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I was born in the Texas Panhandle, where my father's family has lived since the 19th century. My mother always hated the dust storms, the dryness, the small trees. The land is flat up on the cap rock, hard and brown. After my sister was born, my parents decided to move back to Austin so my mother could return to the university and finish her degree. Classic 1970's Austin was where they met after all, and there were plenty of live oaks and water.
We moved three times during my first grade year. I went to school in Lubbock, in Houston and in Austin. I spent several months living with my grandparents in Houston while my parents searched for jobs and a place to live in Austin. My grandparents lived in a very different place, suburban Sugar Land where most of the houses had manicured lawns and the neighborhoods were riddled with man made lakes only a few feet deep. sometimes they even had fountains.
Those months in Houston were a strange time in my life. I was just old enough to be paying more attention to what was happening around me. I wasn't old enough to grasp the nuances of conversations happening while I was out of the room. I didn't yet realize how much my grandparents disliked my father or the obscure sources of tension between my mother and her parents. Instead I was obsessed with the strange differences of the place. The water tasted terrible, and my mother complained about how it ruined the coffee. I could taste the unfamiliarity in the shower, even if I mostly drank orange juice everywhere else.
A half down houses down the street was a two story home on the corner. Two children close to my age lived there, a boy and a girl. I can't remember the names of the children now. They had a number of Star Wars toys, Legos and GI Joes. I was awed by such an abundance of toys. I only recall being inside their home twice however as I discouraged from playing with them. The family was being shunned in the way of all such awful suburban homeowner's associations. They had painted their home a purple color, and painted the fence to match. I remember sitting in the back seat of my grandmother's car, listening to her remark about the impropriety of it all. Her house was a brown color, bricks and siding, blending in with the neighborhood.
They must have gone to the same school I attended there. The school mascot was a pioneer wagon, which even then struck as me a funny. For a school with independent pioneers as a mascot they were quite heavy handed about conformity. During a coloring assignment, another boy made a point of telling me I was doing it wrong. I looked at my paper, studying the smooth crayons and coloring in an apple in bright red. Looking around at the other children, I could see they were all dutifully doing the same thing. But first they neatly and heavily outlined the apple inside the lines, making a heavy line. Then they would fill in the rest of the blank space. For awhile I attempted to emulate this fanatical devotion to outlining spaces before I filled them in with colors. It didn't last. I couldn't see the point, being just as difficult at I am now.
In a few years, I plan on painting our house a bright color. Maybe we will paint a giant mural of Austin bats and the bridge on the garage door. This isn't Sugar Land after all. There is no homeowner's association to chide me and I don't care if the neighbors shun me for it. A life less ordinary requires a little color, outlined or not.
We moved three times during my first grade year. I went to school in Lubbock, in Houston and in Austin. I spent several months living with my grandparents in Houston while my parents searched for jobs and a place to live in Austin. My grandparents lived in a very different place, suburban Sugar Land where most of the houses had manicured lawns and the neighborhoods were riddled with man made lakes only a few feet deep. sometimes they even had fountains.
Those months in Houston were a strange time in my life. I was just old enough to be paying more attention to what was happening around me. I wasn't old enough to grasp the nuances of conversations happening while I was out of the room. I didn't yet realize how much my grandparents disliked my father or the obscure sources of tension between my mother and her parents. Instead I was obsessed with the strange differences of the place. The water tasted terrible, and my mother complained about how it ruined the coffee. I could taste the unfamiliarity in the shower, even if I mostly drank orange juice everywhere else.
A half down houses down the street was a two story home on the corner. Two children close to my age lived there, a boy and a girl. I can't remember the names of the children now. They had a number of Star Wars toys, Legos and GI Joes. I was awed by such an abundance of toys. I only recall being inside their home twice however as I discouraged from playing with them. The family was being shunned in the way of all such awful suburban homeowner's associations. They had painted their home a purple color, and painted the fence to match. I remember sitting in the back seat of my grandmother's car, listening to her remark about the impropriety of it all. Her house was a brown color, bricks and siding, blending in with the neighborhood.
They must have gone to the same school I attended there. The school mascot was a pioneer wagon, which even then struck as me a funny. For a school with independent pioneers as a mascot they were quite heavy handed about conformity. During a coloring assignment, another boy made a point of telling me I was doing it wrong. I looked at my paper, studying the smooth crayons and coloring in an apple in bright red. Looking around at the other children, I could see they were all dutifully doing the same thing. But first they neatly and heavily outlined the apple inside the lines, making a heavy line. Then they would fill in the rest of the blank space. For awhile I attempted to emulate this fanatical devotion to outlining spaces before I filled them in with colors. It didn't last. I couldn't see the point, being just as difficult at I am now.
In a few years, I plan on painting our house a bright color. Maybe we will paint a giant mural of Austin bats and the bridge on the garage door. This isn't Sugar Land after all. There is no homeowner's association to chide me and I don't care if the neighbors shun me for it. A life less ordinary requires a little color, outlined or not.