Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Road Goes on Forever
Macalester gave me a week reprieve from school to reattach myself with home. I headed to Texas for spring break with a friend, Bob. I was looking forward to visiting Del Rio and my grandfather’s ranch. My family had so often traveled the three-hour drive between San Antonio and Del Rio that I could recognize every bend in the road. I can still list the towns between; Castroville, Hondo, D’Hanis, Sabinal, Uvalde, Brackettville and name the best places to stop for gas, or a coke. I can tell if areas have had “a good rain”, as my grandfather would say, by the color of the ground. Most of all, my body knows the drive. I leave for Del Rio slouched and tired, but as the towns pass, I straighten and get more excited. This was how I was feeling as I was driving with Bob to meet my grandfather.
We spent a day in Del Rio where Dorothy, my grandfather’s second wife, threw us a small “get-together”. She invited every college and high school aged kid in Del Rio as well as their parents. I do not know exactly how many times I heard “Your Tommy’s boy aren’t you? You look just like him.”
We were ready to leave the next day for the ranch. My grandfather had always been a rancher. He was given his inheritance when he married my grandmother, MaryAnn Graham, at the age of 16 and had been an active sheep and goat rancher since. His 15,000 acres were located about 60 miles north between Del Rio and Sonora. The land is arid, rough, relentless, and beautiful. My grandfather spoke of the land with reverence. I remember asking him after a rainstorm if it would help the land. He said the rain came down too fast and it all washed away down the draws. Nothing ever happened that was good enough for his beloved ranch.
The road to where my grandfather felt most at home lead west out of Del Rio, crossed Lake Amistad to the small town of Comstock. From there, the highway became an ill kept crooked two-lane road snaking through the Texas Hill Country. It is a beautiful drive as a passenger in any other car than one driven by my grandfather. He was a notoriously bad and frightfully fast driver. I think it was with him I found out why the handrail above the passenger seat is called the “Oh Shit!” bar.
Before we left Del Rio, Dorothy suggested I lead the way to the ranch. I felt the burden immediately. I knew that if I were to go too slow, I would be the butt of all my grandfathers teasing. I warned Bob about the terrain and the expectations and gunned it.
I was fine heading out of Del Rio. It is easy to go fast on a 6-lane highway in Texas, just move to the outside lane and blast it. Bob and I laughed and joked to AC/DC on the stereo. We were thinking about horses, guns, and swimming. I was a little worried when I saw that my grandfather was directly behind me.
Everything changed when we turned at Comstock. My father had lent me his 320i BMW, a car that was not only fast but also could hold itself to the road. My grandfather, on the other hand, had a Suburban that he let his dogs sleep in. It stank from the years of punishment, and looked as if it might expire at any moment.
I have never driven so fast in my life. That car had never been driven so fast in it’s life. Bob and I lost all hilarity after the first turn. Periodically, I would shout over Bob’s screaming to ask if my grandfather was still there. Every time the answer was yes. Three times, I know, we were on two wheels for more than a second. At one point after a serious combination of rights and lefts, I saw a sign that said the speed limit was 20 MPH and I know I was going well over 70. The whole time, my grandfather was right on my tail.
Our turn off to the ranch was at a town called Mayfield. Mayfield was named after Jake Mayfield, another rancher, who always wanted a town named after him. He built a store, hired a family to run it and called it Mayfield Texas, population two. When Bob and I pulled into Mayfield Country Store we just stared at each other. I will never forget the look of terror mixed with relief in his eyes.
I shivered as I turned off the stereo and the last lines of “Highway to Hell”. When I got out of the car, I was shaking. I don’t think Bob actually kissed the ground but he was on his knees when I saw him. The sun was in my eyes so I didn’t see Dorothy until she was next to me. She seemed relaxed and smiled at me.
I followed her into the store. When she got the to door she turned to me and said, “Charlie, you are the best driver. You don’t drive too fast and you don’t drive too slow.”
I remember thinking that Dorothy did not have a clue about my abilities or me. I was on the edge of hysterics in that car and she was complementing me on my driving.
I now sometimes find myself in a similar situation as to that drive to the ranch. My knees get shaky, or my hands twitch when I think about how I am barely functioning as a teacher, a coach, a friend, a father, a husband, or a man. And I am struck by how completely overmatched I am. I look into the mirror and see that same terrified look Bob gave me that spring break trip.
We spent a day in Del Rio where Dorothy, my grandfather’s second wife, threw us a small “get-together”. She invited every college and high school aged kid in Del Rio as well as their parents. I do not know exactly how many times I heard “Your Tommy’s boy aren’t you? You look just like him.”
We were ready to leave the next day for the ranch. My grandfather had always been a rancher. He was given his inheritance when he married my grandmother, MaryAnn Graham, at the age of 16 and had been an active sheep and goat rancher since. His 15,000 acres were located about 60 miles north between Del Rio and Sonora. The land is arid, rough, relentless, and beautiful. My grandfather spoke of the land with reverence. I remember asking him after a rainstorm if it would help the land. He said the rain came down too fast and it all washed away down the draws. Nothing ever happened that was good enough for his beloved ranch.
The road to where my grandfather felt most at home lead west out of Del Rio, crossed Lake Amistad to the small town of Comstock. From there, the highway became an ill kept crooked two-lane road snaking through the Texas Hill Country. It is a beautiful drive as a passenger in any other car than one driven by my grandfather. He was a notoriously bad and frightfully fast driver. I think it was with him I found out why the handrail above the passenger seat is called the “Oh Shit!” bar.
Before we left Del Rio, Dorothy suggested I lead the way to the ranch. I felt the burden immediately. I knew that if I were to go too slow, I would be the butt of all my grandfathers teasing. I warned Bob about the terrain and the expectations and gunned it.
I was fine heading out of Del Rio. It is easy to go fast on a 6-lane highway in Texas, just move to the outside lane and blast it. Bob and I laughed and joked to AC/DC on the stereo. We were thinking about horses, guns, and swimming. I was a little worried when I saw that my grandfather was directly behind me.
Everything changed when we turned at Comstock. My father had lent me his 320i BMW, a car that was not only fast but also could hold itself to the road. My grandfather, on the other hand, had a Suburban that he let his dogs sleep in. It stank from the years of punishment, and looked as if it might expire at any moment.
I have never driven so fast in my life. That car had never been driven so fast in it’s life. Bob and I lost all hilarity after the first turn. Periodically, I would shout over Bob’s screaming to ask if my grandfather was still there. Every time the answer was yes. Three times, I know, we were on two wheels for more than a second. At one point after a serious combination of rights and lefts, I saw a sign that said the speed limit was 20 MPH and I know I was going well over 70. The whole time, my grandfather was right on my tail.
Our turn off to the ranch was at a town called Mayfield. Mayfield was named after Jake Mayfield, another rancher, who always wanted a town named after him. He built a store, hired a family to run it and called it Mayfield Texas, population two. When Bob and I pulled into Mayfield Country Store we just stared at each other. I will never forget the look of terror mixed with relief in his eyes.
I shivered as I turned off the stereo and the last lines of “Highway to Hell”. When I got out of the car, I was shaking. I don’t think Bob actually kissed the ground but he was on his knees when I saw him. The sun was in my eyes so I didn’t see Dorothy until she was next to me. She seemed relaxed and smiled at me.
I followed her into the store. When she got the to door she turned to me and said, “Charlie, you are the best driver. You don’t drive too fast and you don’t drive too slow.”
I remember thinking that Dorothy did not have a clue about my abilities or me. I was on the edge of hysterics in that car and she was complementing me on my driving.
I now sometimes find myself in a similar situation as to that drive to the ranch. My knees get shaky, or my hands twitch when I think about how I am barely functioning as a teacher, a coach, a friend, a father, a husband, or a man. And I am struck by how completely overmatched I am. I look into the mirror and see that same terrified look Bob gave me that spring break trip.
Comments:
<< Home
There is also a story about my grandfather taking us out to shoot a shotgun. Let's just say that my grandfather joyously proclaimed Bob was a "Sharpshooter in the Army" for the rest of the trip.
Actually, my grandfather told Bob the horses were so tame that you just had to say "Go" and they would go and "Stop" and they would stop. Bob got on the horse and started yelling "STOP, STOP!".
Post a Comment
<< Home
