A letter from Lance, July 2008
Heaven on Earth is a cool breeze and rain to a parched south Texas coast city. No wind. The tropical moisture that comes in brings no thunder and lightning either. The rain falls straight down and you have no way of knowing if it will continue for ten minutes or three hours. Heaven. And while I am standing on the patio at 7 am with a cup of joe, rejoicing, a toad bounces out from stage right, and another one appears from stage left. They do a happy dance three feet in front of me and exit. One small bug appeared on the brick as they danced and the smaller toad ate him so fast you couldn’t see his lips move. So, with cool clouds around us and more rain in the forecast, we drove up north to Rockport for an art show the following Saturday morning. Same stuff we saw last year. About 210 booths and maybe three real artists. But this is the money crowd. Rockport is the Carmel of the south Texas coast. We toured the show and bailed out. And decided to head up to the next town, 12 miles up the road, for lunch in Aransas Pass. No money here. A town of 8,000 with a shabby three block downtown area, one Ford dealership, and one funky grocery store. But I knew about the Bakery Café from earlier explorations and knew Leslie would like it, too. The poverty comes from a big harbor that’s now empty in this city. Back in the 60’s a company called Shrimp King would be the biggest shipper of shrimp in the USA. The crumbly buildings and a few of the rusty shrimp boats are still there. But the harvest declined severely in the years that followed taking away the town’s main employer. It’s an echo to the sardines disappearing on the west coast. Only this town has never recovered. But if you want real chicken fried steak, the Bakery Café is the place. On main street. One big room. Ten booths on the left. Ten stools at a counter on the right. Eight tables in the middle. Five or six young women running around the floor and laughing behind the counter. It’s a bustling Saturday afternoon crowd but it feels laid back. We grab a table and order the special on the board: Mesquite grilled burgers and fries. Killer good. All the while I’m watching a lonely man sitting on a bar stool nearby. He’s pretty rough, about 45, and has a cloth purse around his neck hanging over his chest. He polishes off a sandwich and bowl of soup. My heart goes out to him and I watch to see if he has any money. He gets up and says a quick word with the woman at the register and leaves. No tip, no payment. And I ask her about him. She said he was in a bad car accident as a teenager and that his twin brother died in it. Since then he has problems dealing with people and stays to himself. Sometimes he comes in and eats four pieces of pie. And only a sandwich the next time. And she said someone in the restaurant always pays his bill. This is little town, Texas, where people matter more than money. And like I told Leslie, when we get really old and need to slow down, this is a good place to consider. However, I do admit to a new practice that somehow has been installed along with my 60th update: I have to have an “emergency donut” in the kitchen now. When things go sour or the pressure of deadlines weigh me down, I find that two or three little bites from the emergency donut, usually a glazed cake beauty, restores my vitality and mood. I recommend the practice. Emergency fudge would work as well. Anything with raspberry for Leslie.