West Texas up close

Yesterday was a long day but a good one. My friend Mary, an experienced and talented journalist, and I left at 7:30 to drive to San Angelo for a signing. Both of us are contributors to Noah's Ride, a collaborative novel just published by TCU Press. We were going to San Angelo because it's the home of Texas' most beloved novelist, Elmer Kelton. He wrote the first chapter of the novel, and we wanted to thank him and honor him by having a signing at the bookstore in his town, where he has a large following.
The drive, both there and back, was long--about four hours--but on a cloudy day it was most pleasant. Mary drove and I knit--got to finish that baby blanket by late October. We yakked about everything from family to writing to West Texas. The land of West Texas can offer surprisingly breathtaking views--no, it's not all brown and dry. I was in the hands of a native, because Mary grew up in San Angelo--she knew the back roads, though I have to say we got lost when we got to San Angelo itself! They had, she explained, built new roads. Anyway soon we saw a sign saying we were headed to El Dorado, and Mary said, "El Dorado! I don't want to go there! Where am I?" Then she looked at me and said, "You didn't want to hear that, did you?"
The signing started off slowly--at most such events everyone who's going to come is there at the opening minute. This time, people drifted in all afternoon in twos and threes. They came to buy the book, but mostly ranchers, dressed in jeans, really came to jaw with Elmer. They talked about the drought (Elmer would spell it drouth), and they talked about hard economic times--I heard someone say they figured San Angelo was about a "ten-dollar-an-hour" town. Women talked about how the small towns were losing people--one person from Sterling City said the number of schools had shrunk, because there were not enough students for, say, two elementary schools. Mary's brother-in-law talked about having to sell off all the cattle because there was no water and no graze.
Mary reverted right back to small-town Texas ways, holding out her hand and saying, "Hi, I'm Mary Rogers," which prompted the rest of us to introduce ourselves to each visitor. Mary got each person's name, and when they left, she thanked them for coming. If the visitor was a woman, she addressed her respectfully as "Miz Jones" or whatever the name was. I wasn't certain, but I thought she developed a bit of a drawl that I never noticed in Fort Worth.
I didn't get to see much of San Angelo but enough to show me that it was yet another town that was trying to develop something to attract tourists--it boasts the Concho River winding through the middle of town, and now on Concho Street they have interesting boutiques--we only got a pass-through on the largest, but I would have welcomed more time. And of course there's Fort Concho, one of the best preserved western forts--it's where the 9th and 10th Cavalry, buffalo soldiers, were stationed.
A word about the bookstore--it was fascinating. Except for Elmer's work and a few other new titles, the wooden shelves were loaded with rare, out-of-print books of Western Americana. The Cactus Bookstore, owner Felton Cochran told me, does a big mail-order business from catalogs he sends out monthly. No, he doesn't have a web page. If you want his catalog, you'll have to write hm at 6 Concho Street, San Angelo. But his knowledge is amazing--Elmer and I were talking about ranch histories, and Felton immediately produced two or three helpful references. He's a bookseller with a passion, and he's found his niche.
We went home by another back route so we could go through Brownwood and eat at the legendary Underwood's Cafeteria. Mary insisted that we had to have the barbecued steak, even thoughI protested and ordered fried chicken (Jeff, who was with us, told me I'd hear about that for so long I'd regret it). The chicken--a huge helping of three pieces--was good, and so were the usual sides--pinto beans, green beans, corn, mashed potatoes and cream gravy. And of course there was cobbler. All too much for me. Two huge pieces of chicken are still in my fridge in a to-go-box.
About thirty minutes out of Fort Worth, Mary and I looked at each other and acknowledged that we were tired. But it was a good tired. And when I got home I felt that I, an outsider, had seen West Texas up close and personal, even briefly. Fort Worth may be "Where the West Begins," but San Angelo is a different world.