Thursday, 31 May 2007


I went to Texas when I was about four years old to visit my Grandfather and his wife, Dottie. I remember there were huge escalators in the airport, and lots of men with big hats and boots. But what I remember most is a vast sheet of ice covering a field outside of their house. That sheet of ice seemed to go on forever, and the house, which was quite reasonably sized inside, appeared so small in the distance. It was cold and huge outside, whereas inside was warm and safe.

Texas holds a mythical sort of presence for me—and I think for many people who have never been there as well. It’s a land of opportunity and of the wild west, it’s a land of cowboys and Indians, of oil and prosperity. But mostly, to me, the mystical ideal is of an eternally present warm and comfortable family, present in a harsh world.

I never saw much of my Grandpa Jerry, and I’m not sure if I saw Dottie again, but the memories of time spent in Texas with them, created a beautiful world in my mind that I’ll always have.

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