On the Porch

Why is it that our family trips always seem to go awry? There was that camping trip three years ago that included snow, wildfire, dust storms, and an unfortunate incident in Sante Fe. This year’s fun was supposed to be backpacking in Arkansas, which included a case of food poisoning, a lovely downpour, a totally failed rainfly, an all-night drive across Texas (with a stop in a cornfield to look at the meteor shower), and finally ended in Big Bend, where rainflies are seldom required.

It was my first trip to Big Bend, and so amazing. Renee begged to stay until the last possible moment, so we made the last day an excursion to Terlingua. It’s a long drive down from the Chisos Basin, across the western half of the park and into Terlingua. In fact, when you get to Terlingua you’re not quite sure if you’ve found it or not, because it doesn’t look that much like a town. You go past a scattering of stone and adobe buildings in various stages of collapse, past the cemetery, and finally wash up against the most likely looking thing in town – the store. It has a roof, a wide porch, a couple of cars out front, and some people; yep, this must be the center of things. We crawled out of the Subaru, pulled on our hats to protect our eyes from the glaring sun, and climbed the steps to the porch. Long benches ran the whole length of the building under the shady overhang. A couple of guys were sitting there like they had no place else interesting to be, and a dog sniffed around. I looked at the signs on the wall that read No Dogs on the Porch and I looked at the dog. One of the guys said, “Thing about dogs is, they can’t read.”

Can’t argue with that. There was an acoustic guitar on a guitar stand and a bulletin board with advertisements pinned to it next to the heavy carved wooden doors. I pulled open the door and wandered inside. The store building was vast and high ceilinged, naturally cool by virtue of the thick adobe walls. Polished rocks and scorpions in acrylic and serapes and other touristy eye-catchers were arranged attractively on the shelves and walls. Tri-fold ‘walking tour’ brochures were offered for $1 each next to the cash register. We bought one and ventured out into the blinding sun to explore. We prowled through an arroyo and several partially ruined buildings that had once housed the Mexican miners. The kids complained bitterly of the heat, so we took them back to the porch of the store and bought two cold Mexican Cokes. Which tasted like childhood and regret. We sat on the benches and savored them, listening to the locals.

“It’s not too hot today.”

“It’s starting to cool off some. I slept last night with a sheet over me.”

“Yup. I’m off the grid, so I’ve got no A/C at my place.”

“I don’t have any electricity. The house is wired, but it’s not hooked up.”

Leaving the kids and the locals to enjoy the shade, my husband and I explored a little more. The ruined school, complete with a 6-hole outhouse, and the restored church, with a new roof and swallows swooping in and out of the open windows, decorated for a wedding. I walked into a prickly pear and spent several minutes transferring the spines from my toes to my fingers before giving it up. I took a picture of a rusty old truck and a wagon wheel. We returned to the porch, where the kids had finished off the Cokes and were working on a bottle of water. A mountain biker, sunburnt and sweaty, pulled up to the store, leaned his bike against a post, picked up the guitar, settled on a bench and began to strum.

“I’m hot,” said Emily.

“I’m hungry,” said Renee.

Their faces were bright red from the heat. It was probably only about 110, but my little Oregonians just can’t handle that much solar energy.

“Let’s go see the cemetery and then find something to eat.”

I’m a freak for old cemeteries. I love the peace and the history in them. I love the stories they tell. This one was special. Even the unmarked graves were carefully tended, decorated with silk flowers and wooden crosses and other trinkets. Some graves were festooned with bridal wreaths and veils. A firepit showed where the annual Dia de los Muertos celebrations were held. Like all old cemeteries, the saddest were the graves of all the children killed in the influenza epidemic of 1918. But my kids were fading fast, and the camera batteries were dead. We sought the shelter of a local eatery.

The only thing open was the café of a small local hotel. It showed no signs of life on the outside, but when I poked my head in, there was a cloud of smoke over the regulars’ table and a large man behind the bar.

“We’re open, and we’re air conditioned. Come on in,” said the proprietor.

“Best place in town to eat,” commented one of the regulars from under his ten-gallon hat.

“You’ve got Shiner Bock on tap,” I said reverently. “Let me go grab the fam.”

When we got back inside, there was an icy mug of Shiner Bock on the end of the bar waiting for me.

I ordered a bowl of chili, of course.