Today was rodeo day for my daughters. Megan came in from Austin and brought a friend with her. They are staying tonight at the new Drover Hotel on Mule Alley in the Stockyards, and this afternoon Jordan and neighbor Amy Russell met them for the matinee performance at the rodeo. Then Christian, Jacob, and I joined them for supper at Joe T. Garcia’s.
We ate outdoors by the
swimming pool, kept comfortable for the most part by giant heaters closely spaced
on the patio. It really wasn’t that cool—probably sixty when we got there—but there
was a breeze, and the heaters were welcome. Later the wind picked up, and I was
glad I had followed Jordan’s rather unusual advice to bring a blanket. I took a
thermal blanket that stuffs easily into a small casing—Megan gave it to me during
pandemic when all my entertaining was on the patio, sometimes in quite chilly
evenings. Tonight that blanket proved its worth.
With seven of us at the table,
we had all the usual Joe T.’s things—fajitas, “the dinner” with enchiladas,
tacos, beans, rice and guacamole. I had the small dinner, which meant I dug
into everyone else’s guacamole—one of the things, along with beans, that I
think they do a really good job of. And of course, we came home laden with
containers of leftovers and chips and who knows what? Christian and Jacob will
eat them, and I won’t miss them.
Because it’s rodeo time in
Fort Worth or better, Fort Worth Exposition and Livestock Show (shhh—don’t you
dare use the old name of Fat Stock Show)—you see more “western” dress than
usual at Joe T.’s. I watched parades of men and women in cowboy hats and fur
vests (both my daughters) and western wear. Many came to eat early so as to
make the eight o’clock rodeo show.
But as I sat there in that
garden setting, slightly cool but mostly warmed but heaters so oversized that
they were almost outrageous, and as I watched that parade of western wear and
ate Tex-Mex food, it dawned on me that this Chicago girl was having the
ultimate Fort Worth experience. A smooth blend of cultures and styles that resulted
in something you don’t find even anywhere else in Texas. It’s uniquely Fort
Worth. Cowtown earns its name.
My reaction may have been sparked
by Megan’s description of the Drover Hotel, which she said was thoroughly Fort
Worth—cowboy culture, but well done. Barn
doors in the lobby, massive stonework, leather furniture, wood everywhere. And,
of course, plenty of people in cowboy hats, jeans and boots. But also,
impeccable service, courtesy at every turn, and good food.
Somehow all this mixed in my
mind. When I was a kid in Chicago, Texas and cowboys were the farthest things
from my mind. Once when my parents traveled to Texas to visit my brother, who
was stationed with the Navy at Corpus Christi, I thought they might as well
have visited a foreign country, and I was amazed at their report of palm trees
and balmy weather. Then my ex traveled to the Panhandle and reported on a
barren, born land. What kind of place was this, I wondered, with palm trees and
barren land.
Now, all these years later, I
have a literary career built around Texas, it’s myths and legends and its
reality. I still have to pinch myself sometimes to understand my transition
from northerner to Texan. I don’t wear a cowboy hat, I don’t wear boots, and I
don’t ride horses, but I am thoroughly a Texan, consumed with the state’s
history and mystique (not so much for its present political stance). I can talk
much more intelligently about the past than the present, and as I sat there in
that garden tonight, eating refried beans (what Chicago girl ever ate such a
thing?) it seemed to me that past and present, for me, came together. It was a
sweet, nostalgic moment.
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