Confession: I am a
workaholic, a conclusion I probably reached years ago but am acutely aware of
again today. For the second day in a row, I did not a lick of work. Jordan and
I went today to visit my brother at his ranch outside Tolar—for those not in
the know, Tolar s a small town mostly of deserted stone buildings beyond
Granbury, between Fort Worth and Stephenville. Okay if you’re not from North Texas, it won’t make
sense.
Tolar does have a
fine-looking bank and an all-purpose quick-stop store and the Methodist church
which is our signal of where to turn off the highway. But the stone buildings have
taken root in my mind—several are shells, roofless, windows gone, yet standing
strong and straight. Someday I want to know the story of Tolar when it was a
vibrant community, when those stone buildings were filled with people and
activity. Today, I want to see someone move in and put clever gift shops and
restaurants in those structures, but I suppose the problem is that Granbury is
too close. Everyone goes there for shopping, dining, whatever. Granbury has the
historic square and a new, supper HEB grocery—what else could one want?
When you
turn at the Methodist church in Tolar you go through a small residential area—so
people really do live there—and worship there, because there are a couple of
good-sized, solid-looking churches. But when you turn you
still have nine miles to go to my brother’s ranch.
We went because John, a
retired osteopathic physician, has inherited the family ability for osteopathic
treatment. In short, he has magic hands. And Jordan has been, as we say in the
vernacular, down in the back. So while John treated her, I had a good visit
with sister-in-law Cindy, and then we all had a wonderful lunch of chicken
salad and fruit salad—delicious peach from a tree in their yard and wonderful
large sweet blueberries from Costco.
Is Jordan cured?
Not by a long shot—to both their disappointment. But she and her uncle now have
a better handle on what’s going on in her back. And if someone comes at her
saying “surgery,” she knows her response.
And it was a fine
day for a drive in the country—hot but sunny and the land looks partly green,
partly brown—it is, after all, August in Texas. We went the Chisholm Trail Tollway,
which is empty and fast, but we saw a horrendous accident. On the way out, the
entire north-bound side of the tollway was shut down; on the way home, it was
open with one lane only. An eighteen-wheeler had apparently hit the guard rail,
flipped, and caught fire. Makes you worry about the driver—and is a sobering
moment.
 |
| Scallops, which look belter than they tasted |
Home, with most of
the day gone, I fixed scallops for supper. I ordered a quarter lb. from Central
Market and was tickled that they called to say that would only give me two—how many
did I want? I said, just for me, three. Tried a new recipe and was disappointed—it
called for brining them, and maybe I did it wrong, but they were way too salty.
I’m going back to my tried-and-true and much simpler method.
A long but happy
day.
