You Always Need Another Book

Oh look! A bookstore! (and a short story)

Photo by the author

Last week, my friend Cathy and I drove up to Denison, Texas intent on finding a new bookstore I’d seen on TikTok. Despite the downtown construction that blocked a large portion of Main Street, we had no trouble locating our destination – Sundrop Books.

Sundrop Books – photo by the author

Inside we each found an armful of novels we couldn’t live without. The store sells both used and new books, plus there is a table filled with one of my personal favorites – the brown paper wrapped “blind date with a book.”

Interior of Sundrop Books – photo by the author

As we were leaving, the owner told us about another bookstore just down the street. A bonus store!

Pen and Page Weathered Books – photo by the author

Inside we each found more books that had to come home with us. Pen and Page stocks both nearly new and used books, plus original artwork by the owner.

Interior of Pen and Page Weathered Books – photo by the author

It was great to find not one, but two bookstores to add to my list of nearby places to visit. The City of Denison is remodeling the park in the middle of downtown, and when that is finished I will certainly need to visit again!

If you’ve made it this far in the post I hope you’ll stick around a bit longer and read the short story below. This one is posted in all its unedited, ugly glory, having been cobbled together over 48 hours for the second round in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest this year. I was not surprised to find out I hadn’t made it to the final round. Writing this one was actually painful. My assigned genre was suspense, and the required setting was a martial arts studio. The final indignity came with the last prompt. Somehow, I had to include CAT FOOD in the story.

Gentlefolk, I present to you:

The Shadow Way

With each step, Mia Dalton tightened her grip on her umbrella, weighing the possibility of using it as a weapon. Had the strange man following her been on the bus? Impossible to tell in the dark and the rain. She hated winter, when night fell by five o’clock. It meant trudging the three blocks from the bus stop to her apartment while imagining danger behind every doorway. Despite what her therapist said, it wasn’t that unreal a fear. Mia had the scars to prove it.

The rain fell harder. As she quickened her steps, the stranger did the same. Was she leading him to her home? Then, twenty feet in front of her, a black cat appeared on the sidewalk. It pivoted to face her, yellow eyes reflecting the streetlights, then scampered across the street.

Mia groaned. A black cat crossing your path was the worst of luck, but maybe this time it was a warning. The animal sat under the awning of the convenience store on the other side, as though waiting for her. Weighing her decision, Mia changed direction, jogging toward the lighted store. If the man did the same, she could duck into the shop.

Once she made it to the storefront, Mia steeled herself and turned to look back. The stranger faced her. He waited outside the circle of light from the streetlamp, his features in shadow. Was this the man from the robbery? It had been almost a year. If he meant to track down the only witness to the murder, he would have done it sooner.

“Go away,” Mia whispered. As though he heard her, the man strode off, vanishing out of sight at the next corner. Beside her, the black cat rose and sauntered away. On impulse, Mia followed. She would circle back to her apartment complex after she was certain the man was gone.

They traveled toward the bus stop, and then turned down a side street lined with quaint, older houses. The rain stopped, and drawn by the warm light spilling from the homes, Mia tagged after the cat until it ran up onto the porch of a pale blue, two-story, Victorian-style house. She paused on the steps. Stained glass windows framed the doorway, and a sign over the entrance read “The Shadow Way: Aikido.”

The door opened, and a woman with hair the color of iron filings greeted Mia. “Hello.”

“I’m sorry.” Mia retreated. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Is this your cat?” She pointed to where the cat had curled up on a corner of the porch.

The woman smiled. “He’s a stray, but we welcome all kinds here.” She held the door wider and motioned to Mia. “I’m Yuna. Please come in.”

“I’m Mia.” Noticing her host’s bare feet, Mia slipped off her shoes and socks and stashed them in a cubby in the entry. Inside, candles in glass jars lit every corner. A royal-blue mat covered the floor. Yuna wore a white wrap-around jacket and loose wide-legged black cotton pants.

“We don’t practice with the katana.” Yuna pointed overhead, to a polished sword hanging on the wall. “Instead, we use the wooden practice weapons. But they are just as useful when learning.” She took Mia’s arm and led her to a rack of wooden rods.

“I didn’t come for lessons. I should leave.”

Yuna tilted her head, studying Mia. “Chance brought you to me, a teacher without a student.” She handed Mia a short wooden stick from the rack.

“I’m not a fighter.” Mia hefted the rod. The weight of it felt good in her hand.

“Aikido is not about fighting, but about overcoming your fears and confronting your shadows.”

Mia nodded, thinking of the night of the robbery. She had stopped at the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine. While waiting behind one other customer, a masked man had entered. Shouts, cries, and gunfire had blended into an awful cacophony. The robber shot the cashier, the other customer, and Mia. Pain had flared in her shoulder, where the bullet had entered. She had fallen forward, as though to embrace her attacker. Her hand, scrambling for hold, had yanked away his mask. For an awful moment, he had stared into her eyes. Certain she would die, Mia had closed her eyes, but the man had left her there, with only the dead for company.

Now, Mia handed Yuna back the practice rod. “Okay. I’ll learn.”

“Good. Come back tomorrow night.”

Over the next three months, Mia visited the dojo every night. She brought expensive gourmet food for the cat until he trusted her enough to roll over at her feet. She named him Chance, and with Yuna’s blessing took him home with her.

The lessons progressed. Mia practiced with the short staff, the jo, and then with the longer bokken. The movements soothed her. Inside the dojo, she could leave her fear behind. Winter thawed, and the days grew longer until the evening of the first day of spring, when Mia saw the masked man again.

He followed her from the bus. This time, she spotted him right away, remembering the angle of his jaw and his gray eyes. At first, she thought to lead him to The Shadow Way, and Yuna’s help. That felt wrong, to bring violence to a place that had brought her peace. Instead, she marched down the sidewalk, one hand inside the tote at her side.

The streetlights flickered on when he grabbed her arm. She spun, clubbing him with the jo she had hidden in the tote. With a practiced move, she swept his feet. He fell.

The clerk at the convenience store across the street raced over. “I called 911,” he said.

Later, after she gave her statement at the police station, Mia decided to stop by the dojo and tell Yuna what had happened. But when she walked down the street, she couldn’t find the blue house. Like her fear, it was gone.

THE END

A Fellowship of Books

This week I continue with my list of Texas independent bookstores and a story at the end.

Wild Detectives Bookstore in Oak Cliff, Texas

Last Friday my friend Cathy and I continued our tour of local bookstores. In Texas, “local” can mean anything within a three hour drive, but that day we only had to venture to Oak Cliff, about a thirty minute drive from home. This neighborhood, the Bishop Arts District, is filled with quirky boutiques, cozy restaurants, coffee shops, and of course – bookstores.

Poets Bookshop in the Bishop Arts District

Lucky for us the streets were mostly shaded, proving relief from the hot Texas sunshine. We trekked from Wild Detectives to Poets Bookshop and then on to Blush. This last store features romance titles and my companions wondered if I, a horror writer and reader, would find anything to tempt me. I did see some witchy stories, but they were all books I already owned.

Blush Bookstore, Bishop Arts District

After lunch we abandoned the sidewalks for Cathy’s Subaru, and drove to our last two destinations. We stopped first at Whose Books, where I made up for the lack of romance titles by discovering three new horror books.

Whose Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

Our last stop was at Lucky Dog Books, a used bookstore. We all left there with our arms filled with new to us titles.

Lucky Dog Books in Oak Cliff, Texas

There is no more perfect way to spend the day than in the fellowship of other book lovers.

Interior of Lucky Dog Books

This week I’m sharing a flash fiction piece I wrote for one of the NYC Midnight Contests. I think the genre might have been historical fiction and the object that had to be included was a rocking chair.

Love Makes Lighter Burdens

Mattie Ferguson would forever mourn the things she had left behind. No porcelain plates, no beads nor bells—she traded these for coffee and bacon, for shovel and scythe.

“Oregon! A new start, Mattie.” Her husband, Jonas, swept her up in sturdy arms and swung her round. Dizzy, her old life spun past.

Released, she sat in her beloved rocking chair and gripped the smooth oak. Built by her father, she imagined his worn hands as he sanded the wood, pictured her mother seated by a fire as the rocker soothed a fretful baby.

“We’ll find room,” Jonas promised.

They toted the rocker through flood-swollen rivers, and grave-marked desert. They trod beside their struggling oxen, past piles of treasures, discarded in hopes of a load lightened enough to last the journey.

In Idaho, they lost an ox. With meager possessions carved down to essentials, Jonas could not meet her gaze.

“No!” Mattie spread her fingers across her rounded belly. “I’ll carry it.”

Jonas smiled and lifted the chair. He’d bear it for her—a burden made light by love. The last mile slipped past. The trek became a story for their children and their children’s children.

A century later, a young couple pushed through a beaded curtain to wander a dusty shop. Janis Joplin wailed from the radio as smoky incense wafted through the air. The woman stopped beside an antique rocker.

“We need this,” she told her lover. “It’s boss.” 

“It won’t fit in our car.”

She pouted.

“Okay, our pad’s close. I’ll carry it.” He lifted the chair, surprised at how light the load was.

The End – Thank you for reading!

A Bookstore Tour and a Story

At the Fabled Bookshop in Waco, Texas

Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.

We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.

https://fabledbookshop.com/

Inside Fabled Bookshop

We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.

Birdhouse Books, Austin

There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.

https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/

Birdhouse Books – the welcome bear

The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.

Inside Black’s BBQ, Lockhart

While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.

https://www.colossusbooks.com/

The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.

We heeded the warning and did not exit through this door.

Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)

https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks

The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.

Don’t be scared, he doesn’t bite. Much.
Did they mean to spell out “Hello?” Maybe they ran out of balloons. Don’t be suspicious.
I picked up some books while waiting for the movie to start.

Yes, even the horror store has a children’s section. Gotta start them young.

If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.

I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.

A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin

The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.

“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.

“Yep. Enjoy the party.”

“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.

My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”

“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”

“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”

“I’ll dust off my black suit.”

“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”

“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”

“Hollister requested you.”

Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.

As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.

I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”

“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”

I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.

Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.

Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.

“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.

“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.

“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”

“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”

I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.

Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.

“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.

“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.

Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.

In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.

“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.

“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.

“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”

Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.

A Fortress of Books

Searching for safe places

Shelves at Recycled Books Denton – photo by the author

If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my childhood self that one day I would have enough disposable income to purchase any book I desired. When I was in elementary school, I loved thumbing through the book fair flyers, circling the books I couldn’t live without. And the day the orders arrived I couldn’t wait to bring them home.

I had a library card, but those books were only visitors to my shelves. The loaned books I had to handle with care so I could return them in the same state as they were when borrowed. I couldn’t read them again and again, until the spines cracked and pages fell from the bindings.

Now I love collecting books. Recently I went with my friend Cathy to Denton, a nearby city with three lovely bookstores on the town square. All within walking distance of each other, providing you stop by your car and unload the heavy purchases before venturing to the next stop. First on our agenda was Recycled Books – a three story treasure house of used books.

Recycled Books Records CD’s in Denton, Texas – photo by the author
The horror section at Recycled Books – photo by the author

Our second stop was at Denton’s newest bookstore – The Plot Twist. This shop is a cozy stop just off the square. They are a combination book store and bar, so you can unwind with a glass of wine while you browse the books. The Plot Twist is a romance bookstore so I was skeptical about whether I, a horror writer and reader, would find something. But I am also a fan of anything paranormal or witchy so I left with three books. I don’t think I’ve ever left any bookstore without buying a book or two or three or four.

The Plot Twist in Denton, Texas – photo by the author

Around the corner we found Patchouli Joe’s Books and Indulgences. Not only did I find a book or two, but because I signed up for their free newsletter during my birthday month, I received a free bar of their scented soap. (Part of the indulgences for sale in the shop.) I would have subscribed without the soap, but it was a nice reward.

Patchouli Joe’s bookstore in Denton, Texas – photo by the author
Books at Patchouli Joe’s – photo by the author

No matter the size of the store, I can spend hours searching for the perfect books. It’s not so much the hunt as it is the desire to linger in the safe space. Libraries and book stores serve as doors to different worlds. There, I can travel safely no matter what horrors the outside world contains. I can exchange battling dragons, evading zombies, and conspiring with witches for worrying over whether National Parks, Social Security, and basic human decency will continue to exist.

The books I purchased – photo by the author

I own what some might describe as a book hoard but I have named the ever-growing piles of unread tomes “my library.” Never mind that said library has spilled out of my office, into the living room, onto the floor of my bedroom, and occasionally can be found on the dining room table. The simple solution would be to stop buying books until I’ve read them all, but there is something so comforting about the stacks. The world outside is dangerous, but inside my home I have a fortress of books.

A cozy read – photo by the author

Links:

Recycled Books

The Plot Twist

Patchouli Joe’s

Abandoned, But Not Forsaken

Exploring the Old Zoo Nature Trail in Cisco, Texas

Entrance to the Trail – Photo by the author

There is something about deserted spaces that draws out the explorer in me. Horror fan that I am, I know these are the spots where the paranormal linger. I would trespass into every vacant house if it weren’t for the threat of arrest. Instead, I feed my curious spirit with estate sales, circling rooms recently emptied of their human inhabitants and filled instead with the bric-a-brac they have left behind. No ghosts linger there, the only thing wafting through these places is the scent of mothballs and menthol.

I’d love the chance to wander through an empty asylum, a shuttered convent, a derelict hospital building. Any place filled with spiders and memories. I first heard about the abandoned zoo in Cisco through a YouTube video. “We have to go there,” I told my husband.

Zoo Trail Marker – Photo by the author

We arrived in Cisco at noon, early enough for a picnic lunch, then headed outside town to the zoo. The zoo had operated in the 1920s and closed in the 1930s. In 2021, A nonprofit organization, SAFE (Students, Athletics, Families, and Education) stepped in to clear the trash and build hiking paths.

The Start of the Trail – Photo by the author

The trail wound through the crumbling remains of the concrete structures built to house the animals.

Photo by the author

We wandered past rusted metal bars, peered into cave-like structures.

Photo by the author

Had our path been lit in twilight instead of bright, mid-day sun, I might have imagined the sad calls of the creatures who had lived in these enclosures.

Photo by the author

I wondered what had happened to the zoo’s inhabitants once the place closed. Even though I listened closely, I heard no whisper of ghostly growls – just the occasional whistle of a song bird.

Photo by the author

We continued along the trail, past the animal pens.

Photo by the author

Despite the sign’s promise – I spotted neither spiders nor a spider-shaped rock. As we passed the remains of an old foot bridge, the high notes of childish laughter drifted to us. Other hikers, not the specters of visitors from a century past.

Photo by the author

We climbed to an overlook, to a spot marked “Cougar Rock.”

Photo by the author

We left before sundown, before the spirits of past inhabitants appeared. No ghouls, just a lovely place for a spring stroll through the reminders of a past reclaimed in Cisco, Texas.

Everyone’s Taste is Not Your Own

Photo by the author

The past has flavor. It tastes like cherry popsicles melting red down your arm on a hot summer day. It might taste like Saturday night at home, watching the movie of the week and eating pepperoni pizza. The kind from a box kit, with tiny circles of spicy pepperoni swirled into the sauce. Sometimes it tastes like love and joy, like Friday night dinner out with your family – tacos and enchiladas and queso and salsa and chips hot from the fryer.

Photo by the author

We drove up to Wichita Falls one Saturday, to explore the downtown and see if we could find something interesting in the antique shops. Along the way we stopped in Muenster at Fischer’s, a small grocery stocked with local products inspired by the town’s German heritage. I bought spaetzle and pickles and chow-chow relish. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tang of vinegar. Then, as we made our way to the cashiers at the front of the store, I spotted a box of Chef Boyardee pepperoni pizza mix. I hadn’t seen this product in the Dallas area in ages. I scooped up the last two boxes. This pizza had been a staple of my childhood and teenage years.

Photo by the author – Downtown Wichita Falls

In Wichita Falls, we trooped through dusty shops and searched for bargains, climbed creaking stairs in hopes of discovering treasure. We had left our drinks in the car, parked two blocks away. As the hot afternoon wore on, I dreamed of a cold glass of iced tea. After wandering through a maze of shelves stocked with foggy glassware, yellowed magazines, and toys with missing parts – Andrew and I decided it was time for an early dinner.

Photo by the author – Miss Kim judges your taste

Photo by the author – the seamstress

I had picked the restaurant based on the Yelp reviews. The place had been in business for decades and had racked up a reassuring 4.5 stars out of 5. Their specialty was something called a “red taco.” I couldn’t wait to try it.

“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “It might be too busy. If there’s a wait we can come back later.”

I agreed, but secretly vowed to suffer the wait. I’d dreamed of that taco the whole time we circled through stacks of broken typewriters and piles of musty books.

Photo by the author

When we arrived at the restaurant, I was thrilled when the smiling cashier told us to sit wherever we wanted. We squeezed into a narrow booth. A waitress popped by to take our order. Andrew decided on enchiladas and asked for queso in place of chili. I had a combination plate – a cheese enchilada and the long anticipated red taco. We added a bowl of queso to start.

When the waitress dropped off our chips and queso, I thought there had been some mistake and we’d been served biscuits instead. Each piece was at least a quarter inch thick and weighed enough to raise a decent welt if I chunked it at someone. The queso sported a suspicious pink tinge, as though the antacid were already blended into the sauce. A pudding-like consistency, it clung to the chips and quivered.

Andrew gave me a stricken look. “I added queso to my enchiladas.”

“Maybe they will mess up the order.”

However, our main meal arrived quickly and was just as we had requested. The famous taco was certainly red. A vivid, siren screaming red that could only come from a lifetime allotment of red dye number 40. The taco shell was thick like the chips, and possibly made from the same tortillas. Where had they come from? I’d never seen anything like that, unless you count the time I attempted to roll out my own corn tortillas at home. The refried beans were lumpy and unseasoned. My cheese enchilada was good, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to justify the price on the menu.

I pulled up the Yelp app and read through the reviews. Had we stumbled into some alternate universe, one where everyone else thought this tasted fine? Like that Twilight Zone episode where everyone has a pig face except this one girl who believes she’s the ugliest person alive?

This time, I searched for the 1 star opinions. As I read through the ratings, one theme appeared throughout – puzzlement. Then I sorted the positive reviews. Most had one thing in common – memory.

“I’ve been going here since I was a child.”

“I always stop in Wichita Falls for a red taco.”

All around us there were smiling people dining on the chips, dipping into the queso. It must be tradition. So many restaurants closed during Covid. I can count on one hand the stores that are still open that also existed when I was young. How reassuring it must be to have one constant in your life, one place you can go and say you’ve been there for years? The food must taste better when flavored by memory.

Photo by the author

Time Travel in Ladonia Texas

This past weekend Andrew and I drove out to the Ladonia Fossil Park. We’d been there before, during Covid. I remembered the solitude and peacefulness of strolling beside the North Sulphur River.

I had delayed a return trip, due to my terror of the steps leading down to the river. When we’d last visited, I’d resorted to scrambling along beside them down the slope to the water. Fear of breaking a hip overcame any insult to my dignity.

Now, however, the Fossil Park has moved upstream from the old location and they’ve installed a concrete ramp. If I stumbled on the ramp, I would roll on down the concrete until my journey ended at the mud pit below.

While Andrew set up to dig through a pile of loose rock, I wandered off on my own, enjoying the burble of the water beside me and the warmth of the sun on my back. Every now and then bursts of laughter drifted past from a group of children wading upstream. Scuffing my shoes through the gravel, I hoped to find something interesting. This area was once covered in water, an ancient sea filled with sharks, mosasaurs, oysters, and cephalopods dating back to the Cretaceous period, 145 million years ago.

It takes a sharp eye to spot the fossils, tucked as they are amongst the ordinary bits of quartz, shale, and dirt. But if you take wonder in small things, you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what you find.

I picked up a rock, worn slick and rounded as a peach by the river.

I discovered other things too, bits of petrified wood and bone, shells and imprints of shells, cemented forever in hardened clay.

I traced the curve of a shell, marveled at the smooth lines of petrified wood, and wondered at the lace-like pattern in a bit of bone. What a miracle that these things have persisted, so many millions of years. Not everything leaves such a trace behind. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.

Here We Go A-Wandering

Photo by the author – Ammonite fossil on the hiking trail at Cleburne State Park, Texas

There are times when you just have to go somewhere. I imagine every unmasked stranger carries not just Covid-19, but some alien spore that will launch from their chest like a special effect in a John Carpenter movie. We are living in a badly plotted horror flick. When I heard the Texas state parks were open again with limited capacity, I signed up for a day pass to Cleburne State Park.

My husband Andrew and I arrived at the park just before noon. Texas in June is more suited to early morning or late-night hikes, but we had packed plenty of water in our CamelBak hydration packs. Andrew chose the trail. Although it was marked on the map as “Challenging” it also appeared to be the one with the most shade. Equipped with boots, hat, and hiking staff – I felt I could handle the route.

At the start of our hike, as we trod smartly along the tree-lined path, I hummed the tune to The Happy Wanderer.

Photo by the author

If you went to school in the 1960s or early 1970s, I bet you know this song. We sang it at every choir practice or music class. It was written by Florenz Friedrich Sigismund (1791–1877) and since I’m sure the copyright has long since passed, here are the lyrics:  

“I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.

Chorus:
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
My knapsack on my back.”

We passed a little stream as I reached the second verse.

Photo by the author

“I love to wander by the stream
That dances in the sun
So joyously it calls to me
Come join my happy song”

The trail Andrew and I climbed, while not exactly mountainous, did have enough elevation change that I felt compelled to stop every few feet and rest. Panting might help dogs to cool off, but it did not work for me. I would have collapsed on the juniper needles blanketing the path, but for the green poison ivy poking up in every level spot.

“How much farther?” I asked Andrew.

He pulled out the map and considered it. “I think we are a little less than halfway to the scenic overlook.”

“I hope there’s a bench there,” I said.

We continued along, Andrew in the lead and me following. I stared at the trail, carefully avoiding anything resembling a stick that might turn out to be a snake in disguise. We spotted a lovely ammonite fossil and I stopped to take a picture.

The fossil reminded me the area we hiked was, in prehistoric times, the floor of an ocean. The limestone we walked on was made up of the skeletal remains of marine life that inhabited that sea. If only we were wading through that cooling water now.

“Do you still have plenty of water?” Andrew asked as we paused and I soaked a towel with cool water from my pack.

“I’m good.”

“We don’t want to get heat-stroke,” Andrew said, “but I’ve heard that’s a pleasant way to die. You just pass out and go.”

“I’ve never thought of any sort of dying as pleasant.”

“Well, yes, but of all the ways to go,” Andrew continued, “I think if you kick off first, I’ll just head to the desert and walk until I’m gone.”

The trail leveled out along a stretch of wildflower filled, sunlit fields. I sipped my water and mentally checked off the symptoms of heat-stroke. I occurred to me that worrying over heat exhaustion had so consumed my thoughts that afternoon that I hadn’t thought once about dying in the pandemic. Not even when we passed other, unmasked hikers on the trail.

At one point we scrambled down an incline of loose scree, our feet sliding almost from under us. I grabbed at the cedar tree branches bent over the trail, in order to slow my descent. Andrew waited for me at the bottom, then held my hand and helped me climb up the other side. I studied Andrew’s back as he pushed on upwards. His hiking boots kicked up tufts of dried leaves and gravel.

“If I die first and you decide to go off hiking in the desert,” I said, “box up my ashes and take them with you. That way you won’t be alone.”

“All right, I suppose that could work.”

Right after, we discovered we’d been on the wrong trail. We ended up at the point where we’d begun the loop, not a bad thing as we were near the trail sign that pointed to the exit.

I’ll be back inside next week, waiting out the pandemic. I’ve never liked crowds, or crowded places where large groups congregate, so I don’t miss those types of gatherings. I do like my solitary pursuits – reading and writing, but I’m always glad of Andrew’s company. When you’re on a journey, I think it’s nice to have someone by your side. Or leading the way, watching for snakes.

The Onion Capitol

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My mother, grandmother, and aunt in Farmersville in the 1950s 

The places we visit are never as perfect as they are in our memory. My grandmother’s house in Farmersville, Texas no longer exists. A remodeled version of the Dairy Queen I visited as a barefoot child sits beside the highway and still serves up chocolate dipped cones and cheeseburgers. You can see the Dairy Queen from the overpass where I used to stand with my cousin and spit on the cars passing below. 

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Dairy Queen – Photo by the author

 

My husband and I drove up to Farmersville on the weekend, a short day trip from our home. Over bridges spanning the lake, past trailer parks and fireworks stands to the little town that was once the Onion Capitol of North Texas.

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The Onion Shed in Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author

The Onion Shed sits near the town square. In the 1960s I helped my mother and grandmother fill burlap sacks with discarded onions, the rejects spilled and tossed onto the grass from the railway cars where the Collin County Sweets were loaded for shipment. No longer filled with the round yellow bulbs, you can find a flea market there on the first Saturday of each month. 

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The plaque at the Onion Shed

 

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A portrait of Audie Murphy among the items for sale at the Clay Potter Auction House

We wandered through antique stores on the town square. I am always surprised to find the toys like those from my own childhood, stacked on dusty shelves and labeled “vintage.”

There were no toys in my grandmother Mattie’s wood frame house. A print of Jesus knocking at the door and a framed copy of the TV Guide with Johnny Carson on the cover decorated her living room wall. If I slipped from my mother’s view I would have just enough time to explore Mattie’s bedroom. I could hide under the fuzzy chenille bedspread and peak out through the fringe skirting the bottom where it brushed the floor.  Visiting children were turned out into the yard, chased from the house by apron-wearing women too busy with cooking and serving to put up with our foolishness.

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Window display – Photo by the author

Small towns often have treasures tucked away, to be uncovered by those with time and patience to wander. The post office sports a mural painted in 1941 as part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA).

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WPA mural in the Farmersville Post Office – Photo by the author

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A short walk to downtown from Mattie’s house, over the railroad tracks and to the pecan tree shaded park, and I could find the snow cone stand there in summer. Crushed ice in a paper cone that dissolved as the treat itself melted to slush in the heat. But I could drink the last of it, my hands, lips, clothes stained red, purple, blue, green.

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Old Electricity Generator in the city park – Photo by the author

 

There were no snow cones for sale on the day we visited, but I bought a Dr. Pepper from one of the stores. Andrew and I sat and shared the drink on a bench near the old movie theater downtown.

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The movie theater in downtown Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author

Closed for years, posters from films starring the hometown hero, Audie Murphy, hang on the front. I imagine my mother there on a Saturday night, palms slick with butter from the popcorn.

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We ended our visit with a stop at the Odd Fellows Cemetery. My grandparents, Grover Cleveland Cullum and Mattie Elizabeth Watson Cullum, are buried there, as are their parents. We searched for their graves but couldn’t locate them. I hadn’t been there in years and the day was too hot for much effort. The one place in town that hadn’t changed but I couldn’t rely on my memory to find the family plot.

We did see some interesting gravestones.

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Farmersville 100F Cemetery/Odd Fellows Cemetary

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“Some of these people were alive during the Civil War,” Andrew commented.

“Yes,” I said.

Tired and sweaty, we climbed into our air conditioned Honda and headed home. Past the shops downtown, the onion shed, the park, the railroad crossing, stopping at last near the overpass so I could hop out and snap a photo of the Dairy Queen. Then onto the highway and home, leaving behind the layers of memory. My mouth, dust dry as I lean over a metal guardrail, the low mournful train whistle in the dusk, the sharp scrape of sidewalk on bare feet, the candy syrup from a grape snow cone, icy cold contrast to a dog summer day. The scent of sweet onions, yellow and round as baseballs, hidden like Easter Eggs in the soft green grass.