The celebration ends

The San Jacinto Monument

We stumbled into the 175th anniversary of Texas Independence. We're life-long Texans but had never really thought about it.

Fittingly, we found out about it at the celebration of the signing of the independence declaration at Washington on the Brazos, and though that was the only site we visited during a time when some sort of official event took place, our visits to key places in Texas history renewed our knowledge, and appreciation, of the state's past.

As a part of the state celebration, the parks service or the historical commission, or some other group came up with the brilliant idea to create a "passport" listing essential historical sites that tourists could visit. While there, tourists could have their passports stamped to show they'd visited. The idea appealed to us and became a great excuse to take a series of weekend vacations for the rest of the year.

We'd visited Goliad and Gonzales, the Alamo and the missions in San Antonio. All that remained was for us to visit the San Jacinto memorial and San Felipe de Austin. With vacation in Big Bend recently completed, paid time off was a bit scarce, so we decided to fit the last trip into a standard weekend.

We packed and headed out after work on the 12th. For a change, Alice, the voice of our GPS, didn't really provide a good story to be included in these musings. I had changed the settings on the device, so once we approached Houston, Alice wanted to shuttle us off onto toll roads, but I had preloaded a Google-map route on the iPod, so we avoided the tolls.

A stop in Corsicana provides the unusual story for the trip down. We looked for a place to eat along I-45 and found the pickings a bit slim. Seems we'd connected with the highway on the southern end of town and missed most of the restaurants.

We spied an Applebee's and headed that direction. We were greeted at the door by a man who asked us if we had a reservation. Now, Corsicana qualifies as a smallish town, but really, could Applebee's really be considered an upscale establishment or was it such a busy place that patrons would need reservations?

Alas, no joke could be found. Seems the restaurant was brand new, not officially open, and they were having an invitation-only night before the grand opening. We settled for Subway instead, where the guys manning the joint served us with somewhat less than a jovial attitude.

Another diner sought directions to a Holiday Inn just a stone's throw away, but the area is so new a road from the Subway to the motel hadn't been built, so no easy route was available. The diner was confused and the server irritated.

The bad part about traveling at night is that your perception of distance and time are distorted. The trip through Houston to our hotel in Baytown seemed to take forever. I worried a bit about staying Baytown because of the refineries. (We used to live in the Borger area, and the Phillips refinery could sometimes assault the senses.) But they provided a beautiful sight as we drove past, with the colored lights shining off the water.

The trip to the memorial took us across a bay, and we drove over a cool bridge that looked like a piece of modern art. I wished I could have taken a picture.

The memorial dominates the landscape. It's taller -- thanks to a star placed at the top -- than the Washington momunent, and the star, we discovered, was designed so that no matter what angle you view it from, you see the five-pointed star that is the symbol of Texas.

The museum at the base contains a theater where they show a short film on the battle of San Jacinto, narrated by Charlton Heston, or someone who sounds like him. The film is interesting enough, but the narration nearly drove me nuts. Heston would occasionally try to pronounce place names or people's names using their Spanish pronunciation. Sometimes he said it properly. Often, he did not. And at other times, he used Anglicized pronunciation. But hearing San Jacinto pronounced as Sawn Jo-seen-to gave me the shakes.

We took the elevator to the top and gazed out over the battleground and the city, a pretty impressive sight. Then we took in the rest of the displays in the museum, where I learned that my impression that his loss at San Jacinto had pretty much ended the career of Santa Ana was entirely mistaken.

View from the top of the memorial. The stands of trees at the end
of the pool are where the Texans encamped before attacking Santa Ana's troops.

I took Texas history many moons ago, and whatever I may have actually learned had long since dissolved into the mists of time. Santa Ana led a long life of making Mexico miserable until they finally ran him off to Cuba.

Another fact I picked up while there was that the Texans turned items captured from Santa Ana and turned them into to souvenir cutlery.

The USS Texas

The battleship USS Texas lies at anchor nearby, and we headed there next. The Texas is the only surviving warship to have served in both World Wars. We've visited the aircraft carrier USS Lexington in Corpus and were amazed at the spartan nature of the accommodations for the sailors and marines. Compared with the Texas, though, the Lexington was a cruise liner.

Crew accommodations. That's bunks for eight men, short men.

The ship was designed for a complement of 900 plus men but sailed with up to 600 more. As a result, you see bunks hanging everywhere. And the officers didn't have much better accommodations, just privacy.

By the time we'd finished crawling over the ship, we'd been touristing for most of the day. We'd discovered that the Kemah boardwalk was nearby and decided to go there for supper.

We'd visited Kemah a bit more than a decade ago, and then during the week. I don't remember it being quite as crowded and nuts as it was that night. We walked around for a bit, then headed over to The Aquarium, a seafood restaurant with an aquarium built inside. Seems a bit cruel to dine on fish while their cousins are swimming in giant tanks nearby, but I didn't let it bother me.

After dinner we walked around a bit more, checking the boardwalk in hopes that a boat would sail near by on its way to the marina, which had happened the last time we were there, but no luck.

We picked up a giant muffin to split for dessert and headed by to the motel. I was so tired that when I lay down, I immediately fell asleep. A good day.

Sunday we headed for San Felipe de Austin, about an hour's drive west of Houston. A small state park has been established at the site of Austin's colony, which was commonly called Austin.

Stephen F. Austin, the father of Texas.

They have a statue of the man, some interpretive signs, a restored general store that serves as the visitor center, and a replica of the only home Austin ever owned -- a two-room, dog-run built in the 1820s. Though a reproduction, the cabin is supposed to contain some bricks from the original fireplace.

Replica of the only home Austin owned.

We were the only visitors at the time, so we had the full attention of the attendant. The park had a grand opening the week before, but she told us that it wasn't very grand. The interpretive signs arrived barely in time, and the visitor center wasn't completed. Not very many people attended. So, she said, we hadn't missed anything.

The final highlight of the trip came, of all places, at a Whataburger in Waco. Waco is the home of Dr Pepper, and the interior of the eatery was decorated in a Dr Pepper theme, including a display of bottles the company has used through the years.

This display explained to us that the company changed typefaces in the '60s, and the typeface chosen used an "r" in which the the little serif at the top that makes the letter an "r" was slightly separated from the letter's stem. When a period was added, it looked more like an "i" followed by a colon than an "r." So, the company dumped the period and never brought it back.

The anniversary trips are over now. I'm glad to have re-learned the history of the struggle endured by Texians and Texans that eventually resulted in a major expansion of the territory occupied by the United States.

From "Come and take it" to "Remember Goliad; Remember the Alamo," the story of Texas gives us a heritage worthy of the braggadocio we Texans are so fond of indulging in.

One last adventure, or two, before coming home

Day 4

We're up before the sun, which means we only had, oh, nine hours sleep. Don't know how we'll survive.

We break camp, pack the car and head to the campground store to buy souvenirs and pay way too much for enough gas to take us to a place where the price will be more reasonable. I notice that my low tire light is on, but don't think much about it because it seems a bit cooler this morning, and sometimes that will cause one or more tires to be low.

I put some gas in the tank, find the offending tire and air it up, and we head out. We plan to stop at the fossil bone exhibit, which isn't as exciting as it sounds, and take the auto trail to Dagger Flats, where giant yuccas live, or so we've read.

Along the way we stop at an "interpretive exhibit" that turns out to be the grave site of a woman who had settled in a small oasis area with her husband, who taught at the school for the Dugout Wells community.

We climb around a bit at the fossil bone exhibit, read the signs and look at the fossil replicas, then head for the auto trail. On the way I ask Sharon if she wants to have some real excitement on the way home. I suggest that we run the Border Patrol station outside of Marathon and see if they give chase. She laughs but doesn't think it'd be a good idea. Imagine.

The auto trail is a gravel road with a bunch of markers linked to a guide that explains the plant life in the area. It's a bit rough but nothing the cube can't handle, until we arrive at a wash that crosses the road. Some black sand covers the road along with some kind of rubber grating the park has put down.

We cross that easily enough and then come to another part of the road covered with black sand. I don't think much about it since we crossed the last patch without incident and proceed. The road falls off a bit to the sandy area, where we promptly become stuck. I try the techniques for snow and only manage to dig myself in deeper. The sand comes up to the bottom of the bumpers.

I think that maybe I can push while Sharon drives and get us going, but that doesn't work. Sharon checks her cell phone and finds that she has a signal, so we agree it'd be best to call 911. I'm still trying to figure out a solution. There's less behind us than in front of us, so I decide that's the direction to go.

Almost out. Notice the dug out area in the right front corner.

We have nothing really suited to digging with, so I drop to my hands an knees and start digging with my hands. I dig down behind each wheel until I hit hard packed ground, get in the car and try backing up. The wheels bite and push the car back a few feet till the sand stops it.

Repeat the digging. Back up a few more feet. Repeat. Eventually we gain enough traction to put us back on the gravel portion of the road, where we turn around and head back for the main road. Sharon calls 911 back to report we're out of trouble. I've no idea how long this has taken, but I have a feeling no one had been dispatched to help us.

By the time we return to the main road, I notice my low tire light is on again.I pump it back up and think that perhaps being stuck aggravated what I had hoped was a slow leak, and we wouldn't have a problem. I really shouldn't think. We make a stop at the Persimmon Gap visitor center to look at the souvenir offerings there, and by the time we return to the car, the tire is low again. I pump it up again.

Off we go, but we have to stop before we get to the Border Patrol station to air up the tire again. I don't want to have to unload the car to put the spare on, and as long as we're driving, the leak doesn't seem be as bad somehow.

I behave at the Border Patrol station, where they ask if we've been at the park and whether we're American citizens. We're not asked for any identification. The agents peer through the windows and seem satisfied we're not a threat to national security and let us go.

In Marathon we stop for a soda and check out the possibilities for tire repair. The Shell station appears to do some mechanical work, but I decide I'd rather keep pumping up the tire and take my chances in Fort Stockton. I only have to stop once before we make it to town.

Sharon has checked TomTom, which tells her that Fort Stockton has a Firestone, which is good because I bought the tires there and have road hazard. But when we try to follow its directions, it doesn't take us to a deal, it takes us to Firestone Road, which is not in the town.

We go back to town, stop at the Ford dealership and ask about the Firestone. Turns out it's just down the road, not far past the intersection where the GPS sent us left instead of right, which would have brought us to our destination.

The tire was repaired in due course, but it turns out the tire shop is just an authorized seller, not a dealer, so I have to pay for the repair. We find a place to grab some grub because it's been a long time since breakfast, about 8 hours, and a soda and pretzels were all we'd had.

The adrenaline subsides while we munch away, and we agree we've had enough adventure for one trip.  We're ready for a normal rest of the trip home. Ask, and you shall receive.

The day of wonder

Day 4 

The sun is fully risen by the time we are. Yessir, I'm a-likin' this sleeping-in thing. Last night we had lots of wind early in the night and then rain. Not a heavy downpour, but sufficient to make us zip up the windows.

After the rain we visit the nearby washroom, but while walking through the grass we can't tell that it has rained in the slightest -- our shoes are dry on our return to the tent. Sometime after we dozed off, the rain started up again, falling for about as long as the first rain lasted. 

The only way you can tell in the morning that it has rained is by the tiniest of puddles on the improved road in the campground. The ground still looks cracked and dry where it's bare, and only the barest drops of moisture cling to a few blades of grass.

We return to the Rio Grande Village nature trail, properly equipped with walking sticks and water. 

The route takes you through the wetlands and along the river. Across the river lies the town of Boquillas, a small village you can't visit since 9-11. You can also see a large sand dune. 

 I take the trail to the top of the overlook hill; Sharon elects to stay on the main trail. At the top I pose for pics. Such a ham. The trail is most interesting for the contrasts. You go from a wetlands area to the edge of the river to desert to hills. Not bad for a walk of less than a mile.

 We've decided to check out Dugout Wells and the Window View trail starting in the late afternoon. The choice will be the most spectacular of an already over the top trip. 

Dugout Wells is the site of a spring that created an oasis around which a small community developed for a short time a hundred or so years ago. Great cottonwoods grow there, in the midst of which the park has built a picnic area. 

 We made the short jaunt around an interpretive trail that described much of the flora visible in the desert. Back at the picnic area, Sharon walks up into the cottonwoods. 

I follow along in a few seconds, thinking there's nothing to see but another picnic table. 

Monarchs everywhere

Just as she comes into view, I hear her say, "Oh!" Monarch butterflies are swarming just overhead, dozens of them. As we looked closer, we see that the trees are full of butterflies, hundreds of them. The annual migration is on, and we'd seen quite a few at the campsite, but this is a riot of flashing orange joy on the wing. 

While I'm busy trying to take the perfect photo of the fluttering horde, I hear "Oh" again. When I look over at Sharon, she is standing one leg so I think she's having a foot cramp. She says there's a whole pack of Javalinas up under the trees. This starts an effort o bot our parts to take a picture without disturbing the dozing beasts to the extent they'll be sufficiently aroused to express their displeasure with us. 

Javelina napping

From here we head up into the Chisos mountains. It's a long, uphill drive made longer by the stunning views and the number of conveniently placed pull-off areas along the route that fairly beg you to stop and shoot too many pictures. 

We finally arrive at the lodge area in the basin, check out the merchandise in the camp store, shoot some more pictures of interesting rock formations then wander down the Window view trail. The short walk on a paved surface brings you to an overlook area. You can see the area called the Window with the outline of more mountains in the distance. I shoot way too many pictures at a variety of exposures and zoom lengths. And for a while we just sit and look.

Into the mountains

We intend to attend a ranger-led program while we're in the basin, but it's about an hour until it starts. We've brought food and have supper in a picnic area. As we're finishing cleaning up, a fox strolls through the picnic area we've just left and across the road to one of the lodging areas, stopping nicely in front of one room. The residents are, of course, delighted. 

The program is pretty interesting. The ranger shows pictures of what the park looks like each month of the year. The variety is amazing, especially the pictures from the "rainy season." The desert areas come alive with plants and color.

End of the day at the Window view

After the program we make our way safely down the mountain and head for out campsite, spotting at least a half-dozen jackrabbits along the way. We'll go to bed late this night, a little after 10. It's been a good day.

Into the wild, sorta

Day 3
We begin again as the day begins to dawn. I'm beginning to like this long sleep thing.

After breakfast Sharon finds a place near the site that seems to lead to the Rio Grande. The park literature indicates that a nature trail that begins in the campground, so we wonder if she's found it. If so, it will be a disappointment because the ground at the bank has fallen away -- the trail leads nowhere.

But I don't think she's gone down far enough, so I go exploring a bit later. I discover the trailhead we're looking for farther down the road. On the way back to our campsite, I see a tree covered with large birds. Turns out they're turkey buzzards. The site is creepy, like something out of a B horror movie. They seem to be waiting for something, and I hope it's not us. 

Congregation of the creepy

The nature trail starts at a wetlands area that's the result of  beaver dams, but we don't see any beaver. We don't see much besides reeds and the pontoon bridge that crosses the water.

The trail leads up a hill from the bridge, but we're not sure about it, and we haven't adequately prepared for a real hike, so we turn back. We'll be back on the morrow.

The plan then is to do the Boquillas Canyon trail, which is supposed to be an easy trail. For us, it's a bit more strenuous. The trail immediately goes up -- it's like climbing the stairs at the office.


On the trail we encounter an older couple who hail from Massachusetts but live in Florida now. They won't make the entire hike -- in part because she's wearing dressy slides.

We also meet a couple from Bavaria -- he's all duded out in boots, jeans and a big, black cowboy hat. They're both very nice and chat in very good English. At the high point of the trail is a small promontory that makes a good place to take pictures, so we all swap cameras and take each other's pics. When I tell the Bavarian dude he looks like a Texan, he seems pleased. 

He probably shouldn't be doing this.

We separate, the older couple turning back, the Bavarians working their way down to the river. We take the trail to the left toward the canyon entrance.

In a few minutes the Bavarians come up to us and say he's taken a picture of a man on a burro crossing the river with a bunch of trinkets for sale. These souvenirs -- walking sticks and a variety of bead animals -- show up on every trail near the river, and you are not supposed to buy them. While we're talking, I notice a man riding across the river on a horse and take his picture.

As we draw near the mouth of the canyon, we hear a man singing, the sound echoing off the canyon walls. He knows three songs -- "Cielito Lindo," "De Colores," and one I've not heard before.

We hang back, figuring he'll want a tip, so of course, he trundles up to us, wanting to sell us walking sticks. We politely demure. I address him in Spanish, and the Bavarians look surprised. I guess I don't look Hispanic. 

El Cantador

Getting to canyon entrance didn't seem so bad. After all we were relatively fresh, but the return trip up the hill takes its toll on Sharon. We took a couples of liters of water each, but it's just not enough for the dry climate. I buzz ahead and bring another couple of liters more for her, and we make it back to the car. The rest of the day is spent reading and relaxing at the campsite.


We still have most of the campground to ourselves. An RV with an older couple will roll in later in the afternoon, but they pick a spot on the other side. We marvel at the difference between this place and home. You almost always hear the sounds of traffic at home. Here you hear insects, the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind, woodpeckers banging away in the trees.


On Monday we saw what we later decide was a vermillion flycatcher, a small bird with a red head and breast. Today we see Monarch butterflies and the woodpeckers and spend time chasing them around the trees trying to shoot pictures. I get a good shot of a Monarch; Sharon may have caught a woodpecker.

The vultures soar in the late afternoon, and I take a shot I think will be one of my favorites -- a vulture soaring with the half moon nearby. They may be vultures, but while soaring high in the sky they are an impressive sight.


The nights are incredible as well. The park has worked to eliminate light pollution, and the night skies produce stunning views. Without binoculars or a telescope you can easily identify clusters and nebulae. When Orion rises, it looks huge, not because of its proximity to the horizon but because the starlight is unobscured in the clear, dark sky. 


As with other nights, bedtime will come just a couple of hours after sundown. I look forward to what the new day will bring in this wonderland.

Big Bend, here we come

Day 1

The idea was to leave right after Sunday school, but like many ideas it was ill-conceived. Leaving before noon became the more realistic goal, and in fact we hit the road sooner, about 11:15 or so.

Our route was set to take us to San Angelo, and mostly the route was problem free. But at one point, between two of the small towns, neither of which can I remember, traffic came to a complete standstill.

Some people opened their car doors and stood on the door sill, trying to see what was happening, while others drove onto the shoulder, either because they thought they could see better, or because they were trying to gain an advantage.

We were stopped at an intersection of roads, and several drivers turned right. We decided they might have local knowledge and decided to follow. A mile an half or two later, we emerged beyond the blockage and continued on our merry way.TomTom led us astray in San Angelo.

The state park's HQ is one place, and the two actual entrances are elsewhere. TomTom took us to HQ, which was, of course, the wrong place and was closed. At least they put a sign up telling visitors where to go.

Our San Angelo site

After following posted directions to the right place, we were helped by a friendly park ranger who tried to be nice and set us up closer to  where we were at the time, instead of where we had reserved a spot. Unfortunately that meant setting us up in an area not really intended for tent camping.  

The ground was full of rocks and, as we were to discover, stickers aka grass burrs or goatheads. The plastic tent stakes weren't going to work, but we had brought some metal ones and a hammer. Turned out plenty of rocks lurked below the surface. I managed to pound most of the stakes in far enough to ensure the tent wouldn't blow away.

Our lack of recent experience resulted in a poor initial choice of a spot for the tent, soon rectified.  After supper, we read til dark, then Sharon found a spot to do some star-gazing.  The view was much better than back home, but not near as spectacular as what we would soon encounter.

Eventually we decided to retire for the evening -- about 9:30. I never go to bed that early, but it felt good and would prove to be a good choice. 

Day 2

The morning was brisk, meaning cold. We slept until the sky began to lighten, about 20 minutes or so before sunrise. That's a lot of sleep for us.

After packing, we buzzed into town to pick up a few things we needed, find a wi-fi hotspot to check in, and then asked TomTom to take us to Marathon, the nearest spot to the park in its database. Bad idea.

The "pyramid" mountain

TomTom decides to shoot us straight down to I-10, which may compute to a faster travel time, but it's a longer trip. Still, we travel through Eldorado, home of the Yearning For Zion RCLDS compound, and we will see a mountain formation that looks like a pyramid from a distance.

The trip seems to take forever, but we arrive in good stead during the late afternoon. The drive through the park to the campground is enough to make my whole trip worthwhile. The views are spectacular, especially the Sierra del Carmen range just over the border in Mexico. Much like the trip to the Grand Canyon, these are views that put the awe in awesome, and I know we will encounter other wonders before we leave.


Our campsite is within a stone's throw of the river. We set up, grab some grub, and settle in. You couldn't ask for a greater contrast to last night's site. Because we near the river, the park service regularly irrigates the campground, so the sites are plush with grass and situated under big trees. The 

Rio Grande Village site

plastic tent stakes require a little coaxing with the hammer, but I don't strike a single rock.

Another early turn-in time. We're the only ones in the campground, so we are treated to the sounds of insects,  the leaves rustling in the trees, and a variety of animal noises. Coyotes howl, something makes a noise like a child screeching -- bobcat maybe? -- and something else makes a kind of honking noise. We decide later it's probably a donkey, but we'll have to ask someone. Early in the morning we hear sounds like a puppy yipping.

Oh, I almost forgot. On the road to the campground we see huge yellow caterpillars crawling en masse across the road. And they move quickly. Something else we need to ask about. (I ask a ranger a couple of days later, and she confirms the donkey sound and the probability that we heard a bobcat. The caterpillars turn into yellow butterflies that are common in the park, but she has no idea why they're crossing the road except to get to the other side.

Tomorrow we begin the adventure in earnest. 

A little less heat, a little more light, please

Christianity Today reported recently on the controversy surrounding the latest version of the NIV Bible.

Seems the Southern Baptist Convention passed a resolution against the 2011 version, which is slated to replace the now venerable version from 1984. Too much gender neutral language, apparently, the same complaint that was lodged against the Today's NIV, which had a stated goal of producing a more language inclusive translation.

The Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood joins the SBC in its contempt for the new version, which they believe is an inaccurate translation because of the gender neutral issue.

I should point out that no version of the NIV uses gender neutral language for God -- in any aspect of the Trinity. God is still father, Jesus is the Son, and the Holy Spirit is a he. But the CBMW believes that  some of the NIV's neutral translations should have been translated using male terms because they would be more accurate.

More particularly they object to the translation of I Timothy 2:12, where Paul says he doesn't allow women to have authority over men. The NIV uses the word "assume" instead of "have." They detect an egalitarian bias in this translation.

For the uninitiated, there are two kinds of conservative Christians -- those who believe men and women are equal before God but have different, God-ordained roles in the church, and those who believe men and women are equal. Period. The former are complementarians, the latter egalitarians.

The CBMW cares not that the committee that produced the translation stoutly denies any bias, pointing to members who hold a complementarian view that were OK with the translation. Nope, the bias is there, the naysayers insist.

I spent some time with the old NIV and the newest NIV and applied the little bit of Greek training from seminary that is still useful and found some translations I thought were better in each edition. The worst part for me was the use of the execrable singular "they." You know: Anyone who believes they are better than someone else is a fool. Ick.

Now, I spent 12 years of my life studying five languages other than English. And I've spent a good deal of time studying English and how to communicate in it. With that background, I'll say this.

All English translations are by their nature a compromise. Translators have to figure out how to translate the context of words from another language and time into English that is understandable to a modern reader.

Context determines whether the use of a word is slang or whether a phrase is an idiom without an exact equivalent in English. The historical and cultural context imbues words with meaning as well. Go back and read a King James Bible to see how this works.

The most "literal" translation keeps these concepts in mind. Find a good interlinear Greek-English Bible, and you will see the translators sticking in English words that aren't in the Greek or Hebrew text because they are implied by the word being translated, and it's the only way to make a sentence intelligible in English.

I never recommend one specific Bible translation because of this. I also don't dog on translations. The translators are doing their best, given their training and available tools to produce a translation that will speak to readers.

What we should do is have a variety of translations at our disposal, a feat that's relatively simple now through the Internet. We should read the same passage in two or three -- or more -- versions, noting the differences and ask ourselves what insight we can gain from those differences. Done prayerfully, the exercise could lead us to a deeper appreciation for the message of the passage.

And really, isn't that the point of reading Scripture?

On The Texas Independence Trail -- San Antonio Missions

We spent Sunday at Sea World. The morning passed fairly comfortably, but the wind died in the afternoon, and even though it only reached 100, the afternoon was pretty hot.

We enjoyed the shows -- especially the clown act at Azul, and of course, Shamu. At one point in the afternoon, we returned to the car, where we'd left a cooler full of drinks and fruit. We sat in the car with the air

conditioner running and recovered, which enabled us to spend pretty much an entire day at the park.

Not much more to say about the park. If you've never been, you should go and have a good time.

Monday marked our return to the quest for Texas history and stamps for our passport.

Beginning in 1718 the Spanish established five missions along the San Antonio river to evangelize the native population. According to a film the National Park Service shows at the main mission, San Jose, their work would fuse two cultures, resulting in a new culture.

Mission San Jose is the oldest and largest of the missions. The walls were fortified to protect against attacks, so you'll see gun turrets and gunports for defense. The outer wall are also where the Indian barracks were located. Each family had two rooms, one with a fireplace.

In the courtyard each barracks was fronted by a water well and community ovens, one for every three or four families. In a lot of ways it reminded us of an apartment complex with community barbecue pits.

The worship area is being restored so we couldn't go inside, but a functioning congregation still meets in the building, as is true of the three other missions open to the public.

The mission houses a large granary and a grist mill. The mill was used to grind wheat and was powered by water diverted from the river. After powering the mill, the water returns to acequias, ditches essentially, that carry it to the fields for irrigation

We stop back in at the main office and ask how to get to the next mission, and the park ranger ac

ts like we're idiots. We have a brochure with a map of locations that also has a bunch of colored lines with no legend that explains what they are. Turns out the dotted line is the one you're supposed to follow. Then she tells us to just follow the brown signs.

Big mistake.

We take off, following the brown signs as instructed and soon come to a turn off to go to the southernmost mission, Espada. My plan is to go to Mission San Juan, then go back to Espada and finish at Mission Conception, the turn-off for which we passed on our way to Mission San Jose.

The only problem is that we became so focused on following the brown signs, we're not paying real close attention to what they say. It's remarkable how similar San Juan and San Jose are. In case that line didn't tip you off, we wound up back where we started. Grr.

We start off following the signs again, only this time we take the turn off to Espada. Espada is the least well preserved of the missions, but the grounds surrounding the chapel are nicely maintained by the friars who run the parish, with some gorgeous flowers. Espada is one of the two missions near the labores, or farms that provided the grain.

We follow the brown signs again, paying close attention to their content and arrive safely at Mission San Juan. The park service provides a hiking trail at this mission to take you to the river, more like a small stream at this point. When you return to the mission, you face what was the main entrance.

This mission is also small compared with Mission San Jose but is better restored or was maintained better than Espada.

Next on our tour was Mission Concepcion, closer to downtown than the other missions. We

follow the brown signs again, and everything seems to be going swimmingly until one of the signs directs us to go a particular direction, and then we run out of brown signs. Soon we find ourselves on the edge of downtown, having completely missed Concepcion.

Using the park map, we start to head back to San Jose and wind up right next to Concepcion. Not too bad.

The church and convent sections of Concepcion are the best preserved of any of the buildings, with some of the original stucco still in existence. You become accustomed to seeing these buildings without the covering they had, in which frescoes had been painted.

If you've ever seen buildings in Mexico with bright, vivid external colors and patterns painted on them, then you have an idea of how these buildings probably looked long ago, not the drab, brown and gray stone structures you see now.

One of the park rangers is talking to a couple as I walk by, but he grabs my arm and tells me how to take a shot of the mission that he thinks it particularly striking. I go line up the way he's instructed and

wind up agreeing that it's a nice shot. You can see sky in all the window of the towers.

After our visit to Concepcion, we eat lunch and head for Gonzales. We are determined to obtain the passport stamp we missed the last time we were there. We roll into town and find the chamber of commerce, located in the old jail, which is also a tourist attraction.

After obtaining the stamp, we walk through the jail building, looking at the cells, which no one in his right mind would want to spend any time in, and viewing the reconstructed gallows. You can walk up on the gallows platform if you want, and I suppose you could even stick your head in the noose, but that seems a bit too creepy for me, and we skip that highlight.

Afterward, we jump in the cube and head for home, sweet home. Someday soon we'll plan a visit to the final sites on the 175th anniversary tour: San Felipe de Austin and the San Jacinto battleground.

On the Texas Independence Trail -- The Adventure Continues

The time came, after too much overtime for Sharon, with more in the future, for a road trip. Take a weekday off, combine it with a weekend, and go in search of fun.

We're still trying to collect all the stamps in our 175th Anniversary passport, so we decide to head for San Antonio, where we can pick up the one for the Alamo and where we can visit the missions again. We'd been to them a couple of decades ago and always wanted to go back.

We'd top the trip off with a run to Gonzales, which we'd visited over the July 4 weekend. We didn't get a stamp there because you have to go to the Chamber of Commerce, which was closed, and we couldn't find anyway.

The summer decided to be freakishly hot, but we were encouraged to hear that a tropical storm was bearing down on Texas, and its path would take it close enough to San Antone to dump some rain and make it cooler during our stay.

Then TS Don came on shore and the Texas heat sucked the life out of it. Still, Internet weather prognosticators said we'd have clouds and somewhat cooler temps, and for the most part, they were correct. They neglected to mention the winds would be light, dying off in the afternoons and evenings, with enough humidity to suck the life out of us.

I determined we should hit the road by 10 a.m. Saturday. We woke too early and ended up leaving a bit after 9. But given my track record for getting lost and having to drive in at least one circle despite owning and using a GPS, I figured we wouldn't actually arrive any earlier.

We didn't wind up making a circle, but we did have to contend with I-35 traffic, which can come to a standstill for no apparent reason and usually does. We arrived at the hotel precisely, or nearly so, at check-in time. After stowing our stuff, we headed for the Alamo.

We parked in a nearby parking garage associated with the River Center mall, thinking it would be easy to return to.

At the Alamo, I forget to take my hat off when we enter the main building. A volunteer catches my eye and quite sternly says, "Sir. Your hat." From his tone you would think I committed some unspeakable act. Then I see the sign that reminds me this is a "shrine" and "hallowed ground."

I know the story, what happened there 175 years ago. Depending on your perspective, the battle was either an amazing sacrifice for freedom, or a preventable waste of good lives. Given my Texas birth, I know which side I'm supposed to be on, but honestly this shrine and holy ground stuff is a bit much.

Only the one area qualifies. The rest of the grounds and buildings can be wandered at will -- with a hat on -- and no one minds, even though Texians and Tejanos died everywhere. Later, in a video, we're told the state Lege passed a law declaring the site to be a shrine. Oh, well. If it's a law.

I behave for the rest of our stay, and then we head for the Riverwalk. We'll spend a couple of hours walking about, grabbing some Mexican food and then head for the car. Now we're in trouble.

We return to street level in the wrong place and don't recognize the surroundings. We have a map and head the direction we think we're supposed to be going, but nothing is familiar. We try a different tack but that's not helpful either.

We stop and sit on a concrete pylon to try to puzzle out from the map where we are, and small, quite inebriated Hispanic woman comes up to us, wanting to know what we're doing. Sharon tells her we're trying how to figure out how to get to the River Center garage, so she calls over her equally inebriated husband, who has prosthetics on both legs and is wheelchair bound.

He gives us directions that almost make sense and asks for money for food. I know he's not going to use the money for food, but I give him a couple of bucks just so the couple will quit bothering us. They shout directions at us as we move off in the indicated direction, but decide not to cut through another parking garage as they've urged us.

Downtown San Antonio is awash with people moving from who knows where to somewhere else. Eventually we spot a gang of bicycle cops hanging out on a corner, chatting or just staring. I walk up to one of the starers and ask how to get to the garage we're looking for.

He tells me to keep going the direction we're headed, and it'll be on our left. Sure enough, we spot the sign in a couple of blocks. Relieved that we've finally arrived and needing to sit and recover from the now oppressive heat and humidity, we head for the tier our car is located on.

Only it's not there.

In fact, the parking spot is not there. We quickly discover there are two parking garages with the same name, and we're in the wrong one. Back to the street.

Once we figure out where the Alamo is, we're in good shape and find the garage. Our first few minutes are spent just sitting, enjoying the air conditioner. The next challenge will be finding the hotel. The GPS has lost its signal, and we don't have a good map. We'll have to exit the garage and drive around a bit until the GPS reacquires.

When it does, it leads us down a busted-up road through an industrial section of town but finally delivers us to a recognizable highway and back to the hotel. Our first adventure is over. We're exhausted and will sleep very well, but we've had a good day.

In Part Two, we'll visit Sea World and the Missions, where we'll have another travel adventure.

How to lose weight in three easy steps

A co-worker I know asked me a month or so ago how much weight I'd lost.

She was suitably impressed by the amount and then asked me about my exercise regimen. She knew I was climbing the stairs at work, but was I doing anything else? I told her that I walked and was trying to get back into running.

That, fortunately, derailed the conversation. She knows my knees are bad, so she went off about how strange it seemed that I would want to return to running. I was glad, though, because it meant I wouldn't have to tell her stuff I knew she didn't want to hear.

I've been asked the question a lot, and I usually just say I'm doing Weight Watchers with my wife. The questioners know just enough about the program to tell me they don't want to put that much effort into counting points and wander off, thinking there has to be a simpler way.

Actually, Weight Watchers and most of the other successful programs work off three simple concepts.

First, you must become aware of how much you are actually stuffing in your mouth. Make no mistake, our capacity for self deception is enormous. My co-worker, eats enough for breakfast and lunch to take care of my caloric needs for the day. I've no idea what she does for supper, but given that she's a foot shorter than me and female, she's already eating too much. But she tells people she really doesn't eat that much.

Ah, self deception.

Second, you have to become aware of what you're eating. I could down a large cheeseburger with bacon and a pile of French fries with ease, then polish my evening off with a couple of Pop Tarts. During the day, my intake wasn't much healthier. That's changed, and I don't feel all that deprived. I'm not even going to discuss what my co-worker eats beyond saying that she regularly patronizes the grill in our building, and they don't carry much in the way of health food -- though you can make healthy enough choices if -- and this is a big if -- you pay attention to what and how much you are eating.

The third step is exercise. Lots of exercise. Intensity seems less important than duration. Start small and work your way up, but you have to work your way up and up and up. None of this stroll around a block after dinner and, whew, I think that'll do. The only activity other than cleaning house I've heard my co-worker talk about is yard work, and she gave most of that to a lawn-care service this year.

Now, I'm not trying to pound my co-worker. She's not really any different from anyone else who asks what I'm doing and then blows the whole idea off because they don't want to put out the effort.

Yes, in the beginning, you have to keep track of what you eat, how much you eat, and how much you exercise. Yes, you have to form new habits. Yes, it takes some efforts and will require permanent changes. But hey, do you want to lose weight or not? And the answer to that determines whether your attempt will be as simple as one, two, three.

Out, damn'd fat

A funny thing happened on my to losing weight. I began to understand something I'd failed to understand before.

Facebook friends, fellow church members and family know that I've lost a significant amount of weight recently. My wife decided to start Weight Watchers, and because I needed to lose some weight to be able to fit into my clothes, as well as try to have an effect on my blood pressure, I decided I would follow the program as well.

I've gone well beyond my original goal, having lost about 20 percent of my starting weight. New clothes have been purchased, which was not part of the original plan, and blood pressure medication has been cut drastically, even more than I'd hoped.

You would think that nothing remains but to celebrate. But I've noticed that while I'm dressing, I cannot fail to see it. The fat.

Oh, sure, I can see how skinny I am -- I've not weighed this little since the '80s. But when I see myself in the mirror my eyes are not drawn to the now prominent clavicles in my shoulders but to those resistent little pockets of underlying fat somewhat lower down on the anatomy.

Now, I'm not obsessing about the remaining fat. I have no desire to try to eradicate it from my body. In fact, I'm trying to adjust my intake to maintain my weight or even to put on a couple of pounds so my newly purchased pants will fit better.

But I better understand why some folks become obsessive about those remaining pounds.

During my time as a pastor, I was privileged to minister to college students for a time, and I encountered a couple of young women who believed they were "fat" and unable to attract boys because they were "fat."

Later, while attending a country church located not too far from an eating disorders clinic, I had the joy of knowing a couple of young women who found our church and attended while being treated at the clinic.

None of these women were by any sane measure obese or even what I would consider overweight. All were attractive and drew stares from young men as they passed by. The two women from the clinic were as thin as models, most probably, from what I knew about the clients of that facility, because when they looked at themselves in a mirror, they saw the fat, not the beauty the rest of the world saw.

I had profiled that clinic in a story I wrote while doing my journalism studies, along with some other eating disorder clinics, in an effort to understand the "why" behind the problem and as a way of doing something useful with journalism. The story would be published in a college newspaper and would have the chance to reach young women just like those I'd dealt with as a pastor.

The clinic director was blunt and attacked me almost as much as she helped me during my interview with her. She pointed out that I was a male, which meant I didn't suffer the societal stigma of having to be thin. She pointed out that I was thin and had probably never had a weight problem in my life.

I had slipped in to my 40s and was, in fact, actually beginning to have to struggle with my weight, though I exercised enough for it to not be a huge problem, and when I told her that, she scoffed at me. I didn't and couldn't understand, she declared, and I was just another do-gooder journalist without a clue.

I did have the opportunity to interview one of her clients, who did try to help me understand. Again, this was an attractive young woman who simply did not see what I saw. And so I really didn't get it.

Now, a couple of decades later, I have an inkling of what they were trying to tell me. And I can see how easy it would be to slip over that line. The pressures on men have increased, though not to the level they are on women. Six-pack abs are all the rage. Dweebs were featured in a reality show, but that only lasted a short while, and the hunks continue to dominate the bachelor shows, one of which has been on way longer than I ever thought it would be.

Weight carries seriously medical consequences, and those need to be dealt with. But we need to grow beyond the concept that only the slender are worthy or "hot." That beauty has more to do with the number of pounds we carry than the people we are.

I appreciate it when people tell me how good I'm looking, but really I'm growing a bit weary with the comments. Did I look that bad before?

And a part of my mind thinks, "Yeah, but if you saw me without a shirt, you'd see the fat, too. And then you wouldn't think I looked so good." And that's a place I don't want to go.

I constantly remind myself that I lost weight to feel better, and I do. My blood pressure's down; my back doesn't hurt as much. I'm able to go for a jog without feeling beaten at the end of the route. And if I gain a few pounds and notice they've decided to take up residence on my waist, I'll learn to live with them.

On Fox and patriotism

Vote now! Don't let the American flag be banned in America!

That was the tenor, though not the exact wording of an e-mail I received from a friend last week. (I don't have the e-mail anymore to refer to it.)

I was directed to a Fox News website with a simple poll that asked whether the American flag should be banned. Yes, no.

The e-mail warned me that an untoward number of people had voted "yes," and encouraged me to vote, apparently so we could shoot down the unpatriotic twerps who had the audacity to want to ban the American flag.

Usually, when a news site runs a poll like this, they give some explanation or a link to the story that prompted the question. No such luck here, though I did notice the poll was about a year old. Ah, the Internet. Nothing ever dies on the Internet.

Use the keywords "banned" and "flag" on the site, and the only page you'll get is for the poll because the story that lies behind it has nothing to do with banning the flag.

Seems that last year a small group of high school students turned up at a school whose name I've forgotten and don't care to look up again wearing flag bandanas and shirts emblazoned with the flag. On Cinco de Mayo.

The school determined that the boys intended to tick off Hispanic students and made them remove the bandannas and turn the shirts inside out. The student opted to leave for the day.

Reminds me of the time a small group of students at my high school wearing Confederate uniforms. You might not think too much of that because I attended Robert E. Lee High School, but they did this early in the first six weeks of the year we integrated.

Both groups of boys were hoping a commotion. And although you might want to argue their free speech rights, schools are really not obliged to encourage students to pick fights with other students.

Regardless, my first thought was, "So much for Fox News being an unbiased source of information." Honestly, if anyone believes that Fox doesn't have an agenda, it's solely because they have the same agenda. Someone sharing your bias doesn't mean it's not a bias.

More troubling to me is the continual fuss on the part of people who worry that we're not being patriotic enough. These are the folks who react angrily to the flag being "banned," when no plot to ban the flag exists, and who believe we should have an amendment making it a criminal offense to desecrate the flag, specifically to burn a flag as a political protest.

My guess is that most of these so-called patriots have no idea that Congress adopted the Uniform Flag Code back in the '40s, which makes it part of federal law.

Too many people believe that the Uniform Flag Code is like the pirate code in "Pirates of the Caribbean," more sorta guidelines than actual rules. In practicality that's true because the law contains no enforcement measures and Supreme Court rulings based on the First Amendment would nullify some of its provisions.

But the law was developed to explain how to show proper reverence for the national ensign, surely the concern of every patriot.

Only patriots may be the worst violators of the law.

For instance, the code says the flag "should never be used for advertising purpose in any manner whatsoever." Hmm.

It states, "the flag should never be used as wearing apparel ..." which depending on how you interpret that, means that wearing bandannas that look like flags or T shirts with flags on them may well violate the code, be a sign of disrespect. Hmm and hmm.

That reminds me of the man I knew in Lockney, Texas, who was livid after seeing a teen with long hair wearing jeans with a flag on them. He didn't think the boy was patriotic; he thought the boy needed a thrashing for disrespecting the flag.

And my favorite part of the code says that the flag should never be printed or impressed on anything designed for temporary use and discard. You know, like napkins, paper plates, packaging. Hmm, hmm and hmm.

Could it be that the patriot who serves barbecue and sides during a patriotic holiday on a paper plate festooned with a flag and then wipes her mouth with a napkin that looks like a flag before tossing the whole kit and kaboodle in the trash is as disrespectful at the flag burner she despises?

Hmm.

Along the Texas Independence Trail -- Last Part

Planning is key to success. A failure to plan is a plan to fail.

We know the aphorisms by now, and they do embody truth, though not all the truth that might apply to a particular situation.

Take vacations, for example.

On a previous weekend jaunt we serendipitously discovered that Texas parks were celebrating the 175th anniversary of the war for independence and that they had a commemorative "passport" you could collect stamps in by visiting certain historical sites.

We decided that the Memorial Day weekend would be a good time to collect some more stamps.

Accordingly, I hopped online and looked up Goliad and Gonzales. I discovered, as I thought at the time, that candlelight tours of Presidio La Bahia would be held on Saturday, and a re-enactment of the Goliad massacre would take place on Sunday and then figured out a route that would take us to Gonzales on the way home, where we could see the cannon that sparked the "Come and Take It" flag.

All well and good, except that the date for the re-enactment was in March, not May, and the Memorial Day weekend stretches from Saturday to Monday, not Friday to Sunday, as I thought at the time. So much for plans.

Missing the re-enactment and tour wasn't such a bad thing. We spent plenty of time at Goliad and gathered the appropriate stamp.

But when we arose Sunday morning, we had hopes of seeing the cannon and receiving another stamp.

At breakfast, we had the dining area to ourselves, with plenty of freshly prepared food. One of the women working the area began a conversation with Sharon, whom she recognized from the day before. I didn't recognize the woman as one of the ladies working Saturday because she was so relaxed and happy and smiling. She called the kids from the day before "those children from hell."

We set out for Gonzales, just a short hop away, and arrived at the memorial museum where the cannon is. Only problem: This was Monday, and the museum is closed on Monday. And being Memorial Day weekend, the chamber of commerce was closed, so we couldn't have our passport stamped.

The city is also home to the Pioneer Living History Museum, which is also closed on Mondays, but as we drove by, Sharon saw that the gate was open, and a sign seemed to indicate the place was open.

We turned around, parked and walked down a winding pathway, across a couple of wooden bridges and into the main area. No one was there, so we spent time wandering about, taking photos and poking our noses inside when doors were unlocked.

A sundial inspired me to see if the time would be correct, and if I could take a picture when the clouds parted. Turns out, the dial's time was correct if you account for daylight saving time, and I snapped a shot.

We may have missed the cannon, but in Luling we are treated to the sight of a water tower painted like a watermelon. I'm sad to report we did not take a picture of it, but if you want to see it you can go here: www.agilitynut.com/food/fruit.html. Scroll down to the watermelon section. The annual festival in Luling is called the "Watermelon Thump."

Then we're off to Lockhart, famous for its courthouse and its barbecue. I vaguely remember that one Lockhart barbecue place was in Texas Monthly, and when we hit town, I pull over, fire up the iPod and discover that, indeed, Black's Barbecue is one of the mag's top 50 barbecue joints.

It being noonish, we park on the courthouse square, where the citizenry seems to have just finished a Memorial Day event, and walk the three blocks to Black's.

Its reputation is deserved. We think the food is wonderful -- though I'd quibble a bit about the potato salad. Everything is individually priced, but when we check out, the total is less than what we'd pay for the equivalent at one of the restaurants at home.

While we're waiting in line, one woman tells an employee that her friend is from England, and they've brought her to the restaurant to experience Texas barbecue. He introduces himself and chats with the pair for awhile, making sure they know how welcome they are and giving them instructions.

Having satisfied our barbecue RDA -- it's on the food pyramid, right? -- we return to downtown to take pics of the courthouse, which is supposed to be Empire II style, whatever that means. We also hike down to the town's library, the original building for which is built in Greek cross and Classical Revival style, according to the library website, although the sign in front of the building described it as French Revival. I don't know the difference in architectural styles, so it matters not. It's a cool-looking building, though.

Another of my plans goes awry when I wind up on I-35 sooner than I planned. I expect it to be a zoo because of holiday traffic, and I'm right. Still, like other plans gone wrong, the traffic only means we'll arrive home a bit later than expected.

Browning wrote that our best-laid plans often go awry, leaving grief and pain for the promised joy, but we found the joy of the unexpected discovery instead.

Along the Texas Independence Trail, Part Deux

Sunday morning, and we've slept late again. Yep, 7:30.

We clean up and head to the lobby for the hot breakfast that's supposed to await us. Only problem is that a bunch of adults and children apparently associated with a softball team (pre-middle-school aged girls) dominate the area, and the children have scarfed up most of the food.

While waiting for more eats to arrive, one of the moms notices us standing and decides we have to take her group's table. We protest, mostly because another seating area is available upstairs, but she insists. So we take our seats and the real horror begins -- we have to listen to the adults natter on about the tournament and how bad the umps are.

They tell the girls how they should be playing while also urging them to listen to what their coach says. And the woman who yielded her table is a parrot, repeating almost everything another adult says. Going deaf looks pretty good.

But we reap the benefit of freshly prepared food and prepared for the day's adventures.

While driving to Goliad, we encounter our first GPS anomaly of the trip. The road's been widened and moved a bit from whatever map that formed the basis for my unit. We are treated to the screen showing us driving through a river. Who knew a cube was an amphibian?

The first stop is the Fannin Battleground Historic Site. An obelisk dominates the center of the circular site and marks the spot where Fannin and his men surrendered and received a promise they would only be imprisoned. They were transported to the nearby Presidio La Bahia, and the cur Santa Anna would ignore the promise and order their deaths.

The rest of the site is basically a giant picnic ground, with lots of tables, a couple of large charcoal grills and a playground. Seems like an odd way to honor the valiant fallen, but this is Texas, and we'll celebrate anything with a barbecue.

Next on the list is Goliad and the Presidio, which is the dominant part of an area that include the Fannin Memorial, which marks the burial site for Fannin and his men; a monument to the Angel of Goliad, Francisca Alvarez, who helped some of the wounded and escapees at the time of the massacre and other Texians during the war; and a monument to Ignacio Zaragoza, the general who commanded the forces that defeated the French and whose victory is marked by Cinco de Mayo. Along with a statue, they've a replica of the house he was born in, but it's locked, so I've no idea what the interior looks like.

Zaragoza's statue is about life-sized, and Sharon comments, "He's shorter than Sam Houston." It takes me a minute to realize the reference to the 60 foot statue of Houston on I-45. I groan but really wish I'd made the comment.

The fort is impressive, but the walls aren't as tall as I thought they'd be. They stand taller than I do, but if the average height was significantly shorter then, the walls would have been plenty tall enough. The corners have watchtowers, with long, narrow entrances. Even after turning my newly skinny self sideways, the entrance is a close fit.

You can see the last site of the trip, the Mision Espiritu Santo, from the walls of the Presidio, and we head over to see what's there.

The mission is part of a state park, and one of the rangers tells us they'll give a lecture at 2 p.m., almost two hours away. We'd seen a Whataburger in Goliad, so we buzz the short miles back to town and scarf down a burger. With time to spare, we spend some time taking photos of the DeWitt County Courthouse.

We return to the mission and wander about the grounds reading the signs, which will tell us most of the information we'll receive in the lecture. The lecture does answer one key question we have -- why is a skull and crossbones carved above the door that exits to the plaza. That, the ranger tell us, is the door caskets were brought out of after a funeral.

We're exhausted and ready to return to Victoria, so we drive "over the river" and head for the hotel.

The plan is to find something to do that evening, but our best laid plan is dashed because this is Sunday night on Memorial Day weekend, and there ain't nothin' to do but have supper and watch Kung Fu Panda.

Monday we'll head for Gonzales, the Lexington of the Texas Revolution.

Along the Independence Trail, Part the Oneth

Memorial Day weekend. Three days to try to put some stamps in our Texas Independence 175th anniversary passport.

After a bit of research, I decide we need to visit Goliad and Gonzales. We'll stay in Victoria because they have more choices, and it's close to several stops we'll make on Sunday.

We rise late -- when did I come to believe that 7:30 is late? -- but still manage to hit the road by mid-morning, pretty good for me nowadays. I used to have the traveling thing down. Knew exactly what needed to be packed.

Now, I pack most of the needed items, then remember I forget something, then remember I forgot something else, and finally remember I forgot one last thing. Then, after we leave the house, I'm likely to remember something else and have to go back.

But not this time. We manage to pack everything with limited remembering and don't have to return for anything. Won't have to buy anything on the road, either.

The wind blew strongly from the south, and I fought it the whole way. One of the bad parts of owning a square car, I suppose. After leaving the Interstate behind at Waco, the adventure began.

Sharon's dad and I used to occasionally have a discussion about the best way to travel. I used to favor Interstates and U.S. Highways with bypasses. He like to travel the state highways and farm-to-market roads. The trip was the thing, not the arrival. I've come to appreciate that point of view.

Like traveling through the town of Rosebud, where a painted sign at the city's edge proclaimed, "We call it home."

Now, I'm sure they meant that in a positive way, but as we drove through the town, I was reminded of the phrase, "It's not much, but we call it home." That's usually uttered ironical when referring to spectacular digs, or honestly when the home really isn't much. Rosebud fits the latter category.

On the Interstate we would have missed the road sign in LaGrange that showed a nearly vertical truck on a steep incline on the left and a wavy line on the right -- not the usual "curves ahead" wavy line, with a couple of curves, but multiple curves.

"What does that mean?" I asked Sharon. She didn't know for sure. A short way later, we see an exit for trucks, so we figure this incline is pretty steep, but still aren't sure about the wavy line.

Turns out the steep incline has multiple switch backs to enable vehicles to climb the hill -- as I'm sure you've already figured out. A road that could have been at home in San Francisco.

And of course, we're behind a large truck that's lumbering up the hill, straining to do 20 mph.

In Halletsville, we pass a Cobra attack helicopter near the side of the road raised about 10 feet in the air. We have to turn around and find out what that's about. Can't do that nearly as easily on the Interstate.

Turns out the helicopter is part of a memorial to Vietnam veterans from Lavaca County, with a fairly large number of names listed.

And almost all the towns have cool houses, like the green Victorian we saw in Cameron, or a spectacular structure like the courthouse in Giddings that's being restored.

You just don't see those sights from the Interstate.

The day ends in Victoria. While driving to a restaurant for supper, we pass a large field nearly covered with flags, a relatively recent Memorial Day event apparently created as a fund-raiser/Memorial Day tribute by a local soldier. Residents can purchase a flag in memory or in honor of a soldier, or buy a POW/MIA flag, and the profits are used for Warriors Weekend, which provides wounded veterans from the war on terror with a fishing weekend each year.

A book that lists the placement of each flag along with the donor and the soldier being honored lies on a stand at one end of the field, and each flagstand bears a ribbon with the name of the honoree attached. One lists a soldier from the Revolutionary War.

The road alongside the field is under construction. Had I known that ahead of time, I probably would have given into to the old urge to find the better, faster route.

I'm learning.