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            I’ve been roaming around Texas in 106 degree heat for the past eight days (no blog posts therefore) and now back to the streets and streams of New Jersey. There’s a soulful love and splendor discovering America. How can I keep from singing?  More travels west and south. Many more miles before I sleep. My homecoming gift: a pound of tuna salad (imported from Long Island. Thanks Michael W.) with red pepper and fresh jalapeño chunks blended (tuna, a once a month indulging due to mercury allergy) Dedication time: In the vastness and complexities of the universe, a new spirit reached my soul with a dream and has taken me down a quirky red brick road. Squinting, I can almost see Montana or the castle at Pedyston Crag, where Cathy and Heathcliffe frolic in the heather. I’d love to be there. ‘There’ is a wonderful place; a fulfillment of every kind of journey; heart, mind, spirit. Sometimes I wonder if ‘there’ is the place the conductor calls out to a nearly empty train, “last stop.” Thing to do is to get off just before the last stop. So, to my constant companion, my ‘Harvey,’ Reckless Ostrich, freewheeling, soulful, inspiring and holding me tightly to dream filled writing, here’s to you. And to Cousin Stuart(we missed each other all these years, my Texas guide, friend, riding (car, not cycle or horses yet) partner; you have become the brother I always wished for. Thanks for the memories (many yet to arrive).

            Tray tables flipped. Exit aisle seat upright. Out the window, endless flat green plains, devoid of mountains or elevation. Dallas-Fort Worth Airport; size of a city back east. Everything is bigger in Texas. On the way to Frisco and Cousin Stuart, I saw my first mountain (not); a vision like I was back at the Jersey shore, sitting by the dock at the bay. Sweeping déjà-vu. The mountain promises adventure, solitude and a feeling like where Puff, the Magic Dragon lived, Honah Lee. It was 106 degrees; the dashboard reminded. Yet this mountain had a hint of snow at the summit. Why the feeling, as rapid cars busily passed me by, that I was a worker ant, in loyal servitude, about to ascend the mountain, such a long way up. A maelstrom was out the car window; papers and small pieces of plastic flying around in cyclonic revolution. I was glad the ant was ready to climb; a low center of gravity was resistant to the harsh wind. He’d make it up by the end of the century or when tuna is extinct, which ever comes first. Dreamily I missed my exit. Garmin, in a British voice re-calculated.  

            My head bobbled back and forth. Frisco was a kind of utopia. Buildings were new, glass and reflective shiny. From a distance I thought it was CGI generated, unreal, make believe. Every blade of grass accounted for. Sound barrier walls on new highways looked like they were hand sculpted. Synchronicity embraced me the next morning for breakfast, meeting Sanford, a veteran oilman; my next novel deals with oil. My soul was moved later in Dallas, at Dealey Plaza where President Kennedy was shot. I was in college back when. Silence and a heavy heart accompanied me for the next hour, walking around the sixth floor of the Book Depository.

            Fort Worth produced a cattle drive on arrival; more synchronicity. The door to the rodeo was open (friendly place). Imagination filled the empty seats; cheers for Calvin, the roper from New Jersey. A real Texas barbecue (some culture shock); my half chicken was dropped on a plastic tray; a sheet of white paper (my plate) came next. Across the street was ‘Billy Bobs,’ famous for riding the mechanical bull (sure you can do that in New York City but not the same).

            Back in the car, air conditioner blasting, I was quiet and so was Stuart. I saw another mountain with the same wisp of snow. On the summit, I closed my eyes. The cold snow felt good, my face buried in a small drift. Texas was magic, real and beckoning. Tomorrow I’d descend the mountain and head to Austin. But the cold snow on the non-mountain startled me into remembering I’m from Jersey and in all my decades, I lived a suburban comfortable life, never even spending a moment in a tent on a boy scout overnight. An occasional house spider would wink at me just before I used a high powered vacuum to make it disappear, a finger poised to dial 911. Once as a college freshman in Ohio, the fraternity rented a cabin on a lake in Indiana. The hard splintery wood floor with a sleeping bag was the biggest roughing it of my life, then and now. At 2 am, I felt a movement in the bag. Jumping up, pulling the light cord, I found the kindest, gentlest frog. My sleep was over and so was the cabin on the lake experience. I left for New Jersey a few hours later.

            Back on another mountain, in the middle of endless farms, cows and horses grazing, I wondered what life was like way out here in real Texas, on a farm, miles from the closest health food store. The air was noticeably thin on the mountain; it cleared my optic nerve. I was just passing through. I slipped and fell into the snow. It was cold and woke me up. I am a Jersey suburban boy. But I love Texas and Austin and the state capital building. In an elevator, a civilian in a cowboy hat wore a holster with a pearl handled gun. It’s allowed. In Jersey, that’s 10 to 20 for attempted.

            San Antonio and the Alamo. Seeing David Crockett’s name on the wall moved me so. I was where some of our bravest Americans fought valiantly for all our ideals of freedom and independence. Six hours of driving was not in vain. Yet another mountain encounter on the drive out of the Alamo. More snow on its peak. More cold reality. Texas is a wonderful place. I’m a suburban Jersey boy. Am I like Ebeneezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve, before the ghost of things yet to be and is it too late to change?

            The next afternoon in Tioga, Texas, birthplace of Gene Autry and home of Clark’s Outpost and amazing barbecue, with Stuart, John T.(a former all pro punter for the Philadelphia Eagles in the 80’s) and Ned P.(a die-hard Green Bay Packer and former Wisconsin wide receiver) I met Jim, rancher, rodeo man extraordinaire who’d like to train me for riding rodeo, cutting horses, and roping despite my awful center of gravity. I’d like that (and I’ll take him up on his generous offer) even if it metamorphoses into a pony ride when this suburban Jersey boy realizes there’s still snow on the mountain.

            My last night in Dallas, at the Frisco Bar watching the Cowboys preseason: To my right, a pair of soft gleaming, sparkling eyes, effervescent smile, excited with every Cowboy score.  She was pure Texas and I was watching the Cowboys with hometown fans in Dallas; exciting but I still love the Giants, Jets and Rutgers. Synchronicity conjured all kinds of reasons for me to get back to Texas. I’d like that. And I wouldn’t need snow capped mountains next time to tell me I’m a Jersey suburban boy. I’m still learning. I’m about to start writing a new novel. I’ve got the spirit of Reckless Ostrich, a brother in Stuart, a world of loving support to come home to, and fueled memories of Texas Mountains (not) to energize me for a long time. I love America.

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