It’s not often that I have the kind of weekend that bears much reporting. It’s far more rare that I have two of them in quick succession. But the weekend before last was a busy one, and the one just past had some excitement to it. (The one coming up does, too, as does the one to follow that, somehow.) And for so much to happen to and around me so quickly bears some mention.

On Saturday, my stepfather-in-law (there’s some interesting blending at work on both sides of my wife’s family) had his sixty-fourth birthday. He had let us know a while back that he wanted to go swimming at Johnson park and to eat at a Mexican restaurant in Fredericksburg, Texas, both of which seem enjoyable enough things to do on a summer day in the Texas Hill Country. Consequently, my family and I planned to join the festivities–sensibly enough, I think, if perhaps with some caveats.

One of those caveats is that I don’t really swim. Instead, I sink. Even with a life-jacket on. And I have demonstrated this on more than one occasion, including a time or two when my wife has seen it happen. Because I am not buoyant at all, I tend not to go into the water, thinking that, even if there is something of a damper on a good time by my staying out of the pool, it’s not nearly as much of one as having to have a lifeguard pull me out of said pool–which, again, has happened more than once, and across a span of several decades, now, so that it’s in no way a one-time thing.

Now, we had thought that the park in question was LBJ State Park in Stonewall, which suited us well enough. The park itself has free admission, and the pool–recently reopened after a reconstruction previously thought unaffordable–asks for $2 to $3 per user. It’s a small enough fee, and the facility’s certainly worth the price, but I still see no reason to pay for something I know damned well I’m not going to use if I can avoid doing it. And, since the family well knows that I don’t swim, I was able to avoid doing it.

No, I dropped my wife and daughter off at the pool and retreated a little bit down the road to the Gillespie County Safety Rest Area on US Highway 290. I’d stopped there many times before, as might be imagined; I used to commute to Kerrville from Johnson City, taking 290 for much of the way, and there are still times that the cups of coffee I take in each morning tell me they need to get out earlier than anticipated. I’d not had occasion to stay there for any length of time, though, and, since there was a decent breeze and the temperature decided to confine itself to the lower 90°s F, it seemed a decent enough thing to do while my wife and daughter swam and played in the pool. (There are lots of places to set up at LBJ State Park, to be sure, but many of them are at some distance from restroom facilities, and I’d been told there was an event at the park headquarters that would make my setting up there, with access to its facilities, a bit of a challenge.)

While at the rest area, I sat at one of the covered picnic tables that grace it, my back to the highway and the wind coming from the southeast, and I wrote in my journal in the shade. There is something to be said for an occasional chance of scenery for the writing I do. Most of it happens while I sit at my desk at home, and a fair bit while sitting at my desk at the office where I still work. It’s sensible enough; I have the bulk of my supplies in one or another of those places, and the former is where I have such research apparatus as I still maintain. I also have chairs in those places that are not apt to aggravate my sciatica, and I have ready access to coffee and other things to drink (I’ve found I do better when I cycle more fluids through my body more rapidly). That I can also shape my soundscape to a large degree helps; certain music conduces well to how I think, and writing is thinking.

So much noted, and true, I also know well that being at home or at the office presents distractions. In both places, I have things other than my supplies and apparatus, and they call to me. At home, I’ve not only a decent chair, but also a bed and a couch that beckon. I can call the tune, but the cats’ meows and the dog’s whine also ring out for attention, or the phone rings. And even aside from all of that, I fall easily into ruts of thinking and depressive spirals that lead me down into dark places I’ve too often visited before, and at far greater length than is good for me. There are limits to how good my setup can be, given my resources, and I am ever near them.

Consequently, popping out every now and again has a salubrious effect on my work. It keeps me from falling into unhelpful cycles or helps me get out of them, which is its chief virtue. I know those cycles present danger to me; they echo with words perilous to hear and ultimately fatal to heed, but getting out every so often quiets the bitter monologue that delivers soliloquies on nothing but my failures. Getting out helps me to remember that the world is more than me, both myself and the externalization of self that the settled-into home is.

I do not always do well with remembering as much. It is easy for me to withdraw, to retreat, from a world I find confusing and frightening. It is easy for me to see what is wrong and what might well grow worse and to take myself where I feel some sense of control. It is this all too easy for me to fail to look outside myself and to focus on what might well go well after all. So much is a problem with which I struggle, with which I have struggled and likely long will. I try to take what are ultimately small steps to get away from it…when I remember to do so, which is, again, not often.

When I do remember, though, and go somewhere else to put my thoughts down, I am the better for it. I cannot always do so, of course. I do have tasks as demand I be in one place or another. I do have to be findable for a few folks at all times and for some more folks a fair bit of the time. And I do get a lot of good work done in my accustomed places; they’d not be my accustomed places did I not. I have worked to make my places good ones from which to write, but I am still glad to get out and about every now and again, to air myself and my places out and return to them ready to address what needs doing.

So it was that my time at the Gillespie County Safety Rest Area was a pleasant enough experience, the decent weather and available shade doing much to help it be so. The facilities are constructed and maintained well, and, the noise from the highway aside, things were rather quiet. Some birdsong and what I think was the chittering of cicadas reached me, and a few people stopping to make use of the facilities happened by, but the last were content to keep their own company and leave me to mine. I appreciate the courtesy, and I appreciate having gotten to have the peaceful time to myself. I think it’s something I might do again, go there to write, as duties and weather permit.

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I‘ve written on occasion about weekend goings-on for myself and my family, reporting on going out for a wedding anniversary, celebrating my wife’s birthday, going on vacation, or taking a few days off to tool about another town. The weekend just past was another busy one for my wife, my daughter, and me, and a good one; I enjoyed it, and I thought you, dear readers, might like to hear about it a bit.

On Friday, I took my daughter, Ms. 8, up to the last rehearsal day at her theatre camp. She was wrapping up the second week of the two-week intensive program, and she had already given one performance in Matilda, Jr., at the Hill Country Community Theatre in Cottonwood Shores, so the day was given over to fine-tuning the performance for the remainder of the run and getting a preview of next summer’s show. Ms. 8 reported to me that the day went well and that she is enthusiastic about the coming show, already thinking about what character she’ll try to land. And it seemed to me she had good reason to be enthusiastic; I went and saw her in Matilda, Jr., that evening, one of a number of her family to do so, and I enjoyed watching the performance greatly. It was clear to me that she and the rest of her company had put a lot of work into the show, and I was and am proud of her for it.

On Saturday, Ms. 8 had a matinee performance of Matilda, Jr., so my wife and I took her up to Cottonwood Shores for her midday call-time. After dropping Ms. 8 off at the theatre for her performance (both of us had already seen her show at that point, and so we figured we’d give others a chance at seats), my wife and I headed to nearby Round Mountain, where a cider mill and event space had recently opened. Admittedly, we put in at an off-peak time, such that we were among very few in attendance when we arrived, but other people came in as we remained on site, and it was clear that the place is already gaining something of a following. I’m glad of it, because it’s the kind of place I could see myself visiting fairly often. The taproom setup is of interest, as is the selection on offer through those taps, and I have to note that the doughnuts they have for sale are excellent. The flavor is sweet enough to satisfy without being overpowering, and the texture is solid without being heavy; I could easily eat far more of them than would be good for me. Ms. 8 also appreciated them, as well as the loaf of home-kitchen sourdough we picked up there.

On Sunday, Ms. 8 had a second matinee performance of Matilda, Jr., so my wife and I once again took her up to Cottonwood Shores for her midday call-time. After dropping Ms. 8 off at the theatre for her final performance of the run, my wife and I went to a coffee shop a couple of miles up the highway from the theatre. It was a familiar enough place; we’d been there in previous years in similar situations, and my wife had spent more time there. At the coffee shop, my wife caught up on some of the administrative tasks she had to do for her job, while I thought and wrote and read. When the performance was done and we had collected our daughter, we went to eat at LeSturgeon Seafood, where we found ourselves in the company of several of Ms. 8’s fellow thespians and their families; it is evidently a popular place with the area actors. The food was good, and it was good to have eaten before what we did after: grocery shopping for the coming week.

Altogether, it was a good weekend. I don’t know that it’s the kind of thing I can do often; there was an awful lot of revelry and fun for me, sedate as the weekend might sound to others. I am not a young man anymore, and even when I was one, I wasn’t prone to doing a lot of things that other people thought of as being fun; there’re reasons I learned the words “stolid” and “staid” early on. But all that said, I am glad to have had the weekend, and I do look forward to the next such time. Another is coming up for me soon enough, after all…I suppose I’ll write about it, too.

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I remarked earlier in the week (here) that I might talk about part of what my wife, my daughter, and I did to mark my wife’s birthday in advance of the event, itself. Again, both my wife and I had to work on the day of and the day after, and our daughter was, as noted, away at camp. Consequently, it fell to the weekend before the day to celebrate the day–and we did so, most of it on Saturday, given other things going on. But that it was done early does not mean it was not done, nor yet that it was not enjoyed–as we’ve demonstrated before.

The focus of our festivities was two-fold, both of which took us to San Antonio. The second of them did not go as well as might have been hoped; it wasn’t an elevator, but it did let us down. The first, though, was enjoyable; we went to the Día de los Muertos Museum in Fiesta at North Star. I’ll admit to some trepidation about visiting a museum that lives above a retail store–and there’s plenty of kitsch to be found in the store, although there’s also a lot worth finding there. And I’ll concede the touristy nature of the museum, itself–but there’s also a fair bit of good content in it, especially given that the museum is an “amateur” production. I do not think there is a formally trained curator on staff; I do, however, think it is a passion project of its ownership, and I can appreciate working on things out of a passion for it despite a lack of access to more “formal” resources.

Small as the museum is, it does work to offer context for the celebration on which it focuses. I don’t know that I quite agree with all of its assertions regarding the deeper history of the observance–some of it seems quite a stretch, and the museum doesn’t do the best job of citing its sources. That said, I certainly appreciate the effort to situate Día de los Muertos in the past and present, as well as in the blend of cultures that gave rise to it.

The focus of the museum, however, is an array of a dozen or so ofrendas. Large and extravagantly decorated–some might call them flamboyant, rococo, or ostentatious–they bespeak exuberance in the celebration. Even for my haphazardly observational self, they were compelling as objects of art; for those who actually follow such observances, I expect they would be decidedly engaging and uplifting. My wife, who is of Hispanic descent, certainly seemed to be moved by the displays, talking at some length afterwards about erecting one in our home in season. (I endorse it for several reasons.)

Our daughter, who is necessarily also of Hispanic descent, though less attuned to it by generational separation, found it less compelling, but I cannot blame her for it. Again, she is more removed from that part of her heritage than her mother is, and I acknowledge that I am not exactly the most enthusiastic celebrant of, well, anything. One museum visit isn’t apt to change that kind of thing, although I know that it can, if things align correctly. I know, too, that they can’t if the visit isn’t made–and, in any event, we went to the museum for my wife. She enjoyed it, seeming to get a lot out of it, and that was the point of the exercise.

It may be that we go back to the Día de los Muertos Museum. The staff noted that they were working on expanding the offerings to include foodstuff demonstrations, and, as my pudgy belly attests, I am decidedly interested in that kind of thing. I think if we do, I’ll make a point of taking notes on site rather than after the fact. Going once, the overall experience matters; going again, I feel I need to do more and better. But that’s always true.

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As it happens, I’ve been away from the day job this week, ownership having determined that, after a full season and the stresses of opening a new office, the company as a whole could use a break. Steeped as I am in the things that I am, I resisted the notion–and I was somewhat justified in it, in the event, with clients making appointments and sending worried emails more or less as soon as the decision to close was made. But since I need and appreciate my paycheck, and since there are other concerns involved, I posted a sign in my office door, and I’ve been away from the office. (I go back Monday; I’ll pick up then.)

In the event, things worked out well. My daughter is off from school this week, and her whirlwind summer tour of the Hill Country doesn’t start until next week. (It is a packed summer for her; she’s got a month of one theatre day-camp [plus dance and cheer instruction], two weeks of Girl Scout camp, two weeks of another theatre day-camp, and a week of a cheer day-camp before a few days off and the resumption of classes.) I’ve gotten to spend a fair bit of time with her, going to a local park and cooking out, or simply relaxing (in and around addressing regular medical appointments for her, because such things need doing, and school being out makes it easier to do them).

Thanks to no small amount of family support, I was also able to take her to the Witte Museum in San Antonio. (Full disclosure: the Witte does not sponsor or endorse me as of this writing, although I wouldn’t be sad to receive such from them.) It’s not the first time we’ve gone; we’ve toured the museum before, although it’s been a few years. It’s not the first time she’s gone; in addition to having gone with me before, my daughter’s visited with one day-camp group or another, and there might’ve been a school field trip to it. It’s far from the first time I’ve gone, either; in addition to having taken my daughter before, I did have one or two school field trips to it. But this trip was special, really. I don’t know if it’s an issue that she’s at just the right age, young enough to be enthusiastic about things and old enough to actually pay attention to and focus on what’s on display. I don’t know if it’s an issue that I’m at a good place for it, relaxed enough to not worry so much about things and to let her be while still engaged enough in things to be good company. Whatever the reason, though, she had a great time, and I had a good time; I feel like she got a lot out of the experience, and I was pleased to be there with her as she did.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the only good part of the day. But it was a good part, and I’m damned glad of it.

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Yesterday (as this posts) was my fourteenth wedding anniversary. It having been a Tuesday, my wife and I knew that we’d not be able to do anything to commemorate the occasion on the day, itself. Both of us work, after all, and neither of us can afford to take the day right at that time. What we did, then, was to go out on the Saturday before. For a while, we had been looking at going out to check out some of the local wineries (the Texas Hill Country abounds in them) and breweries; on Saturday, we took the opportunity to do the latter, stopping off at a few places along Fitzhugh Road west of Austin.

The first stop along our short tour was Jester King Brewery. The approach to it was a bit rough, and the facility shows that it was assembled in stages. Still, the wood-fired pizza looked and smelled good (we ate before heading out), and the beers I had were tasty. Too, there was something of a festival atmosphere about the place, with its open fields, goats, and such, and we were advised by staff of an upcoming event to which we are like to go–taking our daughter with us, weather and circumstances permitting, since it sounds like something she might enjoy. (There were a number of kids of various ages running about the place and petting the goats, as well, so I think there’ll be enough to catch her interest.) It was well worth going to, and I do hope things work out such that we can find our way back over to the place.

The second stop was not far up the road: Beerburg. Getting to it from Jester King was fairly easy, and we decided to eat while we were on site. I’m glad we did; the food was excellent. The beans and rice that accompanied our meals were quite good, the former solid and the latter finely spiced. My wife had a quesadilla she described as the best she’d had, and I very much appreciated my shrimp tacos. The beers were a bit quirky (the mugwort brew, in particular), although, in the brewery’s defense, they had been advertised as being such. I can appreciate experimentation when I know it’s coming, and I’d be willing to taste some of their other trials–as long as I can get more of those tacos!

Afterward, we put in at Fitzhugh Brewing. If Jester King is a festival and Beerburg a wonky local pub, Fitzhugh Brewing is an HGTV home makeover. My wife identified it as evoking the Gaines’s Magnolia in Waco in terms of aesthetic, and she notes it as catering to a demographic in which neither she nor I partake. The beers were decent enough, as was the pretzel we split between us, but none of them were exceptional. It was something of a letdown after the earlier experiences; perhaps if we’d done things in a different order or visited at a different time, we’d’ve enjoyed it more fully.

The last stop on our tour wasn’t on Fitzhugh Road, as such, but the road it becomes as a driver follows it west; it turns to Pedernales Falls Road and then becomes FM 2766. Just off of the intersection of FMs 2766 and 3232, hard by Pedernales Falls State Park, is the Pedernales Falls Trading Post. My wife had long noted wanting to check it out, and I was happy to oblige her (if later than ought to have been the case). The venue offers a vanishingly small indoor space. There is ample outdoor seating, however, and a grill that gives off the most succulent smells as it cooks burgers to go along with pulls from a scant few taps worked by a singularly jovial barman. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, perfect for a quiet couple of beers of an evening, and perfect for us to have closed out our day on. I think we’ll be going back there, too.

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