Road Trip!

 

A few weeks ago, we drove 750 miles up to Washington, DC for an appointment, and of course, 750 back. Kind of a last-minute thing so we took the car instead of flying. My aversion to flying is exceeded only by my dislike of driving, which, other than when we have a house fire or a bomb threat, is trumped by my strong reluctance to leaving the house at all.

But I wanted to support my wife in her decision to go and knew that ultimately it was not an actual choice one way or the other anyway. If I ever expected to have a harmonious home life again, I had to be like one of our dogs and get in the damn car when told to do so.

They’re a lot happier about it than I am.

Her car is a tiny Honda Fit, like a skateboard with doors and a roof. Siting about ankle level, I could examine the wheels of every other vehicle as we passed, able to judge tire wear and wobble.

On the road, Carla is very stable and predictable, she always drives 25 over any posted speed limit. Then we drift, lane to lane, as she throws her head backward to eat from a large bag of cashews while turned sideways to reach into the back seat, shuffling through junk with her right hand, trying to grab something she doesn’t need right now, if ever.

I soon found that staying braced for a crash, hours at a time, is exhausting.

And the roadkill along the way is depressing. Just on the way up, I counted 6 dead deer, 3 dogs, 1 red fox, and five unidentifiable masses of rotted meat, hair and bone. I wondered if at one time one of those piles may have been passengers in a car going too fast while the driver was digging around in the back seat for a bag of black licorice, somewhere back there. Those piles of death could have been the Shoney’s Big Boy, or anything else that once had life. Maybe even Jimmy Hoffa, a few were about the right size.

I railed on about how insensitive and nasty it was for each state to fail to remove the bodies. “Probably not enough road crew people due to Covid.” Carla pointed out. She’s probably right, but I wanted to be irate and vow that things would be different if I were in charge.

Same thing on the drive back. Lots of roadkill.

Then we got behind this guy who apparently decided to be a responsible citizen and clean up at least one of the bodies by himself. Piled unceremoniously in the flatbed, right next to the grill.

Road-kill venison! Yum! A South Carolina specialty, served at Stuckey’s for many years as “Quirky Jerky”.

With that in mind, I insisted we stop somewhere for a pecan log, and decompress.

Next time. we fly.

 

Railroad Man...

 

The subject of rail travel in the USA came up, prompting me to remember this dust magnet that sleeps on a shelf in our living room, my mother’s handwritten notes still inside.

It speaks of railroads in a different country, more than 100 years ago.

Gold on silver, this calling card case was a gift to my grandmother, Ruth Maverick, when she was a little girl, sitting in the lap of the president of Mexico, Porfirio Diaz (1877-1911).  

Her dad, my Great Grandfather, Oliver Newell, owned and developed railroads in Texas, and became friends with Diaz when helping him to greatly expand Mexico’s railway system. Mexico had 416 miles of track in 1876, a total of 15,360 miles of track by 1910.  Goods, services, people, and business flowed freely for the first time, helping to bring Mexico into the twentieth century.

I remember Grandma telling me of the railroad car her dad, Oliver Newell, owned, sometimes riding in it overnight on junkets into Mexico.

She and Grandpa Maverick both grew up in San Antonio, with close ties to Mexico and the beautiful culture there.

Bathing me when I was very little, I remember her singing softly to me of cockroaches and marijuana. 

Even at that young age, I thought it to be curious subject material.

Spanish:

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,

ya no puede caminar

porque no tiene, porque le falta

marihuana que fumar.

Ya murió la cucaracha

ya la llevan a enterrar

entre cuatro zopilotes

y un ratón de sacristán.

English:

The cockroach, the cockroach,

can't walk anymore

because it doesn't have, because it's lacking

marijuana to smoke.

The cockroach just died

they are taking it to be buried,

among four buzzards

and a sacristan mouse.

 

Each Our Own Captain...

Watching a charter fishing boat head out to sea this morning prompted me to remember a visit from Hannah a few years back. She had been living on Fiji with a native family. The man of the house had lost his life so they all had to struggle for the small amount of protein they were able to add to their diet. Mostly trash fish.

All of her travels had been impactful but this one a bit closer to the bone as she experienced hunger and poverty up close, while surrounded by incredible beauty.. Anyway, she was headed back to the States, a rest stop on her path to somewhere else, and we were eager for the visit.

Always the fearless adventurer, on her own since she was 15, I greatly admired her indomitable spirit and zest for the winds of life, eager for them to blow strong, daring them to knock her down.

She and I decided to go out on a group charter, you know, spend some time together, catching fish and too much sun. She landed a nasty Barracuda. No surprise there. Holding it up, it was unclear which of the two was the most dangerous and likely to draw blood.

Late in the day, sunburned and relaxing topside, I wondered where Hannah was when she didn’t return from a run to the lady’s room. I looked all over the boat, top deck, main galley, along the rails, everywhere. No Hannah. With all kinds of crazy scenarios running through my head, I did my best to remain calm, looking for a logical outcome as I headed up to the Captain’s Wheelhouse. About to knock on his door, I paused, peering through the salt crusted window of his door. Hannah was at the wheel, standing tall, steering us back home with the captain standing alongside of her, telling her what and how.

Apparently on her return from the head, she had seen the captain doing his thing, knocked and said “Let me steer!” Incredulous at being faced with this mermaid who had come on board and was standing there giving him orders, he wasn't eager to turn away a pretty girl with such charming chutzpah. He broke the rules and allowed her in, showing her how to bring the boat into port.

Although she was grateful for his willingness to give her the opportunity, I believe she mostly wanted him to sit down and be quiet. She would have been happier to try to do it on her own.

That’s was her way at age four and it is unchanged to this day.

Gods and Politicians…

 

 

In the early 1970’s, I was in the Air Force, working in a Defense Intelligence agency computer room run by civilians and staffed by a mix of Civil Service, Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. Assigned to the Pentagon, we kept an eye on Red Chinese missile sites and Jane Fonda.

The day shift guys were old lifers, both military and civilian, with blood alcohol levels that could get them arrested for walking, much less driving. Human pickles. The top guy at DIA and his equal over at NSA, grabbed the head civilian boss and all three drank their lunch at the officer’s club every day. Properly lubricated, they often went golfing afterward, pumped up for chicken fights with golf carts, kegs in the back. Moe, Larry, and Curly, leading by example.

The graveyard shift was mostly young guys like me, stoners, ingesting easy- bake cookies packed with good Jamaican bud in the wee hours. We emptied the only candy machine available in our secure area every night.

Two different approaches to boredom.

Vietnam was winding down, but given the fact that you never cut staff if you can avoid it, every few months when top brass came in to evaluate efficiency, my friends and I were sent home to make it less obvious that we weren't needed at all. It was the least demanding, most unnecessary job I ever had, steeped in cronyism, inefficiency, waste, fraud, and outright theft, all hidden by our high security clearances that made us somewhat bulletproof. The place was fueled by an astounding and pervasive apathy that spread like a virus from the top down.

When my time was up in 1975, I was offered a Civil Service position, a promotion, more money, and a dream job to many with few demands other than to show up. All I had to do was come back in the next day as a civilian and do the same thing I had been doing for several years...which was basically nothing.

I had to pass.

That experience colored my perception of all thing’s government run from then on. Democratic or Republican, doesn’t matter. Human nature is the same. It’s no surprise that our elected officials in DC have the best health care, pay, vacation and retirement packages, while we average citizens do not. No surprise that they threw out the rules blocking their ability to take bribes from businesses and stuff their pockets with cash.

Thieves, swindlers, and the morally bankrupt thrive in such a broken system. We elect con men to guard and promote our interests and are then surprised when they do the opposite.

It turns out that with gods and politicians, we get what we deserve.

 

Mr. Brooks

 

The first time I met Mitchel Brooks, he was standing in front of a pile of freshly split wood...used to fire a black monster of a BBQ smoker behind him.

I had heard whispers around town of his brisket…”unearthly, a gift of god!”.

All Texas, all the time.

Being a Maverick with deep Texas roots, and a foodie with an even deeper attraction to all things that involve meat and fire, I tracked him down at his house out on Rt 13 by the St Johns River.

It was a part time thing for him. For a foodie like me, something worth seeking out.

We had spoken on the phone, so he expected me.

“Maverick?”

“Yup, Hey Michael!”

As I approached him, he pointed at a tattoo I have on my right forearm of Texas Blue Bonnets. The only person to have ever recognized them or mentioned them at all. At Michael’s feet in front of his BBQ table? Texas Blue Bonnets, growing right there on his front lawn.

He had brought a little bit of Texas with him.

That was a double sign from the ghost of Bob Wills that I was in the right place.

Mike is a square shouldered guy, a throwback to old John Wayne movies. Looks like a bronc rider. He’s the refreshing kind of man who stands up for things that are solid and real. A Marlboro man without the cigarettes. Unlike myself, no bullshit.

We’re talking about a guy who uses a picture of Ernest Tubb for his profile picture. How many people under the age of 70 even know who that was?

Mike’s probably in his late 30’s, an old soul.

Anyway, tonight, some ten years after our first encounter in his front yard, we were in his back yard. Mike threw a party. Something to thank his BBQ loving fans for their support over the years…only a few close friends, maybe 70 or so…

Live music, full bar, the best BBQ on the planet, Lonesome Dove on the VCR, a firepit, multiple cases of Lone Star beer, an empty chicken coop, door open, chickens in the crowd, pecking up spills and offerings. The family dog going donor to donor, somewhat dazed, stumbling with a belly way too full of the best AYCE BBQ he’s ever had.

Me too.

Thanks Mike. You make Texas proud, hell, you make us all proud.