A Connecticut Yankee in King George's Court

The summer I was twelve,
We went on vacation
And drove through Texas.
I have vague memories ofBrown roads, tumbleweeds,
And enormous steaksAt a touristy place called “The Big Texan.”

After lunch,I remember climbing back in the van
Feeling overfull and somewhat carsick
And waking up in New Mexico.

Big hair.
Big trucks.
Big boots.
Big britches.
I’d often heard that
Everything’s bigger in Texas.

This summer,
I crossed into Texarkana,
Minivan packed with three cranky kids and way too much stuff,
Feeling apprehensive.
Eddie had joked about buying me a housewarming present—
A bumper sticker reading:“Yankee-Feminist-Mormon-Democrat”
Just to see if I’d get run off the road.

We had been in the state
Two minutes when I saw a Confederate flag,
Five when I saw a gun rack,
And ten whole minutes when I saw a billboard for a beauty pageant.
The first night in town
Cowboys slept in the hotel room next to ours.
Bryce and Annie learned
That not all little kids speak English.

I crossed a bridge with a sign
Reading “Chigger Creek.”
Longhorn cattle grazed on the banks,
Swatting Texas-sized mosquitoes with their tails.
Now it’s October.
And still way too hot.
But the things that scared me about Texas
I’m beginning to embrace.

Nothing’s more beautiful
Than a misty bayou,
A slow drawl laced with cigarettes and honey,
The sweet smell of brisket and hickory
Or Blue Bell ice cream.
I thought I’d feel out of place.

But Texans (like Mormons)
Seem to feel,
That when you’ve got something as good as they do
You want everyone else to be part of it.

published 1/06