TREATS AND TREASURES

Even more than Halloween, the Christmas season has always been one of treats and unexpected surprises.  When I was young, it was the orange at the bottom of the stocking, the paper bag of nuts and chocolates from Santa when he came to our city park, or Santa peaking in Grandma’s window.

With age and time, the treats have changed.  Some are still small – sugared nuts from a neighbor or a bag of “White Trash” from a friend.  (If you’ve never enjoyed this particular snack, you’re in for a new “treat.”  I’m including the recipe below.)  But the treats that surprise most are those that have the strength to pull at your heart and not let go. 

Tim and I just returned from a trip to Iowa.  We collected our children from their respective colleges and ended up at my Mom’s.  It was a treat to eat pizza at Zeno’s.  Zeno’s opened in Marshalltown, Iowa in 1952, so essentially I’ve been eating there my entire life.  Even though my husband grew up in Chicago with Chicago-style pizza, he is a Zeno’s convert.  Nearly every Iowa trip includes a stop at Zeno’s.  It’s a treat – pizza and décor that doesn’t change. Memories emanate from 1970’s dark wood paneling, flood over the balcony, and fill the booths below. 

It was a treat to see aunts and uncles and my Gram.  Their lives are so different from when we spent every Christmas Eve on the farm, when the smell of pine and Grandma’s goose cooking filled each room and Uncle Leon’s laugh resonated above all others

It was a treat to see my brother and sister and their families.  I am reminded of Christmases past, when my siblings and I were young and we would tumble down the oak staircase in a furious rush on Christmas morning, when our children were young and Mom’s house was a swirling mass of babies crawling amid torn wrapping paper.  Now it’s a houseful of adults; when did that happen?

Tim, our children, and I have returned to San Antonio.  Having the four of us together is a treat. It doesn’t happen very often any more.  Life is taking us in new and differing directions.  When Molly joins the working world next year, our time together will be limited to corporate vacation time, but this year, we have a month and I am thrilled.  So I grab this opportunity to have my children in San Antonio for the holidays and hold on tight.  I want to enjoy this new city with them, to enjoy this new house, to enjoy being together.  I delight in memories of Christmases past – Molly climbing into her Little Tikes' car much like Fred Flintstone and John hugging his Lego Star Wars AT-AT kit like it was life’s most precious gift. – but new memories and experiences are equally dear.

Happy Holidays to you and yours from me and mine!

We have more holiday treats to come – a wine-tasting with new friends and a visit from Tim’s sister and her husband.  They are as anticipated as previous Christmases when we made road trips to Chicago because Tim’s family was anchored there or old friends filled our days with games, shopping and laughter.

Unexpected treats and treasured memories – the heart of the holiday season.  May you and yours relish these as I relish mine; they are what makes the season bright!

WHITE TRASH

5 c. Cheerios

5 c. Corn Chex

1 – 14 oz. bag of M&Ms

10-12 oz. bag of waffle pretzels

1 container cocktail peanuts

2 -12 oz. bag of white chocolate chips

3 T. oil

Melt chocolate and oil together.  Pour over dry ingredients.  Mix thoroughly.  Spread on to waxed paper (about 3-4 cookie sheets full).  Cool.  Break apart and put in containers.

LIFE IN HIGH CONTRAST

When I was growing up, our television set had a contrast button.  Unlike the high-tech video displays today that do the “thinking” for you, televisions of my generation had to have their brightness, tint, contrast adjusted manually.  I enjoyed watching shows with the contrast turned on full.  Now, I’m living a life in high contrast – Texas life as opposed to Midwestern life.

The differences surrounding holidays are particularly apparent.  I handed out Halloween treats, wearing shorts and flip flops.  I know this may seem like a small thing, but I remember trick-or-treating in Iowa wearing a turtleneck and long underwear under my costume or in severe years, being upset that no one would see my costume because a winter coat was covering it. 

As Christmas approaches, I am startled by the juxtaposition of Dickensian street lights dressed for Christmas standing next to palm trees and the snowman lawn ornaments gracing lawns that will never know snow, let alone men made of snow.  (Sean at the bank is moving to Chicago this month.  He figures he is in for a “real treat,” as he has never seen snow.  Poor guy, he has no idea what’s in store!)

San Antonio, like the rest of the country, recently experienced a cold snap.  There was no frost or ice.  Definitely, no snow.  As I peer out the window, the only indication of cold is the fact that the swimming pool jets are running 24/7 to keep the water moving so the lines won’t freeze.

My senses don’t know what season it is.  The trees, the grass, the plantings are still green.  There was no sudden frost, then a swirl of autumnal color, leaves dropping and drying in massive swarms.  A deciduous tree is rare here.  Sightings are reason to pull the car over to the side of the road and take a second look.  The flowers in my backyard are still blooming too, even the one that my mother announced, when she was here in September, would be considered a weed in Iowa.  Hey, with the heat and the drought of a San Antonio summer, anything that will grow is planted!

The high contrast, the yin and the yang of it all – life here and life there – the differences enthrall me.  There will probably come a day when they won’t.  I guess that’s the day I’ll officially be a Texan (egad!)

THAT GOETTSCH JAW

Before I could introduce my husband Tim to my father’s sister, he took one look at the woman and said she must be Aunt Gilda.  My jaw dropped.  How could he possibly know?  When I suggested he must have heard someone call her by name, Tim said simply, “She had to be a Goettsch.  All the Goettschs have the same jaw.”  The jaw in question dropped further.  What?  Tim shrugged, as if I’d surely noticed.  “That square Goettsch jaw.  You can’t miss it.”

Since his comment, I’ve become rather obsessed with the jaws in my family – comparing, contrasting - and wondering if all those jaws that look like mine, hurt like mine.

My siblings and I - for jaw comparison

With the culmination of the chaos that has been my life the last couple of years came a diagnosis – TMJ or temporomandibular joint disorder.  The jaw clenches or the teeth grind in reaction to stress.  While I’d been living with a couple of years of extreme stress, I suspect that I was aggravating my jaw even before the experiences of recent months.  I was always the typical eldest child – wanting to be in charge, taking on responsibility, striving for perfection in an imperfect world.  I had to excel or die trying.

If you’ve never experienced TMJ, in a word, it’s painful – brutally so.  Suddenly, your jaw feels like it’s made of lead.  Rather than a natural extension of your face, the jaw is heavy, moving awkward and painfully.

Since the diagnosis, I have seen a dentist, physical therapist, ENT, oral surgeon, and acupuncturist (not my best decision – ouch!)  After using drugs and exercises to alleviate the pain with limited success, the oral surgeon finally said that I needed to get control of the anxiety that was plaguing my brain and manifesting itself in my jaw.  I needed to find a way to master tension, rather than becoming slave to it.  With that in mind, I’ve started seeing a counselor.  I’ve never done this before.  I didn’t know where to begin and even after several sessions, I never quite know how to talk to her.  So far, it’s a lot of confirmation, “Geez.  You deserve to be stressed after all you’ve been through.”

Duh.  OK.  But now what?

She likes to remind me to “let go” of things that threaten to unnerve me.  Like Richard Carlson prompts:  “Don’t sweat the small stuff because it’s all small stuff.”  Intellectually, I know that; I’ve always known that.  But, like so many things, it’s easier said than done.  For me, it’s an ongoing battle I rarely win.

In hindsight, there are so many things I should have let go of before they became punctuated by stress and I lost sleep to them – grades, relationships, jobs.  Why is hindsight always 20/20 and the here and now 30/60?

Anxiety that I couldn’t talk myself out of or was too young to understand the needlessness of has taken its toll.  My health (most specially my jaw) is paying the price.  Some day, I will have to have surgery, but for now it means no more sub sandwiches or quarter pound burgers; I can’t get my mouth around them.  More importantly, however, when anxiety threatens, it’s a painful reminder to “let things go.”

WAVE THERAPY

Tim and I went to the shore last weekend.

What a weird thing for this Midwestern girl to say.

Lakes have consistently comprised the extent of my “shores.”  Growing up, the lake was Union Grove.  Actually, it was less of a lake and more of a giant mud puddle – the result of eroding black Iowa topsoil.  When I was in college, I must have passed all 10,000 lakes in Minnesota on my way to a summer job near Bemidji.  And during my years in St. Louis, when you said you were going to “the” lake, it meant only one thing – Lake of the Ozarks.  Plopped in the middle of Missouri, Lake of the Ozarks was situated equal-distance between St. Louis and Kansas City – a perfect playground for suburban boaters.

I’ve spent the majority of my life land-locked.  Lake shores were my norm.  Not ocean shores.  Having access to the ocean is a miracle of sorts.

I remember my first glimpse of an ocean, during a high school Spanish Club trip to Mexico; I was 17.  The bus rounded the peaks that surround Acapulco and there it was – the Pacific Ocean.  The blue expanse seemed to stretch forever – a vast turbulent mass.

Since that long ago trip, I have seen many oceans from many different shores, but the magnificence never ceases to amaze and enthrall me.

Tim on Mustang Island (He always looks a bit like Bill Murray
from "Caddyshack" in that hat!)

The shore at Corpus Christi is just over two hours by car from San Antonio.  The drive between encompasses acres and acres of nothingness – barren, dry and brittle.  The occasional steer and the fact that all this emptiness is fenced is the only indication of life.  The Gulf of Mexico is welcome relief.

For our first trip to this shore, Tim and I opted for a visit to Mustang Island State Park, foregoing the more commercial areas.  The park was pristine, quiet, unspoiled.  We picnicked on the beach, read from our lawn chairs, and walked and walked.  The water was too cold to get in, but there were a few hardy souls in the brink.  (Goosebumps tickle along my spine whenever I think of it!) 

Primarily, however, I just stared at the surf and marveled at its wonder - one white ruffle after another working its way to shore in an endless rhythm; a pelican dipping its enormous beak into an oncoming wave and emerging with lunch; shorebirds trotting along the sand, searching for treats that the sea has left behind; the vast blue swaths of sea and sky, like a Mark Rothko painting. 

Another shore - 2006 - Molly and John at the North Sea
(Noordwijkse, The Netherlands)

The combination of sea and sand was balm to my weary soul.  All the lakes of my land-locked past were forgotten in deference to the miracle of the next wave.

Packing up our belongings at the end of the day was bittersweet, but one more gulp of that salty air and I knew we’d be back.

"WILD" SAN ANTONIO

When I announced our move to Texas, the reactions were mixed.  The most unexpected, however, was the fear of Texas wildlife.  Noel was scared of scorpions and Becky wasn’t crazy about armadillos.  It hadn’t occurred to me that this alien environment would have “alien” critters.

The first scorpion skittering across our bedroom floor made my heart stop.  I was reading in bed; Tim was snoring.  What to do?  No weapons came to mind.  The book in hand didn’t seem weighty enough to stop the full-sized arachnid.  My arms flapped at Tim.  Flustered, he awoke and reached for a shoe.  A smack, a flush, and the scorpion was gone.

Only after the spider’s appearance did I learn that San Antonio’s mild winter and dry summer had resulted in larger than normal scorpion populations.  Oh goody!  (Sarcasm should be inferred in this last sentence.)

The scorpion’s appearance raised the obvious next question:  What happens if I get stung by one?  (FYI:  They don’t bite.  They don’t have teeth. That ominous-looking tail stings.)  The Texas Poison Center Network suggests that adults treat their stings by washing the stinging area well, applying a cold compress, and then swabbing the area with antiseptic.  Take acetaminophen for pain.  That question answered.

Moving involves a lot of questions.  Where’s the closest grocery store? post office? bank?  How do I find a good dentist? hair stylist? mechanic?  I was prepared for these queries, but not for dealing with wildlife.

Another critter has appeared in our neighborhood too – mountain lions.  In suburban St. Louis, we wrestled with raccoons, opossums, and the occasional wild turkey.  But mountain lions?  Really?  The neighborhood website recommends keeping an eye on children and small animals.  I guess because a mountain lion might consider them “lunch?”  Neighbors actually filmed a mountain lion sunning on their deck.  Geez.

What do I do if I come face to face with a mountain lion?  More research. 

Since mountain lions like to snack on smaller animals, the experts recommend no crouching or squatting.  People should work to appear as large as possible, standing on tip-toe and spreading arms wide.  Exaggerated size may discourage the mountain lion. 

While I’m more a “get-me-the-hell-away-from-this-thing” girl, wildlife agencies insist that people not run from mountain lions, as that movement can trigger an instinct in the lion to chase perceived prey.  Since this is an animal that can run down a deer or elk, I don’t stand much chance at outrunning the big cat.  So I’m supposed to face the cat and try to appear larger than I am?  I hope I don’t have to put that strategy to the test; fainting seems much more likely.

What other wildlife research do I need?  Tim saw a roadrunner recently.  No sign of Wil E. Coyote though.  Regardless, I don’t expect my research is going to produce any remedies for being hit in the head with an anvil or grand piano.

SEEING SILVER

Twenty-five years ago, Tim and I hosted quite a party.

We were married on November 5, 1988.

It was a weekend to remember.  Mom and I cooked a rehearsal dinner for 75 people.  Family and friends – anyone who made the trip to St. Louis - were invited and gathered in our old, three-story house on Utah Place.  The ceremony was Saturday afternoon at St. Pius V and the reception Saturday night at the White House.

Memories run rampant, but it’s the oddest things that are most clear.

At the rehearsal dinner, by the time Tim and I trudged up three flights of stairs, said “hello” to everyone, and returned to the first floor kitchen, there was no food left.

At the ceremony, I remember homeless people finding shelter in the back row of the sanctuary and Tim’s family donning wax lips as we turned to face the congregation, so that we burst out laughing.

I remember driving to the reception in Tim’s little blue Jetta as snow fell, then a typical St. Louis buffet (fried chicken and mostacolli,) and Aunt Julie trying to pin up my skirt so I could dance.  Tim loves to tell the tale of our “dollar dance” when his friend Denny asked:  If a dollar got him a dance, what did $5 get him?  I told him “change.”

There are dozens of little stories like that, but what means the most to me after all these years are all the people who made the trip to St. Louis – from Iowa and Colorado and Wisconsin, Chicago and Nashville and Spokane.  They took over the Red Roof Inn on Hampton and the Holiday Inn in Clayton.  They filled the hallways and called to each other from balconies.  And they all came to wish us well.

Tim and I have done well, been well, are well.  I wish all those people were around for another party, so we could assure them that their trip to St. Louis in 1988 was worth it.  But the party would be far smaller this time round; we’ve lost so many.

Tim’s mom, aunt, uncle and cousin Ida were all at the wedding.  All gone now. 

All four of my grandparents saw me get married.  Today, there’s only Gram.

Many great-aunts and uncles made the trip.  But now so many gone.

This move to San Antonio came at a particularly opportune time, just in time for this anniversary.  I’ve recently touched and put away all of our belongings…including wedding gifts.  It afforded me time to remember and appreciate – the saucepan from Auntie Helen, the stepstool from my Great-Aunt Eunice, the bowls from my Great-Aunt Florence.  The dining room furniture made it to San Antonio; it was a gift from Tim’s mom.

These things and these people set the stage for quite a production – the dramedy of jobs and children and building a relationship to last.

I wish all those dear souls could see us, embarking on our next great adventure, in San Antonio.  And yet, somehow, I know they are; they are watching and smiling and toasting us once again.

MY GULLIVER SYNDROME

It happened again.

I flew into St. Louis recently and noticed it.

When I flew into Des Moines a couple of months ago, I noticed it.

I noticed, or was reminded, that – NEWS FLASH - I am tall.

In the Midwest, you may not notice.  I’m just another fair-haired, light-skinned, blue eyed, freckled farmer’s granddaughter - a product of my German heritage.  (When we were traveling through Europe, I was mistaken for a German more than once, even by Germans.)

But I am tall (for a woman) - 5’8.”  It’s not like this is new information.  I don’t think I’ve ever had to change my height on my driver’s license; I shot up to 5’8” during puberty and never deviated.  I inherited my long legs from my maternal grandmother, who even at 93 years of age doesn’t have to look upward to gaze into many faces.

My height has never really been an issue, except when trying to find slacks long enough or when dating.  My husband Tim was 4’11” when he graduated from high school.  He sprouted to 5’11” in college.  I’ve often told him that if he hadn’t grown, I wouldn’t have looked at him twice.  I had no interest in dating men shorter than I.  I’ll leave that to statuesque models that can pull it off with aplomb.  I figured I couldn’t so didn’t try.

In San Antonio, however, my height is an issue.  I tower over the majority of the residents - a bit like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians.

With almost 1.5 million residents, San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the U.S. and the second largest city in Texas (behind Houston).  Of this total number, over 63% are Hispanic or Latino.

I am an Aryan product amid a population of predominantly black haired, dark-eyed, caramel- skinned…short people.  I feel uncomfortably tall amidst the diminutive stature of my neighbors.  Even the men who are building our subdivision, although incredibly muscular, probably average 5’5”.

My initial impressions of the people of this community are that they are kind, friendly, respectful, hard-working, family-oriented, and when speaking, transition from Spanish to English without blinking an eye.  But they are small in stature.  I am the oddball.  I tower above them, while trying to fit in.  In the Midwest, my height was barely noticeable; in San Antonio, amid these residents, I am constantly reminded.

Perhaps I’ll grow accustom to my head in the clouds.  It doesn’t seem to bother my neighbors and hopefully soon it won’t bother me; however, everything about San Antonio is still so new, I can’t help but notice…

Regardless, San Antonio still holds more potential for a happy ending than Lilliput.

MONSTER TRUCK RALLY

“MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!”   The words reverberate through the stadium.  You’ve seen the commercials - monster trucks mounting handily a line of small cars; their giant wheels pummeling average sedans.  I’m living in the midst of a Monster Truck Rally and regretfully I’m in one of the little cars that gets smashed at the bottom of the pile.  Vroom, vroom.

I have been driving since I was 14 years old.  Growing up in rural Iowa, a driver’s license was freedom, independence, and the only means of getting good pizza.  I was at the county courthouse on my 14^th birthday to get my driver’s permit and on my 16^th birthday to get my license.

Driving is second nature to me.  (Although I will admit that manual transmissions are the great exception to that statement.)

I’m accustom to big vehicles too.  Iowa farmers must have their pickup trucks and suburban St. Louis moms must have their SUVs.  But I’m having a hard time getting accustom to Texas’ enormous trucks.

The phrase, “everything’s bigger in Texas,” is especially true of the trucks.  They are not just big, they’re monsters and the Texas highways are full of them - dual wheels, extended cabs, giant beds. 

The cabs of these trucks must sit five feet in the air.  Our Toyota could easily slip beneath the chassis.  How does the driver get behind the wheel?  Is the extended bed meant to hold the ladder required to get into the vehicle? 

At a stoplight, I look to my side and stare directly into glistening chrome wheel wells.  King of the Cab looks down at me from his lofty perch.  He smirks and points at the mere mortal.  With a wave of his hand and a foot on the gas, I’d be smashed like a bug.  He knows it and smiles benevolently.  I pause a bit as the light turns green to let HRH go first.  It seems prudent and customary.  He is King of the Road and I am just a serf who would like to arrive home in one piece.

Recently, my husband Tim looked at an MG that was for sale by owner.

We owned an MG early in our married life, but quickly realized its impracticality.  It wasn’t great in hot summers or cold winters, which left little of the St. Louis year remaining.  Two people could barely fit in it comfortably and forget about luggage or babies.  We owned that car for nine months.  Tim remembers the car fondly and eyed excitedly the red MG sitting in the corner of a parking lot with a “For Sale” sign on its dashboard.

Tim and I in the MG (Sept. 1990)

MGs are cute, but small and low to the ground.  What was Tim thinking?!  The monster trucks would scoop it up and eat it for lunch!  The monster trucks would roll over it and not even notice!  We’d be left at the side of the road with the rest of the roadkill.

I sighed with relief when Tim discovered the car’s price was more than he wanted to spend.  I’ll leave the side of the road to the skunks and armadillos.

BYE-BYE BARNUM & BAILEY

The circus left town.  Without me.

Two years ago this month, my husband was offered a job in San Antonio, Texas.  The offer was too good to pass up.  During the ensuing months, I became star of the Big Top.  I juggled like my life depended on it…because it did. 

In December 2011, I moved my husband to Texas and set up his apartment. 

During the winter, I finished a kitchen remodel in St. Louis and laid 1,200 sq. feet of wood flooring.

I put our house on the market in March and sold it six weeks later.

That summer, I put all of the family’s belongings in storage and moved the children and I into a corporate apartment, as there were no rentals available in my son’s school district until August.

When August came, we retrieved some things from storage and moved into a Kirkwood School District apartment.  During a quick trip to San Antonio, Tim and I decided to have a house built.

Two return trips to Texas in the fall provided opportunity for me to make decorating decisions for the house. 

Throughout my son’s Senior year, we visited prospective colleges and kept up with the resulting paperwork.  (He visited ten schools.)

With the arrival of another spring (We’re up to May 2013, in case you’ve lost track.), I moved my daughter from Truman State University to Des Moines, Iowa for her internship.  My son graduated from Kirkwood High School and went to orientation at Drake University.  We collected our things from storage and the apartment, and moved them to San Antonio.

I kept all the balls in the air.  I kept moving.

from the U.N.I. years, when I first encountered juggling

Years ago, I was a theatre major at the University of Northern Iowa.  As a requirement for an acting class, I had to learn to juggle.  It wasn’t that the professor thought we would literally join the circus, but it was an exercise in concentration.  I never was very good at it.  (My lack of any type of athleticism was apparent.)  My most uninterrupted tosses were accomplished by facing a wall.  With only three feet between me and the wall, the balls had few escape routes.

The balls of the last two years never escaped, but a few certainly went astray.  Now, however, the last ball is put away.

What happens next?

Journalist Cokie Roberts once said:  “Women…often they’ve spent their early years juggling so many different activities that they were simply making it through the day.  But then they reach a point where they are able to integrate their life experiences.” 

I juggled so much in the last two years that I felt lucky to simply make it through each day.  What happens when the balls are put away though?  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.  What life experiences can I integrate into this new life, in this new place?  What happens when time (which there never seemed to be enough of) returns to its normal pace. 

In short, I’m breathing again – taking big gulps of air and exhaling with a well-deserved sigh.

I’m writing again.  (This blog is proof positive.)  I hope to return to the book that was in progress two years ago.

I’m meeting new people – through organizational means, as well as the former Chicagoans who happened to walk by our house with their dog.

I’m finding ways to volunteer.

I’m taking care of myself.

I’m finding time for me.

And I am exhaling.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, the balls are still flying.  One, two, three balls - no wall to rein them in - picking up speed.  A drop is imminent. 

My eyes squeeze shut.  I blink the threat away.  And breathe.

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

“Where has the quiet gone?”  I distinctly remember my husband Tim asking me that question, as he blinked at me through bloodshot eyes.  It was 21 years ago.  We were first-time parents, sleep-deprived and floundering.    To make matters worse, our newborn had a pair of lungs that an opera singer would be proud to own.  Her screams were infamous at her day care center.  Quiet had disappeared from our lives.

Well… it’s back.

In August, we packed up both children and deposited them at their respective universities.  The packing, organizing, and delivering were chaotic.  The good-byes were tearful.  The return trip was…quiet.

Tim and I stared at each other over that first supper table – confused, speechless.  I cooked the same amount as always; there were a lot of leftovers.  We tried playing a board game that we often played with the children; it wasn’t the same without our son John’s commentary.  The T.V. didn’t instantly go on after supper, accompanied by a long discussion of what we were going to watch that everyone would enjoy.  The silence was deafening.

Tim suggested we go out to eat the next day.  We had Chinese food.  We had Chinese food, without a discussion of what the children were going to eat because neither like Asian cuisines.  It was an “aha” moment. 

Options emerged, popping fast and furiously through our heads like popcorn’s last 20 seconds in the microwave.  I didn’t have to go to the grocery store every other day and buy milk and my grocery bill didn’t have to total at least $100.  Tim and I could eat more seafood, go to an adult movie, play two-handed cribbage.  The television didn’t have to be on in the evening; we could curl up and read.

the B.C. years

We find ourselves referring more and more to Tim and Terri, B.C. (before children) – things we liked to do, places we liked to go, restaurants we frequented.  We have to really dig through the memory banks (this November we’ll be married 25 years), but we’re doing it and enjoying it.

Don’t misunderstand, I miss my babies, but there are other things I have missed too.  Slowly and surely, Tim and I are getting reacquainted with those things.

Hello Silence, Welcome Back.

IN SEARCH OF...GREAT GUACAMOLE

My friend Becky perpetually bemoans the state of avocados in St. Louis.  She can never find one that’s “just right.”  She even went so far as to order a case shipped to her home.  Regretfully, they arrived more rotten, than ripe (nasty!)  I never quite understood her frustration.  St. Louis avocados were “fine”…or at least that’s what I thought until I tasted San Antonio avocados; they are amazing!

Hass avocados, imported from Mexico or Peru, must be getting as far north as Texas and stopping.  Or perhaps, Texans eat them all?

In San Antonio, avocados are piled in enormous stacks in the supermarket produce aisle.  When produce in other bins looks a bit tired or just plain sad, the avocados are perfect.

Avocados, so smooth and buttery, obviously create amazing guacamole.  My husband Tim is convinced that it must be against some local law to serve bad guacamole in San Antonio, but how can they go wrong when the main ingredient is so wonderfully fresh?  They don’t go wrong; they just go different.  Chefs attempt countless variations on a theme.

Tim and I are taking it upon ourselves to taste-test the local guacamole recipes.  Our journey is reminiscent of a visit to Key West where we tried Key Lime pie at every restaurant stop.  We compared the sweet with the tart, the fresh whip cream with stiff peaks of meringue, the flaky crust with the graham cracker crumble.  The guacamole journey is in process and has roughly ten different recipes to its tally – the chunky vs. the smooth, the buttery vs. the spicy, the citrusy vs. the peppery.

As part of our exhaustive research, we went to Boudro’s Texas Bistro on the Riverwalk recently.  Boudro’s guacamole was voted readers’ favorite in the local newspaper’s (San Antonio Express-News) Readers’ Choice 2013 poll.  Boudro’s presentation was impressive.  Our waiter made the guacamole tableside.  Besides avocado, he added orange and lime juice, purple onion, fire-roasted tomatoes, and fresh cilantro.  Yum, right?  We’re done?  We’ve found the guacamole; the search is over?  Nope.  Sorry Boudro’s, but we like to taste the avocado (especially when they’re as good as they are in south Texas!) and in Boudro’s version, the primary ingredient got lost amidst all the other flavors. 

Our search continues, but it’s a hardship we’re willing to endure.

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

I am a stranger in a strange land…

And the land is indeed strange.

It is not the rolling, verdant swells of Iowa or Missouri.  It is not the vast grasslands of Kansas or the red clay of Oklahoma that we passed to get here.  South Texas is different.

Texas Hill Country is an unexpected surprise.  After miles of flat, desolate vistas, the hills appear, out of nowhere.  They meander across the countryside, as if searching for something.  If I had to guess at their quest, I would say “water.”  The landscape is parched, the soil sandy and barren.

Scraggy cedar trees and “live oaks” provide the only bursts of color.  And the green is evergreen - literally; they’ll retain their color all year.  “Live oaks” aren’t like the oaks of the Midwest – oaks that soar three stories tall, live for hundreds of years, and shower millions of leaves in the fall.  The trees of South Texas don’t grow very tall, perhaps because the soil and climate won’t allow it.

One of my first impressions of Texas was the vast Texas sky – the huge expanse of blue during the day and the multitude of stars at night.  I finally figured out that it’s not so much the size of the sky, but access to it.  Stargazing in the Midwest is often limited to tunnel vision.  The view is often straight up, because huge oaks, maples or sycamores tower to your left and right, obscuring any sort of expansive perspective.  However, in Texas, with trees that are only 20 or 30 feet, access to the heavens is broader – and more dazzling.

The cedar may not grow very tall, but they do smell lovely.  The earth brings a unique smell to each place – in Iowa, it’s the smell of that rich soil; in Missouri, it’s the smell of the moisture in the air; in South Texas, it’s the smell of cedar (imagine Grandma’s linen closet, but on a grand scale.)  I calculate that I’ve been to roughly 40 of the 50 states and quite a few foreign countries.  I’ve never encountered anything quite like the fragrance of Texas Hill Country.

Sniff.  There’s no competition with the cedar.  Whiffs of sweet honeysuckle, peony or lilac won’t be found.  The plants surrounding our Texas home were put there because they’ll survive the Texas heat, not because they smell good.

In the St. Louis suburban neighborhood that we last called home, spring was spent filling clay pots with flowers to grace the front stoop or hang from porch eaves.  Explosions of living color signaled “welcome.”  And so, immediately upon arriving in South Texas (even before I had furniture), I went to the local hardware store, bought pots, and filled them with colorful blooms.  They didn’t last long.  Despite daily watering, they couldn’t withstand the heat.  Only then did I take a moment to inspect my neighbors’ stoops – no pots, no color.  They knew better.  Lesson learned.

Hand watering of outdoor plants is allowed as often as you want to do it.  (I guess if you’re crazy enough to stand in 100 degree temperatures, holding a length of hose, go for it!)  However, the sprinkler system can only be used once a week.  Each house has a specified day and time to water.  New sod is allowed special dispensation; it can be watered five days per week for the first three weeks after installation.  Our lawn looked great for the first three weeks.  Now, it’s burnt and thin like everyone else’s.  Water is a precious commodity in South Texas.  In case I had any doubts about that, our first water bill made it abundantly clear!  (I would be remiss not to mention that a positive aspect of the state of our lawn is that my husband has mowed maybe three times all summer!)

The landscape is one aspect of the change we’ve undertaken – getting accustom to it is part of the adventure.

It’s a strange land, but only strange because it is different.  Those differences are the TexChange.

EXPOSITION

I am 54 years old (A bit older than the typical blogger, I would imagine, or is there anything “typical” about blogging?)

I grew up in Iowa and spent the last 30 years living in St. Louis, Missouri.  I married a Chicago boy.  (Yes, we’re Midwesterners through and through.)

I have two children, ages 21 and 18.  They have only known one home – a boxy, two-story in suburban St. Louis.

It’s a rather predictable scenario, nothing terribly surprising or unexpected, or that was the case until a job offer came my husband’s way 22 months ago.

Since then, I have been buffeted by waves of change.  Actually, “buffeted” may be too tame a description.  Pummeled?  Thrashed?  Brutally battered???

The job change, while welcome, took us to Texas (of all places!)  The long distance move was a nightmare (of course.)  And our Texas home is new construction (lovely, but incredibly vanilla.)  There are no familiar faces at the grocery store or Target.  And if that wasn’t enough, I packed up my youngest child for his first year of college, so I’m empty-nesting. (It’s important to note that both children scampered back to the Midwest for their schooling.)

Please don’t misunderstand.  My husband and I chose change – sought it, accepted and embraced it. 

New challenges are my passion.  I’ve never wanted to look back and regret, to leave anything “undone.”  Albert Einstein’s words ring in my head:  “Life is like a bicycle.  To keep your balance you must keep moving.”

My husband Tim has been my (mostly) willing companion in each new adventure.  A six-month stint in Poland comes to mind.  (But that story is for another time.)

At the end of previous adventures, however, we headed home.  Now home is the new adventure.

TexChange is a means of addressing this latest adventure and pondering the changes it creates.