Reluctant to leave
Tomball family this morning. Love being with Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan,
and reluctant to leave their lake. We sat there last night at dusk, in the
quiet—it really refreshes you. Okay, the flies are annoying (there’s a stable
next door) and I am alarmed at the thought of property across the lake for sale
as “commercial”—jet-skis on that precious getaway? Pray God not. Seize the
moment, Judy, and quit bringing bridges up to jump. Last night it was serene
and quiet. Colin caught—and threw back—a bass almost big enough to cook.
Reluctant as I was
to leave, I was relieved to get home. With my compromised mobility, there are
more things I cannot do for myself, especially in a house with many levels. I
have to ask for more—will you plug my phone into the charger? Will you help me
up this step, so I can wash my hair in the sink? Will you put on my left shoe
because I don’t have the stool I use to do that? It’s frustrating for me and
for those who love me. And occasionally—oh, only once in a while—tempers flare.
Lessons learned.
I thought we got
an early start this morning, but I misread the clock—it was ten, not nine. A
little after eleven we were in College Station where we meet my dear friend
Gayla, who brought me a carton of books (more about that later) and a
much-appreciated hug. But lo and behold! We found the Chick-Fil-A we’d searched
for two days earlier. From now on I’ll know it’s on the westbound side of the
road at the William Fitch exit.
Back on the road,
making good time through Hearne and Calvert, headed for Marlin, when Jordan
says, “Where’s the exit? I missed the left turn.” I assured her we went through
Riesel, some miles down the road, before we headed due west, “My map say to
exit 7,” she said, “and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Now I have ridden
that road between College Station and Waco dozens of times, literally, and I
never ever knew anybody who got off at 7. But there we were going through
Marlin, then Chilton, Robinson, etc., all on a two-lane highway. It seems we were headed for the Baylor
bookstore by what seemed a slow and roundabout method to me, but which Jordan’s
map dictated—have you ever known internet maps to lead you around Robin Hood’s
barn? I have learned as a passenger to
keep my mouth shut—but I couldn’t resist a comment when by gosh we crossed 6.
If we’d gone through Riesel, we would have ended up at the same spot a lot
sooner. “I’m following my map,” she said righteously.
We came to I-35,
got on in south Waco, and after a bit exited—and there it was: the Baylor
Bookstore. Jordan cheered for herself, so Jacob and I joined in.
Driving backroads
like that is instructive. I realized again what poverty there is in small-town
and rural Texas. Marlin, a town of maybe just under 6,000 and a falling
population, appeared to be a town of deferred maintenance, with lots of
boarded-up stores and shaky houses. If there was a “good” section, we didn’t
see it. Beyond the town we passed shabby farmhouses, collapsing abandoned
buildings—I saw one place with a skeleton of a building and the hand-lettered
sign “Fire wood.” It occurred to me they were tearing the building down board
by board and selling it for fire wood. Really?
Then again, we
passed some well-kept, impressive homes, large and small. Texas, like America,
is a land of contrasts between comfort and poverty. The landscape roused in me
that old, slightly guilty thought: why am I so blessed when others need so much?
I wanted to poke Jacob, but he was watching a movie and wouldn’t have gotten
the message anyway. Too young. I suspect he assumes his blessed state of life
as natural.
After that, ah,
detour, we hurried home and made it in a little over four and a half hours for
the entire trip. Not bad considering our detours. Hat’s off to Jordan and her
good driving.
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