New Horizons – Part One
Thanksgiving 1968
As the fall season of 1968 began to wither and wane, the ever-shortening autumn days offered up a rapidly changing spell of wildly diverse weather. On the best days, cold frosty crisp mornings usually gave in to pleasantly bright, warm and windy afternoons; while others dawned to a thick gray and mottled low overcast sky that blocked the sun’s best efforts to burn through and warm the ever-cooling Central Texas landscape. On the worst days, instead of experiencing the past summer’s frequent and frighteningly vicious hail-filled black and green super-thunderstorms, endless sheets of cold swirling and bone-chilling drizzle drifted in from the north and made even the shortest walk unpleasant, freeway driving deathly treacherous, and VFR flying all but impossible.
The day I’d flown to Austin for my private pilot certification, I had been fortunate to have experienced one of those cool and sunny days. After signing off my log book, my check pilot, Jack Webb, shook my hand, and walked me back out to my airplane. Patting me on the back, he cautioned me not to let my certification go to my head—reminding me that I was still a very inexperienced pilot. “Get back in the air as soon as you can,” he’d cautioned. “And continue to practice all those things that your flight instructor taught you. Right now, your worst enemy is complacency, and complacency kills.”
As I rotated my Cherokee off the runway, putting it in a steep climb and pointing the nose in the direction of Bergstrom, I promised myself that I’d keep flying as much as I could to maintain and improve on my skills.
Just as I was getting comfortable I remembered that the last instructions I’d received from the tower were to: “…depart and maintain runway heading…” Since the active runway was pointed to the north, and Bergstrom was to the south, I had started, without further thought, a gentle fifteen-degree right turn to swing the plane around to a southerly heading as soon as I broke ground. As I passed through five hundred feet I was no longer on a runway heading—instead I was passing through a heading of zero-three-zero—a northeast heading. I reached for the radio’s mike, which was sitting on the seat between my legs, to quickly advise the tower of the heading I was passing through and to ask for permission to continue my right turn.
“Austin Tower, Cherokee 8438 Romeo, request right turn to heading one-eight-zero, direct Bergstrom…”
“Cherokee 8438 Romeo, be advised you have departing traffic behind you, now at five o’clock and less than a mile, closing fast—two Navy A-7’s, in a right turn formation climb. Your last instructions were to remain runway heading! Say heading and altitude immediately!”
“Roger, now passing through zero-three-five, one-thousand-two-hundred climbing to four-thousand five-hundred VFR to Bergstrom…”
“ROGER, turn left immediately and stop climb…!!”
Startled, I began a panicked uncoordinated left turn back to a north heading and pushed the nose down when, about fifty feet off my right wing—in a flash of brown and green camouflage—the largest Navy fighter jet I had ever seen zoomed by. I instinctively ducked my head and hunched my shoulders…waiting for the impact that thankfully never happened. Before I could think another thought, the second brown and green A7 blew by in a steep right bank even closer than the first—its landing gear doors open and the still-spinning wheels retracting. Blue-black jet exhaust poured out of its tail pipe, and I could see the orange and blue flame extending back ten feet as the pilot engaged the jet’s after-burner.
“…Uh…November 8438 Romeo, I…uh…have the traffic in sight…” I said, trying to mask my panic.
“Roger…” the tower answered sarcastically. “I’ll bet you do. Continue left turn to a northerly heading to avoid jet wake turbulence.”
Still rattled by the near mid-air collision I coordinated my left turn, put the radio mike back up to my lips and said softly, “Austin tower, I appear to be clear of the traffic now, can I continue my right turn direct Bergstrom and climb to four-thousand five-hundred VFR?”
“November 8438 Romeo, you can do whatever you want now. Just get out of my airspace…”
“Roger…” I said, completely humiliated.
***
Not fifteen minutes after my check-pilot had caution me not to get complacent, I had done just that—ignoring the tower’s instructions to maintain runway heading—and almost caused a fatal mid-air collision. Further, I had violated an ATC instruction and would probably have an inflight violation report waiting for me back at Bergstrom.
Shaken, and shaking, I scanned my instrument cluster to make sure that everything was operating normally, and carefully continued my VFR climb up to four thousand five hundred feet and my shallow turn to a south-southwest heading. My error on departure was a bitter lesson that I would carry with me for the rest of my flying career, but sadly, it would not be the last.
Back at the Bergstrom Aero Club, I reserved my plane for several one-hour flight blocks during the next five days, intent on keeping my flying skills as sharp as possible. On the flight back from Austin I decided that, weather permitting, I would plan a flying trip home to Houston with my wife the following week to visit my parents on Thanksgiving Day.
As luck would have it, a messy, wet, cold front swept through Austin for the next two days, effectively grounding me. The first clear day I was back in the air practicing my long-range navigation and concentrating on keeping the plane straight and level for Kaz’s comfort.
We drove up to the Bergstrom Aero Club in our little red sports car at around eight in the morning. Although Kaz had visited the base several times, this was the first time she’d been at the aero club. We walked into the small building and as luck would have it my flight instructor, Marshall Norgaard was there. Since we were planning to spend the day in Houston visiting my folks on Thanksgiving we were dressed to the nines—me in a pair of dark brown slacks, pale yellow shirt, tan wool sports jacket and a paisley tie, and Kaz in a pretty light grey dress, white sweater, and dark grey patent leather pumps.
I introduced my wife to Marshall and several other officers and flight students and told them we where we were heading when they curiously asked. Everyone seemed impressed with Kaz’s beauty and her shy mannerisms.
In less than an hour I had completed my preflight inspection and we were taxiing out to the active runway. Kaz was noticeably nervous, this being her second flight ever since we’d flown from Okinawa to the United States, but the size—or rather, the lack thereof—of our plane, was her main concern.
“It’s so small! And a little noisy too…” she said, a little tremble in her voice.
“As soon as we’re airborne you won’t even notice the size anymore. It’ll be like riding in our car, except with less bumps. The weather forecast for our flight to Houston said calm southwesterly winds at altitude, so it’ll be fine.”
As I applied full power to the little 150-horsepower Lycoming engine, I noticed Kaz hands wrapped tightly around each other resting stiffly in her lap. In just a few minutes we were cruising at five thousand five hundred feet and I had trimmed the aircraft and leaned the fuel mixture for maximum performance. The weather couldn’t have been any better and soon I noticed that Kaz was completely relaxed and taking in the brown and green beauty of the central Texas fall landscape from our perch a mile high.
After landing at Houston’s Hobby Airport, I followed the tower’s instructions and taxied to the Gulf Oil General Aviation facility. Before leaving Austin, I had called my parents to give my father parking directions at the Gulf building, so as I neared the facility I wondered if he’d found it or if we’d have to wait. Luckily, as I taxied to the General Aviation designated parking area I spotted his car. After checking in and giving the attendant instructions to top off the plane’s gas tank and perform a quick engine check, Kaz and I exited the building and headed for the visitors’ parking area to greet my parents.
To my surprise, after we got into the car my parents said that we were actually going to my Aunt Janie’s house to celebrate Thanksgiving dinner. Apparently, after my mom told my aunt about our impending visit, it had been decided that we should all get together (something that we’d never-ever done) and celebrate the holiday at her house. It turned out to be a lot of fun, and as usual, everyone was impressed with Kaz.
Later that evening, after my dad drove us back to the airport, we paused to take some pictures by my plane before flying back to Austin. My Aunt Janie and her husband Johnny, having also followed us back to Hobby Airport, were anxious to see what kind of airplane I was flying and proudly posed as I snapped some shots.
The flight back home was pretty non-eventful, except for the fact that I took off later than I should have and had to execute one of my very first (and completely illegal) night landings at Bergstrom. I didn’t log the type of landing in my log book and chose not to tell anyone else about it either. I was relieved when, after taxiing up to the Aero Club tarmac, I found that no one was in the club building to witness my illegal landing. After gassing up the plane and securing it with wheel chocks and its wing tie-downs, I slipped the plane’s keys into the lockbox and drove us back home.
Careers—as one ends, a new one beckons
On Friday morning, December 13, 1968, I walked into the administration building and submitted my final papers for separation from the U.S. Air Force. Because my actual date of separation fell on Sunday, I was allowed to be processed out two days early. Although technically still in the Air Force for two more days, when I exited the building two hours later I was as much of a civilian as I could be.
I drove back to my duty building to say goodbye to Sergeant Kendall and my old crew, and while there was reminded by all that I had ninety days to change my mind and re-enlist with no penalty to my rank or my time in grade. While secretly harboring a nugget of doubt deep in my gut about my future, I hardily laughed off everyone’s prediction that I would fail civilian life and would soon be back. I reminded them that if I somehow lost my mind and did decide to re-enlist, my next, and probably immediate, assignment would be to spend a year of remote duty at Kotzebue, Alaska. That frightening thought itself was more than enough to forever keep me out of any type of military uniform.
Taking the weekend off from the shoe store, Kaz and I splurged a bit and celebrated my new civilian status by going out to dinner and a movie. But, because I hadn’t heard anything from the FAA, and didn’t know if I ever would, I promised Mr. Sims that I’d start back full time selling shoes on Monday.
My transition from full-time military man, part-time shoe salesman, and fledgling airplane pilot to normal civilian life was in some ways easier than I thought it would be, but more difficult in others. After getting through the holidays I started 1969 by taking on a full-time schedule at the shoe store in early January. One thing I soon I quickly discovered was that the typical female shoe shopper literally goes into hibernation for the entire month of January, then slowly renews her hunt for shoes in time for St. Valentine’s Day celebration, and for Easter Sunday shoes again in early February.
Because of the lull in foot traffic coming into the store Mr. Sims assigned us mundane, and extremely boring, “make-work” duties to perform. Things like straightening up the display tables, purse racks, and accessories counters were bad, but by far the worst assignment he doled out was that of taking inventory in the badly lit back room where the new shoe stock was kept in boxes on shelves.
After a few days, and because of our hurry to get out of the store at quitting time, unsold shoes would inevitably be returned to the shelves in willy-nilly fashion and all the wrong places. So, say later on when I would go back to look for a pair of black or gray patent leather opera pumps in a size 7D, I would typically look for them in the section that would conform with their serial number—consisting of numbers depicting their color, material and size. Of course, if one of us, after not being able to sell that shoe previously, hastily placed that particular box in the first open slot we found and not where it actually belonged, it would be effectively lost forever. We were forced to take more time than necessary trying to find the shoe, and more often than not, chancing the loss of a potential sale. Hence the need to regularly go through the entire store-room and re-inventory the stock. Although necessary, it was an annoyingly mind-numbing exercise in futility. Further, because we were stuck in the back room we lost any sales opportunity for the occasional walk-in customer.
It was during these early winter days in January and February that I hoped to be hearing from the Federal Government on the status of my application for Air Traffic Controller. To this end, I decided to put my apartment manager, Mrs. Gentry, on lookout duty for any letter that looked official enough to have originated from the government.
Since she received the apartments’ daily mail from the carrier in a large plastic box—each individual’s mail neatly bundled with a couple of rubber bands—and placed the bundles in our personal mail slots, I asked her to look through my personal mail for that “official government” type letter. If she were to find one she was to call me immediately at the shoe store. I suspected that she already went through our mail anyway, so I didn’t think I was placing any extra work on her.
As luck would have it the call came from her during one of my busiest days at the store. A few days after having completely re-arranged the stock room our foot traffic began to increase in anticipation of the upcoming Easter holiday.
That particular day in early March, around 12:30PM, as I was waiting on five customers all at one time, I heard my name being called out by one of the cashiers. I looked around, as I hurried to the stock room to retrieve a pair of white fabric high-heeled pumps (suitable for dyeing to a nice pale aqua-green tint), and saw the cashier waving the receiver from our two pay phones in my direction.
“For me?” I silently mouthed and pointed to myself over the din of excited women vying for my attention.
“Yes!” She mouthed back.
I wondered why Kaz would be calling me at this time and turning away from the direction of the stock room—I headed for the cash register counter.
“Hello?” I asked breathlessly into the receiver.
“Mr. DeLeón?” The voice did not belong to my wife but sounded vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
“Hey, this is Mrs. Gentry…you know…the apartment manager.”
“Oh! Yes!”
“Anyway, I just got the mail…and while looking through it…I mean like you asked me to do…I see that you got a letter from a Department of Transportation in Washington, D.C.”
“Oh…” I said, my mind beginning to spin. “What does it say?”
“Oh well, I didn’t open the letter…oh no, I’d never do that. But you said to call you if something looked official. And this really does look like that.”
“OK, go ahead and open it and tell me what it says.”
“Are you sure, Mr. DeLeón? I mean, I think it’s a Federal offense to open someone else’s mail…especially something from the government.”
“Yes, I’m giving you permission to open the letter and read to me what it says. OK?”
“Oh, well sure…OK. Just a minute.”
My heart was beating rapidly, and I think I had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. As I looked worriedly over my shoulder to see if my customers were still in place I spied Mr. Sims rapidly heading in my direction.
“Hey, what’re you doing on the phone?” He said, a bit annoyed. “There’s money to be made!” And he snapped his fingers in my face. “Money. Sell. Money! Let’s go!” (snap, snap, snap).
“OK, yeah I know. But this is a very important call and I’m almost done!” I said, just as annoyed as he was.
“Uh, Mr. DeLeón?” Mrs. Gentry said.
“Yes?”
“OK, I’m gonna read this to you. I think it’s good news. Is that OK?”
“Yes, please hurry.”
“OK…it’s addressed to you and starts out this way: ‘We are pleased to inform you that based on your placement on the ATC Register, you have been selected as a GS-7 Developmental Air Traffic Controller. If you wish to accept this position please contact the Houston Air Route Traffic Control Center, located at 16600 JFK Boulevard, Houston, Texas, by calling the number at the bottom of this letter within the next seven days.’ You want me to go on?”
“Uh…no…not right now. Wait! Does it have a start date?”
“Let’s see. Yes, it does! It says: ‘proposed employment start date is 28 March 1969.’ ”
“OK, thanks. Oh, I just want to ask you seriously: you are really reading from a letter I got, right? Because if you’re playing a joke on me and the letter is not for real it’s going to cost me my job here at the shoe store.”
“Oh no, Mr. DeLeón! I would never do that. The letter is real.”
“Alright, thanks again.” I hung up and took a deep breath.
I handed the receiver to the cashier and turned to find Mr. Sims. I saw that he’d had scurried off to greet another group of walk-in customers and was attempting to point them in the direction of one of the salesmen. Although I was anxious to tell him what I’d been waiting to say for a couple of months, I thought better of it at that moment and decided that perhaps I should deal with the bevy of customers on which I’d been waiting on before receiving the call.
Walking over to the customer nearest to me, a middle-aged red-head whose feet had certainly seen better days.
“OK, I’m sorry for the delay but…”
“Do you have these cute sandals in a 6B?” She asked breathlessly as she handed me the 8D’s which had fit her bunion-twisted feet just fine.
“I probably do, but two problems–…” I said boldly. “First, it would be a waste of time for both of us for me to go find these in a 6B because they’d never fit you. Secondly, I’m going to direct you to that gentleman in the nice looking light gray suit (Eddie). He’ll be serving you from now on because, well, I just quit my job. Excuse me.” I turned and headed to my next customer, leaving her wide-eyed, and mouth agape, the sandal dangling from her fingers.
Four customers later and I was free. Looking away from the last one, a confused teen who’d been looking to buy just the right shoe for her upcoming gig as bridesmaid for her best friend’s wedding, I spotted Mr. Sims having an animated conversation with the cashier who’d handed me the phone.
“Mr. Sims?” I asked, tapping him on the shoulder. “Can I have a word, please?”
“Frank! What are you doing here? You need to be dealing with your ups (customers) instead of taking phone calls or talking to me. I was just telling her (the now cow-eyed cashier) that from now on she is never to interrupt a salesman with phone calls. I don’t care if your mother died, you will complete your sales duties before you talk on the phone!”
Instead of feeling reprimanded I felt a wave of exhilaration and relief. He just made it that much easier for me to tell him what I needed to.
“Great!” I said. “So, here’s your sales receipt book back,” I handed him the little sales book on which we recorded each shoe sale, “and you can officially show me off duty forever. As of now, Mr. Sims, I am quitting my job. Thanks for teaching me the shoe business but I now need to move on!”
He looked up at me—the upper right side of his mustachioed lip quivering slightly—and sputtered: “What? What do you think you’re doing? You’ve got…got…at least four or five ladies that you’re waiting on now! What do you mean, you’re quitting? You can’t do that now! Get back on the floor!”
“OK, Mr. Sims. That phone call was to advise me that I’ve been hired by the Federal Aviation Administration as an air traffic controller. I’m to report for duty in Houston by the end of this month—and, I plan to accept their offer.”
His face went all at once from annoyance and anger to a quizzical, puppy-dog look complete with a faint head-cock. “Wait, you mean you’re gonna just walk out with all these customers in the store?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. If you want, you can send my last check to the address you have on file. If I’m not there I’m sure the post office will forward it to my next address.”
His features now took on a look of resignation with a touch of understanding. “OK, I see you’re serious, but can we talk back here in the store room?”
I had earlier decided that when the moment came for me to quit I was just going to walk out; but at the moment I thought that, well…after all this job had kept me and Kaz above water so maybe he deserved a little respect. “Sure, I just need to go to tell my wife the good news and start making plans for our upcoming move.” I followed him into the back storeroom.
“Well, Frank…” he started out, “it’s no secret that you’ve become one the best salesmen I’ve ever had…and well, in that regard this news kind of caught me off guard.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Sims, but I did tell you some time back that I had applied to the FAA for a job.”
“Yes, you did. But I never thought you were really serious about that given the energy and your dedication to the job you did here. Quite frankly, I was planning to discuss with you an upcoming position as assistant manager for a new store that’s going up in that new mall across the freeway and opening up next year. In fact, I’ve sent in your name in to corporate in Chicago for consideration—with a very strong recommendation from me. You’re a shoo-in for that job.”
For a few seconds I felt a bit sorry for Mr. Sims as I had never realized that he was considering a promotion for me. “Mr. Sims, I really don’t know what to say. I’m flattered and completely surprised at what you just told me about the new store, but I’ve made up my mind. You know my first love is aviation, so I just think this would be a great fit for me.”
“But Frank. Don’t you see what’s going to happen to you?” The FAA is a giant bureaucracy and they don’t give a crap about the individual. They’re going to stick you in some tower in a cornfield in the middle of Iowa somewhere and forget about you. Our company, on the other hand, needs dedicated and intelligent people like you, and we’re willing to reward you for your talent and loyalty. I can almost guarantee you that you’ll be managing your own shoe store in a couple of years and making at least $10,000 a year! The FAA’s not going to pay you that kind of money, believe me!”
Not having any kind of counter-argument, I just took a deep breath and said, “I admit that I’m leaping into a job that I really don’t know too much about. But it’s what I want to do. And if it keeps me close to airplanes and aviation then I think I’ll be happy. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but my mind is really made up. Thank you for everything but I just have to do this.” And with that I shook his hand, stood up and headed out onto the sales floor.
I walked over to the cashier, who was still in a bit of shock, and handed her my stack of sales receipts, each representing every pair of shoes and each purse I’d sold that morning. “Tally me out,” I said, “and make sure my last pay check is sent to my present address. Thanks, and goodbye.”
As I turned and headed towards the front door, one of the customers who I’d sent to Eddie, an attractive, tall fortyish blond, stopped me as she stepped away from the cash register.
“So,” she said, “you said you were quitting today is that right?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m heading out as we speak.”
“Why are you quitting, if I may ask.”
“Well, I got a new job.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m going to train to be an air traffic controller, ma’am. Down in Houston.”
“Really! Do you know anything about doing that, or have you done that before?”
“No ma’am I haven’t done any work as an air traffic controller, but I’m a private pilot, so maybe that’ll help me.”
“I’m sure it will. Alright honey, good for you! I don’t really know you, but you’ve sold me a few pairs of shoes in the past and I always thought you were very thoughtful and polite. I’m sure you’re going to be very successful.”
“Thank you for saying that. I appreciate it very much.”
“Good luck and come back to Austin and let us know how you do.”
“Uh, ok…sure. Bye.” And with that I walked out through the glass doors of Bakers Shoe Store in Austin, Texas for the last time—and, never to return.
***
My first stop after stepping out into the cool and humid Austin afternoon was to head over to Mervyn’s to tell Kaz the good news. Of course, since she was working the buffet, and since they were still serving lunch, it took a while for her to slip out for a couple of minutes.
“Hey!” She said, wiping her hands on a dish cloth and looking a little surprised. “What are you doing here? Not busy at the store?”
“Oh yeah, very busy!” I said, suppressing a little Cheshire catlike smile. “But, I decided to quit!”
“Quit? Quit what?”
“My job!”
“What you mean, ‘you quit your job?’ How can you quit your job? You crazy?” Her voice easily carried over the din of more than a hundred-people eating and talking and the scraping of metal spoons on flat pans filled with mashed potatoes, green beans and gravy. A few customers, less interested in their food, looked up.
“Nope! I just got hired by the FAA!” I said, motioning her to lower her voice.
“What you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going to train to be an air traffic controller!”
“Ahh…you sure? How you know this?” Her volume shot back up to near yell.
“Well.” I said easing closer to her and lowering my voice a decibel or two. “I got a letter today from the Department of Transportation in Washington, D.C., telling me I was hired.”
“Really? Show me letter!” She cocked her head in a little bit of a mock challenge mode.
“Well, I don’t have it with me. But you remember I asked our apartment manager to be on the lookout for an official-type letter—so she called me a while ago and read the letter to me. I’m to report on March 28th.”
“Report? Report to who?
“Uh, well I have to call first to accept the offer, but I’m supposed to report to the Air Route Traffic Control Center in Houston for training on the 28th. I’m on my way home right now to see the letter myself and make the call.”
“I hope apartment manager not playing some kind of trick on you.”
“Kaz, you know how serious she always is. I doubt that it’s a trick.”
A louder than normal scraping sound came from the buffet line and she looked over her shoulder to see that the fried chicken pan was just a few pieces short of being empty. “OK, look I got to go fill chicken pan, then I have to relieve cashier. You go home and call that Houston place and make sure this is no trick. If it is, you need to go back to work!” Her brows arched worriedly.
“OK.” I gave her a quick peck on the lips and hurried out into the parking lot.
Although it was a short drive from the mall to our apartment, less than two minutes, it seemed like an eternity. I jumped from my car and walked hurriedly to the apartment manager’s office. Before I got to the door, it opened, and Mrs. Gentry stepped out holding a long business envelope. The bold dark blue printing on the return address corner all but jumped out at me, and I recall seeing just two words: “DEPARTMENT…TRANSPORTATION”. And with that I knew my life had just changed.
Goodbye Austin, Hello Houston
Within two days of receiving the letter both Kaz and I had quit our jobs and had begun the arduous job of figuring out how to gather all of our belongings to make the move to Houston. Since we only had the little red Toyota sports car and I was the only one who knew how to drive, I worried that it was going to be a challenge, both financially and logistically, to make the move to Houston.
When I had called the air traffic control center to accept the position I had inquired about the length of training. I was very surprised when I was told that I would only be at that facility for one day before being re-assigned to the Federal Aviation Administration’s training facility in Oklahoma City. That one day was an orientation day for the new employee to fill out paperwork and get familiar with the building layout. When I began to ask one too many questions the lady on the phone bluntly told me that I would be given all the information I needed during my short stay in Houston. All she was authorized to do was to record my acceptance for the position, but she did offer me some advice:
“Since you don’t live in Houston right now I would suggest that you make the trip here, go through the orientation, and get information that’s going to help you financially, before you cancel your lease there in Austin. You can bring your wife on the trip, but she’ll be stuck in some hotel all day long while you’re in orientation, so I would suggest she stay there in Austin.”
“Oh! OK, actually my parents live in Houston, so I think I’ll bring her along and we can both stay there. And since the orientation is on Friday I can spend the weekend with them.”
“Sure, that would certainly work. You’re lucky you have family in Houston. Most of our ATC candidates are from out of town and have to stay in hotels. Also, if you’re from out of town you can expect to receive a moving allowance to help you settle your family down here in Houston. But you’ll get all that information on Friday.”
That turned out to be the perfect solution, and Kaz and I began making plans for the trip down. As far as my parents were concerned they seemed to be elated that not only would I be working in Houston, but we would be staying with them for the week…or maybe longer. Since I still remembered how “well” my mom and Sharon had gotten along those many years ago, I wasn’t as excited, and in truth was a bit apprehensive. But Kaz, in her usual upbeat mood, seemed to really be looking forward to the visit.
Since we had both already quit our jobs, and after calling my mother to give her the good news, we decided to leave a few days early and spend a week with my folks. Our car was so small it wasn’t practical to take suitcases, so we piled our clothes in layers in the tiny trunk hoping that we’d have enough to last out the week. We left for Houston early in the morning and the trip was uneventful as we drove casually enjoying the one-hundred-eighty-mile drive with plenty of stops along the way.
As we cruised eastbound, the gently rolling slopes and valleys of the gorgeous Texas hill country slowly flattened out and gave way to wide and deep patches of freshly blooming Texas bluebonnets on either side of the highway. Kaz was mesmerized with the windblown waves of purple stretching almost as far as the eye could see, and several times made mention of wanting to just stop and walk amongst the colorful blanket of purple and green.
Soon, the landscape began to give way to seemingly never-ending fields of young corn stalks, gray and white cotton plants and sorghum, all separated by low-lying hedgerows of windbreaks and guarded by farm houses of every size, shape and color. As our little car’s AM radio began to pick up static-filled Houston stations the croplands thinned out and hundreds of black hammer-like oil pumps, rhythmically sweeping their swan-like heads first up to the heavens then back earthward again, took their place. Gradually, the cool dry air’s flowered aroma took on the weighty smell of raw petrol and swirled into the cabin laden with the occasional salty hint of the nearby Texas Gulf.
The closer we got to Houston the highway’s traffic load increased exponentially, and before we knew it the city’s growing skyline began to appear in the horizon. My mind started to buzz with the vacuity of the unknown and the angst of again spending time with my parents. I agonized silently and wondered if they would, as before, insist that we accompany them to their church and pondered how they’d take it when I refused. Meanwhile, as Kaz curiously marveled at the enormity of Houston’s rapidly growing maze of freeways, a heavy seed of uneasiness and discomfort began to grow deep in my gut.
Turning right off of Griggs Road and onto Grace Lane, our little red car finally crunched onto my parent’s shell and gravel driveway. Before we came to a full stop behind my dad’s aging dark blue Ford, my mother was already on the small porch of the faded white frame house, waving hysterically—her face a picture of pure joy and genuine euphoria. Behind her, my dad, dressed in a washed-out wife-beater and floppy khaki pants, stood, hands on hips, smiling stoically. Kaz let out a small squeal of happiness and said, “Oh, look at your mom! She so happy to see us!”
“Yes, it seems so, doesn’t it?” I said, silently trying to swallow the sudden tightness in my throat.
To be continued…
