Houston
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2B_Q4LkRUY
Yes, it’s the Gatlin Brothers, yes it’s C & W and it’s been the song in my heart for a month. All through the madness that is Christmas at the store, through the music and celebration at church, Houston has been the bell ringing in me. For it holds two women who are the world to me.
The friends you make in early youth are deeper and stronger than any heart can comprehend. In 1967 Sierra Mesa School in Sierra Madre CA was a grammar school bursting at the seams. Two full 5th grades, a full 6th and a split 5th and 6th. We were the Baby Boom. It was there that I met my first real friend, her name is Sarah Foote. I believe my first formal words to her were “hey kid, do you want to go swing on the swings with me?”

(If anyone sees these girls, please contact Katherine Jenkins. They are out and about and probably causing trouble.)
I met Kathleen Victoria Potter when both of us were in the girls’ choir (the Chantettes, I couldn’t make that name up) at Pasadena High School. Under the tutelage of the mad and brilliant Caroline Shannon, we learned “Wir eilen mit Schwachen,” the first Bach I ever sang. Dear friends I tell you, I learned more music under that crazy woman’s hand than I would for many many years.
Through the magic of Facebook, Kathy found Sarah who also found me. Kathy lives in Houston, Sarah in College Station, and they agreed to a meeting. Then the magic happens. Philip gives me the very best Christmas present in my life. He gives me a trip to Houston Texas, to see my friends. Let the wild rumpus start.
SouthWest flies into Hobby airport in the southern area of Houston. My flight was very easy if a little late. The clouds parted just as we went over the Sierras and it was so glorious to see them covered with snow. We also passed over Lake Powell and Chaco Canyon. A seat mate of mine had a smart phone and we looked at the Southwest application that is supposed to tell the traveler what they are flying over. It is useless. Lake Powell is still very low but a true vision from the air. The great kiva and spiral mound of Chaco Canyon are very clear from ten thousand feet and no less awe-inspiring.
Hobby Airport is pretty easy to get around in with very clear signage. Having checked my bag, being an old woman, I waited with my fellow travelers as the our bags slowly slid down the carousel. My bag is way too generic and looks like everyone else’s but I did find it and wondered where my ride was. Well, my ride had been trying to call me. Yes I do have a little cheap flip phone and yes it was charged. But I never answer it. I called Kathy and she said “Go out the big glass doors where you will see two tall blondes jumping up and down.” I went out the doors and there were in fact two tall blondes, one who had not seen me in 40-plus years, jumping up and down and squeaking. The wild rumpus had officially started.
We all talked at once, trying to catch up immediately. Rationally we knew we had four days together. We were not being rational, at all. Kathy knew how to get us where we were going, to her and Jack’s lovely home in the Clear Lake suburb of Houston. This was also my first view of a city that has no planning or zoning department. Once on the freeway south, I saw the ugliest, over-built city in my experience. Clear Lake is a planned sub-division that has no center. There is no downtown, no place to shop, go to dinner or even walk around of a warm evening. Just acre upon acre of houses, very similar but not “little boxes” that were built for NASA folks and supporting companies. Mostly made of brick in six or seven styles, from two-bedroom bungalows to Tudor fantasies with curved archways over the front doors. The most disturbing thing about the houses in Clear Lake is how low to the ground they are. No built-up porches, no cellars and certainly no stilts. I will return to my problem of water and where it goes later.
I got to the house with the blue door (Kathy went to Bath and had the full Jane Austin experience. There she saw homes with front doors painted Bath Blue. She came home and painted her front door, which is never used, a deep handsome blue). We went into Chez Bacon through the back door where we were met by the dogs: a sweet and very Yorkie person named Bonnie Woo and a mad whirligig of puppy named Daisy. Even to this complete cat person, Kathy’s fur folks are why people have dogs. The guest bedrooms are upstairs and beautifully appointed. Sarah and I shared a bath and all was right. Once ensconced, we met back in the kitchen, had tea and beautiful cheese and slowly the gates of love opened.
I married late. I was 36 years old when Philip and I made our promises to each other. My darling friends married earlier and to the wrong men. Their stories are universal, crossing all classes, races and cultures. When one is in an abusive marriage, there seems to be no way out. But both of them are now free, Kathy for pushing nine years and Sarah only a year and a half. There were tears that first afternoon and not a few. I do not understand this singular yet common pathology and when I don’t understand I get angry. Never angry at my friends but at the creatures they married. Kathy called it righteous indignation. No, my love, it is simple rage and I must be very careful of its seductive power. Both Kathy and Sarah have allowed me to use their names and tell their stories briefly.
Jack came home from work and found us pulling ourselves together but as teary as expected. The men of the house were so careful of us three, giving us time and space to spend with each other. Someday I may describe the love story of Kathy and Jack, but not here. Jack is built like a buff rugby player, has a warm, resonant baritone, works at NASA (more later) and adores the ground upon which Kathleen Victoria walks. Nicolas Shumny is the son of the house and graduate of IU. He once saved his mother’s life. One of Jack’s joys is playing the guitar and singing. Sarah has learned the ukulele, which she brought. They sat on the sofa in the living room, went through song books and made the music of the trip. Kathy loves cowboy songs and especially “Riding Old Paint.” Somewhere in the depths of her phone is a video of Sarah and Jack playing, Sarah singing and your humble servant joining in. She may show it to you if she wishes.
Kathy said she wanted her house to have a name, just as mine does. Well, my house is called “The Prancing Pony.” We even have a sign which was given to us by very dear friends. Her place was in pretty bad shape when she came to live in Clear Lake. She taught herself to do everything, hang drywall, paint and even some rudimentary plumbing. She and Jack turned the house into a thing of beauty. And what does she call this handsome and welcoming home? “The Crack House.” That is my girl.
After a lovely dinner, the party retired to the upstairs family room and watched the first episode of the monumental HBO series From the Earth to the Moon. I love this series and refer to it as Spaceman Spiff. I was surprised that Jack, the true 25-year NASA man, also admires it. Once the show was done so were the older members of the party and we went to our beds. Nicholas could watch whatever he wanted. I laid my head on a pillow where there was no Philip and slept anyway. And so ended the travel day.
All hail Sam Houston, great son of Tennessee and shining star of Texas. But really Sam, get a damned planning department because that’s your name on this hash of a city.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2B_Q4LkRUY
Yes, it’s the Gatlin Brothers, yes it’s C & W and it’s been the song in my heart for a month. All through the madness that is Christmas at the store, through the music and celebration at church, Houston has been the bell ringing in me. For it holds two women who are the world to me.
The friends you make in early youth are deeper and stronger than any heart can comprehend. In 1967 Sierra Mesa School in Sierra Madre CA was a grammar school bursting at the seams. Two full 5th grades, a full 6th and a split 5th and 6th. We were the Baby Boom. It was there that I met my first real friend, her name is Sarah Foote. I believe my first formal words to her were “hey kid, do you want to go swing on the swings with me?”

(If anyone sees these girls, please contact Katherine Jenkins. They are out and about and probably causing trouble.)
I met Kathleen Victoria Potter when both of us were in the girls’ choir (the Chantettes, I couldn’t make that name up) at Pasadena High School. Under the tutelage of the mad and brilliant Caroline Shannon, we learned “Wir eilen mit Schwachen,” the first Bach I ever sang. Dear friends I tell you, I learned more music under that crazy woman’s hand than I would for many many years.
Through the magic of Facebook, Kathy found Sarah who also found me. Kathy lives in Houston, Sarah in College Station, and they agreed to a meeting. Then the magic happens. Philip gives me the very best Christmas present in my life. He gives me a trip to Houston Texas, to see my friends. Let the wild rumpus start.
SouthWest flies into Hobby airport in the southern area of Houston. My flight was very easy if a little late. The clouds parted just as we went over the Sierras and it was so glorious to see them covered with snow. We also passed over Lake Powell and Chaco Canyon. A seat mate of mine had a smart phone and we looked at the Southwest application that is supposed to tell the traveler what they are flying over. It is useless. Lake Powell is still very low but a true vision from the air. The great kiva and spiral mound of Chaco Canyon are very clear from ten thousand feet and no less awe-inspiring.
Hobby Airport is pretty easy to get around in with very clear signage. Having checked my bag, being an old woman, I waited with my fellow travelers as the our bags slowly slid down the carousel. My bag is way too generic and looks like everyone else’s but I did find it and wondered where my ride was. Well, my ride had been trying to call me. Yes I do have a little cheap flip phone and yes it was charged. But I never answer it. I called Kathy and she said “Go out the big glass doors where you will see two tall blondes jumping up and down.” I went out the doors and there were in fact two tall blondes, one who had not seen me in 40-plus years, jumping up and down and squeaking. The wild rumpus had officially started.
We all talked at once, trying to catch up immediately. Rationally we knew we had four days together. We were not being rational, at all. Kathy knew how to get us where we were going, to her and Jack’s lovely home in the Clear Lake suburb of Houston. This was also my first view of a city that has no planning or zoning department. Once on the freeway south, I saw the ugliest, over-built city in my experience. Clear Lake is a planned sub-division that has no center. There is no downtown, no place to shop, go to dinner or even walk around of a warm evening. Just acre upon acre of houses, very similar but not “little boxes” that were built for NASA folks and supporting companies. Mostly made of brick in six or seven styles, from two-bedroom bungalows to Tudor fantasies with curved archways over the front doors. The most disturbing thing about the houses in Clear Lake is how low to the ground they are. No built-up porches, no cellars and certainly no stilts. I will return to my problem of water and where it goes later.
I got to the house with the blue door (Kathy went to Bath and had the full Jane Austin experience. There she saw homes with front doors painted Bath Blue. She came home and painted her front door, which is never used, a deep handsome blue). We went into Chez Bacon through the back door where we were met by the dogs: a sweet and very Yorkie person named Bonnie Woo and a mad whirligig of puppy named Daisy. Even to this complete cat person, Kathy’s fur folks are why people have dogs. The guest bedrooms are upstairs and beautifully appointed. Sarah and I shared a bath and all was right. Once ensconced, we met back in the kitchen, had tea and beautiful cheese and slowly the gates of love opened.
I married late. I was 36 years old when Philip and I made our promises to each other. My darling friends married earlier and to the wrong men. Their stories are universal, crossing all classes, races and cultures. When one is in an abusive marriage, there seems to be no way out. But both of them are now free, Kathy for pushing nine years and Sarah only a year and a half. There were tears that first afternoon and not a few. I do not understand this singular yet common pathology and when I don’t understand I get angry. Never angry at my friends but at the creatures they married. Kathy called it righteous indignation. No, my love, it is simple rage and I must be very careful of its seductive power. Both Kathy and Sarah have allowed me to use their names and tell their stories briefly.
Jack came home from work and found us pulling ourselves together but as teary as expected. The men of the house were so careful of us three, giving us time and space to spend with each other. Someday I may describe the love story of Kathy and Jack, but not here. Jack is built like a buff rugby player, has a warm, resonant baritone, works at NASA (more later) and adores the ground upon which Kathleen Victoria walks. Nicolas Shumny is the son of the house and graduate of IU. He once saved his mother’s life. One of Jack’s joys is playing the guitar and singing. Sarah has learned the ukulele, which she brought. They sat on the sofa in the living room, went through song books and made the music of the trip. Kathy loves cowboy songs and especially “Riding Old Paint.” Somewhere in the depths of her phone is a video of Sarah and Jack playing, Sarah singing and your humble servant joining in. She may show it to you if she wishes.
Kathy said she wanted her house to have a name, just as mine does. Well, my house is called “The Prancing Pony.” We even have a sign which was given to us by very dear friends. Her place was in pretty bad shape when she came to live in Clear Lake. She taught herself to do everything, hang drywall, paint and even some rudimentary plumbing. She and Jack turned the house into a thing of beauty. And what does she call this handsome and welcoming home? “The Crack House.” That is my girl.
After a lovely dinner, the party retired to the upstairs family room and watched the first episode of the monumental HBO series From the Earth to the Moon. I love this series and refer to it as Spaceman Spiff. I was surprised that Jack, the true 25-year NASA man, also admires it. Once the show was done so were the older members of the party and we went to our beds. Nicholas could watch whatever he wanted. I laid my head on a pillow where there was no Philip and slept anyway. And so ended the travel day.
All hail Sam Houston, great son of Tennessee and shining star of Texas. But really Sam, get a damned planning department because that’s your name on this hash of a city.
