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.