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Near to my Heart

Stylized view of Corpus
One thing I may never get used to as I age is how time seems to warp. In school, a year took forever. Now they fly past like the clouds in the windows outside my seat at 34,000 feet. When I was a boy and I got to fly down to Corpus Christi, I pretended the clouds were giant space ships and my shuttle craft was dodging around the armada amassed in the nearby star system. I’ve always had an active imagination, and I always loved flying to South Texas.
The last time I flew to Corpus Christi was in 1990. That is when we moved my grandmother to Dallas. Corpus is so full of rich, wonderful memories- walking to the corner grocery store with my grandfather, holding his hand, which to do so, my arm raised up to meet his. The cicadas sang in the trees, leaving their brown shells on the swing set, in the bushes, and even on the side of the house. I would help my grandparents in the garden behind the garage, its bounty would become fried okra, boiled greens, green beans and potatoes- side dishes to the best home-fried chicken and skillet corn bread made with bacon grease. It was always amazing how they could gather so many vegetables for all of us.
My parents were married in Corpus. I love viewing the old photos, seeing my mom’s family there in Corpus, all so young, along with my dad’s family, who had all grown up in that house. There were so few times the two families were together. I loved how the back yard was always the prime backdrop for family photos. I remember my grandmother telling me how, when they moved into this house when it was new, across the street was farm land.
My childhood trips to Corpus with my cousin were the best. She and I would play restaurant in the back yard, or bus company in the dining room. Sometimes, I took the bus to and from Houston, so I had a fondness for Trailway’s buses. As I got older, I would fly down. It used to be so inexpensive that I could buy my own tickets from what I’d saved from my allowance.
Departing Corpus in the early morning
When I saw that I had a Corpus layover in my line for the month, I had to call my Aunt to find out when it was that Memaw moved to Dallas. We struggled, but finally determined that she moved to Dallas just in time for her 80thbirthday. Subtracting when she died, we determined that she moved in 1990, and this where the time warp freaks me out.
It’s been twenty-eight years since I was in Corpus. I was twenty-three then. There have been more years that I’ve been away from Corpus than when I went to visit my grandparents. It just doesn’t seem possible. Was it that long ago I was in the rear-facing seat of their huge land yacht, also known as a station wagon, with my cousin, waving at motorists behind us, while listening to the Police sing ‘Every Breath you Take’ on the radio? Was it that long ago we’d drive to Mustang island to swim in the surf and languish as I’d look back to see my grandfather waving me back in, fearing I was out too far in the surf? Was it that long ago we’d come in from the back yard, back full of sweat, to hear the string of bells hanging on the door sill chime as the door closed, as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, the way it was kept, in order to keep the heat at bay as the window air conditioning units strummed in unison? Was it all that long ago?
It’s nice that these memories still keep me company and have me longing for the more simpler times, when Memaw would brush my hair, my grandfather would teach me how to play dominoes, and we’d drive to the T-heads to go fishing. When I feel old, I think my cousin, Leslie, and how we would have so much fun together.
Penguin on the T-head
Corpus Christi is near and dear to my heart. I’ve always loved the city by the bay and that iconic bridge over the ship channel. After Pa died and Memaw moved to Dallas, I no longer had a reason to visit. I’ve missed it terribly. The house my grandparents bought across from the farm lands, which soon became homes, where we’d wash off in the back yard from the garden hose after returning from the beach. The same yard where we’d hide Easter eggs in the bushes (one year, finding an egg overlooked from the year prior!) is still there- its trees taller. That old house is just how I remember it, still white with green shudders, just as they left it only, it’s not in as good a shape and is showing its age.
Shrimp boat
I have another trip to Corpus in a few weeks. I hope I can get back many more times. It’s such a bitter-sweet trip. I didn’t realize that on the ride to our hotel we’d pass the old bank building where Memaw used to work and would love showing me off to her friends. I saw it as we buzzed past on the freeway, pointing it out to my crew, “Oh, that’s the building where my grandmother used to work.” Of course, the bank has changed names.
The lump in my throat nearly brought a tear to my eye as I could see my grandparents, with their white hair and smiles, looking down on me standing in the back yard in the shade of the trees planted when my father and his siblings were infants. And those bells that hung on the door sill that rang as the door opened or closed, now hang on the sill of the door in my own home. We may leave the past, but the past never fully leaves us. I’m just fortunate to have such a rich and happy past that I bring along with me. A past that is still very much alive in Corpus Christi.

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View to a Thrill: Ghosts in Japan

Photo by Penguin Scott

NRT March 13, 2004

I’m in Narita, Japan and turned on the radio. I found a station playing band music. The music is sort of jazzy- sort of big band; trumpets, pianos, violins, harps and bass, old people music, as I call it. I’d already been downtown, walked to the Naritasan temple, dined at the local noodle house and shopped in the hundred Yen store. Now I was back in my room, trying to find some activity to occupy myself with before boredom took control. I’m not sure why I chose to investigate the radio and its limited variety of stations, but there you have it; big band music to boot.

It took me back to the days when I was a young boy and I’d go to Corpus to visit my grandparents, Memaw and Pa. They listened to this type of music at night as they slept. I recall it so well; After staying up past my bedtime, I’d go to bed in the bedroom, which adjoined theirs. Still being awake when they would eventually turn out the lights, I could hear them pray together, the one that talks about walking down the valley of the shadow of death. From my bed, listening to them recite together, and then turn on the radio, I could feel the love they shared for one another. And I always wondered what that valley looked like, obviously all dark with those death shadows blocking out the sun.

Oh how I used to love going to Corpus. I would go to the grocery store with Pappy, holding his hand while crossing the street to go to that funny grocery store with a big arched roof. On the walls were large, colorful 3-D fruit and veggies. I seem to recall a mural you’d expect to see in West Texas with cowboys and covered wagons. Not sure how it wound up being on the Gulf Coast instead, but it left one of those wonderful, lasting impressions on a young boy.

My grandparents were such good cooks, and everything was made from scratch and with fresh ingredients, many grown in their very back yard. I’d eat things in Corpus I never ate at home in Houston; collard greens, fried okra, rice swimming in sweet milk. And it was here where I learned that some people put salt on their watermelon and didn’t use sugar in grits. I’ll never have hotcakes or cornbread the way my grandfather used to make them, and the world my never recover from this.

I loved their house, with its musty smell, the sound of the window air conditioner and the dim light created from keeping the curtains drawn to keep out the Texas heat. I recall the traffic noise from the busy street out front, the cicadas screeching in the hot and humid afternoons. They always made the heat seem so much more than maybe it was, as their screams permeated the living room where we hid in the relative cool. Memaw and Pa…together again, now that she passed away nearly six months ago.

And here I am in Japan listening to their music and thinking of them; missing them and reliving the past. I was so young then. And I feel so young now – not like I’m 36 at all; hardly even like late 20s. Sometimes I still feel so very young. And although I’ve been on my own for so long, and I’ve been an adult for as long as I was a child, I don’t feel all that old. That’s a good thing, I guess.