Vaya Con Dios, Juan Astran

On Axel Lane in East Austin, there is a place called The Travis County International Cemetery. You would be hard pressed to find it without directions. There are no manicured lawns, no glistening rows of headstones, no series of paths or drives save for the single road leading in and out. It is a lonely place in a lonely part of town and it was here that Jeff and I said our final goodbyes to our friend Shorty.

Friendships are sometimes formed from the most unlikely of situations in the most unlikely of places. I met Shorty through Jeff. Jeff met Shorty in jail.

The night Jeff arrived at Travis County Jail, downtown, it was Shorty who loaned him something warm to wear. Out of that act of kindness, a friendship developed. Shorty was locked up waiting for his case to go to trial when he met Jeff. He was charged with capital murder and had been downtown nearly two years, waiting. As the days and weeks went by, most of that time spent locked in their individual cells, Jeff and Shorty shared stories and thoughts and news across the corridor. Both men had done a lot of living and could rest comfortably in the presence of the other because they each knew where they had been.

I would hear stories about Shorty and the hijinx the two of them would get up to during the phone calls I would get from Jeff. Because Jeff never knew when he would be out of his cell, I never knew when the phone calls would come. I had signed up for a telephone service that permitted Jeff to call me. Let me tell you right now, there is a gigantic amount of money being made off of people being in jail. Yes, you can argue that if you hadn't broken the law, that wouldn't be an issue. But as someone trying to keep in touch with a loved one, the amount of money being charged for these phone calls is simply legalized robbery. There are plenty more crooks on the outside of the jail. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful the service exists but the cost is very high and I feel for folks who do not have the money to be able to afford it.

One afternoon the phone rang, and as the caller and I went through the protocol required to get connected, I was baffled by the name and voice that was on the other end. It wasn't Jeff. I hadn't heard from Jeff in a few days and was relieved when I saw the familiar number calling. But when the soft voice on the other end said, "Sharon, this is Shorty." my immediate response was "Is Jeff ok?"

He was. He had been put in solitary confinement after a run-in with another inmate. Jeff had asked Shorty to call me and let me know what was going on. Shorty was at one end of the corridor on the phone with me while Jeff was at the other, in his cell. Shorty played go-between and we three ended up having a good but short chat. Before we hung up, I told Shorty how much I appreciated his calling and that I knew what a good friend he was being to Jeff. Shorty's voice was very quiet, very sweet. He said he was happy to do it and that it was very nice to finally hear my voice as Jeff had talked a great deal about me. That surprised me. We spoke once more a few days later and then Jeff was out of solitary and we were back on track.

I found out in the days after that time, that Shorty actually knew a lot about me. Jeff would share parts of my letters and photographs with him and they would discuss my life in Maine--the gardening, the losing weight and the library. Jeff was deep in writing his poetry at that time as well. He would share his new creations with Shorty and they would talk about the things the poems brought up. We became a trio, connected by laughter, caring and circumstance.

When Jeff was released, it was a happy but sad day for him. Shorty remained inside. Jeff asked me if I would write to Shorty and I was happy to say yes. I knew what it had meant to me to keep in touch with Jeff over those four and a half months. I knew what it had meant to Jeff. And I knew what it would mean to Shorty. What I didn't know was how much I would come to care for this man on my own.

In mid-April of 2007, I looked up his inmate number at the jail, and sent out a note thanking him for everything he had done for Jeff and asking if he would like to be penpals. He wrote right back that he would like that immensely and so we began. We shared stories about places we had traveled to, beautiful sights we had seen, wonderful people we had met. He told me about his family and in his quiet moments, reflected on how his life and the way he had chosen to live it had come at the cost of a close relationship with his daughter. That was his greatest regret, that drugs and violence separated him from the people he loved most. We didn't talk about his past nor the road that had led him to Travis County Jail. There was no need to do so. We could only share the present moment of the letter in front of us. It's easy to be yourself when you don't have to worry about the past and you have no control over the future.

In mid-summer Shorty was sentenced to 16 years in prison on the capital murder charge. He would be eligible for parole in 10. His brother had been given a life sentence in the case. If Shorty had not chosen to stand by his brother, things might have been very different, but he did what he felt he needed to do.

Shorty was sent to Huntsville, near Houston, for a few months. I told him about my plans to leave Maine and he talked to me about Texas. He said to be sure and try Elgin sausage, best sausage in the whole world, made in a small town outside of Austin. He counseled me on affairs of the heart. He understood leaving. He understood starting over. He said to tell Jeff that he'd damn well better take good care of me because there would be hell to pay if he didn't. Jeff was a constant theme in our letters and Shorty loved hearing the latest adventures. He also loved hearing about the library. Despite the hard times, there was a lot of joy in our writing.

By late October, Shorty was finally moved out to Snyder in west Texas. Prison, and being moved around to different facilities, was hard on him. Trying to get into a rhythm eluded him. There was too much that was new, a constant need to be vigilant. His letters slowed down. You have to pay for our own supplies when you are incarcerated. No one hands out paper and envelopes and stamps. I put money on his books hoping he could get some art supplies. He was a wonderful artist, passionate about drawing and painting. He had put me in touch with his sister Diana when he was still in Travis County and she shared photos of his work. But he never got the chance to settle into a routine to have time to draw.

On January 8, Diana emailed me that Shorty was very ill and had been moved from the prison to University Medical Center in Lubbock. He had been diagnosed with necrotizing fasciitis, a mysterious flesh-eating bacteria that attacks the body from the inside out. He was dying. Diana made the long trip to Lubbock several times to be with him. He was her favorite brother. His daughter, Misty, had recently moved back to Austin from NYC, and she, too, made the trip several times to be with her father. Shorty fought hard. I know that having Misty with him was what kept him trying. She will have her first child in June, his first grand child.

Though he did begin responding to treatment, in the end his heart finally stopped. Diana and I cried on the phone together. I spoke with Misty and did the same. During all this sadness, these two women were also having to come up with the money to pay for a funeral. Death is not inexpensive. Through a taco dinner fundraiser and contributions from friends, they managed to raise two thousand dollars. Misty filled out paperwork through the county and was able to access funds for public assistance to pay for the remainder of the costs.

So today, on this Monday of dark skies and drizzle, Jeff and I made the drive to Peel and Son funeral home, to meet Diana and Misty for the first time and pay our respects.

It was a small gathering of family and a few friends. It was an unusual gathering because some people who might have come were afraid to attned because of Shorty's past. I had not considered that until Diana mentioned it to Jeff later. When we arrived, the first woman Jeff spoke with, one of Shorty's sisters, thought Jeff was the priest. I think it was the black shirt under the sports jacket that made her think that might be the case. We were also the only white people in attendance. Shorty's family is Hispanic. Jeff explained that we were friends of her brother Johnny and that is when Diana came to meet us. She immediately began crying and embraced Jeff. They hugged for a long time and wept. After they spoke for a minute, she turned to me and we hugged and cried as well. Diana was Shorty's favorite sibling and he shared stories about Jeff and my letters and pictures with her while he was locked up. In many ways, we were already old friends. I brought all of Shorty's letters I had with me here in Texas and gave them to Diana for the family to have.

We met Misty soon after. Young, lovely and pregnant, she hung on Jeff's words as he told her a few stories about her dad. She was surprised at what Jeff knew about her and what Shorty had known about her life in New York over the past several years. She told us about her time in Lubbock as her father's life came to a close. Then Jeff went to the casket to see his friend and he smiled through his tears, remembering the good times they had had together in the tank. Diana came up with me and then let me alone with my thoughts and my goodbye. I had only seen one picture of Shorty, one he had sent me because it had Misty in it. He had wanted me to see how beautiful she was. It was a different man in the casket in many ways--older, paler, no vibrant eyes to look into. But I put my hand on his arm and thought of our date in the future when we were going to sit at a camp fire and roast marshmallows and look up at the stars and just be happy to be alive. That wouldn't happen now, but for some reason I had been delivered to Austin in time to be part of his leaving this life. We had not gone to Lubbock but I had emailed the hospital several times a day via the service where emails would be delivered to patients and read to them if the patient was unable to read for themselves. Though he could not respond, we were penpals right until the very end. I had asked Diana if Shorty was getting the messages. She said he had smiled a big smile to let me know that he had.

As more people arrived, Jeff and I sat in the room just outside the viewing room, watching a young father tend to his little daughter while Diana and her sisters sang hymns a capella in Spanish in between people speaking. The words, whether spoken or sung, were full of emotion--joy at things remembered, sadness at things to be missed. I did not recognize the hymns but the last piece was 'How Great Thou Art' and I sang quietly from the sofa in English as the gathering put their hearts into the closing of the ceremony.

The drive to the cemetery took about fifteen minutes. We had Wendy to distract us from the sadness for a short time. The approach to the cemetery was not pretty or grand. A chain link fence surrounds the small property. There was a big metal sign that said NO LITTERING and as we made the corner, there was trash piled along the side of the road. It seemed such a powerful message, trash for the trash of society. This is where Austin buries those who have little or nothing who seek only a final place to rest.

We were the first ones to arrive. Jeff drove slowly down the small lane to the turn around area. The open grave and supports for the casket were close by. We sat in the truck, quiet. To our right there was a stable with horses. Wendy watched them intently, her tail bristling out thick. She had never seen horses before, only ponies. There were some oak trees but mostly the cemetery was open, a small field of coarse groundcover and red soil, a large pile of which was just behind us. The excavator stood patiently, waiting to finish its job once the mourners left.

We got out of the truck when the first few cars arrived. The casket was delivered not in a hearse but in a shiny black Suburban. We watched the men from the funeral home slide it out and place it on the supports over the grave. Waiting for the bulk of the family to arrive, I took the opportunity to walk around and visit some of the graves. There were very few headstones. Most markers were small and metal, the size of a motorcycle license plate. Some graves had only laminated tags provided by the facility that had prepared the body. Some graves had no markers.

Several of the graves were outlined in brick and the area inside turned into a shrine with trinkets and tributes left. Plastic flowers. Bouquets of fresh flowers long since withered. One grave had a beautiful low-growing cactus covering the grave, an empty Budweiser can caught between the prickly leaves.

A number of the graves were children. Stuffed animals and toys were strewn about by the wind, a brown plush bear face down in the mud, a little yellow rubber duck far from bath time. Birthday candles, the big number type, peeked up at me out of the grass at the base of a small cross. It felt like such a desperate place. There was no comfort there, only a feeling of chaos and perhaps that was the message that was coming from the earth, that life is rarely orderly and comforting so why should death be.

As the final mourners arrived, Diana told Jeff that the priest had called and would not be coming. He had been called to the hospital. Jeff told her he had a bible in the truck and he could read Psalm 23, the Lord's Prayer, if she would like. She said yes, she would like him to do that. He offered to try it in Spanish if she wanted. Her smile was bright. She said if he read it in English, she would follow in Spanish.

And so the man who had been mistaken for a priest was the man who read words of comfort over the body of his friend. Jeff's voice was calm and clear and strong. After the prayers, Diana asked Jeff if he would speak about Shorty and he did, remembering his kindness and his friendship. She asked me as well and I shared that Shorty and I had shared letters and that I knew through them how kind he could be and how much he loved his family. Another sister read a poem and that was it. One of the girls had handed out white roses, and one by one people placed them on the casket. A young girl, one of Shorty's nieces, maybe 12 years old, was in front of me in the line. She did not have a rose so I touched her on the shoulder and handed her mine. She smiled shyly at me then went to the graveside as I made my way to Jeff. He had placed his rose and a handful of dirt at the head of the coffin.

The women cried, their sobs and moans carried on the wind over the sloping grade of the cemetery. The horses in their paddock watched silently. It occurred to me that they are the true caretakers of this forgotten place of throw away people. I took Jeff's hand and wondered where I will end up on this earth.

Shorty was 49 years old. I will miss him.

All Because of the Secretary

It all began innocently enough....

It's like this, right, Jamie and I were talking about music and rather than try to explain what Ska is he was giving me band names to look up and have a listen. One band he highly recommended was The Slackers from NYC. He and Chris were supposed to open for them last year when The Slackers were touring northern England but the massive rains they had in Britain had made getting to the gig literally impossible. As you can take the girl out of the library but you can't take the library out of the girl, I quickly did my Slackers research while chatting with Jamie and discovered that they were going to be playing in Austin on January 25th and 26th...what a coincidence! I put the show on my calendar and spent the next two months listening to their tunes and getting happy.

Which brings us to Friday.

I had not purchased my tickets ahead of time and woke up Friday morning hoping the shows had not sold out. Checking the Flamingo Cantina website, I saw that I could buy tickets at End of An Ear Records on South First Street. I called, found out they still had tickets but the shows were expected to sell out so I should get down there if I was planning on going. Jeff had just gotten back from taking RC to dialysis so we piled into the truck and he took me and Wendy downtown to the trendy SoCo (South Congress) district. I got my two tickets, one for Larry's wife Holly who I had invited to come with me so I wouldn't be out by myself. This wasn't Jeff's kind of scene.

On the way back to the house, we stopped at Home Slice Pizza so Jeff could have something to eat. We had copies of the document from the VA stating that Wendy was a service animal and the manager and wait staff we're great with it. Wendy had been welcome there before, even without the not federally mandated piece of paper. Home Slice rocks. However, when the woman we were seated near saw the cat, she immediately called for the manager. She said she was highly allergic to cats.

This was our first time dealing with this situation. The manager spoke with her then spoke to Jeff, explaining the situation and saying that because the woman was there ahead of us and already having her meal, he was going to just move us to another table as soon as one opened up. Jeff and Wendy were great about it. But the woman kept complaining to her lunch date while we waited for another table. She said she had a special needs child so she knew all about service animals but that this just wouldn't do. And then she did the oddest thing: she put her hand up to the side of her face to make a shield so she didn't have to have Jeff and Wendy in her field of vision and she proceeded to eat her pizza like that, nearly blinding me as the light bounced off her gigantic diamond wedding ring. It was the craziest thing.

The manager was super and Jeff and Wendy had their pizza. From my new spot I could still see the woman and she remained quite animated about the whole ordeal across the room, though I did not once see her sneeze or blow her nose so obviously she must have fared all right. I know people who are highly allergic to cats and I understand the woman's distress but this honey played it for all it was worth. I'll be surprised if she had to pay her tab. The incident brought up an interesting point when we got in the truck. What happens when people who are highly allergic to cats get seated next to someone who has their winter coat covered with cat hair. We all know people who look like they are wearing their pet. If Fluffy has covered your wool coat from sleeping on the arm and rubbing up against your legs just as you were leaving the house, wouldn't that affect an allergic person as well? Who knows. Either way, Jeff and Wendy weathered the storm but it was a rocky start to the morning.

Later in the day, I left a message for Holly that I had a ticket for her if she still wanted to see The Slackers with me. As the hours ticked past and I didn't hear back, I figured she was working and was not going to be able to join me. I was going to be out on my own on Sixth Street on a Friday night for the first time. I don't know who was more nervous, me or Jeff.

The doors at Flamingo Cantina opened at nine. We left the house at just about that time and the ride downtown was a briefing. Sixth Street is like the Old Port only bigger, full of many, many more people, and a lot meaner. The club strip is not far from the dividing line of the highway with the east side. Plenty of folks slinging drugs. Plenty of immensely drunk people fighting and puking and falling down and laughing. A portion of Sixth Street is closed to vehicles from 9:30 pm until after 3:00am for crowd safety..or driver safety..hard to say which. We got there before the barricades went up so Jeff did a drive by of my club then showed me safe bars who know him where I could go into if I needed help. He pointed out the Driskill Hotel where he would pick me up after the show. I was to call him once I left the club, start walking, staying off the sidewalk incase a fight came rolling out a club door, and go to the valet at the Driskill, Austin's most posh and historic luxury hotel. Jeff helped design the security system there when the hotel was remodeled several years ago.

We came back around the block and he pulled to a stop infront of Flamingo. To my surprise Jeff put the truck in park and got out with me. He told me to get in line and that he was going to check and see who was working the door. He came back a minute later saying he didn't know the staff but that I'd be fine. We reiterated our meeting place then he looked at me like a dad leaving his little girl at kindergarten for the first time. He gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, told me to call if I needed him and that he would be in the area all night. And zoom, he and the war wagon were gone. The people in line behind me had no idea what to think. I pretended like it was just another Friday night while on the inside I thought for sure I would pee myself with excitement!

I managed to get inside the club with no major incidents beyond a wayward street musician, who was playing for smokes or nickels, writing a song about me and telling me he wished I was his girlfriend and maybe would I be his girl in a couple of years when he wasn't so fucked up. I told him maybe I would, we'd see how the song went first.

The three bands that played were fantastic. Channel One from San Antonio. Ryan Scoggins and the Trenchcoat Texans from Houston and then The Slackers from NYC. And thank goodness for The Slackers and an aging rastafarian or I would have been the oldest person in the club! The stage area of the cantina is actually semi-open air with a ceiling and three and a half walls. There is some bleacher seating in two areas and the bar and then a balcony that is fully open in nice weather. But as this is the major reggae club in town, there is mostly room for dancing and swaying.

Per my instructions, I scoped out my exits, found a place towards the back where I had a good view but wouldn't get smooshed as the crowd filled in and started moving. And I kept an eye on those who were tottering and challenged by gravity. I know some of you are laughing but bear in mind, other than a couple of folk concerts at Raoul's in Portland, I'd never been to a club to hear a band. This was all 100% new.

And I had such a good time! Unless you have a massive headache, ska music is infectious. You can't help but move your body. And the bands were great. They all had trumpets or saxophones or trombones and guitars and crazy wurlitzer organs and fun and funny vocals. And the crowd was so happy..and not just because there was booze and weed. Most of the folks were there just for the music. Now granted, they might have arrived happy but the music just kept you there.

As the Slackers were just coming back for their encore, someone took hold of my arm. I turned around to find Jeff beside me. The guys working the door let him in so he could tell me to meet him at Paradise just down the street instead of the Driskill when the show got over. He looked at me and said "Hey, do you smell all the pot in here?" I smiled at him and said. "What pot?" He looked very concerned for a minute then I smiled at him and told him I was teasing and yes I could smell it. He gave me a look that said something like "Alright young lady...." then he hugged me and was gone.

The band played for another 40 minutes then I got my t-shirt on the way out and found myself on Sixth Street at 1:30 on Saturday morning. Boy oh boy. What a scene. I can tell you right now that figured brick and cobblestone tend to retain vomit and that if you are wanting to go home with a skinny, emo, hipster college boy, Austin is the place to do it. Someone should feed those kids but be careful, they move in packs and would probably eat and drink you out of house and home. (Slackers ...>>>>>>)

But I made it down the street to Paradise unscathed where I found Jeff and also Bill, who becomes the official owner of Paradise on 1 February. This is the very bar where Bill worked as a bartender and saved his dough to start his own place. It's also the home of the porcelain parrot that Jeff took to Iraq with him, the whole thing written about in his short story, The Parrot.

Words cannot express the look of relief on Jeff's face when he saw me. "You made it!" he said and I was once again hugged and we had our post-op debriefing while the bartender brought me a Guinness. I wasn't the only one that had had an eventful evening it turned out. When the boss got to Third Base, his friend Dawn told him that her dog had gotten loose and that her roommate was out looking for it. Jeff said he would help look and drove out to where the girls live to see if he could connect with the roommate. Arriving at their place, he saw that the roommate's car was there so he went into the house and was subsequently greeted by the dog..and not in a friendly way. It bit him, tearing open his pants and having a taste of his calf! It was a minor bite, as dog attacks go but still... Jeff secured the dog and the house and got back in the truck. Those were his good jeans, too. Damn.

After telling me the story, he said he was going to run across the street and get a slice of pizza. One of the bartenders heard Jeff and gave him a few bucks to get him a slice, too. I sat sipping my Guinness still happy from the music and didn't even see it when someone stole Jeff's coat off the bar stool and walked out of Paradise. The boss came back, started eating his pizza, went to reach for his phone which was in his coat pocket with his keys and realized the coat was gone.

He had a vague memory of the last person who had been near him in the bar (it wasn't very crowded so close to last call) and thanks to the bartender who had waited on the guy, Jeff left Paradise with a good description of what the guy looked like..short, wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and now a black Carhart jacket. Jeff was gone a good 20 minutes, looking up and down Sixth Street, stopping to talk to the bouncers at all the clubs, saying there was a $100 reward for whoever helped him find the guy. Some of the security guys walked through their clubs with Jeff but nothing. He came back to see if maybe it had been a mistake and someone had just moved the coat or the guy had picked it up on accident, but no. Off he went into the night again. I had my truck keys and my spare to the Bat Cave so I knew we could get home and Jeff could get to Wendy, that is if the guy with Jeff's keys wasn't already driving the truck off.

Jeff came zipping back into the bar calling for me. I grabbed his cigarettes and lighter and made for the door. Just outside were four police on horseback. Jeff had reported the theft to them and they needed my cell phone number so they could call if they found the guy. A drunk blonde girl kept trying to pose with the police horse so her drunk boyfriend could take a picture. She was so busy trying to tell me that she loved horses and worked with them all the time that she didn't notice the horse stick its head into her ginormous purse and start chewing on the contents and lining. It was like being on episode of COPS only way funnier because the officer who was taking Jeff's statement was this little, round, female cop and in her uniform and helmet, she looked like an apple doll someone had placed atop this giant horse. She must have to have a boost to get up in the saddle and once up there, there was no room for her belly to go. I truly can't fathom how she stays on if the horse does more than walks.

So you've got one pissed off Jeff who has a dog bite, got stiffed with Bill's bar tab in a little game they play, and is missing his phone, keys and coat. You've got the drunk blonde, the opportunistic horse, the little Weeble police officer, three male officers also on horses all looking quite dashing, and me with a ska and pot contact high and a Guinness under my belt. Could it get any better?

Oh yes it can....

We head back to the truck, still looking as we're walking. Jeff has parked towards the rougher end of Sixth Street and tells me to stay close. Thankfully the truck is where he parked it. Once we get in and he starts driving, he tells me to call his phone and keep calling until someone picks up. They do on the first attempt but hang up when he says hello. He calls again, they answer and he begins telling them that he really needs his keys and phone back and he'll give them 100 bucks if they will just take the stuff back to Paradise. The guy on the other end keeps asking if it's for real and Jeff says yeah, he just really needs his keys back and so meet him at Paradise and it will be cool. Well the guy is drunk and not sure where he is but he's liking the sound of getting a 100 bucks so he stays on the line while we circle back around the block. Jeff pulls to the curb and hits the ground running with my phone in his hand.

I am now sitting in the truck alone while waves of very drunk and high people wander past. I locked the doors and sat patiently watching the scenes around me with the motor going, aware of the fact that if Jeff finds this guy, he will probably beat the tar out of him for stealing his coat and then possibly get arrested himself but he has my phone so there is no way for him to call me from jail. And he has no idea the number of my other phone which is back at the house.

Minutes go by. A crowd of shifty looking young guys slowly move past. I barely acknowledge that they are checking out the truck, giving my best "don't even think of fucking with me" look. By the way, that's not a look I've ever had to use before so I don't know how well I pulled it off but they kept walking. Then a group of tipsy girls tottered along in their heels and started cramming themselves into the car parked in front of me. One young blonde stood in the middle of the street, taking her time getting into the back seat, only after having blown a kiss to the guy in the van who was waiting for her to get the hell out of the way. Once the lady driver put the car in reverse, I was suddenly given the gift of clairvoyance
and was ready for the impact when she backed into my enormous white vehicle that you could probably see from outerspace, but evidently cannot see from the back window of a Dodge Stratus. There was no way I was getting out to ask for the girl's license and insurance and she had no intention of stopping once she got forward momentum anyway. I took down her plate number and kept waiting.

A few minutes later, the boss strode triumphantly around the corner, wearing his coat. I unlocked the door for him but as he started to get in, I told him to check the front of the Suburban for damage as we'd been backed into. He looked. It was fine. Good ol' war wagon. And Jeff was fine, too. The greedy thief had met him near Paradise and as luck would have it, the horse patrol was still right there. Jeff firmly but politely escorted the gent to the cops. Of course the guy said it was all a misunderstanding and that Jeff had promised him 100 bucks because the guy had brought the jacket back. And the guy was also stupidly drunk enough to keep lying so he couldn't explain why Jeff's keys were in his pants pocket and not the coat pocket with the phone. Consequently, that fella spent the night with the police, Jeff pressed charges and the crime which netted him no cash because Jeff doesn't keep money or his cards in his jacket, will probably end the guy with a felony.

We drove home in the darkness going over the day's events on the short ride. We had a confrontation with an allergic bitch at a pizza parlor while out getting tickets, the boss had been bitten by a dog, got stiffed with a bar tab, had his coat, keys and phone stolen and his truck backed into all because his secretary wanted to go to a ska concert downtown on a Friday night.

"And that," said Jeff, "is why you are going to make me cinnamon rolls right now."

When we got inside, Wendy was real happy to see Jeff and they talked about her evening while I put the rolls in the oven. Once they were done, we sat on the couch with milk and pastries watching something on cable. The boss looked at me and announced,

"I think it will be awhile before we have another concert, secretary."

I made the comment that the Flogging Molly concert had sold out at Stubb's already anyway. He looked at me over the icing on a bun and said with a half smile

"I can probably get you in...."














Go see The Slackers if they are in town. You'll love them!

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Nite, nite from the Fortress of Solitude.

xo wren

These Boots Were Made For Walking

Greetings from the corner of North Loop and Guadalupe! It's nearing 1am and I can hear my downstairs neighbor has a roomful of company. He is a tiler and when he's home there are usually big buckets of grout and piles of strapped up tile stacked in the driveway and lots of people speaking Spanish very fast coming and going. I haven't really met him as he is rarely home. Gets here late and leaves early. It's probably just as well for him that he doesn't have to listen to me playing scales on the guitar over and over and over again. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone. (yes, that little barking dog is wear a faux fur stole with a pink bow)

I made a New Year's resolution that I would start taking daily walks and it's proving to be such a good thing. Turns out we live in a really cool part of Austin, the police district known as Central West. I know it's police district Central West because of a comment I made to Jeff.

After the first week of forays on my own I mentioned to Jeff that nearly every time I was out I would see a police car patrolling. Each time, I noticed that the driver would make eye contact me with as he passed. Usually he would smile and nod his head in acknowledgment. The fact that we made eye contact made me feel safe for some reason. I guess it was just the fact that someone knew I was out walking that was comforting. Jeff's response to this information was that we should find out who our district representative is and that I should send a note saying that I appreciated having the police patrolling my neighborhood while I was out walking. He said that letter would be put in the file of the officers who cover our area, as any letter that is received concerning a specific officer is made part of their permanent file. The police often get negative letters and a positive one is evidently always a good thing. Plus, Jeff said, it would put me in a category as "friendly" toward Austin PD, another good thing. Of course we laughed at the transience of good will should the occasion arise that the cops run a background check on me and find out who I associate with in Austin. he he he. So I wrote the letter and sent it off nonetheless, thus ensuring that my writing skills have been viewed and appreciated by a few members of APD and will be preserved forever in police archives.

Hey...it's one way to get published!

I've ended up becoming quite delighted with the neighborhood that joins us to the south called Hyde Park. Oh is it a charming place to go walking. The streets are lined with mostly small, single family homes that are heavily influenced by the Craftsman style of architecture and the design ideas of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hyde Park has evidently become one of the most desirable places in Austin to live. Some of the places are rented out to students at UT but the majority seem to have permanent families in them. There are gardens and fences and friendly cats and barking dogs. You'll meet people pushing strollers, people out jogging and cycling. Turn a corner and you may find a coffee shop or a sandwich shop like in the photo above. Small, neighborhood businesses that persevere. What is also cool about this area is that even though it has the potential to become overly precious and politically correct, you'll find a storybook house right next to a funky artist house, right next to a college rental with sofas on the porch and the recycle bins at curbside piled impossibly high with empty beer and wine bottles. Here's a Land Rover. There's an old El Camino with faded paint and bald tires. And my favorite, which I haven't dared to take a picture of yet but will...an old Ford Ranger pickup with a three foot long rubber alligator with its mouth open lashed to the hood. I laugh every time I see it, though I couldn't tell you what street it's on. Avenue G maybe. The truck has been there long enough that someone has slipped a flier for Domino's Pizza in the door, inside the truck. It's so silly. And so Austin. It's stuff like this that is the sweet, goofy side of this city.

Some of the houses are new and quite large like the one above and this beauty. Actually, the house in the picture above is gigantic and both verandas wrap around the front of the house and run the full length of the building. Work is still going on there. Jeff tells me that one of the houses in this neighborhood was a project house for the PBS series, This Old House.
http://www.thisoldhouse.com/toh/tv/house-project/overview/0,,1546552,00.html

There is a picture in that link. It's vaguely familiar. I'll be on the lookout for it.

I was totally delighted when I came across this fantastic archway that leads into the garden of a local artist because it's a place I had seen in 2006 when I stayed with Kendra Curry here in Austin for several days. She was living on 38th street and we had walked through a little bit of Hyde Park one morning before heading downtown. When I was walking last Sunday I said aloud to the blue sky, "I wonder if I'll come across that wonderful wall Kendra showed me." Not 30 seconds later, I was standing right in front of it and smiling. It's not clear from this photo but the stone work is intermixed with ceramics and stones and whatever else the creator felt like putting in. The same goes for the wall and the mulch in the border.

Maybe some day I'll get to meet the artist. I believe Kendra told me it's a woman and you can see what looks like a tower studio in the back of the yard. How cool.

Speaking of studios, today I stopped at, of all things, an italiante villa that was the Austin studio of sculptor Elisabet Ney. She was an world renowned sculptor during the late 1800s/early 1900s and Formosa, her studio, is today a museum in Hyde Park. http://www.ci.austin.tx.us/elisabetney/

What a place. As it was constructed to be a studio, the ceilings are enormously high and things are quite spare but oh my, how beautiful. I wasn't allowed to take photos but the website will give you some idea of the inside as well as insight into the life of this remarkable woman. Her life size marble sculptures of Stephen Austin and Sam Houston stand guard over the rotunda at the Capitol. For the museum's purposes, the down stairs studio space is filled with plaster sculptures which might actually be the real casts for the pieces that were then committed to marble. Ney's prowess is remarkable. The second floor of the building is very spare and consists of just one room with some tables and benches. And you reach the tiny sitting room of at the top of the tower by a very tight spiral staircase which presents you to a tiny fireplace and a chair. Evidently there was also a hammock there for napping or gazing out the windows at the sky. What a charming place.

So there's your unofficial tour of Hyde Park. I walk in parts of it nearly every day to go to the post office or up to Quack's Bakery for a quick pee and cup of hibiscus lemonade, or a coffee and a macaroon if it's chilly. Austin swirls about on the edges but once I'm on Avenue B it's like stepping into a small town. I guess this is what it means to be part of a neighborhood.

I hope everyone is well and the new year is starting off with a bang that isn't the sound of snow-laden boughs ripping off the pines and taking down power lines. Jeff and I are about to embark on our biggest adventures to date: setting up a non-profit agency to help place service cats with combat veterans & being a clearing house of resources for this special segment of society. Heck, what else do we have to do? I'll worry about getting a job tomorrow......

Hugs and habaneros from Austin! xoxo sharon