The words “all men are created equal” led to a literal interpretation that “men” meant only “men”. Silly result, that one. In all fairness, this was not only a Texas issue.  Arguments about voting went something like this: “Well, don’t make a Federal case out of it.” Significant clarification ensued, in the form of the 19^th Amendment, ratified by Texas in 1919, and women became voters. So, sometimes it pays to make a Federal case out of it.

Ma Ferguson: First Woman Governor of Texas.

Back in the day, Texas had a woman governor, Miriam “Ma” Ferguson, who became governor when her husband, Jim, was impeached, convicted and barred from seeking the governorship again. This was quite an intelligent decision by Ma, because otherwise, the Fergusons would have to vacate the governor’s mansion.

And don’t you hate an unplanned move? For Ma, the governorship was just a nice extra.

There was quite a long pause between Ma, who became governor in 1924, and the next woman governor of Texas, Ann Richards. Richards and her opponent, Clayton Williams, spent a record $50 million on the race. Alas, Claytie had a serious case of boot-in-mouth disease and committed some memorable gaffes, including a joke about rape that likened the crime to bad weather–“if it’s inevitable just relax and enjoy it”–thereby costing him the women’s vote,

 (he forgot about the 19^th Amendment),

allowing Ann to overcome a 20-point, come-from-behind deficit in the polls. She was elected governor in 1990.

In the interim, the governorship was occupied by men, bless them, of all stripes and abilities. Alcohol and corruption were part of the mix. One governor, W. Lee “Pass the biscuits, Pappy” O’Daniel, was a hillbilly flour salesman. Another, George T. Woods, refused to wear socks. During The Unpleasantness with the Northern Neighbors,

you know, the Civil War,

Pendleton Murrah fled to Mexico before completing his term. Edmund Davis, who narrowly escaped hanging by Confederates, became the first GOP governor of Reconstruction Texas in 1869. He lost his re-election bid in 1873, barricaded himself in his office, and called for backup from the United States president, Ulysses S. Grant. In one of his more sanguine decisions, Grant wisely said no and Davis gave up. 

This is where the origin of the phrase, “Some matters are best left to states” came from.

But, these governors were mere mortals.  Rising above them all was Sam Houston, a true rock star from the Lone Star State. In 1836, Houston became the hero of Texas Independence by defeating the feared Santa Anna at San Jacinto in 18 minutes. It was a surprise attack on the Mexican army during a siesta,

and who doesn’t get sleepy after a plate of great enchiladas?

Houston was President of the Republic of Texas, first Governor of the State of Texas soon after it entered the Union, and the living embodiment of Texas legends. He was the gold standard, to which all Texas governors aspire, and to which all of them fall short. Literally. Sam the Man was the original tall Texan. His mystique still reverberates here and likely explains why so many starry-eyed politicians covet the top job.

It wasn’t the cache of those other guys, that’s for sure, especially the one without socks.

• Twice elected to the Texas House of Representatives
• Elected Texas State Treasurer in 1990
• Author of three books about women in America
• A United States Senator since 1993

 But, you can’t go too far in political circles without landing in a tell-all book. Kay turns up in the new Matt Latimer tome, Speechless. Matt met her in an elevator once and reports that

 As the elevator proceeded downward, the senator turned to her…aides. They were the ‘purse boys’. That was the nickname staffers gave them because their job seemed to consist of carrying Sen. Hutchison’s purse around Capitol Hill…As one of the boys quietly held her purse, she started to fish through it. Then she issued a list of instructions.

 “Now I want you to take my purse back to the office,” she said.
“Yes, senator.” The purse boy responded.
“Take the nail polish out and put it in the refrigerator.”
“Yes, senator.”
“Take the rest of the makeup out and put that in the refrigerator too.”
“Yes, senator.”
“Then put the purse by my desk.”

Well, where to begin? First, a woman’s purse is a fascinating mico-environment.  At various times, my own handbag has contained almost everything except nuclear launch codes. So, I understand the curiousity about contents. Second, I’d never thought about makeup in the fridge, but on a hot day it makes sense, so I appreciate the beauty tip. Most importantly, Matt said nothing about the purse itself, but you know it had to be a Birkin.  I totally respect the authority inherent in a powerful accessory.

But, onto more important things. What has Kay done as a Senator that’s helped us here in Texas? Thanks to the Dallas Morning News, it all became clear:

 “As a member of the powerful Appropriations Committee, [Hutchison] has designated $8.6 billion for Texas military bases, transit projects, research and other causes in the last six years.”

 Wowza. That’s billion with a capital “B”. Largesse (aka jobs) coming home to the citizens of Texas. That’s some heavy lifting, girlfriend. You might need a Sam’s Club shopping cart. And don’t we appreciate it, too!

Texas State Capitol: Pink Granite.

The Republican primary takes place in March 2010. Stay tuned. If history is any indicator of the crazy-quilt nature of these Texas contests, there will be repeated skirmishes (aka debates) along the way.

For those who wonder if I have a preference, my dream contest would unfold with KBH the victor over Goodhair in the primary. Then, I’d like to see a woman Democratic opponent run against Kay the Republican, going toe-to-toe on pithy issues like healthcare and cap-and-trade…while wearing fabulous shoes. Because, a woman’s place is in the dome. Pink granite dome, of course.

Rebecca Rather: Big Hair Tart.

Every winter, I ogle and Google cookbooks and online recipes to refresh my take on Authentic Texas Girls cuisine. My pull-out-the-stops holiday dinner always includes a Dotty Griffith country-chic menu, big-hair tarts from Pastry Queen Rebecca Rather, and my very own version of Chicken Enchiladas. This creation, filled with shredded chicken, mushrooms, condensed cream of mushroom and tomato soup, corn tortillas, Tex-Mex spices, and plenty of melted cheese, is a heavenly detour from all that turkey and ham.

 The meal is well received; happy faces and clean plates surround the table. After the guests leave and we finish washing dishes, I wander off toward the bedroom, content from imbibing a set-you-back, handmade margarita on the rocks. Putting boots, jeans and velvet shirt safely away, I pull on pj’s and a t-shirt and pad barefoot into the bathroom to remove my makeup. Popping open my trusted Vaseline jar with the blue lid (the preferred beauty secret of country girls everywhere), I lazily run my finger through the gel and press a little glob of it into my eye, rubbing thoroughly to loosen my mascara.

Big mistake! Despite several thorough hand washings during meal preparation, a few grains of cayenne pepper lurk under my fingernail. Now, they are searing my eyeball. The pain is insane. I shriek and grab a face towel, rubbing furiously. Too late! As my eyelid slams shut like the metal door to a maximum-security prison, I stumble to the bed and fall face down over it, tears exploding.

 “Sweet baybee Jesus, please help me!” I cry, yowling like a coyote. “Owwwwwwwww, it hurts!”

Hubby arrives at the bedside. “What? What happened?”

“Cayenne. In my eeeeeeeye!” I am choking out words, my head face down in the towel. Feet paddling in the air, beached on the quilt, I’m unable to swim away from the searing pepper stabbing into my brain.

“How did you do that?”

“Fingernaaaaaaaaaaaail!”

“It’ll be OK.” He pats me on the butt. A little too hard. And, his somewhat sympathetic tone contains a hint of amusement. With my free hand, I smack his hand away like a horsefly. “Go get me some iiiiiiice!”

In the interminable time he is gone for first aid (about 2.7 minutes), I descend into chest-heaving, heart-wrenching sobs.  My defenses initially breached by cayenne and eyeball pain, I cry far beyond the pepper’s stinging effect. Totally consenting to my tears, I submerge in an emotional deluge. I weep for mistreated puppies and kittens. I sob for the unemployed, the homeless, the hungry, the sick. My tears, unexpectedly fierce, are for everything lost, large and small. For the tragedy at Fort Hood, for Texas. For the nation and our leaders. For our earthly home, continuously battered by insults to our environment, that somehow keeps spinning,  giving us yet another day to try and make things right. I cry out the entire year of 2009.

 Hubby returns with ice in a little plastic bag, wrapped in a cloth. “Let me see your eye.” I lift my head, sniffling. He turns to the bathroom, finds a hand mirror and brings it to me. My eyelid is puffed up like a Pillsbury turnover. Lovely. But, the pain subsides a bit, then a little more. I am helped into bed, propped up on pillows, holding ice to my face. Settled under the quilt, I quiet myself and softly hum…a song about eyes, or maybe about more than that:

 The eyes of Texas are upon you,
All the livelong day.
The eyes of Texas are upon you,
You cannot get away.

Do not think you can escape them,
At night or early in the morn.
The eyes of Texas are upon you,
‘Til Gabriel blows his horn.
 
I don’t hear trumpets, but drifting off to sleep, I make a mental note of my resolutions for the New Year.  My list so far:

1)   Write a generous check to the SPCA
2)   Find a volunteer opportunity and make a difference
3)   Get a short-nail manicure

 Rest easy, y’all. 2010 is on its way.

Lotta food luv: the green chile cheeseburger at Alamo Springs Cafe.

It’s late when we leave, and pitch dark in mid-December. The stars at night are big and bright, especially in Gillespie County, where ambient lighting seems verboten. The slightest sliver of moon appears. Peering into the sky, I’m able to locate the little dipper above me.  Driving back to town in the inky darkness, we listen to Robert Earl Keene and recite our deer-in-headlights instructions. Go slow (not a problem due to the squiggly road). If you see a deer, don’t swerve. Hit the brakes hard and hold the steering wheel firm. We laugh, round a corner, and come to a headlights-to-nose stop. A huge bovine stands in the roadway. He blinks and bows, but doesn’t move. The headlights frame his mooing head. Dust floats around in the beams.  We can’t get by the steer. So, I climb in the back of the SUV, pull out our walking sticks, open the passenger door and stand on the running board.

Clicking the sticks, I fuss at Midnight Steer. “Git. Git away!” 

Midnight turns his rump toward me. I step down from the SUV and go around the front, staying close to the car in case he gets ornery. Tapping him on the rear with my walking sticks, I scold him again. He moos and moves on. Hubby gingerly drives around him as I step to the side of the road. With the SUV just ahead of me, I look back into the darkness. A shooting star, tiny and diamond-brilliant, illuminates the velvety black sky. I make a wish to have more nights like this, and climb back into the car.

Hubby is smiling. “Good job.”

“Thanks honey. Round up is all finished. Let’s head for the house.”

Do it, go to it (clap clap), do it again!

 Yes, darlins, I was a high school cheerleader. Our Wildcats were Texas-proud, State Class B football champions. It was really hot stuff in our small town to be on the cheer squad, baton twirl, band or football team. We had 153 students in our high school (33 in my senior class), so participation in ‘extra-curricular’ was pretty much assured. Not that we didn’t earn our cred. We practiced all the time, because there wasn’t much else to do.

 On Friday nights, everyone came to the game. The whole town of Bittie Spring (population 1130) showed up. It was grand. Parents and friends filled the bleachers. Attendance was de rigueur (that’s French for ‘expected or in fashion’)¹. No consolidated school districts for us, thank yew.  Our shrine to the Wildcats was a fine example of school bonds floated with the full faith and support of the citizens and financially backed by a strong tax base. The community possessed the unique circumstance of being a wet town in a dry county². Even so, the city fathers believed in balance. We had an equal number of churches and liquor stores. And an equal number of patrons for both types of establishments. Once, our cows got out of the pasture and meandered onto the highway. The liquor store patrons put aside their brown bags and helped us herd our Herefords back into the pasture. Good times, good people.

 The cheerleaders were ambassadors for the community. We were asked to make local appearances at the used car dealership and at the grocery store during Friday penny-pincher specials. Our week in Dallas at SMU Cheerleading Camp was chronicled in our hometown paper, the BS Journal. But then, everyone was in the paper. You just went downtown to the newspaper office and submitted your ‘news’ to the editor. Placement was assured. We didn’t have any reporters on the beat. No need for that. We were all citizen journalists, reporting on current events. Said differently, it was easy enough to spot your neighbors doing whatever and let it be known around town. Crime was non-existent³, because someone was goin’ to see you doin’ sumthin’ and tell your momma.

As a cheer squad, we were tight. You couldn’t swipe a Visa card between us. Secrets were told and honored with cross-our-hearts-and-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-my-eye-if-I-lie sincerity. Loyalty and fidelity occurs when back flips are practiced⁴.

2, 4, 6, 8, who they don't appreciate: Michaele Salahi with the former Redskins cheerleaders at a Sept. 18 rehearsal. (Jamie Christian), via The Washington Post.

So, call me amazed when I read that alleged White House gate-crasher Michaele Salahi posed as a former Washington Redskins cheerleader. What was she thinking? Cheer is not a place where you blend in. Your teammates know you. According to news reports, she couldn’t perform her routines, and the alumni didn’t recognize her. She was out there, shaking her pom-poms without permission⁵. But they gave her a jersey anyway, just to be nice⁶.

It was also reported that Ms. Salahi, in preparation for her non-invitation to the White House, spent all day at the salon getting ready. Whew! Marathon of beauty! Who hasn’t been there.

This Nov. 27, 2009 file photo released by the White House shows President Barack Obama greeting Michaele and Tareq Salahi, right, at a State Dinner hosted by Obama at the White House in Washington Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2009. Via The Washington Post.

_____________________________________________________________________

¹A cat burglar could have cleaned out everyone in town. No one stayed home and we didn’t lock our doors.
²Alcohol, y’all. No bars, just cash-n-carry liquor stores. They came from three surrounding counties, loaded up their pickups with pallets of beer and Wild Turkey, and returned home to share their contraband with neighbors living in alcohol-free strongholds. We got a first-class public education in a state-of-the-art facility from the demon’s brew.
³ There were attempts to provide a local, volunteer police force. My dad tried it for 48 hours. We were bbq-ing steaks out back on a handsome grill he made from a new, half-cut oil drum and looking forward to the Cowboys game, when the phone rang. The owner of the local no-tell motel said, “Tell your man to get his pants on and come down here. We got trouble.” Just to be clear, my dad was wearing jeans. He was not known around town for being undressed. My mom hung up, turned to my father and said, “Call the city manager and turn in your badge. Dinner is a family time.”
⁴ The only other time I’ve seen this is in Bible study. You know what I’m talking about. In cheer, your squad physically has your back. In Bible study, your group spiritually has your back. Same, same.
⁵ Washington Post, 12.3.09, Paul Farhi, Cheerleaders get fired up about Salahi. “She was never at an audition, never at a game and never performed” as an original cheerleader, said Sheryl Olecheck, a Redskins cheerleader from 1986 to 1996 who choreographed the team for seven years. “When I saw her, I had to ask around: ‘Who is that?’ ” …Olecheck said she was “unnerved” by the episode. “It takes a lot of time and heart and practice to be a Redskins cheerleader,” she said. “It’s really a privilege to wear the burgundy and gold. So I’m resentful. . . . For her to get out there and think she can just shake her pompoms is upsetting.”
⁶ This is a testament to the cheer-leadership I remember. Unlike that dreadful cheer mom in Houston, Wanda Holloway,  who planned a murder-for-hire to kill 38-year-old Verna Heath and her 13-year-old-daughter, Amber , as a way to assure her own daughter, Shanna, a place on the cheerleading squad. Dark days, that episode.  Bad things should not happen in a sport called cheer.

Today, we’ve still got reminders of that pioneer spirit.

Escalade: Still blazing trails on I-35

A caravan of Escalades on I-35. A flat tire on the way back from the Hill Country in the Ford Expedition. As for the coyotes, my neighbor Kara heard a definite howl over by her lot on the lake. She warned me not to walk late at night. And, there was that Chihuahua that went missing. It’s true that the only attack you’re likely to get now is heartburn from eating too much Tex-Mex at ________¹, but a person still has to take chances and get out there. So, to those who say that big adventures can no longer be found here in The Lone Star State, I beg to differ. Just spend one day with me on Central Expressway. It’s not for the faint-hearted.

Now that mostly everyone is here in Texas that wants to be here, it’s a good thing we’ve still got a lot of land to spread out in. We like our space–some of our Texans insist on a wide berth. Some need a double-wide berth.  Part of this is because we don’t ride horses anymore…in town. There are ranches with RGH. Some of us still know how to ride, and believe me, doing that’ll keep your butt tiny. But, lots of Texans don’t own horses. And, because everything is so spread out, we drive everywhere. There are no sidewalks.  We really don’t use them, because going from point A to point B is quite a distance, not like those little towns in Massachusetts with charming saltboxes and handsome Kennedys, where you walk to the cheese shop ².

 In Texas, you have to drive. Well, not so much in Highland Park (aka The Bubble). There is a posh little mall right in the middle of The Bubble where you can just walk over and pick up some Chanel and Jimmy Choos. But, HP people still drive because they need to get the lead out of the Mercedes ³.

Big Tex at The State Fair of Texas: Getting bigger?

So, because We Do Not Walk Anywhere, there are some supersized folks in our supersized state. Many national restaurant chains know this, and support us in this way. The drive-thru menus are spectacular. Oscar-worthy presentations of chicken nuggets. I don’t dare look at these enticing marquees for fear of becoming pear-shaped. This pearphobia runs on a bell-shaped curve, reaching critical mass during three weeks in the fall–the State Fair of Texas. On my calendar, this event is known as a ‘blackout period.’ The SFOT is a high-risk cuisine environment. All foods not previously fried in The History of the World, such as peanut-butter-jelly-and-banana sandwiches and peaches, are coated with buttered crumbs and deep-sixed in a fry basket. Twice ⁴. Clearly, this is an effort to break me. People, prayer gets me through it.

 At the drive-thru I raise and cross my index fingers in an X  to ward off a giant crispy chicken sandwich. “Get back!” 

The speaker box comes alive. “Could you repeat that, please?” 

“Ummm, just a large sweet tea and ok, maybe a small fry. And ketchup.” And silence. And foot on the gas and drive on to point B. In my SUV.  ______________________________________________________________________ 

 ¹  Cannot fill this in. Avoid lawsuit.
 ²  Or cheese shoppe. New Englanders like extra letters that stay ‘silent’. This is a trip-up for Texans. We pronounce everything, and we spread it out when we say it, adding extra syllables. It’s why we are not good at speaking French. To speak French properly, you must not say about half the word. However, there is one word that pronounces quite naturally. In Texan and in French. It’s million. As in dollars. Voila! ‘Universal’ language!
 ³  Bumper sticker:  My Other Car Is a Maybach.
⁴   Oprah was here and she ate the Deep Fried Butter. (Nothing gets by her.) Just to be clear, I do not have an issue with the Deep Fried Butter. Because, butter is often fried. But, peaches and PB&J sandwiches are not, under normal conditions, fried. Unless the peaches are inside a fried pie, which is totally different.