Over the Memorial Day weekend, I hit a rural outcrop known as Lott, Texas. The 'rents were passing through from Phoenix to Florida, but stayed a few days to avoid the Memorial Day nightmare that is eastbound I-10 traffic, so I got to spend time with them "up 'ere."
Lott is between Temple and Waco, which means it's about 45 minutes from civilization as I know it. The daily forecast is: windy, or sometimes plum blow-you-over gusty. The soil here grows some ginormous trees, and if you know anything about me at all, you know I have a ginormous affinity for thick-trunked behemoths--the ones that provide lots of shade, I'm sayin' (for all you gutter-brains).
I have fond memories of this vast oasis of cornfields, cattle ranches, and Civil War-era cemeteries. It's a great place to let your kids run hog wild, especially down by the crik, where the frogs scream and flee for the ponds as you run at them. My mother was born and raised in nearby Troy and Pendleton, and little has changed except for the passing of our small-town ancestors.
My uncle and aunt live in Lott as well, and they're the real deal. Uncle Mead is an honest-to-god cowboy (horse breaker/trainer, rancher, rodeo rider), vet, auctioneer, tobaccy spitter, and social butterfly. At about 72 now, there is nobody he doesn't know. He is adorable. The notable addition to their ranch is the off-road golf cart Uncle Mead now uses to get around the place. Yeehaw!
Aunt Sue is a bona fide cowgirl (same as Uncle Mead, but with female parts) and a champion barrel racer with incredible saddles and gleaming belt buckles the size of tombstones to show for it. Her prize barrel racing horse is Scoot. Scoot is 27, and now out to pasture with his mare. Even while out on the road taking care of business from rodeo to rodeo, he demanded his mare accompany him or the show would not go on. I tell you, the requirements of celebrities these days. But you don't want to sit on top of a cranky, 1,200-pound diva while careening around barrels through churned dirt.
Here's the champ, sound asleep.
I had a sweet little cardinal wake me up every morning at the butt-crack of dawn. His unorthodox methods for getting me to rise and shine and throw curse words at him far exceeded his pretty-boy factor, but I felt sorry for him because I'm sure the bird-brain knocked himself silly on a regular basis. Here he is in action:
Best sign of the weekend:
Oh yeah.
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Fire nipples
2 days ago
