Daisy is sleeping peacefully at the moment, pretzeled around my legs on top of the covers. She's been dreaming; I've been trying to nap after we've both had a hard night. She didn't seem to be eating well a few days ago, and I canceled a night away from home because she didn't seem herself. But she rallied and then I was on the road again, and yesterday returned home to a very sick kitty.
But such a good kitty. Together for nearly seven years now, she's helped me through some of the hardest decisions of my life, through some of the biggest challenges, and through some of the very best times. She was a shelter kitten, found with her litter in a cardboard box at Lake Darling. Discarded, but then rescued, she helped me come home to a lonely house, giving me hope and companionship. She'd wait for me in the window; her silhouette reassuring in the quiet of dark nights. Since she was a midwestern girl too, she comforted me after particularly hard days of being the odd-woman-out in this often bewildering, sometimes unforgiving place. We were comrades, buddies, girls with derring-do. We fit.
I wanted to take her on adventures. I wanted her to share in the good times; I wanted her to know how much she helped me turn my life around. But she seemed happy to play with her Design Ranch string (Iowa Citians will know what I mean), her fishing pole feather, her stuffed catnip mouse, the water in her bubbler (she dismantled the first one as a kitten), the water in the shower (she pulled up the drain to get to more). She even worked out with me: being particularly helpful with ab work, climbing on my tummy adding extra weight; and making tricep work a bit of an obstacle course, lest I conk her in the head with the dumbbells. Wary of men at first (except Monte whom she loved immediately) she enjoyed having people over, warming eventually to everyone. Usually in the middle of dinner, we'd find her near the foot of one of our guests, on her back all four white paws up in the air vibrating in synch with her purrs.
On that first trip home from the shelter, we both learned she was not a traveler. And she's proven herself to be so spectacularly not a traveler, the vet advised me to stop driving her the hour to the office, even for vaccinations and ordinary care. So I knew we'd have this day eventually...the day she'd be too sick to not take to the vet, but possibly too sick to survive the drive there. That she is not drinking tells me this is serious. So I'm trying to keep her comfortable as long as I can, waiting for the vet to call. Perhaps we can try tomorrow.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Oh hell no.
The first sign came a couple of years ago, when I turned over in bed and felt something between my shoulder blades. "What the hell is underneath me?" and then there was the shock. Nothing was between my flesh and the rumbled sheet but my....own sagging skin.
And then this weekend, while undressing in the questionable lighting of my B&B bathroom, I noticed a strange mark on my torso in my reflection in the mirror. "What's that, a smudge?" No, merely shadows from again--from my own flesh--and the teensiest bit of sag.
Oh hell no.
So despite the miles of training on foot and on the bike, and innumerable 'reps' of the weights, I'm here to tell you, the flesh does sag after 50...well at least at 51, almost 52.
And today, the life insurance salesman visited with all of us covered under the Town of Van Horn's policy.
Sigh.
I suppose this should be the place I talk about honoring the beauty of age...and I really do believe in that honor, in that beauty. But did it have to happen to me?!?
I mean, really, what was I thinking? That I'd somehow be forever immune from this sort of thing?
I remember a stunningly beautiful poster of a older woman swimmer, her back an origami of skin against the smooth fabric of her suit. I can't find that image anymore, and when I google, "image old woman swimmer," I get images of Dara Torres, who has provided me with inspiration to keep fit, to keep active, to not be defined by "over 40," or even "over 50."
And so I just grin and bear it. And I'm incredibly thankful to still be running and hiking, and cycling and lifting weights at this age. Sometimes when I lack motivation on my runs, I use the name as a mantra, "Dar a, Tor res. Dar a, Tor res." It helps keep me going.
I have no doubt that I will be that wrinkly woman runner, swimmer, cyclist, hiker for a long time to come. Still at it, still confident that the muscles will work, under all that sharpei-skin that's developing.
And then this weekend, while undressing in the questionable lighting of my B&B bathroom, I noticed a strange mark on my torso in my reflection in the mirror. "What's that, a smudge?" No, merely shadows from again--from my own flesh--and the teensiest bit of sag.
Oh hell no.
So despite the miles of training on foot and on the bike, and innumerable 'reps' of the weights, I'm here to tell you, the flesh does sag after 50...well at least at 51, almost 52.
And today, the life insurance salesman visited with all of us covered under the Town of Van Horn's policy.
Sigh.
I suppose this should be the place I talk about honoring the beauty of age...and I really do believe in that honor, in that beauty. But did it have to happen to me?!?
I mean, really, what was I thinking? That I'd somehow be forever immune from this sort of thing?
I remember a stunningly beautiful poster of a older woman swimmer, her back an origami of skin against the smooth fabric of her suit. I can't find that image anymore, and when I google, "image old woman swimmer," I get images of Dara Torres, who has provided me with inspiration to keep fit, to keep active, to not be defined by "over 40," or even "over 50."
And so I just grin and bear it. And I'm incredibly thankful to still be running and hiking, and cycling and lifting weights at this age. Sometimes when I lack motivation on my runs, I use the name as a mantra, "Dar a, Tor res. Dar a, Tor res." It helps keep me going.
I have no doubt that I will be that wrinkly woman runner, swimmer, cyclist, hiker for a long time to come. Still at it, still confident that the muscles will work, under all that sharpei-skin that's developing.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Back to maps and storytelling
Regarding storytelling and mapmaking, here's what has been on my mind: instead of thinking about what we choose to show, and what we choose to tell, I've been considering what and why we omit.
One of my favorite aspects of creating of a map artpiece was actually the design and placement of the legend--that box that shows symbols and mileage measurements--the parameters of the map. The legend was fun to stitch because it had an established visual vocabulary--widths of roads, solid vs. dashes, a title, compass. It gave my fiction credibility, too, as a "map."
As artistic cartographer, I had to decide where the legend would be placed. In my Map of Great Pies piece, which showed Michigan and Illinois pies, would the legend be placed, say over Missouri, deeming it undistinguished in the matter of great pies? Or would I place the legend over what would have been Kentucky, rendering it a place of second rate pies, unworthy of even appearing on a map?
In all the years I've looked at real maps, I've always wondered, what actually IS underneath the legend? They were usually placed in some obscure place in the ocean. Was there nothing there? At all? Do fish swim there? Is there not one speck of an island? Was all of that place so unnoteworthy it had absolutely nothing to offer the map?
Were it not for its strategic location on one of the country's busiest transcontinental highways, Van Horn would probably be one of those communities obscured by the map's legend. At least most people would be tempted to place the legend there, for whenever the region's virtues are mentioned, Van Horn is rarely among them. It HAS assets and attributes--fine ones, actually--but depending on who is leading the discussion, it probably won't rise to the top.
In our statewide program, we know the political fallout from being omitted from the map. Forty years ago, to publicize the state for the upcoming World's Fair, Governor Connolly set up 10 driving routes--one for every part of Texas--for HemisFair goers to discover the true Texas. And thirty years later, those routes became the framework for our program and the ten heritage trails regions. Some..many communities were left off that first set of driving tours forty years ago, and it still doesn't sit well. We happily serve them, but they're not on the map, and that apparently still stings.
Clearly, no one likes to be ignored. And some assets, some places, don't just jump up and grab you.
Part of my job is to find what isn't mapped, what isn't known, what isn't immediately apparent about a place. Find, investigate, cheerlead, promote. Our funder calls it "untold stories."
The longer I'm here, the more untold stories I find...the 1918 tent hospital in the desert near Marathon, set up for the influenza outbreak; the progression of design in family motor courts and small roadside motels; the history of my own building, first a fraternal hall, then a series of stores connected to other buildings in town by an underground tunnel. There is also the story of the desert surrounding us, the silent, imperceptible elements of the land--like the character of the wind--that do not fit well on a map.
One of my favorite aspects of creating of a map artpiece was actually the design and placement of the legend--that box that shows symbols and mileage measurements--the parameters of the map. The legend was fun to stitch because it had an established visual vocabulary--widths of roads, solid vs. dashes, a title, compass. It gave my fiction credibility, too, as a "map."
As artistic cartographer, I had to decide where the legend would be placed. In my Map of Great Pies piece, which showed Michigan and Illinois pies, would the legend be placed, say over Missouri, deeming it undistinguished in the matter of great pies? Or would I place the legend over what would have been Kentucky, rendering it a place of second rate pies, unworthy of even appearing on a map?
In all the years I've looked at real maps, I've always wondered, what actually IS underneath the legend? They were usually placed in some obscure place in the ocean. Was there nothing there? At all? Do fish swim there? Is there not one speck of an island? Was all of that place so unnoteworthy it had absolutely nothing to offer the map?
Were it not for its strategic location on one of the country's busiest transcontinental highways, Van Horn would probably be one of those communities obscured by the map's legend. At least most people would be tempted to place the legend there, for whenever the region's virtues are mentioned, Van Horn is rarely among them. It HAS assets and attributes--fine ones, actually--but depending on who is leading the discussion, it probably won't rise to the top.
In our statewide program, we know the political fallout from being omitted from the map. Forty years ago, to publicize the state for the upcoming World's Fair, Governor Connolly set up 10 driving routes--one for every part of Texas--for HemisFair goers to discover the true Texas. And thirty years later, those routes became the framework for our program and the ten heritage trails regions. Some..many communities were left off that first set of driving tours forty years ago, and it still doesn't sit well. We happily serve them, but they're not on the map, and that apparently still stings.
Clearly, no one likes to be ignored. And some assets, some places, don't just jump up and grab you.
Part of my job is to find what isn't mapped, what isn't known, what isn't immediately apparent about a place. Find, investigate, cheerlead, promote. Our funder calls it "untold stories."
The longer I'm here, the more untold stories I find...the 1918 tent hospital in the desert near Marathon, set up for the influenza outbreak; the progression of design in family motor courts and small roadside motels; the history of my own building, first a fraternal hall, then a series of stores connected to other buildings in town by an underground tunnel. There is also the story of the desert surrounding us, the silent, imperceptible elements of the land--like the character of the wind--that do not fit well on a map.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Signature Dish
This week, I reached into the cupboard for something to finish off dinner.
I honor Can Nights. A wise woman once counseled me, "There's nothing wrong with having canned soup for dinner, Beth," giving me a free pass on nights with no energy for cooking. (Whispering, a thank you in your direction, Margaret K.)
This week, it was a can of Green Giant's Summer Crisp corn. Summer seems so far away, as does crisp summer corn. But this is a food lodged deep into my soul...
For I am the girl who got a kernel stuck up her already ample nose at the tender age of 6.
I am the girl who loved Mom's scrambled eggs and corn. And saltine-crispy scalloped corn.
Corn pancakes, corn waffles, polenta, corn pudding, corn on the cob, black bean soup with corn, creamy corn soup with coconut milk, corn fritters, hush puppies, cornbread.
A good Midwestern girl loves her corn. In Michigan the fields were set back from the road by gentile stone fences. From the back seat, their tassels fringed blue sky.
When we moved to Illinois, the land was so rich and the crop so valuable, corn was planted right to the edge of narrow roads. From the back seat, I was enveloped in the green world of the middle stalks. Anytime past July, corn towered well above the car. The narrow roads took quick, blind turns around the fields. Beep the horn, we learned, that's how you let other cars know you're rounding the bend.
Bloomington used to have Corn Days, and long lines of folks snaked around the old Courthouse, eager to get the free ears of corn.
When I had my own garden, of course I planted corn. Racoons loved it, too.
After my first Texas stint, I imported a Texas Baked Corn recipe with staggeringly excessive amounts of butter and cream cheese and a little bit of jalapeno to the Midwest.
"Drain 2 12 oz. cans of Shoepeg corn. Make a sauce of 6 oz. of Philadelphia cream cheese, 1/4 lb. butter, 1/4 c. sweet milk, dash of garlic salt. Heat slowly so it does not stick. Combine with drained corn. Mince 2 seeded jalapeno peppers and add. Season to taste and place in buttered baking dish. Bake at 350 until lightly browned, about 30 minutes."
And then I graduated to "light" food, and brought this Cooking Light recipe to every potluck, though--truth be told--I diligently brought back the real eggs, the salt and the butter, so in the end, there was little "light" about it.
Easy Corn Casserole
Ingredients
1/4 cup egg substitute
1/4 cup butter, melted
1 (8 3/4-ounce) can no-salt-added whole-kernel corn, drained
1 (8 3/4-ounce) can no-salt-added cream-style corn
1 (8 1/2-ounce) package corn muffin mix
1 (8-ounce) carton plain fat-free yogurt
Cooking spray
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°.
Combine first 6 ingredients in a medium bowl; stir well. Pour into an 8-inch square baking dish coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes or until set.
Now in Van Horn, I prefer corn, not flour, tortillas. And the last time I planned a visit to Iowa, I made sure it was during the sweet corn harvest.
I honor Can Nights. A wise woman once counseled me, "There's nothing wrong with having canned soup for dinner, Beth," giving me a free pass on nights with no energy for cooking. (Whispering, a thank you in your direction, Margaret K.)
This week, it was a can of Green Giant's Summer Crisp corn. Summer seems so far away, as does crisp summer corn. But this is a food lodged deep into my soul...
For I am the girl who got a kernel stuck up her already ample nose at the tender age of 6.
I am the girl who loved Mom's scrambled eggs and corn. And saltine-crispy scalloped corn.
Corn pancakes, corn waffles, polenta, corn pudding, corn on the cob, black bean soup with corn, creamy corn soup with coconut milk, corn fritters, hush puppies, cornbread.
A good Midwestern girl loves her corn. In Michigan the fields were set back from the road by gentile stone fences. From the back seat, their tassels fringed blue sky.
When we moved to Illinois, the land was so rich and the crop so valuable, corn was planted right to the edge of narrow roads. From the back seat, I was enveloped in the green world of the middle stalks. Anytime past July, corn towered well above the car. The narrow roads took quick, blind turns around the fields. Beep the horn, we learned, that's how you let other cars know you're rounding the bend.
Bloomington used to have Corn Days, and long lines of folks snaked around the old Courthouse, eager to get the free ears of corn.
When I had my own garden, of course I planted corn. Racoons loved it, too.
After my first Texas stint, I imported a Texas Baked Corn recipe with staggeringly excessive amounts of butter and cream cheese and a little bit of jalapeno to the Midwest.
"Drain 2 12 oz. cans of Shoepeg corn. Make a sauce of 6 oz. of Philadelphia cream cheese, 1/4 lb. butter, 1/4 c. sweet milk, dash of garlic salt. Heat slowly so it does not stick. Combine with drained corn. Mince 2 seeded jalapeno peppers and add. Season to taste and place in buttered baking dish. Bake at 350 until lightly browned, about 30 minutes."
And then I graduated to "light" food, and brought this Cooking Light recipe to every potluck, though--truth be told--I diligently brought back the real eggs, the salt and the butter, so in the end, there was little "light" about it.
Easy Corn Casserole
Ingredients
1/4 cup egg substitute
1/4 cup butter, melted
1 (8 3/4-ounce) can no-salt-added whole-kernel corn, drained
1 (8 3/4-ounce) can no-salt-added cream-style corn
1 (8 1/2-ounce) package corn muffin mix
1 (8-ounce) carton plain fat-free yogurt
Cooking spray
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°.
Combine first 6 ingredients in a medium bowl; stir well. Pour into an 8-inch square baking dish coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes or until set.
Now in Van Horn, I prefer corn, not flour, tortillas. And the last time I planned a visit to Iowa, I made sure it was during the sweet corn harvest.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Mapping "real" places
Our funder and parent organization adopted a new tagline last year, "Real places telling real stories," and I've been thinking about the implications for my work with the Trail as I promote and interpret this part of West Texas. I suspect this will be a running discussion with myself this year, so this may be the first of many entries in the weeks ahead. Feel free to scroll through to my pictures from the holidays if you're yawning already...I don't mind.
"Real places telling real stories" requires the intersection of two concepts I worked through as I stitched--being true to and deepening narrative while conveying a sense of place.
The earliest memory I have of this intersection of narrative and place was reading my beloved Betsy-Tacy books, Maud Hart Lovelace's series of children's books, illustrated by the genius Lois Lenski. The girls and eventually, their friend Tib lived in Mankato, Minnesota, mapped by Lenski and called "Deep Valley." A gussied-up map by Lenski is here. Inside the front cover of the early print editions I read, Lenski created simple charming drawings--maps, really--of the small-town, turn-of-the-century places that were critical to the imaginations of the three little girls and their readers. I spent hours looking at these simple drawings, reading and rereading the text and imagining how "Deep Valley" must have felt to those girls, and how I might feel to be there myself.
I guess I wasn't surprised, and was a wee bit horrified to see "Deep Valley" interpreted and "made a place" for tourists. I'm torn...I give a thumbs up to the community for creating an economic driver for tourism as I suspect there are many middle-aged women and their daughters and granddaughters willing to make the pilgrimage to Mankato for a bit of Betsy-Tacy memories. And yet, is it really any more a place than where the created-for-market American Girl dolls supposedly lived? What a shame that our imagination is now nailed to one very specific vision...though they are perfectly charming places, they are so specific. I guess I liked my own vision of "Deep Valley" and it rings truer to me than the "real" "Deep Valley." And yet, this is very, very close to one legitimate way--walking tours, interpretive guide flyers, etc--I might develop to interpret or promote one of my communities.
So where is the "real" in "real places?"
Back to artwork and stitching:
Most of my early work was about place, solely about place. And roadside america places--Texaco stations, Dairy Queens--those public spaces that were about mood and light and unintentional theatre, such as the choreography of tired gas station attendant pumping gas and wiping windshields at the end of his shift, or the parade of characters ordering dipped cones and banana splits on a warm summer night. What was important to me was exploring the question, "how did it feel to be there?"
I even did some maps, including a "Map of Great Pies," hand and machine-stitched pie vignettes on handpainted silk. There was the blueberry pie from my Grandmother in Michigan, who'd give us buckets and tell us to go gather berries. There was an homage to legendary Route 66 diner pies and reststops, and there was a road between them, the road that connected them physically and thematically. It was a cute piece, about having fun and honoring PIE (and what could be greater, really?!) and led me one step closer to visual storytelling and narrative.
I stitched a tiny map of the civil rights work of Diane Nash, honoring her courage and the importance of her work in the early student protests, including the lunch counter sit-ins and the Freedom Rides. The map of the south, with her portrait and geographical links to her story formed the basis of the piece.
The bottom line here, is I added my own views, story, vision, narrative to those places.
I do it every day in Van Horn. As I go about my day I am engaged in the conscious and unconscious process of personally mapping this town. The mornings I run, I leave my apartment and get in my car for the cemetery, noting if Janice's car or that big guy's car, or the old guy's car is parked at the hardware store. That tells me who's working there today.
I cross Broadway and look to the right. Have Robert and Nada arrived for their day at the Museum yet? Is there car parked behind the building?
Ahead, there's the train tracks, and if I'm early, I see the railroad workers standing around.
Swerve to the left and cross the tracks, turn left, and there's the house with the chihuahuas always out. Watch for them. They're always running loose.
A block or so down to the west is the house, where I suspect squatters take up residence. Most times it is abandoned with broken out windows, but sometimes a big dog is chained in front. Across the street, as I turn north, there's the sturdy adobe long left on its own. Windows and doors are wide open to the elements; I always give it a quick glance wondering how many animals must take refuge there for the night.
Turning north, there on the right is the house that brings out their homemade Holly Hobby Christmas displays. I like them, though they're quite shabby. At least someone cared enough to make something, not buy something.
One more block, there's the trailer with the car-chasing dog...will he run today? And then the trailer with the horse barn in back. And then there's the cemetery, and I'm ready for my run. In the five minute, one mile drive a whole host of stories might present themselves.
Larry McMurtry stayed for a time in Van Horn, as one of his novels was filmed here. He wrote, and I'm paraphrasing and taking a few liberties with his words, that Van Horn felt like a place you might get murdered..that is until he met one old waitress that humanized the place for him. For Van Horn and its blight, its neglect, its struggle to believe in itself...it really needs story to feel comfortable to outsiders.
Lots of "real" stories happened here--Van Horn has always been a place people pass through--Apache, stagecoach riders, early ranchers, refugees from the revolution in Mexico. Van Horn is rich in story. The cemetery is rich in story, yet some locals do not want it opened to outsider use. Part of my work here is to listen and to respect those wishes, and see if there is some intersection between their care and protection of that place and the telling of Van Horn's stories. What we want is a way for outsiders to understand and appreciate the place Van Horn is and was, enriching the visitor's experience, and hopefully help the town believe in itself in the process.
Yesterday, I spent constructing a draft flyer interpreting the gorgeous and unspoiled Hwy 54 for the motorist and the cyclist. Monte spent hours building an elevation graph based on data from Google Earth and he helped me make sense of Publisher and my extremely limited graphic design skills. (He's great.) My goal: encourage visitors to take the time to explore that stretch of highway. And yet, here is a conumdrum for future thought...though history happened here (the last Indian battle in Texas, a current-day spaceport, deep ranching history, ancient coral reefs and geological history) at its core, the land on Hwy 54 is still very much frontier. If I map it, will I destroy the visitor's sense of exploring uncharted space or will I enhance it? Will I "Betsy-Tacy" it out of its charm? Or will it provide a gentle nudge for someone to get out and see it for themselves.
These are the questions on my mind today....
"Real places telling real stories" requires the intersection of two concepts I worked through as I stitched--being true to and deepening narrative while conveying a sense of place.
The earliest memory I have of this intersection of narrative and place was reading my beloved Betsy-Tacy books, Maud Hart Lovelace's series of children's books, illustrated by the genius Lois Lenski. The girls and eventually, their friend Tib lived in Mankato, Minnesota, mapped by Lenski and called "Deep Valley." A gussied-up map by Lenski is here. Inside the front cover of the early print editions I read, Lenski created simple charming drawings--maps, really--of the small-town, turn-of-the-century places that were critical to the imaginations of the three little girls and their readers. I spent hours looking at these simple drawings, reading and rereading the text and imagining how "Deep Valley" must have felt to those girls, and how I might feel to be there myself.
I guess I wasn't surprised, and was a wee bit horrified to see "Deep Valley" interpreted and "made a place" for tourists. I'm torn...I give a thumbs up to the community for creating an economic driver for tourism as I suspect there are many middle-aged women and their daughters and granddaughters willing to make the pilgrimage to Mankato for a bit of Betsy-Tacy memories. And yet, is it really any more a place than where the created-for-market American Girl dolls supposedly lived? What a shame that our imagination is now nailed to one very specific vision...though they are perfectly charming places, they are so specific. I guess I liked my own vision of "Deep Valley" and it rings truer to me than the "real" "Deep Valley." And yet, this is very, very close to one legitimate way--walking tours, interpretive guide flyers, etc--I might develop to interpret or promote one of my communities.
So where is the "real" in "real places?"
Back to artwork and stitching:
Most of my early work was about place, solely about place. And roadside america places--Texaco stations, Dairy Queens--those public spaces that were about mood and light and unintentional theatre, such as the choreography of tired gas station attendant pumping gas and wiping windshields at the end of his shift, or the parade of characters ordering dipped cones and banana splits on a warm summer night. What was important to me was exploring the question, "how did it feel to be there?"
I even did some maps, including a "Map of Great Pies," hand and machine-stitched pie vignettes on handpainted silk. There was the blueberry pie from my Grandmother in Michigan, who'd give us buckets and tell us to go gather berries. There was an homage to legendary Route 66 diner pies and reststops, and there was a road between them, the road that connected them physically and thematically. It was a cute piece, about having fun and honoring PIE (and what could be greater, really?!) and led me one step closer to visual storytelling and narrative.
I stitched a tiny map of the civil rights work of Diane Nash, honoring her courage and the importance of her work in the early student protests, including the lunch counter sit-ins and the Freedom Rides. The map of the south, with her portrait and geographical links to her story formed the basis of the piece.
The bottom line here, is I added my own views, story, vision, narrative to those places.
I do it every day in Van Horn. As I go about my day I am engaged in the conscious and unconscious process of personally mapping this town. The mornings I run, I leave my apartment and get in my car for the cemetery, noting if Janice's car or that big guy's car, or the old guy's car is parked at the hardware store. That tells me who's working there today.
I cross Broadway and look to the right. Have Robert and Nada arrived for their day at the Museum yet? Is there car parked behind the building?
Ahead, there's the train tracks, and if I'm early, I see the railroad workers standing around.
Swerve to the left and cross the tracks, turn left, and there's the house with the chihuahuas always out. Watch for them. They're always running loose.
A block or so down to the west is the house, where I suspect squatters take up residence. Most times it is abandoned with broken out windows, but sometimes a big dog is chained in front. Across the street, as I turn north, there's the sturdy adobe long left on its own. Windows and doors are wide open to the elements; I always give it a quick glance wondering how many animals must take refuge there for the night.
Turning north, there on the right is the house that brings out their homemade Holly Hobby Christmas displays. I like them, though they're quite shabby. At least someone cared enough to make something, not buy something.
One more block, there's the trailer with the car-chasing dog...will he run today? And then the trailer with the horse barn in back. And then there's the cemetery, and I'm ready for my run. In the five minute, one mile drive a whole host of stories might present themselves.
Larry McMurtry stayed for a time in Van Horn, as one of his novels was filmed here. He wrote, and I'm paraphrasing and taking a few liberties with his words, that Van Horn felt like a place you might get murdered..that is until he met one old waitress that humanized the place for him. For Van Horn and its blight, its neglect, its struggle to believe in itself...it really needs story to feel comfortable to outsiders.
Lots of "real" stories happened here--Van Horn has always been a place people pass through--Apache, stagecoach riders, early ranchers, refugees from the revolution in Mexico. Van Horn is rich in story. The cemetery is rich in story, yet some locals do not want it opened to outsider use. Part of my work here is to listen and to respect those wishes, and see if there is some intersection between their care and protection of that place and the telling of Van Horn's stories. What we want is a way for outsiders to understand and appreciate the place Van Horn is and was, enriching the visitor's experience, and hopefully help the town believe in itself in the process.
Yesterday, I spent constructing a draft flyer interpreting the gorgeous and unspoiled Hwy 54 for the motorist and the cyclist. Monte spent hours building an elevation graph based on data from Google Earth and he helped me make sense of Publisher and my extremely limited graphic design skills. (He's great.) My goal: encourage visitors to take the time to explore that stretch of highway. And yet, here is a conumdrum for future thought...though history happened here (the last Indian battle in Texas, a current-day spaceport, deep ranching history, ancient coral reefs and geological history) at its core, the land on Hwy 54 is still very much frontier. If I map it, will I destroy the visitor's sense of exploring uncharted space or will I enhance it? Will I "Betsy-Tacy" it out of its charm? Or will it provide a gentle nudge for someone to get out and see it for themselves.
These are the questions on my mind today....
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