Tumbleweeds on my Mind

Regardless of the temperature it's technically winter. All over the western plains of Texas, tumbleweeds have dried up, put their travelin' shoes on, and hitchhiked with the breeze. In high winds the weeds stampede en masse; they make lemmings look like severely introverted loners.

I grew up on the northeastern edge of El Paso with nothing over our back wall but desert. The winter winds inevitably headed west and invariably left an interlocked tumbleweed ramp many feet deep against the cinder block wall running the length of the neighborhood. The first calm weekend day, Dad and a bunch of other neighborhood men would drive to the end of the neighborhood, head into the desert behind the mass of weeds, park the cars a ways off, and spread out along the line of tumbleweeds.

After stuffing a newspaper or two into some of the weeds, each man would hold a lighter or match ready. On signal, each would light their section of tumbleweeds. A spouse or child would be in each back yard with a hose and shovel, just in case. The flames would leap 10-20 feet in the air; the whole conflagration lasted maybe a minute. Fast and furious, that's how they burn.

As a kid, it was exciting, always over much too fast. I suspect for the adults, it lasted a lot longer. Who wants to be party to setting the desert on fire and maybe burning half of El Paso? But of there was a problem, I never knew about it. Five minutes later, the fine ash was cool enough to walk through. After the first light breeze, it was gone, spread across the city too thinly to notice. But it's burned deeply into my mind.

Last month Sharon and I finally took our long overdue, first Vacation Out West together. A small tumbleweed named Dusty stuck a thumb out as we pulled over for a photo shoot, and Sharon brought him home. He seems content to just hang out, with no trace of the usual wanderlust. So far I've avoided mentioning fire around him. He seems sensitive.

Notice Dusty's color. He's a chameleon, blending into the desert to avoid predators-- mainly off-road pickup trucks and disgruntled homeowners with fire. It doesn't always work, which I suspect is why he's happy to be an indoor recluse. A brown recluse, but we are not afraid.

Thanks to Annie Hoffman Fentz for sharing the video and asking the questions that inspired this.

Growing Up Miles, Pt 3 : And I Think I Can Fly

Did you ever think you could fly? Most of us have wanted to fly at some point in our lives. I've pretty much always wanted to fly. I spent a lot of time as a kid looking up, dreaming about flying-- as a bird, as a pilot, as an astronaut.... But did you ever think you could fly?

I grew up when the US was unstoppable, when we owned outer space, when we were well along the arc to interplanetary (maybe interstellar!) travel, when science fiction seemed less like fiction with every passing day. With the odd dollop of magic or fantasy thrown in (to transform into a bird or pterodactyl), I had the skies covered. We would lay in the grass or in the driveway and dream of flying. I might be a buzzard or an eagle, or I might be piloting anything from a high winged Cessna to one of the B-52 Stratofortresses that constantly flew over El Paso in the early and mid 1960s.

Or I might be on my way to other planets, other star systems, other galaxies, other universes, or just wandering the infinite depths of outer space, between any of those.

I might be an inter-dimensional being that flitted from one reality to another, walking, swimming or flying as desired or needed. I might fly straight through gas giants, or even dense planets. Maybe even suns. But not black holes. Nothing could fly through a black hole. The weird gravity would probably rip the wings right off a trans-dimensional being!

I wanted to soar through that clear, blue, infinite, Texas sky, on cloudless days, and when the wisps floated high above like too many contrails, and when the cumulus clouds stacked up like God's own bag of cotton balls, and when the rare thunderheads moved in. I wanted to fly before the dust storm, before the flash floods, and right through them. I wanted to soar on the edge of gale force winds, then turn and fly back the other way just to show them who was boss.

Some days, out of the blue (so to speak), I would be hit with a nearly overwhelming conviction that I could fly if only I tried right then and there. This might happen once every few months, or once a year. It stopped, finally, during college. One of my most vivid memories of 9th grade is sitting in band rehearsal, 3/4 of the way to the back of the room, up several levels of risers. My trombone resting on the floor, I stared at the music while Mr. McClintock berated some other section for the sort of heinous musical crime band directors berate sections for. Suddenly I knew, I knew! that if I tried immediately, I would fly. Not just could. Would.

I watched it unfold in my mind's eye. It was so graceful. I carefully placed the brass on the floor, stood on my chair, extended my arms. Heads turned. Mr McClintock quit swatting the music stand with his baton. I raised my arms. He looked angry, thinking I was mocking him. I flapped my arms once, twice, leaned forward and leapt. I soared over the shocked heads, some ducking, of my band mates, landed next to the director, then took off back to my seat, doing a tight loop along the way. I picked up my trombone, and awaited instruction...

Thankfully, I caught myself before I finished putting the trombone down. But it was a massive struggle to not attempt what part of my mind just knew was the first step-- and possibly my last chance at that step-- into a glorious life filled with flight. I agonized for a day or two over whether I had blown it. Did I mention this was in the 9th grade?

I don't recall ever giving in to these bouts; I'm sure I would have remembered the subsequent doctor's visit and the mockery at school. (I never got this urge on flat ground without witnesses nearby.)

Did anyone else ever go through this?

Or is this just part of the freakishness of being Miles?[1]

 

This afternoon I couldn't help staring at the beauty of the sky, at the mixture of clear, rain-washed blue and clouds both white and gray. P.O.D.'s "Alive" started playing in my head, and I was soaring near those clouds on the wings of a bird of prey, lord of of all I surveyed, drinking in the glory and beauty of creation from a few thousand feet up.

It was, of course, all in my head. But until the day I can really and truly fly, I can live with that.

NOTES

[1] Thanks to Whitney Fagala and Kelsey Jones for latching on to that phrase when I spoke it today. I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise!

Wheels, Pt 1.5 - More of the Pre-Motorized Days

Remember that big, red Schwinn? That was the norm back then. One speed. Some form of basket. Bikes had to be practical as well as fun. Most students didn't carry a backpack or book bag so baskets were necessary for carrying school books and lunch, as well as comics, snacks, and whatever else you bought at the store (such as cigarettes for your parents or model glue for your models, provided you had a signed note and the store clerk or manager knew your parents).

Some people, mainly rich people or people we thought were off in their own, little worlds, had bikes with more than one speed. Three speeds were for old people or girls. Being boys in the early 60s, my friends and I prided ourselves on being able to keep up with any old three speed on our one speeds. I was convinced I could go 30; my Dad clocked me in his car one day. I went as fast as I could. My feet were a blur, my open jacket flapped like Superman's cape in the wind. I easily went 30, maybe 50! Dad's speedometer said 18.

I was shocked. No, I was devastated. Outwardly I accepted Dad's verdict (after a bit of arguing), but in my heart I knew the truth; his speedometer was broken. For months I half expected every cop we saw to pull Dad over for speeding. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to give you a ticket. Have a nice day. And get that speedometer fixed, sir."

There's never a cop around when you need one.

Every once in a while we'd see a ten speed. We called them English Racers-- I have no idea why. Nobody around seemed to actually race. We assumed the French and others rode them and raced them as well. Perhaps the English invented them?

My friends an I knew some day we would own English Racers. Even if we weren't rich. We'd be cool, off in our own, little worlds (weren't we always?) With ten whole speeds, there was no limit to how fast we could go, hunched over those beautiful, down-turned handlebars. With hand brakes instead of coaster brakes!

When I started playing trombone in the 6th grade, I carried my trombone in its case to school on days we had band. Some days I walked. When I rode, I hung the case by its handle on the bars. It was awkward but it was the only choice for riding so I did it, and it worked.

There I was, riding a tank of a bike, books and a lunch box in the basket, a huge, heavy, brown thing slung under my handlebars and bonking my knee on a regular basis. Having a blast. Driving my tank, firing that big, brown cannon. Flying my plane, launching that big brown missile or shooting that big, brown machine gun. We saved the day often, my bike and I.

I've glossed over a few other conveyances. At some point, probably at five or six, I had a (red, what else?) scooter. They were heavier back then, made of steel. Like my first bike, it came to me used. I couldn't have cared less. I rode it constantly, but have no idea what happened to it. Probably stolen.

Around 7 or 8 I got roller skates. I loved skating but there was only so far you could go on the sidewalk. Still, I skated until I couldn't stand it. Some days I rode my bike with my skates on (this was before in-lines). One of my favorite things was to get going as fast as I could (18MPH, hah!) and drop down onto my skates, astraddle the bar, riding my skates and bike together.

The bar. The bar~ The bane of every boy's existence at some point. I always thought it was unfair that girls had bikes much more suited to doing crazy stuff without hurting the private parts. Mom explained to me that girls were more delicate and sensitive there. I told her that was impossible or they would die from the pain. I don't think I got through to her. I would never have admitted it, but I was somewhat jealous of a boy up the street with the padded bar. It was years later I found out how little that helped when you slipped off the seat.

November 11, 1966, a day that lives in infamy, we moved to Augusta, Georgia, 39 days before my 11th birthday. I believe it was some point in that year when I finally got a big bike, a 26", probably a Schwinn, and definitely red. Instead of a basket on the front, it had two baskets on the back. Saddle baskets. Just like a cowboy. Having left my beloved Texas for some silly state with too many trees and too little sky, I needed those baskets, a link (however tenuous) to Texas. A cowboy's bike.

My sisters ended up with purple Spyder style bikes-- banana seats and high bars. I was jealous. These were about the coolest bikes around! I wasn't allowed to ride them much; I might have broken them. My parents especially mistrusted the chain's ability to take abuse; it was about half the size of any bicycle chain we had ever seen. In fact the whole bike was fairly small. a marvel of compact, graceful design. I occasionally managed to ride one around the yard; they were just made for doing stunts. My sisters, girls to the core, simply rode them. I was happy for them, but it just seemed wrong.

My cousin (let's call him Ben) came to stay with us a couple of summers later while he went to the local college. Ben tended to do what Ben wanted to do. And one day what Ben wanted to do was ride one of the Spyder bikes. I rode my bike despite Ben's pressure to ride the other Spyder. We took off up Henry Street. At the far end of Henry Street we got to Ben's destination: The Hill. It was 1,000 feet long, at an angle between 30 and 40 degrees. We all loved to race down The Hill on bikes (or on crazy days, skates). Near the bottom we would lock up the brakes, skidding sideways through the terminal intersection to a halt just before, or just at, the far curb. End of the line. The trick was to stop as close to the curb as possible, ideally hitting it without falling over. Back up The Hill and do it again!

Ben stopped at the top of the hill as we sometimes did, and grinned. Then he took off down the Hill, pedaling as fast as he could, screaming for joy like the wild football player he'd been in high school. As he neared the bottom of The Hill, he stood up on the bike, pedaled backward hard to slam on the coaster brake and... froze as the chain snapped and the bike zoomed the last twenty five feet down the hill, through the cross street, up the packed dirt and leaves acting like a ramp at the curb, flew teen feet or more through the air, skidded through the muddy grass into the bushes and WHAM into the brick wall of the local synagogue.

Ben sustained only minor injuries, a few scratches. His head was harder than mine (and that's hard!), so he hardly bled (we all suspected he broke a brick or two). The bike, though... besides the broken chain the bars were bent, the tire popped, and several spokes were bent or broken. When Ben came out of his daze (whether medical or emotional I couldn't say) he tried to get me to walk the bike home while he rode mine. I wasn't having it. I wasn't touching that bike! I'd tried to talk him out of riding it and he hadn't listened. My fingerprints were not going on that bike. That rebelliously ridden bike. That banned bike. I had a hard time standing up to Ben, but fear is a powerful motivator.

My parents responded as expected. They'd trusted him, given him a second chance at college, and this was how he repaid them? Practically stealing and destroying my sister's bike and involving me? They tag teamed him for a good fifteen minutes. They made him pay to fix the bike and do what work he could (most of it) himself. He even had to touch up scratches, some of which probably weren't even from the bushes.

Sadly, I don't think he learned much from the experience.

Perhaps even more sadly, I don't think I did, either. But that's another story line.

Occupy Taco Hell!

When I was almost 11 we moved from El Paso, TX to Augusta, GA. We went from having great Mexican everywhere to NADA. I think the grocery store had three Old El Paso products (refried beans, taco shells, and Spanish rice) that was the sum of "Mexican food" available in 1966 in the deep south.

After a few years heard about a Mexican restaurant coming to town. The whole family was excited excited, but Mom and I could hardly wait. We were there opening day. We were a little nervous because it looked like McDonalds.

It pretty much was a Mexico themed McDonalds. You probably guessed it... Taco Bell. (Or as I tend to think of it these days, Taco Hell.)

Their overall food quality was better then (so was McDonalds'), and at least it was Mexican-ish. We wanted to laugh and cry at the same time; we were so disappointed, but... they had tacos! Sort of. We ate it.

It was only after Taco Bell showed up that the grocery store started carrying taco mix!


In Atlanta in the 1970s and early 1980s, there was a scarcity of Mexican and Tex-Mex restaurants. The one Tex-Mex (labeled Mexican) restaurant we found on Ponce de Leon (Pepe's, R.I.P.) was good, if a little subdued, spice-wise. Most of the Mexican-run Mexican restaurants were heavily Americanized (or more accurately, deep south white folk-anized) because of local tastes.


Now I'm back in Texas. The area is lousy with good Mexican and Tex-Mex (with Chuys heads above all others in the latter category). And yet... Taco Bell abounds.

To each their own. You can have your Taco Bell. I'll stick with fresh ingredients and flavor, thank you very much!