindingly white sneakers. I fear that the bar for exercise attire will be far lower in the future and that leaving the house in an American Apparel trucker’s cap and a sports bra that fits will show that you put some thought into your appearance. Upon seeing me she would smile and wave and we would always exchange pleasantries about the weather or some such. I never knew her name, though I did learn that her dog’s name was Maverick, and I knew where she lived and that she drove a spotless black late model Toyota Four Runner that I would see her husband driving on Sunday mornings on their way to church.

She was a part of my daily routine. Until she wasn’t. It had been several months since I had seen her and I wondered what had become of her. Today when I was walking I encountered her husband sitting in a lawn chair in their driveway. He was taking a break from cutting the grass and enjoying a Diet Coke. As I strolled past I waved and said hello and he did the same. Their house is on a loop that I walk by twice. As I approached the second time he was still sitting in his chair and I thought to myself, should I inquire about his wife? Would he be put off by a stranger asking him about her? What would I say when he responded? (Hint: The answer is NOTHING). As our eyes met for the second time I decided to walk up his driveway. I extended my hand and introduced myself to him. He told me that his name was Mario. I had been formulating in my head the words I wanted to say to broach the topic of his wife and I honestly don’t even remember what I said. It didn’t matter. Someone he had never met, but who knew of his wife, had given him an opportunity to talk about her.

The conversation that unfolded was a mixture of both joy and sadness. His wife’s name was Alma. He said her nickname was “Soul” (alma is the Spanish word for soul). On Dec. 22nd she was complaining about a pain in her side and went to the doctor. The doctor didn’t think anything of it, but ordered an x-ray nonetheless. The x-ray revealed a massive tumor surrounding her gall bladder that had spread to her liver and the lining of her stomach. On December 31st, New Year’s Eve, Mario & Alma went to M.D. Anderson in Houston where she had her first and last chemotherapy treatment as her body couldn’t tolerate it. She passed away on February 5th, 6 weeks after her initial visit to the doctor.

Mario told me all of this with very little emotion in his voice. He said that they had been together for 62 years. They had 5 children born within a span of 7 years. Two of them live in the area, one in Virginia, one in the Rio Grande Valley and I forgot where he said the 5th one lived. He took a great deal of pride in telling me about his eldest daughter (she’s a year younger than me) who came and stayed with him after Alma died. She has a PhD in electrical engineering and works for the UT System. Mario told me he was in the service for 16 years and worked on B-52 bombers. After leaving the military he received training and became a software programmer. When he and Alma moved into their new house in 1975 they were one of the first ones on the block. He told me he’s having trouble sleeping at night. He uses a push lawnmower that he paid $100 for. There’s a white squirrel that frequents his backyard. All of this information in the span of 15 minutes.

I probably could have pulled up a chair and talked to Mario all afternoon. And really, was there anything I had to do today that was more important or rewarding? Not really. I don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll have to visit with Mario, but you can be sure that every time I see him out on my walk I’m going to make a point to stop and chat with him. I’m so glad I did today.

Oh, and one final note. He told me that he had noticed me on my walks LIMPING and was impressed that I didn’t let it hold me back. I’m now convinced that the entire neighborhood refers to me as “Hopalong” behind my back.

Last week I connected with a fellow “ponder” on my neighborhood listserv. SIDE NOTE: If your neighborhood association has a listserv and you are not on it, join it. Immediately. It can provide hours of rib tickling fun in between the lost pet posts.

In this case it brought me in contact with a lovely person, Gracie, who lives a few blocks from me but who I had never met. The topic of grey herons was brought up by a woman on my street who posted a photo of one in a tree in her yard. She was taken by how “majestic” it was. They are imposing creatures. They are also opportunistic assholes. I’ve had my pond for nearly 20 years and feel fairly certain that it’s listed in the Zagat Grey Heron Guide to Finer Ponds in Austin (“Come for the goldfish! Stay to torment the cat!”). I told the woman who posted the photo that the reason he was in her tree was that he was no doubt waiting for the buffet to open up across the street. It was at this point that Gracie joined the conversation and commiserated that she too had lost goldfish to “Mr. Heron” as she referred to him.

I told Gracie that I was preparing for the annual cleaning o’ the pond during which I would be thinning out the water lilies and asked her if she had a need for any. She said she most certainly would like to have some and so I arranged to leave a bucket of them on my driveway for her. Imagine my delight when I received this pot planted with a star cactus, an African aloe and a hens and chickens plant, all from her yard, with a sweet thank you note (I love that she dated it; I’m guessing she’s an accountant).

If only we could move our economy to plant-based currency I would be RICH. As it is I feel pretty fortunate to have met Gracie and we’ve agreed to exchange photos of our water lily/cactus blooms in the future. And if you have need of any water lily plants tell me what ya got and maybe we can cut a deal.

Monday marks the beginning of one of the most anticipated events of the year in my neighborhood – bulky trash collection. For those of you who don’t live here; twice a a year, because apparently we’re such a bunch of hoarders that once a year is not enough, the City of Austin sends around a crew to collect items that can’t be disposed of during our regular weekly trash collection. There are some restrictions – no tires, no construction materials, no nuclear waste from your home reactor, but other than that pretty much anything goes. And go it does.

As with any momentous event, frenzied preparations are taking place this weekend with folks cleaning out their garages, attics and in some cases their living rooms and hauling what they have deemed as having no value, to them at least, to the street. This gives the neighborhood a sort of gritty urban feel (think Compton with Subarus) that appeals to the bohemian types who live here knowing full well that it’s all going to be gone by the end of the week. It’s also an added diversion on my walks as it provides me endless opportunities to judge people, harshly.

There’s always the hope that you’re going to find some hidden treasure, but the reality is that you can only gather up so many worn out pool noodles before you have to push yourself away from the curb and declare, ENOUGH. I did scavenge something once, a little cat statue was sitting at the curb along with several other items that included a statue of a Chinese emperor. Fearing I might get accused of cultural appropriation in my landscaping, I opted to take the cat since I could only carry one of them (they were heavy). A couple of hours later, I went back to get the other statue and it was gone. You snooze, you lose.

And then of course there’s the influx of visitors to our neighborhood. Folks with trucks and flatbed trailers come through before the city crews to collect up items they deem valuable. Mostly it’s metal objects that they can sell at the scrap yards, but they occasionally find items of use as well. I have put out a few things for pick up before and have watched people stop, get out of their vehicle, pick something up and then toss it back down, before driving off in a huff (I’m projecting on that last part). The ultimate rejection – YOUR JUNK IS NOT WORTHY.