Culture and All Its Prefixes

Unpredictability is a good thing about my job, a good thing. Without it, well, I'd know what I'll be doing from one day to the next. That would suck.

This last week, I am a - well, for google's sake, we'll call it a visitor advisor. I'm greeting people who are new to Austin, or to Texas, and telling them what they should do or see while they are here. And because I'm nice, my suggestions are pleasant ones; even (I must rather shamefacedly add) things I personally have not done. Go on a free guided tour of the Capitol building. Visit the Harry Ransom Center, where they have a Gutenburg Bible on display, and the very first photograph ever taken. There are also interesting rotating exhibits of cultural artifacts. Currently they have an exhibit called "Making Movies" which really looks quite interesting. And the LBJ Presidential Library and Museum - well, for heaven's sake, you need to go there! I only lived on the UT campus for three years and never did, and to this day never have. I hope to soon.

And yet, it's odd, when we have a little free time to ourselves, to do what we like, we end up loafing around a certain someone's home and Netflixing the Will Farrell remake of "Land of the Lost." That can't be right.

I spent Monday afternoon covering at the Cap, and it was exhausting. First of all, the actual Capitol employees across the way were difficult to begin with. Then the visitors were plentiful and demanding; the last one of the day actually pretty much ordered me to call her a cab. I think she was from somewhere that taxis roam the streets for the hailing, and was tired and frustrated, so it's hard to be upset with her, though I was tired and frustrated (and sick) as well. But how much trouble is it really to pick up the phone and call a cab company? I did it. I hope she got her cab. I went home without worrying about it further.

More tiresome was a group of 15-20 middle-aged-ish people from a conference, who were on an "information scavenger hunt," and who wanted me - an Austinite, as far as they could tell, after all - to cough up on demand a reasonable quantity of interesting, little-known, and pithy facts about my hometown. Try being asked this on the spot as an open-ended question and coming up with a meaningful answer. On the whole, I think I did pretty well, telling people that our beloved William Sydney Porter wrote many of his best works while incarcerated, suggesting a drive-by tour of the original location of Whole Foods Market in what is now a small Cheapo Discs store on North Lamar, and mentioning that you can see Michael Dell's house (unless he's moved, which is entirely possible as I really haven't been paying attention) from Mount Bonnell.

Tuesday was a much better day, in that it snowed all day, and therefore not a single Texan arrived at the visitor center. People from Missouri, Indiana, Wisconsin, and of course; Canadians - mais oui! - came in, but the Texans tend to stay home, once the white stuff hits the sky. We probably didn't have but 30 visitor parties all day. So instead, I whiled away the afternoon reading a book lent to us by an employee of the Capitol Visitor Center across the way: "The Hot Zone," by Richard Preston, which I dug 300 pages into yesterday, and which, for future reference, I recommend against reading while you have a nasty cold.

This book deals with a non-fictional, or perhaps semi-fictional (I'm only 300 pages in, so I don't know for sure yet) outbreak of the Ebola Zaire virus in metropolitan Washington, D.C., specifically Reston, Virginia, where I largely grew up. The location is less gripping than the description of the symptoms, and it's pretty rationally horrifying to think of a virus of this type being turned loose in the "civilized" world - as if it were any less horrible stashed out of (our) sight in the Third World.

I have to go back to the Cap tomorrow after lunch, and if it's not quiet enough for me to finish the book there, I'll bring it home. I'm not watching "Land of the Lost" again, at any rate.

Go see the Ransom Center, the Umlauf Sculpture Garden, and the Elisabeth Ney Museum. Never seen any of 'em, to my shame. I am on my way.

Out in the Cold

It snowed a lot in Alabama today. I went to high school in Madison, and during all my years there I only remember one solitary snowfall sparsely dusting the ground with dirty white. Cue all the usual phenomena: those unaccustomed to the sight are awed, not to mention immobilized - schools and businesses shut down, while those who have lived in more northern climes take grand pleasure in scoffing at the natives. "Look at that!" we say, oh so worldly and superior. "Why, when I was in third grade I walked to school in two feet of snow."

Once, I think, because I'd missed the bus and Mom was about up to her ears with me. I don't remember it being uphill either way.

Meanwhile, back home, I'm annoyed to find that the weather forecast calls for a freeze tonight. Day before yesterday it was ninety degrees. Once again, the plants come inside, all 327,964,898 of them. Tomorrow they'll all go back out again, hopefully this time for good, or at least until December.

The bromeliad cluster from my ex-mother-in-law (this would be a band name, except it's much too long - perhaps one day I'll use it to title a novel) got all excited about the warm weather and is sending out several buds - so the expectant mommy is safely ensconced in the laundry room for the night. I'll have to get a picture when they bloom, because the flowers are strange and beautiful: bright red buds that bloom into electric blue blossoms edged with vivid yellow; alien, unearthly. Spikey, the crack weed from Corpus, produced a gigantic floral cluster about a month ago, and now has babies all over the flower bed. The aloes are burstingly fat and the ivies all need trimming. I love my potted garden, and I'm so glad it's a long weekend for us government-employee types: tomorrow I anticipate spending a happy day rearranging everyone in their proper places on the front porch.

Tonight it's cold, but tomorrow's another day. Tomorrow will be a good one. I'll make my garden grow.

TMI

A front blew into the Hill Country Wednesday afternoon. It wasn't bitter cold, but the chill was sudden, the wind gusty, and none of us dressed for temperatures below 65 degrees, when we arrived for a scheduled tour of a state historical site.

The docent - a sweet-faced, soft-spoken old lady in pioneer-era clothing - met us inside the museum building. Did we want to spend some time exploring the building, and tour the grounds later, she asked? Or would we brave the weather and go over the grounds right away?

Let's do the grounds first, I said, reasoning that as it was already late in the afternoon, it wasn't going to get any warmer; plus we had just stepped off the heated bus, so a few minutes' rambling out-of-doors shouldn't do us any harm.

In retrospect, I really think there was no right answer; but as God is my witness, I've never seen anyone talk so much in my entire life. Every rusty old piece of farming equipment, every decaying cabin, smithy, and schoolhouse, every tool and every piece of furniture we could glimpse within, had a story. Not a short one, either.

After half an hour, my group - an impeccably professional, attentive, polite lot, dutifully taking copious notes despite the wind - were audibly suffering; but the docent was pitiless. "I think they wound her up right before we got here," murmured the photographer in my ear.

I can tell you that a family of ten children was raised in the second cabin, a tiny little affair with only two rooms. There was a partition dividing the larger room, which was added, the docent went on inimitably, when the daughters of the family grew old enough to need some privacy when dressing. Ten children! That must have been cozy, I thought, gazing longingly through the half-open door. We weren't allowed inside.

By the last cabin, I'm surprised my group hadn't mutinied. The last cabin was the biggest one, and consequently had the longest story. Our docent talked on, standing full in the wind, seemingly unaffected - pioneer garb must be quite warm. We moved some of our more lightly-clad members into the most sheltered spot on the porch and tried to protect them with our own bodies. Some of us were whimpering.

Finally she led us away from the last cabin, but as we rounded the corner we saw a long line of rusty plows and tilling machines arrayed instructively under a pavilion. The docent moved towards them, remarking that many of the cabin owner's belongings could be seen inside the museum. There was a small, plaintive voice behind me. "I want to go inside and look at the belongings!"

It was too much for our photographer, who broke away from the group and strode back to the museum. But the docent had locked it.

Fifteen minutes later, when we were at last admitted to the warmth of the building, we dawdled lovingly over the exhibits as the docent went on, tirelessly, with more stories and descriptions. There were bonnets and gowns, pianos and chairs, a carriage and a car, books, newspapers, magazines, dolls, toys, jewelry. In one cabinet was a turn-of-the century do-it-yourself dental kit, complete with huge, rusty pliers. I would have been horrified if it weren't so nice and warm.

Finally our step-on guide for this leg of the trip had to intervene, telling the docent that our allotted time had passed and we were due at our next stop. "But before we go," he said, "I just wanted to tell you some exciting news: that our Chamber has just asked your docent to write a book on the history of this area!"

We all beamed and applauded, but I can't have been the only one wondering why we had to be the ones to take dictation?

A Low of What?!

There's nothing else quite like idly checking the weather forecast right before bed, only to discover that you need to spend the next half-hour frantically shuttling plants indoors.

Is this not the most inviting utility room ever? All it needs is a rattan chaise longue.

Now I'm all awake.

So Much for Global Warming

It was chilly out today, so therefore global warming must be a myth. Ipso facto: It's a fact!

Any pointy-headed science nerd will tell you that warm air rises, and unlike Bingo I can't leap effortlessly to the top of the bookshelf, so my feeties are cold.


And you know what? I can't subside into a blissful slumber with my ankles in my face, either.

So much for the theory of evolution!