Abilene Balloon Festival 2010
So, who would have thought it - we drove to Abilene last weekend for the West Texas Book and Music Festival, and found - when the books were packed up and the music had ended, there was still a lot going on in Abilene. There was the Abilene balloon festival going on as well; and late Saturday afternoon, balloon owners, pilots and crews were arriving every minute in the park, pulling in with their pickup trucks, towing small trailers and setting up their balloons. A whole forest of classic tear-drop shaped balloons sprouted at anchor - gaily multicolored, bobbing gently in the air as jellyfish bob and sway in their element.
The weather was chancy in Abilene last weekend, so they could only actually launch two balloons; the evening was fine, mild and clearing, but apparently if you are going for a balloon ride, best to launch before 4 PM; it seems that landing and folding up the balloon in the dark are not a process eagerly embraced by the average recreational hot-air balloon pilot.
It was fascinating, watching how deftly and quickly a balloon can be deployed, though: first the basket came out of the storage/travel trailer: always a heavy-duty wicker rattan basket, although many of the ones I saw had bottoms which appeared to be reinforced with plywood. Attached the metal supports at the corners of the basket, attach the propane burners across the top of the frame, and then bring out the fabric envelope, unrolling it across the grass, and attaching the lines to the basket frame, which lays on it's side.
They inflate the envelope using a gas-powered super fan, first - and only when it's filled enough to stay open, that's when the propane burner comes into play with a roar like a thousand blow-torches. The blast of super-heated air from it inflates the envelope farther, to the point where it lifts off the ground; that's when the ground crew tips the basket upright . . . and the point when the balloon needs to be firmly tied up to something large and heavy.
The sun was setting, as the last of the balloons were filled and made ready for an evening static display. The propane burners, lit occasionally to keep them upright and properly deployed made the balloon envelopes glow from the inside like Japanese paper lanterns. There was a live band playing all this time, mostly covers of old rock hits, like the Doors "Love Her Madly" and a whole fairway row of food vendors' trailers: everything from hot dogs, to smoked turkey legs, and cheesecake onna stick. (Cheesecake onna stick? What will they think of next - chicken-friend bacon? Oh, wait.)
Kids were playing on the grass, running for tee-shirts being shot out of the tee-shirt cannon, dogs and their people were also wandering around . . . I couldn't help thinking that there was something still right with the world, that enthusiasts could still bring their balloons to a park in Texas, and that kids could still get cotton candy on the fairway, and the sun could set in a clear sky after a day of rain.
Once upon a time when I was still a corporate admin/office manager drudge, I worked for an enterprise which had a small office in Carousel Court, at the intersection of Nacogdoches and North New Braunfels. The best thing about this office - after the regular paycheck, of course - was proximity to the Purple Garlic, home of the absolutely best thin-crust pizza in all of San Antonio. Made from scratch, with carefully designed toppings, the Purple Garlic went way beyond the usual: one of their signature dishes was a white pizza, topped with a béchamel sauce and sea-food. My own favorite - as the enterprise for which I worked was one of those which did not encourage one to linger over lunch - was their artichoke heart salad, or ‘art-heart.' I had this so frequently, that eventually the staff just dished up a portion in a take-away container and rang it up on the cash register as soon as I came in the door.
Towards the end of my time at that job, the 
When the baked crust is lightly brown, take it out of the oven, and cover with an insulating layer of tissue-paper thin slices of mozzarella cheese, or deli ham to keep the crust from getting soggy Then, spread out about a 1/2 to 1 cup of good bottled marinara sauce over the top of each pizza- not too much, it will overflow, or make the crust soggy. Top with all the various toppings that you favor: thin-sliced onions, mushrooms, cooked crumbled sausage, pepperoni, etc - not too much, as it will have to cook through, in a hot oven in a very short time. Top with shredded mozzarella, and sprinkles of whatever extra herbs you may like. Bake again, in the 450 degree oven until cheese is just lightly melted.
For a household wherein the last time we packed out from an overseas assignment and the movers had a pool going on how many cartons of books they would finish up with - the count eventually topped out at 65 - we have an unseemly greed for more. We do not disdain any opportunity to explore second-hand bookstores, rummage sales, Half Price Books, the massive yearly PTA book sale at the Blossom Athletic Center, and the regular sales at our local San Antonio Library branch. The management there very kindly puts out a banner at the well-trafficked corner of Judson and Nacogdoches, and I have scored some lovely book bargains there in the past, notably when it came to Texiana.
We got in line about 9:30 last Saturday morning - and if that sounds as if it were too early - there were already a goodly assortment of people gathered in front of the library, a few of whom had sent their significant others around the corner for breakfast tacos. There weren't any professional book purchasers this time; the experts who have very specific requirements, and usually plastic crates on luggage carriers, and make a tidy living skimming off the cream of the books and re-selling them on the internet. The doors opened at 10:00 sharp, everyone crammed into the little room to the left of the main doors where the books were laid out - eh, a thin collection, this time, only a few volumes of Texiana, and nothing much to speak of in the way of cookbooks. My daughter found more to her interest - Wine for Dummies, a book of jokes and one of directions to knit afghans, among some others.
We took our harvesting home, and went to check out an estate sale in Alamo Heights, but nothing really took our attention at it, so finished up for lunch at one of the Austin Highway's landmark eateries - 
We didn't want to wait that long - just a burger and a brisket sandwich, please - and my daughter indulged herself with an order of mozzarella sticks, which were delish. The burgers and brisket - good, not as good as Sams' on Broadway, or Easy Pickins in Harper, but still quite good, much better than your average fast food franchise place. Over the next few months, we plan to eat our way along the Austin Highway, so stay tuned.
... At the 
So, hearing about this – and my daughter also heard that there is a thrift shop involved – we decided to stop by the place and actually go inside, and see if I could take some cute pictures of the cats and dogs and do a blog post about it. I had only been driving past the place for nearly fifteen years, so it was about time. We did explain that we weren't interested so much in adoption, as we were encouraging other people to do so. The management in the adoption center were perfectly amenable to this, so we circled through two of the small dog buildings ... but first, my daughter had to look at the kittens. There is nothing cuter than a basket of kittens, and there were some terribly appealing ones on hand in the so-called 'Kitten Room'- including a little all-black one suitably named "Salem" who kept reaching out with his paw through the wire as I was taking pictures of the infant flame-point Siamese brother and sister in the adjacent cage. "Me!" it was as if he was commanding, "Me! Pay attention to me!"
Anyway – on to the small dogs and puppies; there were not very many puppies. The uncrowned king of the puppy area was a small poodle, who was introduced to us as "Patriot" – a special, special-needs dog. Patriot is almost nine years old, and completely blind. In spite of that, he is friendly and outgoing. He gets around all right, but absolutely hates the confinement of the cage. He is actually most content, sitting in a lap or in a basket by a chair – and appears also to be allergic to grass. He'd be a perfect pet for someone working from home in a small place; his demand for walkies would be absolutely minimal.
Then we walked around to a larger building housing a number of small to medium dogs, and the attendant suggested that if we wanted to get some good pictures, just tell her which dog took our fancy. We could go out into the dog park area, and get some good pictures. Our interest alighted on a medium-small tan-colored dog named "Piglet" mostly because of her pleading eyes, and the way her ears stuck out to the sides of her head. Piglet is half Chihuahua ... and pit bull. However that worked out, the mating itself must have been comic to behold. In any case, it resulted in a sweet-tempered and appealing little dog, which came along readily on the leash. She was described as being rather shy, but we didn't find her so. My daughter is still rather surprised that she didn't wind up coming hope with us anyway. So – that was our Wednesday. And if you are considering adding a dog to your family, consider the Animal Defense League. On Wednesday or any other day.
The 
I went last year, practically my first go-round at one of these book-festivally things, which you have to do, not so much to sell a whopping pile o'books, but to meet up with other writers, and spend some time away from the computer. That's the downside of this writing thing, you know - spending very little time interfacing with those of your own species in the real world. (I spend heaps of time interfacing with my own species when I'm writing - it's just that many of those involved are . . . umm, people I have made up.)
And there is one very agreeable additional benefit to going to 
The town of Boerne is one of those established in the mid-19th century by German settlers on what was then the edge of the frontier, which began roughly about where the Hill Country begins. Boerne was, in it's first incarnation, called Tusculum. It was one of the so-called ‘Latin' settlements - formed by free-thinking, well-educated German intellectuals fleeing the collapse of the '48 revolution. A candid observer might venture the opinion they were considerably over-educated, for the conditions then existing on the frontier - but fortunately the intellectuals were leavened with the addition of more hardy and practical types - and Boerne has thrived ever since. It is just a hop, skip, and a jump from North San Antonio, and we could not resist the lure of last weekend's 
There were four rows of vendors, with a fifth facing the street - and everything from art - fine art, folk-art, scenic painting, sculpture in metal, pottery, to knick-knacks, toys, exotic plants (where else would you find a pitcher plant but at the 
Not being able to wait quite long for lunch, our companions (a trio of hungry teenaged boys) hit the food booths, and promptly discovered that the funnel-cakes were very good, and also very large. Well, this is Texas, of course. The plates of home-made potato chips were also Texas-sized - how can you pile that many chips onto one plate? That's an art, that is. And who could not walk away without trying a puffy corn-taco gordita, which was simply overflowing with excellently spiced chicken and guacamole. Fabulous, absolutely fabulous.
After exploring all the booths, we ventured a little way down Main Street, or Hauptstrasse, as far as the river - alas, by then it was the hottest time of the day! At least we could duck into the various stores along the way, especially the antique stores. We made a pair of fabulous discoveries along the way - hey, Boerne does wine! 
The second fab discovery was at the Shell Station on the corner of Main Street and SH-46, which has a meat counter and a BBQ stand which has the best BBQ around; and apparently the best jerky and home-made sausage, too. It's called the Riverside Market. We stopped in for some soft drinks, being parched with thirst - and once inside, it smelled so enticing - the food of the gods, I swear - that we stopped in on our way home and bought some ribs and sauce on the side to take home for later consumption. It was ambrosial. Remember - Boerne, Shell Station, on Main Street, and SH-46, just as you cross the river. It's a word of mouth thing, apparently. Check it out - just an ordinary gas-station quickie mart, but it's the second time that I've found one of those to be a treasure-house of culinary delights.
One of the curious things about living in this part of Texas - well, just one and among a very long list of such curiosities - is that one encounters small graveyards all over; a quarter acre here, a half acre there, a dozen weathering and almost indecipherable markers standing up like accusing fingers under the shade of a cypress tree, embedded among suburbia - or even alongside a otherwise embarrassingly ugly commercial avenue - like whole maraschino cherries in a slab of Corsicana fruitcake.
Well, I think it's curious, anyway - I never noticed anything of the sort where I grew up. That would have been in a part of southern California which didn't much offer anything of the sort, having been built up mostly after WWII. Such communities as I knew were organized according to modern principals of city planning, and in deference to a population which exploded astronomically after 1942.
By contrast, in Europe, graveyards were almost always in association with churches - the local prominent citizens being given pride of place within the church itself, memorialized with ornate tombs or brasses let into the floor or the walls - all very tidy, and usually in the heart of the village, or in the city which had grown up around an original village.
The Texas arrangement seems odd, at first - after these two extremes - but sensible, once considered in the context of how 19th century frontier towns grew. What with one thing and another - in-town real estate was just too valuable to use for a graveyard of any sort, extensive or not. Graveyards were on the outskirts, perhaps next to a major road, whether the town was a country seat or not. And those which had a city like San Antonio engulf them . . . as I said, this means that the old town or parish cemetery turns up in the oddest of places.
The Davenport cemetery, which is outside the 1604 Loop on the old Nacodoches Road, just after it crosses Salado Creek is one of those that we noticed at first - a dozen graves and a couple of cedar trees, a lonely view of fields and distant trees. When it was first established, there would have been nothing more than that - but suburbia creeps ever closer; originally, the Davenport cemetery was for the little settlement now called Bracken. The founder is buried there, between Wife #1 and Wife #2.
Country graveyards are full of those untold dramas - but now, nothing left but a monument, a name, some dates, maybe some information added as an extra. A mid-19th century grave (marked with a modern stone), of a man killed by Indians - that's in the old Catholic parish graveyard, in Fredericksburg. That particular cemetery was heartbreakingly full of the graves of babies and children; it's a wonder anything grew at all, for being salted with the tears of parents.