Friday, August 08, 2003
East Texas
March . . . we wake up in the tent and it starts to drizzle rain on top of us. The sky in front of me is muddy blue, but I can still make out the box-on-stilt forms of the oil rigs in the gulf. They seem so far out . . . but then, our island seems to form a bit of a bay, so it's deceiving. We pack up -- I read IN THE LAKE OF THE WOODS as I wait for the shower to open up -- and we go, I driving because of my old age and insurance, Jessica sleeping in the seat next to me.
It's green, and wet, raining on us for much of the morning. But it's vibrant green, again shattering my conception of Texas. We wait in line for the car ferry which is so fast and organized once we finally get on. Lunch is at a Sonic, and then the sun shines the rest of the day. We drive east along the coast, though we can't ever see it, passing by all sorts of little towns full of shanties with big, expensive trucks parked outside. The highway is four lanes, but small, narrow, and often empty. I keep looking at the passing trees, wondering what they are. We have nothing like this in Wisconsin, I note, and I don't think I've ever seen trees like this. But they're everywhere here. Tall, old, gnarled, and imposing. I think I would see this in the deep south. Occasionally we'll climb a hill and the land opens up.
"Holy shit, Jess. Look at that!"
Nothing from Jessica.
"Holy shit! That's a fucking beautiful view!"
"Yeah," she says with lots of inflection. Inflection more for my enthusiasm than for the fucking beautiful view.
I've noticed this a lot lately -- me acting like my dad, getting all excited over big trees and beautiful views. Take last night for instance. Sister Amy is over with her techno-guru and wiring wizard husband, Kevin, who's setting up a phone line for us in the attic. He asks me where I want the jack.
"Right by this outlet. Yeah. I was going to set up the computer here, so if that's not too much trouble . . ."
Just a regular couple of sentences, but they sounded like my dad. The pausing before answering, the earnest reply, the length of the word "yeah". Scary stuff.
It's good I write this stuff down now, or I'd forget it, just like I forgot the story Amy told last night about my grandpa's reply to my dad after my dad got wind of my moderately damaging the back of the trusted 1992 Mercury Villager just before leaving Green Bay the day after Christmas:
"Material things, Randy. Material things."
My Grandpa is a national treasure.
It's green, and wet, raining on us for much of the morning. But it's vibrant green, again shattering my conception of Texas. We wait in line for the car ferry which is so fast and organized once we finally get on. Lunch is at a Sonic, and then the sun shines the rest of the day. We drive east along the coast, though we can't ever see it, passing by all sorts of little towns full of shanties with big, expensive trucks parked outside. The highway is four lanes, but small, narrow, and often empty. I keep looking at the passing trees, wondering what they are. We have nothing like this in Wisconsin, I note, and I don't think I've ever seen trees like this. But they're everywhere here. Tall, old, gnarled, and imposing. I think I would see this in the deep south. Occasionally we'll climb a hill and the land opens up.
"Holy shit, Jess. Look at that!"
Nothing from Jessica.
"Holy shit! That's a fucking beautiful view!"
"Yeah," she says with lots of inflection. Inflection more for my enthusiasm than for the fucking beautiful view.
I've noticed this a lot lately -- me acting like my dad, getting all excited over big trees and beautiful views. Take last night for instance. Sister Amy is over with her techno-guru and wiring wizard husband, Kevin, who's setting up a phone line for us in the attic. He asks me where I want the jack.
"Right by this outlet. Yeah. I was going to set up the computer here, so if that's not too much trouble . . ."
Just a regular couple of sentences, but they sounded like my dad. The pausing before answering, the earnest reply, the length of the word "yeah". Scary stuff.
It's good I write this stuff down now, or I'd forget it, just like I forgot the story Amy told last night about my grandpa's reply to my dad after my dad got wind of my moderately damaging the back of the trusted 1992 Mercury Villager just before leaving Green Bay the day after Christmas:
"Material things, Randy. Material things."
My Grandpa is a national treasure.
