I wrote this a few years ago, not long after we moved to the Hill Country. It was an introduction to one of my "Newsletters", a form of communication I used before this electric machine entered my life. Now, I can just write something and send it out to everyone I know and include everyone else in the world, also. Some of you may have seen this, but, at your age, you might not remember. I wrote this in the spring of 1996, but it remains true, even the part about the weather.
I suppose it’s time to do this. I saw a few meager Bluebonnets yesterday, along the median strip of Interstate Ten. Not many, and not very big, but Bluebonnets, just the same. We’ve had little rain this year. Last year it rained all winter in the Hill Country, and we were treated to explosions of color in every direction. Not only Bluebonnets, but Mexican Hat, Indian Blankets, Buttercups, Indian Paintbrush and assorted Daisies sprang up in every pasture, along every roadside, in every valley. The traffic on Willow City Loop was bumper to bumper, and the merchants in Fredericksburg were busy as a set of jumper cables at a McLaughlin Family Reunion. Even the Prickly Pears bloomed, and they were beautiful. Last year, the little humming birds had so many flowers, they didn’t need my sugar-water feeder. This year, they’ll need the feeder, and I'll get to enjoy watching them. Everything has a way of leveling out. Took me a long time to understand that.
One of the reasons I enjoy writing these things is because I really enjoy the English language. I know that will come as a shock to many of you, and a natural response could be “How would you possibly know anything about the English language?” All right, make it the English language as it is applied in the state of mind known as Texas. Especially as it was practiced by my dad, Paul R., and a few others of his generation.
Paul R. never heard of a figure of speech, but he used them all the time. His conversation was enriched with metaphors, similes, and alliterations to the point that just visiting with him about the weather was a fascinating experience. When he described a situation, you were there, and you were involved. I don’t think it was possible for him to bore anyone, at least not anyone with any sense. Dad did not say, “That lady is wearing a nice perfume.” He said, “That ole gal smells like the top dresser drawer.” For my father, it didn’t come a hard rain. It came a “frog-strangler,” or it "rained like a cow peeing on a flat rock." Clyde Barrow didn’t “pull a gun” to rob the bank, he "reached down in his britches pocket and pulled out a thirty-some-odd.” For dad, eggs didn’t cost fifty cents a dozen. They cost “four bits”.
Paul R. had a quick, but gentle, wit. He poked fun in good humor and laughed heartily, but would never have purposely hurt anyone’s feelings. I started thinking about him when I wrote the line above about “jumper cables at the reunion.” I believe I just made that up, but it may have been there in the top dresser drawer of my mind, tucked away years ago by my dad. That would be just like him. One day I want to write about Paul R., and another time I want to write about our language. I’m just not ready yet.
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