It’s a Family Tradition
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND:
Life is an odd thing, full of twists and turns and ironies that we mortals only have the briefest of experiences in. It tends to slip past us way too fast, even when we thought we were paying attention.
Through our individual journeys we hopefully learn that time is the most precious commodity of all, far more so than any silver or gold. One day we are five years old prowling this country on an old jenny called Becky, and seemingly the next there is another five year old holding on tight to our little finger.
This one is my oldest granddaughter Matilda. She came for a visit last week, staying with us while her dad was in the Chiricahua Mountains on the sort of solitary sabbatical I know and understand so well. Those genes run strong in my family and likely will for a long time to come.
After all, it is who we are and likely why we roamed into Texas over two centuries ago.
On Wednesday we went down to the national park. Matilda, my wife Cathy, Julie B Childs and Mollie J Varnado, all on a tour of River Road to see the sights and take a peek or two as to what lay to either side. Like life itself, this secretive land always seems to have a surprise or two waiting just around the bend or over the next rise.
The day had turned cold and blustery for being nearly March, and splatters of raindrops came and went with no particular rhyme or reason. Some would have said it was a bad choice to be yondering about, but even a bad day in the lower Big Bend beats a good one most anyplace else.
Among our stops was the one pictured here, the upper San Vicente Cemetery. You are never too young to learn proper respect for those who came before, or to make the most out of each minute the Good Lord sees fit to give you. We also talked about cutting for sign and to recognize our own footprints. One is never completely lost if able to follow their tracks back to where they came from.
And talk? My gosh folks, I am here to tell you this little gal can talk the bark right off the biggest mesquite tree in the state of Texas. Being the recalcitrant rascal that I am, she soon earned her nickname. Though chastised by her via a rather mean look for saying so, Motor Mouth does fits her rather well.
On the way back we had a foot race, me in my ‘battle rattle’ harness and steel-toed combat boots and she wearing her pink striped sneakers and pullover sweater. I am pleased to report that age and experience won that match rather handily, but wonder how many more years will pass before things turn out different.
And through the mists of time and space comes the voice of my father, telling his overly rambunctious eldest son that “one of these days your mouth is gonna write a check your body can’t cash.”
Come to think of it, I had a sort of motor mouth myself back then.
God bless to all,
Ben
Photos courtesy of Julie B Childs
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