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.