A Taste of Tradition From Turkey, Texas

Through uncounted years, I spent the Thanksgiving holiday in the Texas hill country. Sometimes I served dinner at a little cabin in the woods; from time to time, I joined friends up on the ridge, or out at Cypress or Upper Turtle Creeks.

The menu was simple as the day itself. Conversation supplanted football, and late afternoon walks in the woods were common. Evenings meant music: homemade, often inelegant, but resonant with the sound of Texas traditions. There were guitars, and sometimes a fiddle or mandolin. Invariably, the music led to dancing and singing, and more than a few back porches became dancehalls for the night.

It was our tradition.

In a book titled Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton once wrote:

Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about.
All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.

Today, Bob Wills and his Playboys are gone, as are many of the hill country musicians I knew and loved. But the music lives on, and in hidden corners of Texas, that music will be playing today. It’s possible that a two-step might break out in the yard, or that someone still sitting on the steps might begin singing along. 

After all, it’s our tradition.

 

Comments always are welcome.

My Favorite Autumn Leif

Of all the people I meet on the road, motorcyclists tend to be the friendliest and most interesting. Sometimes they’re fairly high on the wackiness scale, like this fellow riding with his club in Arkansas, but wackiness adds spice to life — especially when it arrives wearing a faux-Viking helmet and introducing itself as ‘Leif.’

Increasingly, groups of riders are cruising the Texas countryside, stopping for refreshment in places like the aptly-named Cruisers Ice House outside Santa Fe.  Hill Country loops are especially favored; after a run through the famed route known as the ‘Twisted Sisters,’ riders congregate at Medina’s Apple Store, gas up at the Country Store near Lost Maples, visit the Motorcycle Museum near Vanderpool, or head to Camp Wood for burgers and beer.

They’re not alone. Miatas and Corvettes flock to the roads, and occasionally even a prim little sedan can be seen scooting over the hills, taking those curves with perhaps a little too much verve.

From now until March, bridge replacement on a portion of the Twisted Sisters will necessitate a detour, but that’s hardly a reason for concern. Untraveled roads abound; who wouldn’t want to be in the driver’s seat?

Take a ride with the Venice Vintage Motorcycle Club

 

Comments always are welcome.

Not Warts, But Worts

 

Beautiful though the Maryland milkwort may be, that little “bouquet in a blossom” is far from the only milkwort in Texas. Several species bloom across different regions of the state, including this pretty Polygala alba, or white milkwort, found on a rocky slope near Willow City on July 1.

The genus name Polygala comes from the Greek for ‘much milk,’ as the plants were thought to increase milk yields in cattle. The ‘wort’ in ‘milkwort’ is simply an old word for ‘plant’ which appears in the names of many species; bladderwort, St. John’s wort, bellwort, and lungwort are some of the better-known.

Three hundred miles away and two weeks earlier, in the Big Thicket, the pinebarren milkwort (Polygala ramosa) was coming into its own. An uncommon plant that prefers wet pine savannas and bogs, it’s found primarily in far southeastern Texas.

Another half-dozen Polygala species can be found in southeastern or far eastern Texas, but most bloom in spring; finding them probably will have to wait until next year’s explorations.

 

Comments always are welcome.
There is a plant known as thewart-wort‘, but, etymologically, ‘wart’ and ‘wort’ are unrelated. If you’re interested, you might enjoy this article from the Columbia Journalism Review.