Cantonment to Houston

Google time:  7 hrs 58 mins

Ewy Platoon:  11 hours

At the Texas border is a sign declaring they’re the “Proud Home of President George W. Bush.” No apologies, nothing. Just how proud they are. Connecticut must be thrilled to have someone take him off their hands.

Once you’re on the other side of the state line, and Louisiana shrinks away in the rear view mirror, things start getting bigger, brighter and thicker. The highways have huge, full-color road signs painted on the asphalt. I’m not sure if this is for airplanes or people in trucks jacked too high to read regular signs, but nowhere other than Texas will you see such ostentatious displays of navigation. Each road is gussied up like a football field ready for game day. As for thicker, well you’ve no doubt heard about those huge steaks you get for free if you can eat the entire squirming cow. Every half a mile there’s a sign for the Big Texan or the Juicy Heifer. Which brings me to another sort of thickness… displayed by the truck that had “F*#k Ya’ll, I’m From Texas” scrawled across the back window. I was holding Quin and doing my part as a man-sized burp rag, when it screeched up to the back of my car. Paco, who has a keen sense about people, went berserk, started barking and deployed his full-body fauxhawk.

After wading through the pleasantries of “Yes, he could be part pit bull” and “No, you can’t breed him,” we got to the meat of why these two fellers chose to stop at the man dancing and singing with a baby.

They wanted to know if I knew where they could get a good steak.

I thought they were kidding. They were from Texas. How could they not know? So I told them that they got one free with every gallon of gas. The questioner, who leaned out the passenger window, narrowed his gaze. His cap was pulled over a healthy mane of dirty blond hair. Some of his bangs leaked out onto his forehead. His eyes were an icy blue; their intensity heightened by a deep working man’s tan and some dirt.

“Huynnngh,” he said.

That was it. Then he just stared at me. Like he was activated only by the word “steak”.

This guy was either really dumb or really damn good. The cold silence of his blank look unraveled my Yankee attitude.

I threw out something to make some noise. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly where you get a good steak in Texas, but I think you’re in the right general vicinity to get one.”

He didn’t say anything back to me. He turned to the driver and they started talking. Were they debating the validity of my statement? Were they contemplating kicking my butt? I was really starting to worry as they had us parked in. On the other side of us was the convenience store. Would we have to stay until we retrieved them some meat?

And then the Gary Busey/Billy Ray looking guy turned back to me and said, “thanks.” With some squeals and extra exhaust they were off. But there are exceptions, and that’s whom we were off to see.

From that roadside stop near Beaumont, we took off to Sarah’s sister’s place in Houston. We’ve been to Houston somewhere around six or seven times, yet not once have we actually been to Houston. We spend our time at a small burgh called Beth and Paul’s place, a house that has everything. They have lots of room, a nice yard and cable TV with special programming for family visits. Every time we’re at P & B’s place there are enough sports on to keep any of us from having to say much to each other. If you want to, great, otherwise you can pay attention to more important things like the battle for supremacy in the AFC West.

They also have two kids. This means their snack cupboard is packed. Its stupefying display of goodies freezes you in that indecisive convenience-store-candy-section stare.

The best part? The kids really like Sarah and my foosball table and proposed their parents get them one. When I heard they’d relented, I imagined they’d gotten something cheap. And nothing is more disappointing than someone enticing you with a foosball table and you show up to a Ken and Barbie branded, lead-infested pile of junk. Turns out that living big in Texas has its rewards. They brought home the Tornado table. It’s one of the best you can buy and, as Phillip notified me when I tried to use my fresh cup of coffee to stave off another game with the kids, it even has cup holders.

Unfortunately, having a table in their house has made these kids really good. I had to pretend that I was just pretending to let them win. At first I didn’t take the duo of a five and seven-year-old seriously, but soon I found myself really working to defend my goal. But that’s the thing about these kids; they pick up everything and never forget it. Several years ago I grabbed Maureen and pretended she was a guitar. I strummed her tummy to the tune of a country song. The next year the kids shouted “play us like instruments” to a confused older man. Today it’s become a holiday tradition.

The first morning Phillip handed me half of his Sunday morning donut and said, “Here, that’s for your donut tummy.” I was about to shoot back an insult when his mom reminded me that last Thanksgiving I’d told them I had an extra stomach just for donuts.

Oh, yes, my donut tummy. I can hear the parent-teacher conference now. “He claims his uncle beats his cookie tummy like a drum.”

Quin’s lucky I’ve had nieces and nephews to practice my parenting skills.

Things Quin's cousins have said:

Nicolas (Florida, Age 13):  The guy who is the voice of Halo was in Chicago at a convention.  If I met him I'd faint.  Is that gay?

Maureen (Texas, 7):   (While watching football)  Redskins?  Why don't they call them the brownskins?  Indians are really more brown.  Or maroon skins.

Philip (Texas, 5):   (over foosball Philip counters his big sister's taunting)  Girls rule, boys drool...FIRE!

Our visit with my brother and his family was a good one.  There was no physical violence.   Our expectations are pretty low.  That and I think we're getting tired.  Two years ago I provoked him at a Bronco's game and he gave me a concussion.  I had trouble focusing for two days.  We've simmered down a bit as this visit featured about as much physical activity as a Republican dance party.   Pete found a football in his backyard and we threw that for, at most, five minutes.  I was pouring sweat in the Florida humidity and he was just plain weary.  I was thrilled he was the first to announce his wanting to end our meek, little game of catch.  It was just the out I needed to run inside and see if Sarah and Quin were okay.  I didn't want to wreck our rare moment of bonding with, "sorry, Pete, gotta go stare at my baby," because I was already disappointed at how many beer drinking sessions I'd halted or postponed by either dancing about the room with Quin or needing to see if it was my turn to dance about the room with Quin.  And it was nice not to have to struggle with my little hands.  The ball Pete conjured was old and faded and didn't have any of the grippy bumps that someone with T-Rex digits requires to keep from having to shotput it.  There's just something about grunting and heaving an air-filled pigskin that takes from the macho aura of the game.