Celia Hayes – The Accidental Texan

Five years ago, after we had to cut down the diseased and clearly dying mulberry tree which shaded the whole of my backyard, I worked up a design for a tall arbor; three lattice panels held up by four tall posts. I intended to plant a couple of grape vines to grow up over the trellis and replace the shade tree. I bought the materials – the posts, the trellis pieces, the 2x4s, a couple of sacks of cement and the hardware, and had Roman the Neighborhood Handy Guy come over with his post-hole digger and do the work. We had a lovely high-end tenor wind chime, a Christmas present from Mom, which Roman installed in the center of the middle arbor panel. I bought some grape vines at Rainbow Gardens, planted them in the ground by the outermost vertical posts, and awaited nature to take it’s course in covering the arbor with bearing grape vines. Which Nature has, in her own sweet time. One vine – the native adapted Spanish grape – romped up the post and into the lattice within a year or so, the other went at a more decorous pace, but now the end panels are well-blanketed in vines. Something – possibly the bitter freeze earlier this year – sent the grapevines rocketing into overdrive, and now both of them have sent three or four ambitious tendrils up into the center portion of the arbor. It will be most splendidly shady when the vines cover the entire arbor and shelter the back of the house as the much-mourned mulberry did on summer days when the afternoon sun burned into the yard like an unappeased fury.

Heck, I might even get some grapes out of the enterprise, if I can beat hungry birds and field rats to them.

The back yard is due for a serious reno, yet again. The forementioned bitter cold snap in February killed all the potted cycads, the Daughter Unit’s pomegranate shrub, the potted lemon and lime trees, as well as the calamondin orange, which had exploded the pot that it had been planted in and sent a taproot deep into the soil. Alas for that – we cut it down, dragged it all to the curb for city brush disposal this week. The native-adapted plantings, like the firebushes and Russian Sage have roared back after the killing frost annihilated everything above the ground and several inches beneath it, so there is some green in the place. And I have scored a sapling pear tree and a persimmon, in the last few months, to add to the tiny backyard orchard.

Betty, the single hen who survived the horrific slaughter earlier this year, also died a couple of weeks ago. Not certain how, or what of – a kind of organ prolapse, I surmise. We’ll start again with backyard chickens, when the back garden is grown enough to resist chicken depredations, and I can afford to have the back fence secured against whatever it was that got in and killed the other hens. Curiously enough, the chickens might have been responsible for a couple of rogue plants that appeared out of nowhere: a tomato bush and a pepper plant. I used to save vegetable scraps for the chickens, and obviously they excreted a couple of viable seeds in the right place … this is the first time that I have ever seen this in my garden and reminds me of a mention on one of the Ace of Spades gardening threads. Another gardener remarked that the best-bearing tomato plant at his place sprouted in the compost bin where he had thrown away the remains of a McDonalds’ hamburger. So between care of Wee Jamie and temperatures in the nineties in the late afternoon – the garden awaits a little careful tending over the next few months.    

The Daughter Unit and I, with Wee Jamie the Grandson Unit, made a road trip last Saturday – a completely enjoyable outing, even with the necessity of stopping several times to change Wee Jamie’s diapers on the hour-and a half drive to Kingsland on the Llano and Colorado Rivers. He slept for the most part, and excited the admiration of many, who noted the Overwhelming Cuteness of Wee Jamie. His eyes actually opened once or twice during these occasions.

We had an appointment for a presentation ceremony at the American Legion post in Kingsland for me to be presented with a quilt; the ladies of this organization have been working for several years on a project to present a patriotic-themed quilt to every military veteran who can be identified and nominated for one. The Daughter Unit was given one, shortly after finding out that she was pregnant, and so it was only fitting that we do another trip to show him off. The Legion post members were cheerfully foregoing up masks nine months ago – and this weekend, the matter was not even raised, nor was there any evidence.

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It has been remarked that just about every great scientific advance has come about with a scientist/researcher noticing a curious phenomenon and saying to themselves, “Hmmm. That’s odd…” and going on to try and figure out why.

For me, a book or a story comes about because I have read something new and curious, and think, “Hmmm. That’s interesting … and I think I can work it into a story…”

I started work a couple of weeks ago on a replica of our family heirloom christening dress; the original, which was made in about 1870-1880 was destroyed when my parents’ retirement home burned to the ground in 2003. At that time I promised Mom that I would try to replicate it, as best as I could and in materiel as similar to the original as could be found for a reasonable price.

I wasn’t in much of a hurry to complete this project until this year, as none of my nieces and nephews were of an age to produce another generation, but now that my daughter is about to produce a grandson for me … it became a high priority.

Behold, the project as it progressed, and as it was completed. I still have to finish the little petticoat to go underneath, and a smocked baby bonnet – but the main element is done!

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(No, it’s not anywhere near ready, yet, but this will be the opening chapter – Richard determining to make some lifestyle and personal changes. But it all will get complicated…)

The New Plan

“I brought down the mail for you, Ricardo,” Sefton Grant tapped politely on the metal door of the small airstream trailer that Richard called home. “Saw the lights on, knew you were home.”

“I have mail?” Richard replied, wooden spoon in one hand. “’Strewth, I do almost everything on-line with my phone, these days. I almost forgot that there was such a thing as a stamped envelope with paper printed documents contained within. Who’s it from?”

“None of my business,” Sefton replied, with stalwart dignity, considering that he was clad in his usual costume for a mild winter day – cowboy boots and a hand-loomed loincloth which barely covered the naughty bits. The seventyish co-proprietor of the Age of Aquarius Campground and Goat Farm was a stringy and well-tanned character who mostly resembled a fitter and less-run-to-seed Willie Nelson. But he added, “Official mail on one – something to do with your immigration status, I would guess. Look, if you need it, Judy and I can declare this place a sanctuary for the undocumented. Our old Communards will go to the wall for you, as a person fleeing political persecution for your beliefs … you do have beliefs, Ricardo?”

“In good food, well-prepared and expertly served,” Richard replied with a sigh. “Hardly the stuff of which international political martyrs are made. But I do appreciate the sentiment, Sefton.”

“The other is hand-written,” Sefton Grant handed over the two envelopes. “You know someone in France?”

“My parents,” Richard answered, after a gander at the second envelope. “They live in France now … don’t know for how much longer, with all this Brexit faffing about. But they have the property there since I bought it for them. I understand that my dear old Dad is making a go of the vineyard attached to the property. Lord only knows how he does it – he was a stockbroker when he retired with a hefty pension and a boodle of earnings on investments. I can’t think how he ever managed to learn about making wine, although I suppose that anything is possible.”

“A filthy capitalist, then?” Sefton queried.

 Richard replied, “No, Dad has always been scrupulous about bathing. And he has excellent instincts about investments, and how they can work for you. Honestly, Sefton – I’ve always been a piker about that kind of thing. You earn money, you have money, you spend it … compound interest and all that is a closed book to me. Might as well be a species of voodoo magic, as far as I am concerned … look, Sefton. I’ve decided to make some life changes. And you’re the first to know.”

“Oh?” Sefton shifted uneasily, on the doorstep to the tiny vintage aluminum caravan, in which Richard had made a home for … how many years was it? Richard had lost track. “You’re not going to come out of the closet are you, Ricardo? Me and Judy, we’re open-minded as sh*t, so that’s OK with us, regardless…”

“No!” Richard regarded his host and landlord with mild exasperation. “No, not out of that closet. I’m as straight as straight can be. Totally hetero – I like the girls and they like me. In bed and otherwise. No … I’ve come to some life-decisions. I’m going to come out as American … and ask Kate to marry me.”

“Is that all?” Sefton looked … well, not as jolted as Richard thought he might have been, on the occasion of that momentous announcement. “Well, congratulations all the way around. Don’t know how all that legal BS will go, being natural-born Americans, Judy and I. It was all sorted for us, on account of where we were born. A bit different, I think – making the active choice. Lotta hurdles to go over, or so they say. I prolly ain’t the one to best advise you on that – mebbe Jess is the right person to go to. Even Doc Wyler – he’s got the power juice an’ all. ‘Specially as you work for him, at the Café, an’ all.” Yes,” Sefton definitely looked in a brighter mood. “See what ‘ol Doc W. can do for you, Ricardo. But if all else fails, Ju and I can declare this place a sanctuary space for the undocumented immigrant.”

“I believe that you and your good lady won’t have to go to that extreme,” Richard replied, somewhat heartened by Sefton Grant’s gesture of support, and the implicit support of all the Old Communards, original members of a commune founded at the Age of Aquarius in the 1968 Summer of Love. Most of them were now ensconced with tenure in the higher rungs of higher education, so possibly they possessed at least as much communal social justice juice as the aged and irascible owner of the Wyler Ranch, for whom the concept of social justice was merely a nasty and disruptive rumor. ‘But nonetheless – it is appreciated. Your support and all. I will go through with it all, you see. This is a place that …”

“Gets a hold on you, Ricardo,” Sefton agreed. “Kinda grows on ya.’”

“Like moss and mold,” Richard agreed, and Sefton laughed. It was a friendly and companionable laugh.

“Hey look – wet your head, in a metaphorical way of speaking – now that you’re about to become one of us. Let me bring you a jug of the newest …”

“Your vintage white?” Richard was immediately all ears. “Or your best red. It matters not, Sefton. I’ll drink a health to my future as an American, a married man, to Kate and … well, really – anyone and anything you propose a toast to. Bring it on, man. Bring it on.”

“Sure,” Sefton shuffled the toe of his cowboy boot in the small dust which had blown across the space of concrete pavers which formed the brief sheltered patio below the vintage Airstream caravan which had been Richard’s (and latterly Ozzie the Chef Kitten’s) home since arriving in Luna City. Sefton looked as if he was the bearer of unfortunate intelligence. “Say … Ricardo … have you really thought about where you will live, once you and Katie are a thing? This place is really small, an’ I know you love it … but once you and she are a family sort of thing … a dinky trailer like this just won’t cut it. Katie has all her own stuff, ya know. Books and all that. Ju and I built the yurt for the family. We needed the space, you see. A space big enough to swing a cat in…”

“I have no intention of swinging Ozzie,” Richard replied with some indignation. “I am certain that he would object most strenuously to that exercise. I suppose that I would have to consult with Kate. I suppose that we would have to establish a somewhat roomier joint domicile … but honestly, Stefton, I would keep the caravan as a pied-à-terre … a sort of holiday or weekend retreat. It’s a small space of my own … and dammit, I do appreciate the solitude and peace of your little refuge. I’d go on paying the rent, of course, even if … when Kate and I establish a residence elsewhere…” Left unvoiced was a certain kind of sinking-in-the-heart realization that he and Kate would have to live someplace together – a larger place, with room for Richard’s kitchen things, Ozzie’s litterbox and all that Kate would bring to a union of their two households. Which wouldn’t fit into the Airstream, not even with the aid of a shoehorn.

“That’s fine, Ricardo,” Sefton shuffled the toe of his cowboy boot into the dust again. “A man does need a refuge, ‘o course. So, where d’you think you and Kate will settle?”

“I don’t know,” Richard answered. “That will be up to Kate’s preference and my own hopefully well-fattened checkbook. I am perfectly agreeable to my ladylove making that momentous decision. It all depends on how well-fatted that checkbook might be, in the long run. I … well, I was a fool about money, and left a good quantity of financial debris behind in London. Debts and all … we might have to settle in here, after all.”

“A country boy can survive,” Sefton grinned crookedly, but with complete understanding.

“No matter what country, eh?” Richard answered. “You’ve been a pal, Sefton. I should thank you again for being so… although quite a lot of people who claimed to know me well have insisted that I’m a selfish, inconsiderate git. I don’t really deserve the consideration that I have received from you all…”

“Never mind, Ricardo,” Sefton flashed those amazingly good straight teeth again in a smile. “We all have our weaknesses, ya know? I’ll bring that jug of mustang red for ya … if you don’t answer the door, I’ll leave it by the step. I suppose you wanna do some thinking about your letters?”

“I do, Sefton – and thanks for the consideration,” Richard replied.

The official letter he cared little for – but the letter from France had his complete attention.

His parents were going to visit Texas, a few months hence. And that intelligence drew his complete attention.