Texas Justice

The great wide open roads of Texas offer countless historical gems off the beaten path. With my daughter now 4 hours away in college, I have a new roads, much less taken, to explore while making the drive between Houston and San Antonio.

Ever since my trip to the Spanish Missions in Goliad, Texas, I have been in love with the Gonzales Flag.  It's simple lines and strong daring message stand as a tribute to Texas Independence.  So naturally, Gonzales would be my first side trip.  A simple architecture photo journey turned into a deeper, richer history lesson in Texas justice.

The Gonzales flag proudly waves in the wind on every corner of this tiny community.  I just had to have one of my own so I pulled up in front of the unassuming Chamber of Commerce.  What waited just steps away totally made my entire day!

Greeted by an enthusiastic volunteer, I learned the building was actually the town jail- currently under restoration.  I was shown the warden's office, the tiny downstairs cells complete with original furniture, cots, and confiscated prison shanks.  Seeing my excitement and interest, the docent boasted, "Oh you have to see UPSTAIRS!"

I followed behind her like a kid seeking candy!

Upstairs was the hardcore jail in use from the mid 1800's until 1974.  The first sight  was the hanging platform- looming large like a warning to all the newly incarcerated of their potential fate.  Hangings did occur in this space, as death row was just off the gallows, though the earliest hangings took place in the courthouse square.

  This day was hot!  100 degrees outside and not much cooler inside.  Fresh hot air blew through the open windows behind the rusted bars.  I sweat as I stood snapping photos.  I can only imagine how hot, smelly and frustrated prisoners here felt doing their time.

 Layers of prisoner graffiti spanning the decades covered the walls, floor to ceiling, like a tramp art time capsule. Many bearing the strike marks of days served, some noting early gang affiliations, and most just simple carved names of lives lived on the wrong side of the law.

Behind this door was death row.  Thick iron bars and doors protected the warden from the condemned.  I walked the narrow hallways that wrapped the ward and definitely felt I was not alone. The docent had left me to my own explorations but the air was thick with unseen company. At times the hair on my neck stood on end and I could almost hear chatter dripping from the ceiling.

One particular cell chilled me.  I froze, considered running like scared cat.  So I did the logical thing: took a picture.  Perhaps it's dust dancing in the mottled sunlight, perhaps my eyes wanting to see an old-timey man's face there.  But just maybe it's something supernatural.  A wandering soul, an old inmate, a proud warden.  I'll let you decide for yourself.

Should you find yourself in Gonzales, visit the Chamber of Commerce and take the jail tour.  I was doubly surprised to wrap up my visit with a woman who grew up in the jail.  Her father was the last warden.  (The Chamber is located in the adjoining living quarters.) She has happy memories of a small town country life and is directly involved in the continued restoration of her iconic Texas Justice home.

LOVE  &  THE ROADS LESS TRAVELED

Lessons Learned

 

 "Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;

Other times I can barely see.

Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been."

- Jerry Garcia

Connecticut, in my childhood home, was the last place I expected to be this summer. Especially in the midst of so much change in my adult home in Texas.  Emily was packing up for college, Kev and I nervously approaching empty nest status, and so many plans in the making. But the late night call came.  My Dad was in the hospital with an aortic aneurism.  I was on the first plane north, while Kev and Em would take on move-in day without me. The two weeks ahead would hold heartbreaks,tears, prayers, resolutions, and a permanent change in my soul. 

I've always loved my parents. I've always known they love each other. But life or death situations have a way of bringing out truest words and "don't hold back" feelings. In the days before surgery, we filled nervous hours with our appreciation for one another.  In the hours before the operation, our tones became a bit more serious, and in the delicate hours following surgery the most beautiful emotions emerged. I thought I might be reading into what I was seeing but my sister-in-law saw the same picture. Though my Dad wasn't able to speak or open his eyes, my parents spoke with the subtle touch of their hands.  These were the gentle touches that assured one another they were together, they were alive, and everything would be ok;  their wordless connections perfected over 46 years of marriage. 

Within two weeks, everything I thought I knew, arrogances I held, and childish misconceptions I hoarded over the years all fell away, were disproven, stripped down until only love and faith remained.  I saw in my parents the love I have for Kevin- the willingness to see through together whatever life brings. A total acceptance of the other.  A bond necessary for a full life.  Without one, the other is but a shell. 

My Dad is well on his way to full recovery.  Despite the hospital setting, and missing Emily's move-in day at UIW, the two weeks in Connecticut were magical life lessons that I will bring home to Texas.  Most importantly, I learned to appreciate Kevin and Emily not only as my husband and daughter but as individual people with their own identities and their own stories to tell. 

The easiest way for me to sum it all up is this: Enjoy this life.  Cherish the people with whom you share it.  Don't hold back on love, kind words and laughter.  It is the stuff that makes this life so alive.  Find the answers you seek.  Ask the questions that scare you the most. Share your story for it is not the great deeds that are treasured,but the small steps we make everyday.

 

LOVE  &  LESSONS LEARNED

 

The Dreaded Late Hour Call

My father and I share the same eyes, hair color, and the family pre-disposition to poke fun at everything, no matter the situation, regardless of social etiquette.  So it seems fair that in this morning's conversation I jokingly accused him of attention seeking while he referenced Monty Python's Holy Grail with a slurred holler, "Bring out yer dead!"  Normal banter, but bittersweet today as he was flown by helicopter to Yale New Haven Hospital in the wee hours of the morning with an aneurism.  I missed the frantic overnight call from my Mom but I was relieved this morning to hear everyone alert and as calm as one can be given the circumstances.  I have never been so painfully aware of every mile between Texas and Connecticut.  To end the call knowing I am at least 24 hours of travel away from home, hollowed like an internal sink hole of desperation.

The seconds between noticing that out of place missed call at 12:39 a.m. until hearing my Mom's voice felt like slow motion running in mud.  It's like a nightmare being chased by all the negative outcomes and fears of what she'll say, how her voice will sound, or even who will answer at the other end.  With every phone ring  I found myself saying, "no, no, no,no,no!!!" Louder and louder, my dogs bewildered at my feet.  And then the huge relieved sigh when I hear her: voice steady, matter of fact, with that barely noticeable trace of panic (my Mom wears stress like everyday shoes!), "Yes, your Dad is stable, awaiting surgery and complaining because he can't have a snack or a cigarette."  Yep.  That's my Dad!

Over the past weeks, I've watched my friends go through long hospital scenarios with their husbands, mothers, and even one dear friend who unexpectedly lost her father just a few days ago.  People in my family tend to stay healthy well into their 90's, so I have had the privilege of avoiding such heartaches until now.  It's a very different empathy today than I had yesterday.  The understanding of potential loss, things left unsaid, minutes and hours taken for granted.  All the memories floating in like an old-timey snapshot slideshow as we wait for the doctor's next words. 

 So to all my friends that have struggled over long hospital hours, for the ones still fighting for their loved ones, for a special mouse-maker who continues to be a champion for her husband, and my dear friend who sadly will attend her father's funeral today; I reinforce my hugs, strengthen my prayers for you and understand with a fuller heart.

 

LOVE  &  PRAYERS!

Bargain Seating

I go to the auction to entertain myself.  It's a small town auction house usually selling off the wares of old estates and the goods range from really cool old stuff to cheap knick knacks, coins, and Dear God: the endless tool lots from old workshops.  If anyone wants a great wrench set for $3, this is the place to be.  But it's more the camaraderie that gathers us in an old air hanger on Saturday nights.  The smell of fresh popped corn wafting through the bid calls as we all wait for the auctioneer's expected price to trickle down to where the bidding actually begins.  One can never judge how an auction will go.  What brings top dollar one week falls flat the next.  The thrill is in the hunt and we have all gathered for the kill.

Sometimes what I have purchased isn't at all what I had planned to buy. Exploring the preview, I marveled at a Victorian chair that reminded me of my great grandmother.  Surprisingly solid for it's age but in need of a new seat cover-  easy peasey.  But in the auction world, furniture doesn't always go cheap and with the clean straw stuffing exposed, this baby was the real deal.  Original and intact. 

 

 By time the chair hit the auction block I had already been outbid on the items I really wanted.  Now it was time to play.  I love watching what people buy and auctioneers are comedians skilled at keeping an audience through the sale.  The auctioneer started the bid call at $100 noting the chair's curvy lines. 

 The crowd averted their eyes, checked their watches and continued doodling on their bid cards as the bid call lowered to $50- Very reasonable considering her tufts were firm.

 Small splinter conversations were on the rise as the disinterest plummeted the bid call down to $20. 

Raised eyebrows and disbelief, I locked eyes with the auctioneer.  Seriously?? $20 for this chair and no bids? She just needed a few cosmetic fixes!

 Then he did the unthinkable! He called out an all time low of $10 on a piece of furniture.  Maybe he knew I wouldn't be able to resist!  Maybe he knew I was losing faith after so many failed bids already this evening!  Or most likely, he knew I would take pity on a chair too beautiful to go without a bid.  I flew my card in the air before he even finished the word ten!  Certain I would be outbid I weighed how high I was willing to go to fight for the chair. After all, I was now emotionally invested.  The auctioneer's calls for $12.50 buzzed from his microphone like a swarm of flies ready to spoil my bid.  But nothing... my fellow bidders were still doodling, still chatting, still checking watches when the gavel came down in my favor!

This chair and I were meant for each other!  I am pretty sure I saw her smiling when I picked her up and hoisted her into the Element. Her delicately carved hands curling in a tight grip, her exposed stuffing gently tucked in place, as if she knew I had fresh fabric waiting for her.  As if she knew we were meant to be.  As if she knew she was finally going home.

LOVE  &  AUCTION FINDS!!

 

Proper Dress Required

My friend told me this morning that it was 58 degrees in her part of New York.  I looked at my weather app and confirmed what I already knew at 7 a.m. Texas time. Yep. Hotter than hell with 100% chance of humidity hair. Why bother showering in the summer? I leave my house looking like a cover model (yes, that's my opinion!) and by time I get to my car I look like I look like I've hiked up the wrong side of a volcano.  In thinking this, I immediately took pity on this gal in an 1883 fashion catalog I stumbled across yesterday at Hendley Market.

July fashions????  Seriously??  These poor gals must've stunk something awful by the end of the day!  Even on the coldest day in Galveston, this amount of proper fabric would stifle the good senses of the modern woman.  Galveston dress code today is free and easy.  Most people are wandering in off the beach, shopping the Strand, or a combination of the two.  Recently, while working at Hendley, I was coerced into modeling the island fabulous shirts we sell.  Very coastal chic and I even threw on a hat to hide my humidity hair.

But even with three summer layers: a silk wrap, linen tee, and feather weight cotton island shirt, I was roasting!!!  And as with all things Hendley, even the most serious of photo missions (sell those shirts!!) turns into a festival of goofing off. 

One good goof leads to merry mischief as the props come into play!

Seriously though, those island shirts sure are comfy!  I wonder what liberation Miss July 1883 would've felt if she could have traded in that huge hat and sturdy skirt for a boho chic island shirt?

 

LOVE  &  SUMMER DRESS

 

 

 

 

Jacq The Ripper

Sometimes when I am in the thrift store, I feel a little like a deviant- stalking the ladies' wear for just the right "look"; the perfect specimen.  I touch places I shouldn't. Turning down collars, fondling the buttons, running my fingers along the bust line, and looking under the skirt.  Oh my!  It all feels a little...... naughty!  But I need perfection in the piece.

I've never met an old garment I can't re-purpose but making just the right selection is a skill I've honed over time.  All fabrics beg to live another day; to be spared the dump where their fine lines, petite buttons and natural threads will disintegrate like old magazine pages.  Doomed to return to the dirt, so far from their glamorous retail showroom roots.  But I fancy myself as a pied piper of the lost fashions, a re-maker, a ripper.

Vintage coats are my favorite deconstruction.  They tell a story of fine craftsmanship and simpler times when a dress coat didn't pull double duty and therefore usually survives the decades in pristine condition.  This cashmere coat is a recent find.

Don't be fooled by the simple exterior.  Looking inside, the detail is astounding: hand quilted silk, intricate pocket details, and an owner's label.  I love finding these names, like souvenirs of the hunt, elegantly stitched into the lining.  I wonder who these ladies were and imagine their joy at picking up such tailored lovelies.

No piece of coat ever goes to waste.  What is left after the careful cutting, lining extraction, and label preservation- all those wee "unusable" scraps will become traditional stuffing for rag pillows or dolls to replicate the old lumpy stuffing used in the primitive crafting tradition. No evidence left at the scene, so to speak. ;)

Autumn is fast approaching.  The grounds are primed for closet cleaning and the annual tossing of the old in many homes.  I will be there..... Waiting.....  At the thrift store.... or maybe I'll even show up at the estate sale.... but oh yes.... I will be there...to rescue the forgotten.

 

LOVE  &  UP-CYCLE NATION!

 

The Even Side Of The Street

Something happened this weekend on the roads between Goliad and Galveston.  I realized that after 20 years of marriage and 40 years of friendship, my husband and I don't agree on the basics.  Oh we love each other with a kind of love that just feels like we've traveled through many lifetimes together.  We are true soul mates. But ask us to agree on something like artistic vision and we will defend our separate grounds with gusto. 

 

 
 Standing in the middle of the empty road somewhere outside of Tivoli, Texas, as I was framing up a perfect shot of the sun kissed fields with my iPhone, Kev put the car in drive and started moving on down the road.  He'd had enough of my artsy ways.  I've come to expect these limitations from him.  After all, he was from the even side of the street.

 

Growing up across the street from one another, his house number was 360, mine was 363.  He was from the even side of the street.  The OTHER side of the street. One of THOSE kind. It's the fundamental difference that has divided us like an asphalt river all these years.  It's as black and white as his thinking.  The even side of the street was home to the engineers, the mathematicians, and the architects.  My odd side of the street was where all the historians and free thinkers lived. We were the preservationists, the art teachers, and the activists. 

Road trips lend credibility to the even/odd debate.  Kev prefers a map.  I prefer driving on instinct.  Kev likes Willie Nelson where I like Sublime (though one could argue these two artists are joined by their mutual affinity for weed).  Kev enjoys righting the wrongs of offensive drivers whereas I am just thankful no one caused an accident.  I will stop the car every 5 feet if the sun changes the photo composition ever so slightly.  Kev will roll down the window so I can catch the sun's changes at 80 mph.  If Kev finds a souvenir he likes, he buys it.  I will consider the price and determine I can make one myself... and then regret not buying it because I know I have 654 "things I can make" ahead of it.  You get the idea. 

Luckily we don't sweat the small stuff.  And though there are days we wonder what it would be like to find a mutual fascination somewhere between Shakespeare and the poetic voice behind Eminem's twisted lyrics, we've always enjoyed a healthy debate on even and odd.  But every now and again, we are tempted to drive off into the Texas sunset, leaving the other in the middle of the road.  But we'd always come back.  At least I would.

 

LOVE  &  SOUL MATES