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CONTENTS
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Marjorie Hagy History Marjorie is a bibliophile, a history nut and an insomniac, among several other conditions, both diagnosed and otherwise. When she's not working tirelessly to avoid getting a real job, she nurses an obsession with her grandson and is involved in passing legislation restricting the wearing of socks with sandals. She is an aspiring pet hoarder who enjoys vicious games of Scrabble, reading Agatha Christie, and sitting around doing nothing while claiming to be thinking deeply. Marjorie has five grown children, a poodle to whom she is inordinately devoted in spite of his breath, and holds an Explore record for never having submitted an article on time. She's been writing for us for five years now.
Kendall D. Aaron Spiritual I’m just a normal guy. I’m not a theology student, I don’t preach in church, and I’ve never written a book. I’m just a normal guy that thinks, and feels, and is on a never-ending journey attempting to be the best person I can be. I fail frequently at this quest, yet each day, the quest continues. I’ve lived in Boerne since the late ‘80s, I’ve got a most beautiful wife, three wonderful children, and just really, really love God. Thanks for going on my spiritual journey with me.
Old Timer Just Old Timer
12 From The Publisher
28 History
16 Calendar
34 Russian Seasons
20 My Happy Valentine
38 Spiritual
24 Outdoors
42 Old Timer
Operations Manager Peggy Schooley peggy@smvtexas.vom Publisher Benjamin D. Schooley ben@hillcountryexplore.com
10 | EXPLORE
Creative Director Benjamin N. Weber ben.weber@smvtexas.com
The Old Timer tells us he's been a resident of Boerne since about 1965. He enjoys telling people what he doesn't like. When not bust'n punks he can be found feeding the ducks just off Main St. or wandering aimlessly in the newly expanded HEB. Despite his rough and sometimes brash persona, Old Timer is really a wise and thoughtful individual. If you can sort through the BS.
ADVERTISING SALES 210-507-5250 sales@hillcountryexplore.com
EXPLORE magazine is published by Schooley Media Ventures in Boerne, TX. EXPLORE Magazine and Schooley Media Ventures are not responsible for any inaccuracies, erroneous information, or typographical errors contained in this publication submitted by advertisers. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the opinions of EXPLORE and/or Schooley Media Ventures. Copyright 2016 Schooley Media Ventures, 930 E. Blanco, Ste. 200, Boerne, TX 78006
Brandon called and told me that Bishop had run away. Well, not really “ran away”; instead he literally smashed a hole in the wooden fence and was gone. A giant hole of splintered fence boards the size of one giant beast dog. Brandon looked everywhere for Bishop, but with no luck. We assumed that surely the local pound would pick him up because somebody would definitely call in the authorities for a dog of Bishop’s size. But sure enough, he never showed up at the pound. Days went by. They became weeks. We slowly gave up on the idea of Bishop returning. Months went by, and life moved on. And then Brandon’s dad called him. “Brandon, I was at the grocery store here in Tyler, and saw a big dog lying under a tree on the outskirts of the parking lot. I went over and took a look at him. Son, it’s Bishop.” Bishop had somehow traveled across almost the entire state of Texas in his trek back to Brandon’s house. His paws were almost rubbed off. One ear had been split in two. He was terribly dehydrated, and was near death. Brandon’s dad took him to the vet, and after almost a week in the hospital, Bishop came home with Brandon’s dad. He put him in the backyard at the family ranch, and Bishop waited for Brandon to return.
DEAREST EXPLORE READER, When I was in college, I worked at the Rainbow Play Systems showroom on weekends in Lubbock. It was a pretty cushy job, I liked the owner (who was also named Ben), and the pay was pretty good. I could get a fair amount of studying done in between customers, and I always liked watching all the kids go nuts on the playsets. For Thanksgiving one year, I wasn’t headed home. The owners were headed out of town, so I was instructed to run the shop from the Friday after Thanksgiving to Sunday evening. The day of Thanksgiving brought with it one of those hellish cold fronts that only the Panhandle can spawn, so in I went on Friday morning with a stack of books, knowing that I’d see very few customers this frigid weekend. Next door to the store was a junkyard. Just your run of the mill junkyard, and the place was locked up tight for the holiday weekend. I was walking outside to stretch my legs while I ate my sandwich for lunch. I had the hood of my coat on, and was trying to shield my face from the stinging wind. As I walked the fence line between our store and the junkyard, I saw him. The dog. But it was no ordinary dog. It was 180 pounds of nightmare. It appeared to be some insane mix of Mastiff and Rottweiler, and it was chained with a ridiculously huge chain. It was laying in this pathetic little doghouse. I was frozen in my tracks, and once he spotted me, he slowly stood and walked over to the fence. He didn’t growl or bark, instead he just sat down and stared at me. I noticed quickly how skinny the dog was, with his ribs exposed under his fur. He sat there, with a slight shiver, and looked pretty darn miserable. I slowly extended my hand with the rest of my sandwich toward the fence and he licked his lips. I pushed it through the fence, and he delicately snapped it up, not with the ferocity I had expected. We stared at each other for a few more moments, and I went back inside to get warm, looking over my shoulder at him. The rest of the day, I kept looking outside at the dog. He rarely moved, just curled up in his little doghouse trying to stay warm, but obviously failing. That night, temperatures were to dip into the teens. Reluctantly, I went home for the night. I tossed and turned that night, worried about that stupid, giant, terrifying dog. Surely he would be a popsicle in the morning. The next day, I jumped out of bed, stopped off and bought a small bag of dog food, and zoomed to work. I took the dog food outside and poured the entire contents over to his side of the fence. He inhaled the food. It was gone in seconds, and then he simply stared at me. I put my hands out and said “That’s all I got buddy”. He whined. I reached forward and put my fingers through the fence, and he gingerly licked them. Frustrated, I went back inside.
12 | EXPLORE
A half hour later, I was reading something for some class that I’m sure I never needed to know, and I saw a shadow by the glass front door to our office. I looked up, and the dog was sitting on the sidewalk looking at me. The chain was not on him. To this day, I have no idea how he got out. He would have had to get the chain off, AND somehow have gotten through the 6 foot high chain link fence that was lined with razor wire. I walked over to the door and stared at him, unsure of what to do. If I let him in, he could kill me. Quickly. I would have no defense against a dog of this size. A hungry, pissed off dog. If I left him out there, he was either going to freeze or starve to death. A few seconds of consideration, and I slowly opened the door. He walked in, sniffed at me, walked over to a corner of the warm office and flopped down with a grunt. It reminded me of a noise I would make when my head hits the pillow after an exhausting day. And then he simply slept. He laid there the entire day, only occasionally shifting positions. And then it hit me – I had let him in, but how would I ever get him out? At quitting time, I grabbed my keys, started turning off the lights, and he stood up and waited for me at the door. Outside we walked, I locked up, and he trailed me to my car. I didn’t even think this animal would fit in my little Saturn, but I simply opened the back door, and he jumped right in. It never once dawned on me that I was “stealing” someone’s dog, because that someone didn’t deserve the right to own a dog. Or any other animal, as far as I was concerned. I rolled down the windows, and like any dog, he let his tongue flop in the frigid breeze. You should have seen the looks from the cars next to us at the stoplights. His head stuck out on end of the car and his butt was hitting the opposite window. And with that, we went home. I fed him, and he ate everything I would give him. He watched TV with me that night, and he barely moved at all throughout the night. The next morning, he obviously was feeling better and acted like a puppy caught in the body of a beast. I lived alone, and my landlord didn’t allow pets, so I needed to figure out a plan for him quickly. I called a friend, and once the two met, the dog went with my friend Brandon. He was quickly named “Bishop” as well. I liked this name – it seemed to fit him pretty well. I enjoyed getting to keep up with Bishop by visiting my friend Brandon. Brandon was heading home for a quick weekend run a few weeks later, so he and Bishop drove the 400+ miles to his parent’s home outside Tyler, Tx. Bishop enjoyed a weekend of playing on Brandon’s family’s ranch, and the two bonded quickly. Brandon brought him back to Lubbock, and they were two peas in a pod. One day
Except Bishop wasn’t done, I guess. After thousands of dollars in vet bills, and once he was completely healed, Brandon’s dad went outside and Bishop had smashed down the fence and was gone. Again. An entire panel of the fence had been destroyed, and a few muddy paw prints told the tale. Nobody ever saw Bishop again. We called the pound for a few days afterward, but just like in Lubbock, he never was picked up. We waited to see if someone would call, as Brandon’s dad had put a collar with their number on it, but that collar was found near the pond in the back of the ranch. Bishop was free again, and obviously, he didn’t linger in one place very long. I think about Bishop often. Such a kind animal, trapped in a body that scared most everyone. Chained up in a dingy old junkyard, freezing half to death, when all he ever really wanted to do was go on a never-ending adventure. I wonder where he went, if he ever stopped running, and if he even survived. I also think he was a pretty good analogy for many important lessons. One is that you can never judge a book (or a dog) by its cover. Another is that no matter what confines you, if you want out, you can make it happen. And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, never stop your adventure. If you dream of seeing the Northern Lights, then you had better go see the Northern Lights. If you want to backpack across Europe, then you had best book your airfare. If you simply require a different zip code for a while, then your bags are ready to be packed. I don’t know if Bishop had a deep desire for any specific location or destination or if he simply wasn’t programmed to stay in one place for long, but I like to think that he always wanted to play fetch with an owner on a beach at the coast. Yeah, that’s why he was headed south. I like to picture Bishop splashing around in the waves, chasing a stick thrown by a very friendly man that always wanted an enormous Rottweiler-Mastiff-Great Dane mutt dog. A dog that one day just showed up outside his front door, and after a moment’s hesitation, he chose to let ol’ Bishop come inside to take a rest. Welcome to February. May you survey your world, and may it be all that you had ever hoped. And if not, I hope you strike out on the adventure to fix it. Even if you have to smash through a fence. Smiling, Benjamin D. Schooley
ben@hillcountryexplore.com
Authentic
WE ARE
518 River Road | Boerne, TX | www.littlegretel.com | 830-331-1368
Free dinner. Priceless education. Join us for a free educational dinner held weekly. RSVP at 210-642-0401. Space is limited. February 1 & 28 Kirby’s Steakhouse
February 6 & 7 Piatti at Éilan
February 21 & 22 Bob’s Steak & Chop House
And if you want to learn how to reduce or eliminate taxes on retirement income, attend our seminar at Bob’s Steak & Chop House on February 7, 8, or 9
507 E. Blanco Rd. | Boerne, TX | 210-642-0401
AREA EVENTS
Get out and enjoy the great Texas Hill Country!
The most comprehensive events calendar. Send submissions to info@hillcountryexplore.com February 17-19 Fredericksburg Trade Days Shop more than 400 vendors with acres of antiques, and enjoy the beer garden, live music and more. 7 miles east on U.S. 290 across from Wildseed Farms. fbgtradedays.com February 19 Alamo Metro Chorus This concert features award-winning barbershop music. Presented by Fredericksburg Music Club. Fredericksburg United Methodist Church, 1800 N. Llano. fredericksburgmusicclub.com GRUENE February 12 Gospel Brunch with a Texas Twist In the tradition of a New Orleans-style gospel brunch, gospel music is accompanied with a buffet catered by Gristmill River Restaurant and Bar. Gruene Hall. GrueneHall.com February 16 Come and Taste It Eleven wineries and breweries are showcased on the patio of a tasting room in Gruene Historic District. Event features live music and prize giveaways. GrapevineInGruene.com February 18-19 Old Gruene Market Days Features more than 100 artisans offering handmade items. In Gruene Historic District in front of Adobe Verde. gruenemarketdays.com or gruenetexas.com JUNCTION February 24-26 Freezer Disc Golf Tournament The courses are located along the Llano River, providing a beautiful setting, lots of shade and plenty of space. 402 Main St. junctiontexas.com KERRVILLE February 9-Mar. 26 February Gallery Exhibits Visitors can view works by Andy Villarreal, Johann and Kristin Halldorsdottir Eyfells, Monika Lovelace, and Saundra Kattawar. Chocolate lovers can enjoy Chocolate Fantasy on Feb. 12. Kerr Arts and Cultural Center, 228 Earl Garrett St. kacckerrville.com LUCKENBACH February 10-11 Luckenbach Hug-In and Valentine Ball Get back to the basics of love during this annual camping event with plenty of boot scootin’. Luckenbach Texas Dance Hall. luckenbachtexas.com NEW BRAUNFELS February 26-28 North American Jewelry & Gift Show Find beads, jewelry, fashion and more. New Braunfels Civic & Convention Center. nashows.com
BANDERA February 7 Cowboy Capital Opry Grand Old Opry-style entertainment is hosted by Gerry and Harriet Payne. Silver Sage Community Center, 803 Buck Creek. silversagecorral.org February 16-18 Cowboy Mardi Gras Enjoy live Cajun and country music, Cajun food, gumbo cook-off, costume contest and canine costume contest. Parade with floats, horses, cowboys, feathers, masks and plenty of beads is Saturday. 11th Street Cowboy Bar. 11thstreetcowboybar.com BOERNE February 3-18 “Gargoyles and Scarecrow Sins” The popular town madam has passed away. Some interesting characters were part of her world, and as the hours pass at the viewing, much comes to light about everyone. Boerne Community Theatre, 907 E. Blanco. visitboerne. org/calendar/boerne-community-theatre-gargoyles-andscarecrow-sins February 11-12 Boerne Market Days Hundreds of festive booths display everything from collectibles to modern innovations. The market includes food and music. Main Plaza, 100 N. Main. visitboerne.org/calendar/boernemarket-days-101
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February 14 “Vocalosity” The ACA-Perfect Concert Experience Production features 12 dynamic voices singing music from several genres. Boerne Champion Charger High School Auditorium, 201 Charger Blvd. visitboerne.org/calendar/vocalosity-aca-perfect-concertexperience
WIMBERLEY February 3-26 “The Secret Garden” Enjoy a full-length production based on the beloved classic by Francis Hodgson Burnett. EmilyAnn Theatre and Gardens, 1101 F.M. 2325. emilyann.org
February 25-26 Boerne Spring Antique Show Collectors come to find real antiques—no reproductions or imports. Kendall County Fairgrounds. visitboerne.org/calendar/ hill-country-antique-show-3
February 16 Susanna’s Kitchen Coffeehouse Concert Series Enjoy some of the best musical talent in the Texas Hill Country. Wimberley United Methodist Church, 1200 C.R. 1492. wimberleyumc.org/Ministries/Susannas-Kitchen
COMFORT February 28 Friends of the Library Mardi Gras Dance Fundraiser Includes food and entertainment. comfortlibrary.txed.net FREDERICKSBURG February 3 First Friday Art Walk Fredericksburg Tour fine art galleries offering special exhibits, demonstrations, refreshments and extended viewing hours. Participating fine art galleries in Fredericksburg. ffawf.com February 17-Mar. 5 “Hello, Dolly!” Tony Award-winning musical features a story and a score that has entertained audiences for more than 50 years. Steve W. Shepherd Theater, 1668 S. U.S. 87. fredericksburgtheater.org
February 19 Starlight Symphony Orchestra Concert Wimberley First Baptist Church, 15951 Winters Mill Parkway. starlightsymphony.org
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18 | EXPLORE
Jerky is tough. Anything that requires that much bite strength should NEVER be worn around your nether bits.
Catchy. Creative. Funny. Yes, yes, and yes. Something your lady would want to unwrap while eating a candle lit dinner? HELL NO! Though, we do know a lot of guys who would love this.
Again, if you’re a guy, and you pause when looking at this and think “Hmmm... she might like that” just move along. Yes it’s fake. But again, no. Just no.
MY HAPPY VALENTINE
I
It’s the season for love and romance. A time when ladies tend to set unrealistic expectations from their significant others in the gift department. It’s also a time when men have no godly idea what to get THEIR significant others. Over thinking leads to procrastination which leads these unfortunate souls to be seen at HEB between the hours of 5:15 p.m. and 11:00 p.m. on February 13th, wandering the aisles with a confused and terrified look on their faces. Only to throw their hands up, grab the closest box of Russel Stover chocolates and proceed to the floral department. Where they find flowers well past their prime in what can only loosely be described as “bouquets”. But it’s late and they know something is better than nothing. Well, we here at EXPLORE have found a few items that could be categorized as “nothing is better than these somethings.” Enjoy.
20 | EXPLORE
There are probably some people out there who MIGHT actually like this. We all know someone who has a green thumb. Though, this gift might be better sent to an ex you’re still harboring resentment for.
We couldn’t pass this up. Ladies, don’t send you man flowers. EVER. UNLESS it’s a bouquet of bacon rolled up to look like flowers. You don’t even have to wait for Valentine’s Day.
22 | EXPLORE
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BLOOD By Steve Ramirez
M I loved the smell and feel of the old wine cellar. I loved how the barrels looked all stacked in rows along the wall and how dark and cool it was there on those hot summer days. It was like a cave. It felt primal, like an ancient home. Sometimes when my parents would drop me off with my grandmother we sat on the back porch in the early morning coolness, drinking cafe’ latte’ and eating biscotti. We talked about the old country and how rabbits can be evil if they are eating your garden and she asked me to step on the carpenter ants that were eating her porch. Later, as the day grew hotter, we went down into the wine cellar where she turned on her old black and white television and adjusted the rabbit ear antennas so that she could watch her soaps in Spanish. While we sat there my grandmother took two glass tumblers from a shelf and from the barrel or sometimes from a large glass jug she poured two glasses of deep, ruby red wine. After they were poured -almost as if it were a sacred ceremony- she handed me one glass and told me in a conspiratorial whisper, “Here, this isa precious likea blood, and it’sa gooda for you, but you no tella your momma, cause she no understand.” So I took the glass and I drank it and I knew that she was right. I was five years old. Since then I have always known the power and the beauty of living from the vine. Wine, made as she made it, is not just wine. It is artful, full of tradition, respect, and even acts as religion. Like raising our own vegetables, it connects us to the land and the generations. Like killing a deer and roasting its loins, it teaches us to have respect for what sustains us. Wine, like she made it, brings people together to speak, listen, laugh, and remember; in that moment, we are all connected by blood. In time…I grew older, but not up. I found myself serving as a Marine at the embassy in Rome not more than an hour drive from my grandmother’s home town. In Rome, I met my wife, Alison. We traveled to tiny villages where we sometimes lived off of the local pasta, bread, and wine. Once, in the hills outside Rome, we could
24 | EXPLORE
My grandmother was from “the old country.” She grew up on a farm in the foot-hills of the mountains of central Italy about an hour drive from Rome. She grew her own vegetables and baked her own bread, and made her own wine in the basement of her home that my father built for her, mostly by hand. I remember when I was a very small boy being down in the wine cellar watching my father hand-turn the steel and wooden grape-press and the juices would flow down the steel funnel and as they did my grandmother would tell him not to spill a drop because it was precious like blood.
only afford a piece of bread, a piece of cheese and a liter of wine. That was one of the best meals of my life. We had traveled to see the fountains. It rained like God’s tears and it didn’t matter if the water was going up or down because it was all beautiful. That was living. And we had Italian friends named Franco and Carla. They sort of adopted me. On the weekends we would travel to their countryside home. Once there, we would all gather around the fire, laugh, eat and drink cool white wine poured by Franco… oh so carefully. He knew that it was precious. Later I would sit by a campfire on the African plains in northern Namibia. We looked up at the Southern Cross through the branches of the big tree that had been damaged by elephants. We ate the roasted meat of the game I had shot that day and drank deep, red, rich, African Pinotage. Alison had lived this adventure with me and she understood the value of each moment. I sat there with the thick, wonderful, wood-smoke smell in my nostrils. That was the night Jan, Fred, and I - three warriors sharing thoughts and memoires - talked into the wee hours. Jan and Fred where the professional hunters in camp and they had previously fought against the current government as special operations soldiers. Our trackers, Pete and Johannes, had previously tracked Cuban soldiers through this bush. I remembered those times in my own terrorist wars when Cubans smuggled guns through Ghana and killers from Libya. We drank wine, laughed…and got quiet and distant inside ourselves when we talked of war and of loss. We had each defended our countries under the same African sky. We were brothers of the battle…brother s around the fire and within the blood. It was something precious, and we did not spill a drop. Now I am home in the Texas Hill Country I love so much. I look toward the hills and wonder how they could look so African? I look toward the vineyards and wonder how they could look so Tuscan? I look toward the smiling eyes of my fellow Texans sipping wine and listening to Texas Swing music and wonder, how life could get any better?
Recently I was visiting my favorite small winery, Sandstone Cellars with my dear friend Nichole, who is a manager at Becker Vineyards, my favorite larger winery. Both wineries understand the passion of wine making. We were sitting with the owners of Sandstone winery, Scott and Manny. We had just had an amazing meal at Manny’s mom’s restaurant next door and were resting under a tree on the porch talking of wine, friendship, art and music as well as gardening, spirituality and life. Nichole and I have been connected by blood for ages but now I know that Scott and Manny are also my brothers. I knew it the first time I walked in and smelled the oaky, musky fragrance of wine being born. It was like being home. As the years passed on… so did my grand mother. Her name was Dominica. In Italian, this means “Sunday.” I remember how the sun filled her smile as she sipped the first of her new wine. I remember how she taught me that wine could bring people together. Still, I hear her voice, and see her smile each time I walk into a barrel room of a winery and smell that oaky, deep, warm, smell of long ago. And, I’m sure that if there is a heaven, she is there pouring a tumbler of her deep, red, ancient elixir for the Lord. She was a tough old farm girl and will show him no quarter. I’m certain as she pours it she will hand it over carefully and say in her broken Italian accent, “Here…you no spilla drop. This isa precious…like blood. “
WWW.HILLCOUNTRYEXPLORE.COM | FEBRUARY 2017
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Coffee I Tea I Smoothies Bubble Tea I Pastries I BAGELS Organic & Gluten Free Snacks Meetings I Parties I Live Music
215 W. Bandera, Suite 115 Boerne, TX 78006
830.331.2272
26 | EXPLORE
February 18
7:00p.m. - 9:00p.m.
SUPERBOWL PARTY - February 5 $50 VIP Area (limited tickets. Pre pay Only) RANDOM Prizes RANDOM drink specials • $2 Drafts 1/2 OFF Bounce pillow for kids Food Trucks
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Kid ZONE FAMILY Friendly Dog FRIENDLY Wonderful Food Truck Eats LIVE MUSIC Every FRIDAY & SATURDAY
JOIN US FOR VALENTINE’S DAY FESTIVITIES FEBRUARY 14
MY TRUE TIME By Marjorie Hagy
I
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I often think I was born at the wrong time. It’s not so much that I’m not one of the Greatest Generation, never having honed my character to a razor’s edge on the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl and World War II. I’m actually part of the Baby Boomer generation, but I’m definitely not one of the lucky ones who got to have so much fun, hanging around Haight-Ashbury and putting daisies in soldier’s guns and shrieking with delirious rapture and fainting dead away at a Fab Four concert.
since I was born a full month past her due date- but I was born in the wrong era. In thrall to history and ridiculously out-of-date as I undoubtedly am, I’m always thinking that I would’ve done much better in some earlier time when things were supposedly simpler, life was lived closer to the land and in tune with nature and the seasons and the rise and fall of the sun and all that stuff, and back when plump and voluptuous women were in style and one could go around looking like something out of a Rubens painting without feeling self-conscious in a bathing suit. Think of it! Nobody with their face stuck to an iPhone, no Facebook, no 24 hour news cycle! Rampant tuberculosis, no antibiotics, walking seventeen miles to school in waist-deep snow even in South Texas and opening your lunch pail to devour your lard sandwich at lunchtime! Yeah- this is where my fantasy starts to break down, and I realize that what I’d really like to do would be to walk around in the past and observe it, always with the option of scooting right back to the 21st century whenever I have to go to the bathroom in indoor splendor or take a quick nap under the air conditioning vent. I believe I’d like to live in my own hometown a long time ago, in a Boerne without a highway loop or a Buccee’s, with livery stables in place of quaintly twee little shoppes and HO Adler’s or Dienger’s store in lieu of Super Walmart, but even in these pleasant reveries I find myself popping back to the present for disposable toilet paper, a wardrobe devoid of petticoats and woolen dresses, where deodorant is readily available in any corner store and showering is a vastly underappreciated everyday luxury. Ok, so today folks, let’s both go back and take a look at a day in the life of some Boerne folks of the past, but without committing ourselves completely to the lifestyle. (Before we go, you might wanna just pop into your kitchen and grab some 21st century snacks to take along, just in case. I wasn’t kidding about that lard sandwich thing.) Back in the early days, back when the first settlers here had to carve their farms from the thick forest of cypress, cedar, live-oak and post-oak, elm and poplars that covered the Cibolo Valley, the first priority was to get a shelter up post-haste and to get a crop in the ground. The first homes were built of logs, readily available since the farm family did have to clear all those trees to create somewhere to plant their stuff, and all these builders, from many different places, all happened to build the same kind of little houses. Remember, all kinds of people came to settle in Boerne, mostly from three different groups- they were Germans either fresh from the old country or, more often migrating from San Antonio and other German settlements here in the Hill Country; there were what they called Anglos, who were Americans from other states in the US, mostly southern mountain states like Kentucky and Arkansas and thereabouts; and there were Hispanics, from Mexico or San Antonio or from elsewhere in Texas. All three of these different cultures built the same kind of pioneer house, whether just for the time being or with plans to live there for the long haul, and began the process of making a life in these hills.
See, I didn’t come along until the very last year of that post-war Baby Boom- some nineteen years after the war was over, my God! Think of that!- and the first time the Beatles ever entered my consciousness was this once when I was belting out Silly Love Songs in the car and my mom, presumably horrified by the awfulness of the whole thing (the song, certainly not my singing, since I was a talented and precocious songbird who early on discovered an uncanny knack at channeling Ethel Merman- who was still alive, by the way)...oh hell, where was I? What happened was that my mom was stunned that the same guy who gave the world Blackbird and Hey Jude could possibly be responsible for this other dreck, and she said so, and I snorted at this clueless demonstration of her glaring pop-culture ignorance and informed her that Moom, this isn’t the Beatles, this is Paul McCartney! Wings?? What a fossil! No, it could be probably be convincingly argued that the greatest contribution of my own little slice of the baby boom to the sum of world culture were Swatches, the brief but resplendent trend of sporting two polo shirts at the same time with the collars popped and the underused word “tubular”. And Milli Vanilli. No, what I mean is that I was born too late- and not only in the sense with which my mom would fervently agree,
maybe three hundred square feet. Maybe. The whole thing could easily fit into the kitchen of your typical new build in the Hill Country- and speaking of kitchens, where did they keep the kitchen in there? Well, I believe I mentioned the stone fireplace and chimney. There ya go. A few feet behind the house the old rock smokehouse still stands, representing the preferred method of cooking your meat back in the settler days. Fresh meat was actually believed to be unhealthy to eat; the homesteaders preferred their meat smoked or brine-cured, and that was actually a pretty good idea back in those days before refrigeration, especially since most of their diet tended to be pork, and pork doesn’t stay fresh for long. Chickens were too hard to keep safe from predators, since everything from grizzly bears to wolves to jaguars still roamed the forests all around, and in those days cattle were too valuable to eat, so Texans ended up eating so much pork that people started calling the state ‘The Republic of Porkdom’. Way back then, vegetables weren’t a big hit. This was in the 1850s, remember, before the causes and cures of a lot of different diseases were known, when typhoid fever and cholera and dysentery could carry off a whole family one after the other. Not to be indelicate here, but the pioneer’s cabins didn’t boast indoor plumbing you know- and a nice fresh carrot harvested from the rich earth kinda loses its appeal when you can’t help but flashback to all the times you’ve emptied the thunder jar right about that same spot. Plus, the value of food to people busting their humps trying to make a going concern out of a bunch of wilderness, was the energy it would confer. Food was fuel, and a head of lettuce wasn’t exactly a 5-Hour Energy- who needs it? The first settlers in the Cibolo Valley didn’t sow wheat, as a rule: corn was the crop to be gotten into the ground as quickly as possible. It was a reliable crop, and would become hominy and cornmeal and all kinds of things, and fattened the pigs up to boot, so a typical day’s fare for a family setting out to homestead in the Cibolo Valley might consist just about entirely of cornbread cooked in the fireplace, pork from the smokehouse, milk from the cow and coffee from August Staffel’s store in town, with maybe a little honey or molasses thrown in to add flavor to the meat. Course, I rattled off that part about making cornbread in the fireplace like it was the rough equivalent to zapping a Hot Pocket in the mike for a couple of minutes, but you oughta know better than that. The materials for making a fire in your fireplace- and later, when the family got a little beforehand and could afford to buy one and haul it via wagon out the homeplace, a stove- were ready to hand what with all those hardwoods being cut down to clear fields, but unfortunately, they didn’t arrive at your door in a neatly-stacked cord of stove lengths. And getting them into that condition mostly fell to the lot of the womenfolk and to kids as young as seven or eight- large enough, at any rate, to wield an axe and a couple of wedges for splitting the logs.
I’ve had the immense pleasure of seeing and walking around in one of these little homestead cabins- that kind of thing, you know, standing by these altars from the past, are the closest I ever come to time-travel. Roofless now, and with the floorboards rotting away, it’s still amazing to stand there in that tiny space and think about the family together there through the many years, cooking there, doing their living and dying there. People lived in this settlers cabin up until the 1950s! There’s so much fascinating reading out there about these pioneer houses and I could write a whole article about that, but don’t sidetrack me. I discovered, though, that the little house outside of Boerne that I’m talking about, is what they call a dogtrot house, one of the really typical pioneer dwellings in Texas: about sixteen feet long by about ten feet deep, this one consisted of two tiny rooms each with their own entrance, on either side of an open middle hallway, all of it roofed continuously- or it was before the roof rotted away. Later on, that open breezeway in the middle would be walled in to increase the tiny living space, but in the beginning its purpose was just what the name suggests: a way for the breeze to flow through and cool the place down in the merciless Texas heat.
Back in the Great Depression of the 1930s, Franklin Roosevelt in his infinite wisdom created a profusion of government programs designed to put all kinds of people in all kinds of professions back to work, and one of the results was the Federal Writer’s Project, through which thousands of out-of-work writers were dispersed all over the country to collect, among other things, oral histories from all kinds of Americans. What a great, what a priceless inspiration! One old lady interviewed for the project spoke to her archivist about a day in her life as a young pioneer wife: ‘Any bright morning in the latter part of May I am out of bed at four o'clock; next, after I have dressed and combed my hair, I start a fire in the kitchen stove,’ she recalled, and then proceeded to list working in the garden, milking the cows, sweeping the floor, straightening the house, separating the milk from the cream, churning a little butter, cooking breakfast, serving breakfast, packing her husband’s dinner pail (if he was working for the day in a distant part of their homestead), and getting the old man out the door. Good Lord, you think, what a morning! By now it’s surely almost time to start on lunch! She went on serenely: ‘By this time it is half-past five o'clock.’
One of the rooms on either side had a rock fireplace with a chimney built in, and the other room had a tiny sleeping loft, more like a shelf up near the ceiling, reached by a ladder-like set of stairs. One of the builders turning out new homes in Boerne today advertises ‘We take pride in building your quality custom Texas homes just like they used to be built’, but I’m a little skeptical that they build ‘em quite like this one; also called a saddlebag, or Cumberland house, my own pet pioneer cabin measures
In the morning. About that coffee I mentioned: the first settlers bought the coffee beans from Staffel’s store, along with sugar (if they bought it), salt, and a couple of other things they weren’t able to produce on the farm. But coffee takes two ingredients, and the water to whip up a cup of joe wasn’t readily available from the kitchen sink. There was no kitchen, no sink, and no running water, unless you
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mean the water running in a nearby creek, which had to be hauled to the house by hand- well, by pail. Pioneer families, after getting their house built and seeing their first crops into the ground, one of the next priorities was digging a well and raising a windmill to bring the water out of the ground. Just a few years after the first people came to Boerne, windmills became a distinguishing sight in the village. ‘From a distance it looked almost like a toy village, with its red roofs, blue barns and flashing windmills nestled against the background of misty hills,’ ran a passage in one book about Boerne. ‘Low mountain peaks rose here and there on the far horizon beyond.’ By the way, in case you think all this business is fine for the farmers but you’d’ve just as soon have lived in town, I’ve got some bad news for you. Town was farms, too, many of the original lots fronting on Main Street- or the Camino Viejo, as it was back then, the military road- and running down to the Cibolo (or Frederick) Creek behind, plenty of prime farmland. And what else are you going to do for dough when you first pull into a brand-new town, hang out your shingle and sit around waiting for your first customer? Days were just as tough in the village, the houses the same tiny dogtrot log cabins, the stovewood still needed felling and chopping and splitting, the fire still to be made, the kids still wanted feeding. This pioneering business wasn’t for just any old namby-pamby. Clothing the family was one of a pioneer woman’s many, many, ridiculously many jobs, but most of the ladies coming to Boerne were at least spared the necessity of having to weave their own cloth as well as all the other stuff. By the time people got to these parts, ready-made calico, cotton and wool cloth was available, but it did fall to the wives and mothers to turn the raw material into something to keep them all from going around naked. Pioneer life was tough on clothes though, so wool was used a lot more often than anyone who’s ever lived through a summer day in Texas would ever imagine. And you fellas in the reading audience, here’s something for y’all to think about those times when you’ve lost your gratitude attitude and get to thinking your life sucks: Underwear wasn’t widely used, and shirttails were kept long to try and wrap things up a little in those woolen pants. Which the menfolk wore while they worked out in the sun and the heat and the rain. And nobody’d ever heard of air conditioning, and baths happened once a week. Remember this: There’s always, always something to be grateful for. Most families around here managed maybe two sets of clothing a person- one set to be donned on wash day and worn until the next washday, the following week. And that brings us to another reason clothing back in the day tended not to last as long as your standard pair of
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Sears Toughskins: the laundry process was just about as rough on your duds as it was on the poor woman doing the laundry. First of all, allergen-free Tide was not yet available in pods a hundred and sixty-some years ago, and there were no such things yet as Downy, Dreft, dryer sheets, dryers, or washing machines. Pioneers were, however, big proponents of recycling, and all those ashes they (the women, naturally) scraped out of the stove or fireplace didn’t go to waste. Instead, when mixed up in a big washtub with some animal fat, a pinch of salt and some rain or river water and put in a mold to set, it becomes a fine- well, a passable, soap. Think of that. A lot of times folks’d do the wash down by the creek, their water source, but a lot of times too they’d do it in the kitchen or beside the well or wherever it was most handy, bearing in mind of course that ‘handy’ is a strictly relative term. The whole process started off with boiling an enormous kettle of water, into which you shaved off some of that delicately scented pork lard soap, and then deposited the first load of clothes, your whites and delicates, if people who don’t wear undies can be said to have delicates. (Next load would be your colored things and then your heavy work clothes, including those woolen trousers the men wore for a whole week sans chonies and which would often, on the fourth or fifth day, take to walking around on their own at night after the owner went to bed.) You’d boil the clothes in the water for a while, stirring them around with a huge wooden paddle, and then they went on to the washboard cycle. As a single mother of five kids, I used to despair at the amount of laundry my family produced and the way it had of multiplying all the time like those little hamster things on Star Trek, but I never knew laundry trouble like scrubbing boiling hot clothes barehanded on a metal washboard in lye soap, I can tell you that. You repeated this process til all your clothes were washed, and then it was time to boil a whole new pot of water for rinsing, and if you were lucky, you had a crank wringer to squeeze the water out, and then you’d hang the whole mess up on the clothesline or on nearby bushes and trees, or all of the above. Then you’re done! Psyche! No, remember the old saying about what fun housewives could look forward to all week, it goes like this: Wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Mend on Wednesday, Churn on Thursday, Clean on Friday, Bake on Saturday, Rest on Sunday. And you’ve gotta keep in mind, too, that you couldn’t use an electric iron because they hadn’t invented electricity yet, so your iron was two hundred pounds of pig iron that had to be heated over the fire to a lethal temperature. And that fun little ditty about all the back-breaking work didn’t even mention what
happened if you were blessed with a large family and Step 1 took two or three days in the doing. Family bathtime was a lot like family laundry time, occurring once weekly and involving the same washtub and boiling water, and that selfsame lye soap, but for some reason the order of the process was reversed and the (presumably) dirtiest load- Dad- went in first, while any little delicates like babies and stuff went in the last thing of all. Some people claim this is the origin of the saying ‘throwing the baby out with the bathwater’, since by the time the whole fam has bathed in it, the water would be too murky to see the baby in there, so the harried mother would sometimes just pitch all the contents of the tub out the back door and the hapless baby would go sailing in an arc along with it like the poor thing had been shot from a cannon. But I’m very leery of this claim. In fact, I call hogwash. Sure, the water was probably disgusting, but would even the most overwhelmed of mothers rely on line of sight to remind her of her baby’s existence? I mean, wouldn’t she remember that she’d left a baby in there?? This is the kind of stuff that occurs to me at 2 am when I’m trying to go to sleep. As a family got more established on their farm, they would start to acquire more livestock, like horses and oxen and donkeys and sheep and things, and they’d fence in their barnyard and get ahold of some chickens too, for meat and for eggs, and of course all these things meant more chores and more responsibilities. There was butter to churn and beer to brew, and in addition to keeping their families clothed there were so many other things to sew, sheets and towels and curtains and blankets and quilts and rugs; eventually there would be kitchen gardens to tend and veggies to harvest, corn to shuck and grind and food to cook, fruits to harvest and things to can for the winter, herbs to gather in the woods as well, for the home remedies they needed to treat coughs and cuts and fever and colds and all the things that could go wrong in a brand-new life in a brand-new town. Sometimes I do daydream about escaping, getting away to a time when things were simpler and life was easier, when people were less stressed and had more time to just sit and talk. But Boerne way back in the day...it doesn’t sound like a whole lotta that was going on back then. In fact, now that I think of it, it kinda sounds like a season in hell. Right?? I mean, soap made out of ashes and lard and Bath & Body Works still a hundred and fifty years in the future? Taking a bath in a communal pot after my dad’s been splashing around in there?? Yeah- no thanks. Next time I wanna get back to a simpler and more peaceful time I’ll do what’s always worked for me and just lock myself in the bathroom with a good book.
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My name is Robbie Parr and I’m proud to represent Subaru at Dominion. I am a native of Boerne and have spent my entire life building relationships in this area. I’ve always said that material things like cars are “just things” and I haven’t changed my tune. While it is just a thing, your vehicle is one thing that routinely carries what is most precious to you and can never be replaced. Maybe I don’t love cars but I love knowing my whole family will be safe on the road. This is a picture of my wife’s Subaru Forester. It carried my son home from the hospital and someday, his mother and I will hand him the keys. Come and see me, I’d love to help you find the right one for your family.
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RUSSIAN SEASONS The first Russian revolution in the world of dance took place in 1910, when Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes (widely regarded as the most influential ballet company of the 20th century) performed “Petrushka” and “Firebird” in Paris, introducing European audiences to tales, music and design motifs drawn from Russian folklore. The second revolution occurred in 1991, when one of the leading folk dancers in Moscow, Nikolai Androsov, together with a group of other dancers formed a whole new set of innovative and imaginative productions. The newly formed company, Russian Seasons Dance Company, premiered at the Tchaikovsky Hall in Moscow, Russia! And now the first Russian revolution in Boerne will take place when the Russians Seasons Dance Company traverses their way into the Texas hill country to present the program that made them famous around the world. 25 years after their inception, this breathtaking display of beautiful music and brilliant choreography will make Monday, February 27, an evening of exceptional dance to be remembered! Their sell-out tours have taken them to numerous countries in Europe, the Far East, South America, and now a return to the United States. The program, entitled “A Celebration of World Dance”, features the company as they take the audience on a journey through the folk dances of many nations. The evening will amass a variety of dance styles as it explores the passionate Flamenco of Spain, the articulate Tangos of Argentina, the fancy footwork of Irish dances, the wild energy of Eastern Europe’s Gypsy music, the athletic Hopak of the Ukraine, and the spectacular choreography of Broadway. With each change in dance style, the numerous colorful costumes likewise will transport you to each of these regions. Reviews from around the world include, “The Dancers were incredibly well trained, disciplined, graceful, artistic and most handsomely attractive. The choreography was some of the finest we have ever seen!” – Australia Dance Magazine. “Joyful, colorful, dynamic and interesting, the dancers provide a dazzling spectacle enhanced by stunning costumes, a fine musical score and brilliant choreography.” – Hong Kong Standard. “Russian Seasons Dance Company was simply brilliant!” – Santiago de Chile. Nikolai Androsov, Artistic Director and Choreographer of Russian Seasons Dance Company, graduated from the central academic school of folk dance. His mentor, Igor Moiseyev, was deemed the most distinguished 20th–century folkloric choreographer of character dance, a dance style similar to folk dance but with more professionalism and theatrics. Dance the night away with this non-stop flight through several nations and cultures. From the elegant staging to its crowd-pleasing excellence, Boerne Performing Arts introduces yet another genre of professional performing arts to the community. Only those in attendance will find out whether the Texas two-step meets the criteria of World Dance!
Tickets, priced at $60, $40, $30, and $20 for students, are available online at www.BoernePerformingArts.com. Additionally, they may be purchased at the Greater Boerne Chamber of Commerce (121 S. Main Street), or by phone at 830.331.9079. The dance extravaganza begins at 7:30pm on Monday, February 27, at Boerne Champion Auditorium.
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The Boerne Performing Arts FOR KIDS program will present a special one-hour school show by this Russian company to every fourth grade student in Boerne, Bandera, and Comfort. Additionally, Mr. Androsov will teach a master class for the Champion High School Dance students. These programs are offered at no cost to the students, thanks to the generous patrons of Boerne Performing Arts.
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SAVE ME FROM ME By Kendall D. Aaron
I
I’m angry. And I want justice.
Pretty simple emotions, huh? I’m fairly certain that every last one of us has walked away from a situation simply seething with a clenched-jaw as we prayed for some form of justice, even if we weren’t there to witness our justice being realized. We wanted our boss to get fired. We wanted that other parent to learn that their kid was a jackwagon bully and we wanted them to PAY for their sins. We wanted that politician exposed as a liar. We wanted that arrogant neighbor to be taught a little bit about justice and what we perceive as RIGHT. We want….a conclusion. We want to be proven CORRECT. I’m no different. I’ve been really upset lately about injustice, and dammit, I’m tired of wrestling with it. I have all of these fragmented parts of my life that don’t resolve…they don’t conclude in a way that brings me a clean conclusion to them, and so they leave me glaring at a person from across the room. They are bad break-ups that don’t provide me the clean resolution that I think my heart requires, and so, in my typical sinful way, I’m left grinding my teeth and staying up late at night thinking about these injustices. And frankly, I’m just tired of it. I have come to learn that few things will keep you from growing spiritually as will unresolved anger and/or conflict. It’s a cancer that grabs hold of your heart and grows, all the while hardening your heart in a myriad of ways, and leaving you tired and angry over things that you can’t fix nor control. The anger becomes a religion of
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sorts for you (and me) that provides you some weird sort of comfort as you claim that you are moving forward and working through these very issues. You ultimately lie to yourself and others, and claim forgiveness and conclusion, but in your heart…down deep…where only God exists… and where your deepest realities have a home…you must confess that you have an angry, turbulent heart. You also will learn that when you let anger grab hold and grow in your heart, it spreads. It spreads into all parts of your life, and it also spreads so that you become angry at those you shouldn’t even be angry at. As in, all of a sudden your friends are in the line of fire. Your parents. Your coworkers. Your children. That little seed of anger at someone spreads and blacks over your heart and the next thing you know, you are dressing down your kids for being kids. Just because they frustrated you, they are open game.
James 1:20 tells us, “…human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” No, it most certainly does not. We sin and then sin some more. We hang onto that sin for decades, or for entire lifetimes, and we go down screaming about injustice. But what do we earn? Does our hurt and our anger actually bring us that justice that we so desperately want and desire? Nah, it just brings us wasted energy and lost opportunities. Here’s where I lay it on thick and you can roll your eyes because you know that I’m not practicing what I’m preaching and you’d be right: We simply have to forgive. That’s it. God has called us to let it go, to give it to Him, and to take a deep breath and just let it be carried away in the wind.
And then you stop one day. One day you simply see the forest for the trees, and recognize that your anger has become your religion…and then, perhaps…you hit your knees.
Oh man, that sounds SIMPLE. A nice, simple conclusion to the entire issue, huh? Yeah, maybe. If only our hearts were nice, simple things. But they’re not. They’re complex, and difficult, and stubborn. Mine is as well.
I’m mad at my ex-wife for hurting me when she didn’t need to. I’m mad at my buddy that quit calling me. I’m mad at a dear friend that said some hurtful things about me. I’m mad at a policeman that gave me a ticket last week. I’m mad at a doctor. A doctor that didn’t save my brother from cancer. I’m mad that the world kept turning after he died. I’m mad at God for letting it happen. I’m mad. And, most importantly, I’m REALLY tired of being mad.
And so here I sit on a Tuesday night trying to figure out how to let go…and forgive. I’m not any closer than I was an hour ago, but I do recognize that the issue is mine to own. The anger that I harbor isn’t someone else’s to “fix” or to confess…it’s mine to release. And I simply have to.
So what do we do? How do we drop this baggage and find some peace when we honestly, truly, really are quite comfortable being mad at those that have wronged us? When wrongs are committed, it’s quite natural for us to feel a desire for revenge, and when we can’t have that, we simply cling to hurt and anger. So how do we let go of it. Hell if I know. (Yeah, I know this is a “spiritual” article, but never forget that I’m an actual person that is just as quick to sin as you are.)
And so do you. Let me know when you figure it out, friends. I would love to hear from you, and would love to hear the outcomes of your grace and forgiveness. In the meantime, I’ll just keep on doing the best I can and writing about my struggles in the hopes that some honesty from me might bring about some change in YOU. And then hopefully I’ll join you.
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S
OLD TIMER
Sometimes I just drive around town and mutter questions at myself. Why are they doing that? Who the hell thought up this brilliant idea? Have we fully become Stone Oak yet? Regardless, I just make observations and either chuckle to myself at the craziness of it all, or shake my head in frustration. Sometimes I even applaud things, such as the new Veterans Park, but those things are rare for this administration. Anyway, what follows are the past few weeks’ observations about the this-and-that going on around town.
Have you see our mother?
What the hell is going on with the new Bush’s Chicken out on 46E?
I’ve got my eye on ‘em. Construction seemed to be rumbling along, but now it has slowed to a halt. I had a dream the other night that they covered the whole building upon completion and the owner had a big ceremony and yanked off the tarp…the whole town gasped as we looked at our new Hooters. It was all a decoy. The exit at 46/I-10... umm... what the hell?
Construction began to fix this exit that backs up pretty bad at times. Then TxDot got pissed at the contractors for going too slow and fired ‘em. Then they kinda moseyed around until they found a new contractor and I suppose work is slated to re-start soon. The problem? While they were digging around for a new contractor, TxDot unveiled all new bridge plans that will now require it all to be torn up and rebuilt…again. Shovel-ready jobs, baby.
Walgreens put the hammer down on the old Valero at Bandera/Main.
They knocked that sucker over and are just turning it into a parking lot. Sigh. Such a missed opportunity. A true “gateway” intersection in our town and instead of having something inviting and interesting…we get a parking lot. I know that Walgreens owned it and can do what they want….but jeez….if only P/Z could have addressed this a long time ago, we might not be constantly under the thumb of developers.
42 | EXPLORE
Why in the world do we not have a Boerne Museum?
$chultz’s dream office vs. Schoolchildren safety?
Speaking of history, if you’re not reading Marjorie Hagy’s HISTORY articles in this very publication, you’re missing out.
That’s it for this month.
Boerne has some amazing history. The stories behind this area are truly fascinating, yet we have failed to devote any importance behind celebrating this history in a town that truly thrives on tourism? What gives? There’s a nice giant lot right on River Rd right now that would be PERFECT for a museum. Pet a duck, and then go inside and learn something new.
Toll roads on I-10? Surely ye jest?
Unfortunately I’m not. Yes, our city government leaders are actively campaigning to have toll roads added to I-10. Upon hearing this, I had to laugh when I realized that it means that upon completion of the massive logjam that their construction has caused, they would then tear it up so they could add toll roads. Fellow Old Timers might remember: there was continuous construction on I-10 just south of 1604 to 410 for the past 30 years. I’m afraid they have simply moved up the road a bit and we’re now entering a GENERATION of construction.
Apparently we have the money to build the new City Hall. Well, not really, as we’re happily going to go into multimillion dollar debt over it, but it’s important so we’re going to do it. What about sidewalks for schoolchildren to walk to school on School Street? Oh, that requires a new bond to fund that type of project and requires a tax increase. Are we clear yet where the priorities are?
If you’ve got something to talk about, send me a note: quitbotheringme@hillcountryexplore.com
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