Getaway.

Thinking of taking a knitting bag, a camera and my own silly self here:

to be near here:

Aransas National Wildlife Refuge

to see these:

and perhaps some of these:

and certainly a sunrise or two, and the boats at the pier and the ocean outside my window. It may seem strange to go to the beach in January, but in South Texas that’s a prime time for nature and quiet, cool days and windy nights.

Wrote to the innkeepers tonight for reservations – fingers crossed.

Take me to the river.

Nora , me and some very aggressive minnows.

There were a couple of rather healthy nips among the nibbles, at least on my fingers. Those lines of rocks create several good-sized, slow-flowing shallow pools perfect for three-year-old exploration.

The weather was miraculously temperate. We drove through a line of thunderstorms around Kerrville and emerged on the other side at Junction and South Llano River State Park. It was cloudy at first, but of course the water was warm, and in the middle of July in South Texas the temperature didn’t rise above 80° all day. Also, because of the ominous weather earlier, the river was beautifully uncrowded.

The boys of summer

Ah, spring in Texas – and an unseasonably cool and temperate one at that – and a weekend warrior’s thoughts naturally turn to thoughts of mountain biking. My particular champion made his first assault of the year on the Hill Country last weekend. Seasoned campaigner that he is, he did not venture forth alone. He was accompanied by a small and trusted cadre of companions and fellow nrrds; hmm…

Captain Brian, bowed by the weight of command:

I think the helmet adds an air of gravitas, don’t you?

Commander Dave, either constipated or plotting mutiny:

He’s much more handsome in real life, but we don’t tell him that.

Lieutenant Will, recently married, caught in an unguarded moment:

Marriage has not yet damped his natural joie de vivre; considering that his wife is hotter than anyone has a right to be, this is not surprising.

Ensign Derrick, the redshirt, just happy to still be alive.

We don’t know much about Derrick except his propensity for Texas-themed casual wear and a general air of being a good sport.

There is ice on the birdbath!

This may not sound very exciting to non-South Texans, but it means we have crossed the Rubicon: no more mosquitoes until spring.

Ahhhhhh.

A lovely day.

1. We had lunch at Las Canarias on the river.
2. Michael Clayton is one of the best movies I’ve seen in ages.
3. From fine dining to lifelong tradition: bean and cheese tacos from Las Palapas.

And thank you for all the e-mails, cards and birthday wishes. Polly, you’ll get yours tomorrow.

Game of the Obvious: Contestant #2

Remains of mythical blood-sucking creature found on Texas ranch! (not)

Okay, so there’s this legend, originating somewhere in Latin America, about a strange beast that preys on livestock, drinking their blood and disappearing into the morning mists: the chupacabra. Say it out loud once or twice; make sure you roll that “r.” What a great name, huh? The story pops up every once in a while, but outside the National Enquirer-reading population, the chupacabra is generally relegated to the same class of Animalia as the jackalope, the basilisk, and the compassionate conservative. Harmless folksy fun – and what kind of nitpicking pedant would even want to debunk a myth with a name like that?

“chooooooooo…pahCAHbrrrrra!” (accompanied by a classic Christopher Lee fist-clench and eye-roll)

Then a woman in South Texas found three chupacabra corpses. Allegedly. And made enough non-alleged noise about her find that the nitpicking pedants at Texas State University have now run DNA tests to prove that the semi-mummified remains are, in fact, the completely non-mythical…

… common Texas coyote.

Bummer. And duh. One look at the rather repulsive pictures and anyone not living on Crazy Planet knows immediately that the corpse in question is a dog or a coyote. If Phyllis had just stuck the things in a shack by I-37, put up a “Home of the Chupacabra” sign, and charged admission like any other decent rural Texan with a mutant dead animal in the freezer, those Texas State party poopers would never have bothered.

Thanks a lot, science.

Getting well

I hope.

Nora and I seem to be kicking whatever it was we got last week; I’m pretty sure it was a virus of some kind, since it was accompanied by vomiting (hooray) and fever (double hooray). Here in Allergy Hell, also known as Central Texas, the distinction between viral and allergic snottiness is important – and frankly, I’d prefer for her to catch a cold anytime, rather than develop the allergies she almost certainly will. It’s not only the cedar (and for anyone who’s never suffered the infamous Central Texas Cedar Fever, you don’t know from phlegm); there’s also the mold running rampant through the clay soil. And oak. And ragweed. Eventually, the little allergen bastards are going to get your immune system, and you’re going to jump on the pollen merry-go-round.

I never had much of a problem as a teenager; moving slightly farther north for college probably helped. At 26, though, I got a big “welcome home” dose of every wretched symptom and a lingering bronchial infection to top it all off. This was in addition to the aftereffects of a car wreck (herniated disk) which made sneezing and coughing painful… Eventually I gave in and went to an allergist (Texas must be a Mecca for aspiring ENT’s; the land of golden stethoscopes, the realm of constant sputum) who cleared me up and then decided I had asthma, based on a consistently low lung capacity. Crap. Runs in the family, so I believed him, even though he appeared to be about twelve years old.

Cut to a year later, when the magic asthma dust had made no appreciable difference in my ability to douse those damn fires on the computer screen. Baby Doc has obviously been puzzling over this, as a conscientious infant should, and has reached a startling conclusion: the curvature of my upper spine, very visible on chest x-rays, has likely compressed one of my lungs and therefore permanently reduced its capacity. Harmlessly, he adds. So no more magic dust.

Chalk up one more for Quasimodo.

… steamy, but not in the good way.

Now it’s hot.

We got off easy this year for quite a while – wet winter, mild spring, heck, identifiable spring. Swathes of wildflowers in eyeblink progression, each wave lasting far longer than it should and lapping into the next. Bluebonnets, still thick, crowded into masses of red and gold Indian blankets. Mexican primroses in rosy clouds drifted into every hollow, soft enough to stretch out on. Green, green, green all the way into June, now almost July, still blessedly rainy but with the inevitable Texas truth of HEAT.

While the air is full of water, the sun comes out and bears down with palpable pressure. It pushes the moisture into every pore and won’t let any cooling sweat escape; that sweat coats your skin, collects under your curves, and you move in a swamp of damp discomfort every time you dare step outside. Texans with the luxury to do so hurry from one air-conditioned space to another. Rivers and lakes fill up by mid-morning, even on weekdays, and fan drives for the elderly are a regular feature on the local news.

Ah, Texas.

Photo credit: the marvelously talented and quite handsome Brian, a.k.a. The Hub.