Over the highway and through the rain...
We're stopped just now at Majestic Liquors, with a stiffling damp winter crowding in from Mama Field's open window. Mr. Field returns with a box of white wine for Gramma (early in our dating, Jesse confided that her fridge is never without one, and we try to keep that tradition alive in ours).
Driving on, we pass caged geese and paddocked horses... a wedding party in a flower-planted cemetary... roadside litter. Nowhere do I see the "Fetuses are Babies" billboards -- as Jesse reminded, no abortions are available here. That work's been done. It's an hour out from Fort Worth to Mineral Wells, and it feels that long, or longer. There's so much space here. Maine and Minnesota have that too, but the eye here gazes over thousands of claims, each marked with cows or trailers, houses or watertowers, hopeful ponds or fearful fences. Few churches. Falcons. Finger-traced Spanish graffiti in the dust of a trailer. An orange-dirt path leading from white ornate gate to points unknown. "Cowboy Jubilee" is being advertized on the radio -- this Saturday at 7:30. Now the station plays "Love Train." (sign of their fractured race relations, or mine?) Winter golf on manicured yellow grass. The grand hotel, famous host a century ago, stands boarded up. The Wells have gone dry. Then the drive is over, and we ease into a small driveway in a small neighborhood. In the barest drizzle, we opened the doors, alighted the walk and, then, there she was.
Gramma Field -- "Call me Jean" she insisted immediately -- took my hand in a firm, warm handshake, looking me firm in the eye. For 7 hours she welcomed us, with course after course of southern hospitality. She was delighted to see Jesse, after nearly a half-decade of being without her eldest and closest grandchild. She told stories, we made conversation (she shares much of her son's politics...), and I went to the bathroom a dozen times. It's a nervous strategy, I think. But despite my nervousness, the visit was a stunning success. I overheard her tell Mamma Field that I'm nice, and she gave me a hug when we finally parted. We didn't speak very long on subjects of great import, but we shared warm words and a common concern for the sweet young man who holds both our hearts. The lowest point of the visit was when we five visitors took short leave of Jean, to take a walk thru the city. An awful winter rain began to pour as we reached that grand hotel, so we ran back as quick as we could. We warmed ourselves over tea. When we left, laden with food and cheer, the skies were dark but our hearts were light. The trip has been a success.
Driving on, we pass caged geese and paddocked horses... a wedding party in a flower-planted cemetary... roadside litter. Nowhere do I see the "Fetuses are Babies" billboards -- as Jesse reminded, no abortions are available here. That work's been done. It's an hour out from Fort Worth to Mineral Wells, and it feels that long, or longer. There's so much space here. Maine and Minnesota have that too, but the eye here gazes over thousands of claims, each marked with cows or trailers, houses or watertowers, hopeful ponds or fearful fences. Few churches. Falcons. Finger-traced Spanish graffiti in the dust of a trailer. An orange-dirt path leading from white ornate gate to points unknown. "Cowboy Jubilee" is being advertized on the radio -- this Saturday at 7:30. Now the station plays "Love Train." (sign of their fractured race relations, or mine?) Winter golf on manicured yellow grass. The grand hotel, famous host a century ago, stands boarded up. The Wells have gone dry. Then the drive is over, and we ease into a small driveway in a small neighborhood. In the barest drizzle, we opened the doors, alighted the walk and, then, there she was.
Gramma Field -- "Call me Jean" she insisted immediately -- took my hand in a firm, warm handshake, looking me firm in the eye. For 7 hours she welcomed us, with course after course of southern hospitality. She was delighted to see Jesse, after nearly a half-decade of being without her eldest and closest grandchild. She told stories, we made conversation (she shares much of her son's politics...), and I went to the bathroom a dozen times. It's a nervous strategy, I think. But despite my nervousness, the visit was a stunning success. I overheard her tell Mamma Field that I'm nice, and she gave me a hug when we finally parted. We didn't speak very long on subjects of great import, but we shared warm words and a common concern for the sweet young man who holds both our hearts. The lowest point of the visit was when we five visitors took short leave of Jean, to take a walk thru the city. An awful winter rain began to pour as we reached that grand hotel, so we ran back as quick as we could. We warmed ourselves over tea. When we left, laden with food and cheer, the skies were dark but our hearts were light. The trip has been a success.