Lizards and Watermelons in Texas

It’s 105-degrees on the back fence of The Clanton Hacienda, according to the analog thermometer that’s hanging from a loose nail on the weathered fence.
I believe it.
It’s hot.

There are usually a pair of yearling lizards basking on a wire enclosure for the family mascot. They’re missing this afternoon, otherwise they’d be baking instead of basking.

The siblings are less than two inches long, and if they survive the coming winter, and don’t get crushed in the backdoor slamming, they’ll make a fine addition to the family of Brown Caribbean Anoles that have adopted my back yard.

An article in Texas Monthly a few years back reported the browns were chasing out the green variety of Anoles. The greens have taken the high road, however, and are now residing in nearby trees and bushes. My resident clan of browns can be seen peering out from between the weep holes in the brick walls of my house. In the shade.

There is one good antidote for the Texas heat in July, and that’s a chilled Texas watermelon, fresh of the truck. (My cousin, Sue, treated me to a dandy over the weekend, buying one for each of us. Mine hibernated in the “back refrigerator,” along with assorted soft drinks and bottles of drinking water, for which the temperature control is set to icy slush. I sliced it up and set the chunks in a giant Tupperware bowl—what I didn’t eat while I was carving.)

You know a watermelon is going to be good when you set the knife in the rinds, and the melon opens along its natural fissures in the meat. The red is a tempting complement to the stripped-green outer shell, especially when it’s nearly the same temperature as tundra. This one was obviously one of Wharton County’s finest for the season.

We bought the melons from a father and son at the traffic light in Boling, Texas. FM 447 intersects FM 1301 at that light—the only one in town. There’s a fine pecan orchard just to the north of where Caney Creek languishes under the asphalt, one of many in the region famous for nuts.  I’m pretty certain that watermelon was picked that very morning, because of the way it naturally gave up its goodness when the first slice was made.

I traveled to the Holy Land with my father a few years back, and the one thing that impressed me most—besides trodding in the footsteps of The Savior—was the amazingly fresh food we ate at every meal. Farm to table in a matter of days, if not hours.

We’ve got that in Texas, too—those pecans that fall after the first frost in November, and that delicious, crisp and sweet Wharton County watermelon.
That’s a slice of heaven.

Cousins

“God made us cousins because He knew our mothers could not handle us as siblings.”

Cousins are the collaborators in the petty crimes of our youth. They are the brothers and sisters that siblingless children didn’t get, the Confessors to our untold sins, bridesmaids and groomsmen at weddings, and bearers of the pall at funerals.

Cousins are who you call as a last-minute “second” to an event for which you have no legitimate date. Instead of friends with benefits, they are friends with no-strings-attached, no judgement with which to reckon, and little remorse when things blow up, because you, as cousins, are their entertainment.

Rebecca was my cousin.
She, of raven hair and fair skin that browned and freckled in the summer, was three years older, and always two-steps ahead. She spoke fluent Spanish, lived in Mexico, and was seen only once a year at family Christmas gatherings (we were convinced she was a CIA operative working the drug cartels.) She was a teacher to many, a mentor to most, and was forever posting corniness on the internet—the usual tripe about puppies and kittens, John Wayne and Jesus—but those were all a true reflection of the genuineness in her heart. She loved animals. She adored John Wayne. She loved Jesus—and that was the source of her eternal lightness when all around her was dark.

Becky would greet me on Instant Messenger, early on Saturday mornings, as I prepared for an airshift. No sane civilians were ever up at that hour—but Becky was—posting clever platitudes and encouraging words to her newsfeed. Always a source of positivity—that was my cousin Becky.

Despite setbacks that would overwhelm any of us—the early passing of our Aunt Shirley, a foundered marriage, the untimely death of her brother, Bill, battles with cancer, the death of a beloved brother-in-law, Russell, and most recently, the passing of her father—Rebecca’s faith kept her going. Her compass always pointed true north. Her Faith gave her traction when everything else seemed to be slipping away. And when that car swerved out of the fog and into her lane on Wednesday morning, Becky faced a final test—and passed—into the arms of Jesus, and Shirley, and Bill, and William, and Russell, and other of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents who have already gone on before us.

To the students Ms. Harlow touched, remember: Her kindnesses to you all, regardless of what was going on in her life. Remember how she treated you all, regardless of skin color, language, or social status. All were beloved by her. Emulate her example with everyone else that you touch. Honor the memory of Ms. Harlow by serving others as she served and taught you. The world will be a better place for generations if you do this simple thing.

Marion Garretty once wrote, “A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” Perhaps so. But a portion of my childhood has passed from this playground to the next.
I shall miss her.