As I write this, I’m sitting at a scarred desk in my room on the third floor of the Holland Hotel in Alpine, TX. A century old, more or less, the Holland started life as a cattlemen’s hotel. Night before last, we rested our heads in the Hotel Paisano in Marfa, TX. The combined populations of the two towns is fewer than 8,000 people. Traffic doesn’t really exist (except at the moment when you want to cross the street, at which point a convoy of vehicles will roll through). At the local watering holes, my request for my standard drink–a Beefeater martini–is met with cocked-head puppy dog stares. It was 107 degrees yesterday. But it was a dry heat.
And I’m loving every minute of it.
My lovely bride and I are traveling with our good friends Reavis Wortham and his own lovely bride to enjoy a part of the U.S. that we’ve never seen and that they know so well.
People are different here than they are in bigger cities. In restaurants, strangers start up conversations with the patrons at another table. When people ask, “Where you from?” they seem to actually care. There’s no way a New Yorker (or even a West Virginian) could write about these places without having been here. They wouldn’t know about the 20-degree drop in temperature when the sun goes down, or the marvelous desert breezes that blow up out of nowhere. Or the flies. Good God, the flies. They seem to be mustering here in anticipation of the next cattle drive through town. Yesterday, Reavis treated us all to our own swatters. All I need is a cross-draw holster and I can feel like Doc Holliday as I walk the streets, ready to defend myself and my family from the winged bastards.
It’s impossible to be in surroundings like these and not be flooded with story ideas–or if not stories, the locale for a scene. Every person any of us meets on any given day carries physical and mental burdens, some of which they talk about, but most of which they don’t. How are those burdens different when living in a tiny town than in a megalopolis? I imagine it’s equal parts blessing and curse to have all of your neighbors know all of your business.
Imagine how much harder it would be to get away with a crime. Or would your neighbors rally to protect you and hand you an alibi?
Hey. I believe I just got another idea for a story.
Texas. I spent a year in Texas one week, back about 1977. A bunch of us engineers from L.A. were debottlenecking a Uranium plant down in George West, population 2022. We stayed at the Buenas Noches Motel, and were supposed to be at the plant after midnight for a shutdown, during which maintenance guys would do their thing, and we could experiment on various systems. I went to bed, hoping to get a little sleep. Well, about 10 pm, Finis Carleton woke me up to tell me he wasn’t going to wake me up to go to the plant at midnight. The shutdown had been cancelled, along with our activities. I was never sure why he needed to wake me to tell me that; I’d just as soon have kept sleeping. But, having been awakened, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up and paced the room. I read the entire George West phone book. There was 10 minutes shot to hell. I finally sat down and wrote a song. I called it, the Ballad of George West. It featured various local landmarks and activities, such as folks seeking excitement gathering at the only stop light in town to watch it change colors. It included mention of Carter’s Cafe–“Easy in, easy out,” referring to the truck parking. It went on for a dozen verses or so, none of which I can remember. The next evening, on our way to dinner in Beeville, I sang the ballad to my boss and Finis and a couple of other guys in the car. My boss laughed so hard, he missed the freeway on-ramp and went 100 yards down a dark side road. I had to sing it a couple more times when we got back to L.A. Looking back on my life, I realize I should have written more ballads. There’ve been many inspirtunities.
A la John Denver . . .
Saturday night in Toledo Ohio
Is like being nowhere at all . . .
Love Alpine! Go a little farther and hit Fort Davis – the history whispers to you on the wind there, if you listen.
Enjoy!
We started our sojourn in Fredericksburg, just down the street from Ft. Davis. The history here is so different from the East, where I come from. Not a lot of talk about kings and the Civil War.
ROFLOL at “Fredericksburg, just down the street from Ft. Davis.” Even we Texans, who are very well accustomed to the vast dimensions of our beloved home state, don’t consider a five-hour, 348-mile journey to be “just down the street.” 🙂
Ah, I love small town life & wish I still lived in a small town. Glad to hear there are still a few around. That’s why I love historicals–imagining stories in a world where there weren’t 9 million people per square inch of space.
When we moved to our small town, the Hubster went to the post office to pick up our mailbox keys. The Postmaster/Postmistress/Postwhatever greeted him and said she’d been waiting for him. She’s retired now, lives on the next street, and still knows everything that’s going on.
Commit a crime and the cops will be at your door before you get home.
“Commit a crime and the cops will be at your door before you get home.” I love that line!
Home sweet home. You’ve learned by now, of course, that “ya’ll” is single and “all ya’ll” is plural. And the real meaning of “Bless his heart.” (grin)
I grew up in Virginia, so I speak fluent Suthrun. I still shudder at the phrase, “Go cut me a switch.”
Regionalisms are more fun than anything I can think of right offhand except maybe one or two other things. I reckon brother Wortham would, if subpoenaed, testify to the diverse number of regionalisms in the great state of Texas and how many folks who essay to write about it may be in it but not of it. As Father Martin used to say they can state the outward and visible signs but yet miss the inward and spiritual grace.
Texans and Oklahomans, I believe, are all born story tellers. I recall an interview with the county judge in Loving County, Texas. When asked about elections he said “Oh, we have 100 per cent participation. Sometimes even more.”
I, on the other hand, being Jersey born and raised do not have any detectable regionalisms.
You got a problem with that?
Absolutely perfect. Fuggetaboudit.
Although my family lived in the city, we spent most weekends at my great uncle’s farm in rural Georgia. There’s something more real about small town / country living. Beef is standing in the field, not lying in a package in the grocery store. Out of necessity, folks are much more self-reliant than in high-density cities with services for every need. I treasure my time on the farm.
“Beef is standing in the field, not lying in a package in the grocery store.”
Or being grown in a lab from the cells of a cow. Have you heard the news?
Ugh!
Yes, I’ve heard. I don’t think Mother Nature will be happy.
Many years ago my wife and I were in Des Moines, IA for a family event. We went to a street art show. We were sitting at a picnic table and a young couple asked if they could join us.
“Sure.”
“You are not from Des Moines, are you?”
“No why?”
“A local would never have said yes.”
Ha! Alas, Des Moines is not among my favorite cities.
I grew up and still live in the same small town. But I spent ten or so years, from my college days on, in LA. It was a nice place to visit (cue nod to JSB) for those ten or so years, but couldn’t wait for the opportunity to get outta there.
My youngest daughter and family live in a Fort Worth suburb. Back a few years, I stayed with them while attending the ACFW conference. I opted to drive a rental car back and forth from their house to the venue, a distance of about 15 miles one way.
Never again will I ever drive a vehicle on a freeway in Texas. And I thought Seattle drivers were scary…
But the Texas folks I talked to were way more friendly than Seattle folks. Just don’t drive like a lost grandma around them. 🙂
Speed limit signs are merely suggestions. To obey them is to show weakness!
Ahh…that’s the secret!
🙂
Unless you’ve spent your life in a geographical area as unique as Texas or parts of the South, it’s a wise idea not to make your main character a local. So many mistakes. I can always tell and wince at obvious non-Southern writers. The stranger in a strange land is a much better idea. That makes the mistakes the viewpoint character’s, not the writer’s.
I grew up in Memphis when it had a small-town feel. Neighbors watched out for the kids and had no problem telling parents when we did something we shouldn’t. Now I live in a real small town–the feel is the same. Enjoy your time in Texas!