Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 20, the last

No room at the top

I now come to the end of this sentimental and self-indulgent holiday reminiscence with a look at the tippy-top of The Beast.

I promised my wife when she finally surrendered to my entreaties to put up a Christmas tree that it would be a secular celebration of family, not a religious one. And I have kept that promise, mostly.

Thus, no star and no angel adorn the apex of our tree.

As you can plainly see, even without such a commitment, there’s simply no room for a tree-topper. The Beast barely clears the ceiling now, and that’s only because I did some lumberjacking on the top section during its first installation.

I began this sappy stroll down Gunnels memory lane with the observation that this would be the last year of The Beast. At the time, I believed its time had come to an end, a victim of my aging joints and diminished muscle mass.

Now I’m having second thoughts. I always have second thoughts. Marice accuses me, justifiably, of always over-thinking things. Why should the ultimate fate of The Beast be any different?

You see, we’ve come to some decisions at Gunnels Manse that could affect the future of our problematic Christmas tree. Last week, we contracted with master-of-all-trades Gary Cramer to build a shed in our backyard to house our myriad bins, boxes and bags of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations.

Such an out-building no longer will require me to risk life and fragile limb in ascending a 10-foot ladder to bring down our voluminous décor from the garage attic. It also may help me avoid a hernia from rearranging the southeast corner of said garage to retrieve The Beast from storage.

So a reprieve for The Beast may be in order. When I think about it, if we got rid of everything that is frustrating, time-consuming, difficult to manage and generally a pain in the ass, Marice would have kicked me to the curb long ago.

We may call it the Holiday Hut. Or perhaps the Beast’s Lair. That has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?

 At this, the end of my Christmas-tree tales, I’ve come to a new appreciation of our holiday centerpiece.

When I luxuriate in its cheerful, soul-soothing aura, I see a bundle of contradictions. It changes every year, never looking exactly the same. New ornaments are added, others get broken and sorrowfully are cast aside. And yet, it also never changes. It’s made up of the cherished touchstones of our family and of our past.

It offers comfort and a sense of grace to all who encounter its lights and brightly colored tokens. It comes and, when the holidays pass, it goes. Yet, it’s always there – at the right time, at the time we need it most.

I see in its branches a reflection of the inner struggle many of us confront daily – to remain vital and relevant, while also embracing the cord that connects where we’ve been to where we are to what awaits us in an uncertain future.

Later today, our children and their significant others will arrive, and we’ll open the presents that now rest, wrapped to the best of my limited ability, under the sturdy, stalwart Beast. It will be a time of family, a time of joy, a time to recognize with gratitude that we have weathered a most difficult period.

Alas, we won’t see Rachel and Ethan on Christmas Day – for the first time since they were born. The thought makes me melancholy, but things are as they should be. My children have responsibilities that now extend beyond the tight embrace of their parents.

To be sure, 2020 has been the most dreadful of years, the worst in my lifetime and one of the worst in our nation’s history. But the Gunnels and Richter families have much to be grateful for. We come from hardy stock, and we have fared better than many during this time of death and national strife.

Still, I struggle, as do many of you, with a deepening concern at the anger, hatred and distrust that dominate the daily headlines. I sometimes despair, but I am also comforted by an abiding faith that, in the words of Faulkner, we not only will endure, we will prevail.

Such is my wish for all of you. In the end, family and friends are all that stand between us and the abyss. During times of trouble and travail, they are our final bulwarks against disaster.

Thank you, most sincerely, for your patience and for your kind and generous response to these holiday posts. May peace, love and contentment surround you. Happy holidays! 

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 19

 One of the first

This is one of the first ornaments we purchased when we started putting up a Christmas tree many years ago.

It is part of a box of simple silver balls we got at Pier 1 or Target or some damned place I’ve long ago forgotten.

When they were new, I would distribute the bright and shiny balls evenly throughout the tree, positioning them so they would gleam in the reflected glow of the mini-lights that surrounded them. They always gave the tree an elegant, dignified look.

Over the years, we’ve lost several to accident and old age. The survivors, like this one, now look drab and shabby, their silver metallic paint worn off and tarnished. As newer and more elaborate decorations have been added to our collection, these stalwart reminders of Christmases past have moved farther and farther out of sight.

Today, they mostly populate the back branches of The Beast, no longer front and center but still performing a useful purpose in providing balance and perspective. Hmm, that’s an observation that (ahem) a recent retiree might want to consider.

Someday, I suppose I’ll have to get rid of them for good. But I’m not ready to give them up just yet. I’m a sentimental fool, and I associate these silver orbs with the days when my kids would ooh and aah when we finished decorating the tree and the glee with which they descended on it on Christmas morning to glory in Santa’s bounty.

In a way, I guess I identify our silver ornaments with the tale of “The Velveteen Rabbit.” It’s about a stuffed rabbit who becomes a young boy’s favorite toy and grows tattered and worn in the process. Eventually cast aside, it magically becomes real through the boy’s love and happily joins real rabbits in the forest.

It’s a lovely story, sad and sweet and spirit-boosting. Published in 1922, it was authored by Margery Williams and is considered one of the best children’s books ever written. Once upon a time, “The Velveteen Rabbit” was particularly popular at Christmas. After all, it is the story of a child’s toy.

These days, it’s considered too old-fashioned, too cloying, too mawkish. Too bad. I remember loving it and confess I shed a tear or two the first time I read it, although I hid that shameful fact from everyone.

Our silver ornaments are like the velveteen rabbit. They’ve been loved almost to the point of their own destruction. Inevitably, the day will come when I finally must consign them to the realm of our memories.

But that won’t be this year. And it probably won’t be next year, either. Even when that sad day arrives, I’ll still hang one or two as keepsakes and as reminders of those early family Christmases when they were new, shiny and bright.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 18

 The moose and the buffalo of Wyoming

My wife and I have friends who own a second home in Jackson Hole, Wyo.

Actually, they’re more like Marice’s friends, but we come as a package deal so I’m included, whether they like it or not.

They’re great people, kind and generous, and we have a standing invitation to visit them when they’re escaping the Texas heat in the far north.

Marice has joined them in Wyoming several times in recent years, including side trips to Yellowstone National Park. She always brings me back a little gift to remind me of all the fun I missed, including these tree ornaments of a moose and a buffalo.

She loves Wyoming, with its clear, mountain air, glorious views and invigorating hiking trails. She always bugs me to tag along, but so far, I’ve resisted the temptation.

 For one thing, I’m a nervous flyer, even in pre-COVID times. I’m a lot like a friend of mine, who professes to believe that only his constant stream of prayers directed heavenward keep aloft the airliners in which he’s a passenger. Don’t try to engage in cabin conversations with this guy. He’s got more important things to do that idle chitchat.

For another thing, I’m afraid I’ll like Wyoming a little too much.

I’m a third-generation Texan, a proud descendant of hardy souls who fled other parts of the country to seek opportunity and a good tan in the state’s wide-open spaces.

Not until recent years have I contemplated a life outside the state. But Texas has broken my heart of late for reasons I won’t go into here. It’s the holiday season, after all.

When I worked for the Dallas Times Herald in the late 1970s, several senior editors came from Detroit. Whenever a son or daughter of Texas did something silly or stupid or dangerously deranged, they gleefully declared: “Now that’s a TEXAS story!” and immediately assigned a reporter to document it. Sometimes that reporter was me.

At the time, their enthusiasm for the weird and grotesque was only a minor irritation. I chalked it up to their Yankee prejudices and general lack of knowledge about the wonders of my home state.

But as I’ve gotten older, the toxic antics of our state leaders and the increasingly bellicose nature of human discourse in our state has made me think perhaps it’s time for a change.

I’ll never leave, of course. For financial, family and other reasons, I’m probably a Texas lifer.

Even if I decided to pull up my extensive Texas roots and high-tail it somewhere else, Wyoming probably wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s too much like Texas, only colder and with better scenery. Oh, yeah, and bears.

But Marice sings its praises with gusto so I’m pretty sure I’d like what I see – and add fuel to the fire of my disenchantment with home.

 In the past when Marice got the itch to head for the high country, I always used work as an excuse to stay home. Now that I’m retired, I’ll probably relent and let her drag me off to paradise.

When I do, I’ll be on the lookout for a buffalo like the one depicted in the lower ornament shown here. It’s not surprising that buffaloes are associated in the public mind with Wyoming. But the vast bison herds that roamed that state and the rest of the western plains – until they were hunted almost to extinction – ranged as far south as Texas.

At one point, there were only 300 bison left in America from the tens of millions that existed before folks in the east discovered buffalo hides made great winter coats.

That’s when legendary Texas cattleman Charlie Goodnight stepped in. Prompted by his wife Mary, he saved the buffalo from disappearing altogether by fiercely protecting the private herd he maintained on his Panhandle ranch. Bulls produced from the breeding program he began with that herd helped restock Yellowstone’s few survivors of the plains slaughter.

And that, folks, is a REAL Texas story.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 17

 

A job for a storyteller

When I went to work at the UNT Health Science Center in 2013, my boss, the legendary Tim Doke, introduced me to the HSC president as his “storyteller.”

I was surprised at the title since I had been hired at what was essentially a public relations job. But I embraced it with considerable enthusiasm.

I had spent a long six-months looking for a job after being laid off at The Dallas Morning News before Doke plucked me out of the dustbin and put me in charge of publications at UT Southwestern Medical Center, where he was senior vice president of the communications, marketing and public affairs division.

I followed him when he grew tired of the hidebound bureaucracy of UT Southwestern and moved west to HSC in Fort Worth.

At HSC, Doke gave me a free hand in building a communication team that eschewed a traditional promotional approach and embraced the idea that storytelling was the best way to build HSC’s reputation and heighten its profile in a community that had no idea what it was or what it did.

When I hang these HSC ornaments on the Gunnels Christmas tree, they fill me anew with the sense of pride and accomplishment I felt during my years at HSC, where I learned a valuable lesson: Left unchallenged, the assumptions of a lifetime can be just plain wrong.

Like most journalists, I harbored an abiding distrust and disrespect for the PR profession. I loftily distained the work of company “flacks,” considering them at best incompetent and at worst paid liars.

Some were, of course. But not all. Given the opportunity to do the right thing, most PR types can be extremely helpful to harried journalists, particularly in this dismal time of newsroom layoffs and dwindling resources.

Perhaps I’m delusional, but I’d like to think I was one of the good ones.

This I know. With Doke’s unwavering support, I hired a group of former journalists committed to telling the HSC story – its dedicated faculty and staff, its remarkable students and the exemplary work they all were doing to improve community health, train the next generation of health providers and extend the frontiers of medical research.

Together, we completely transformed HSC’s main promotional publication – the moribund Solutions magazine – updating its design and filling it with well-written stories and exciting photographs.

We also launched an aggressive media relations effort that succeeded in convincing local, regional and even national news organizations to take note of the work being done on our campus.

We did it without vapid marketing slogans and the exaggerated institutional boilerplate that undermines credibility and effectiveness.

And we did it without sacrificing truth and accuracy. By telling and selling compelling stories, we convinced media professionals and the public at large to trust us. That’s no small thing.

I preached, at every opportunity, the doctrine of good PR: Never lie, never try to hide bad news (the truth wins out, always) and never fall back on the cowardly “no comment.”

“No comment,” I told my bosses repeatedly, “is interpreted by reporters – and the public – as ‘We did it.’”

For as long as it lasted, it was glorious.

Eventually, Doke moved on and other – less enlightened – executives took his place. When my department was handed over to a former political appointee of Trump’s U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, I knew the end was nigh.

It came last July, in the middle of a pandemic-plagued summer, when I finally was handed my walking papers. One of my last acts was ushering into print the final issue of Solutions magazine, yet another victim of COVID budget cuts.

I’ve spent my entire career as a storyteller, both inside and outside journalism. I consider it a noble calling.

When I cleaned out my HSC office last summer, one of the final things I packed up was a framed quotation from the late Brian Doyle, who did the same job I did – only better – at the University of Portland.

“I am a storycatcher, charged with finding stories that matter, stories about who we are at our best, who we might still be, because without stories, we are only mammals with weapons.”

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 16

 

A journeyman journalist

Those of you who know how I left the newspaper business may think it strange that I hang Dallas Morning News ornaments on the Gunnels Christmas tree.

It’s really not that weird. When I’m in a magnanimous mood, which alas isn’t often, I thank my lucky stars that I got laid off by The News when I did.

At the time, of course, September 2011, I was devastated – angry, terrified and mournful all rolled up into one messy train wreck of emotions. I was 60 years old – with a mortgage, one kid in college and another one on the threshold – and suddenly I was booted to the curb by the profession I had wanted to be a part of since I was a teenager.

It was a bummer – big time.

As it turns out, I did get another job – just not in newspapers. I was smart enough to realize that was a losing proposition so I limited my job search to PR and was lucky enough – and that’s what it was, pure, unadulterated luck – to find one.

I worked for the state in higher education for eight years. As a result, my retirement is augmented by the Texas Retirement System pension I earned during that period.

I’m better off, financially at least, than I would have been if I had stayed in newspapers until the retirement bell rang. So the DMN suits who handed me my walking papers actually did me a favor. The bastards.

Emotionally, the sting still burns. While the terror and sadness have faded away, the anger is still very real and reveals itself in strange, unexpected ways. That said, I do experience a strong sense of satisfaction each month when my TRS check shows up.

That’s one reason why I hang these DMN Christmas ornaments every year. More importantly, however, they help remind me of who I really am. I look at them and understand anew that the way I view the world and how I relate to the people was shaped by the years I spend in newspaper newsrooms, including the 26 years I worked at the DMN.

The simple fact is that in my heart and soul, I’ll always be a newspaper man.

I spent almost four decades in the news business, almost all of it at Texas newspapers. I worked at metro papers in three of the state’s major metropolitan areas – Dallas, Fort Worth and Austin. I was lucky enough – there’s that word again – to be part of a team that won the Pulitzer Prize.

I battled deadlines with some of the finest reporters and editors this country has produced, and I never missed a deadline. As a reporter, I once wrote a story that prevented a group of poor senior citizens in East Austin from losing their Meals on Wheels route. I covered tornadoes and homeless camps and jail breakouts and a thousand other events that touched people’s lives.

I was never a great reporter. I didn’t have the taste for blood and aggressive mindset that the really good ones have. I didn’t like long, complicated stories that required dozens of interviews and hours of pouring over documents. I preferred people features – quick-hit looks at the way people lived and loved and created.

I was a better editor. I prided myself on being a reporter’s advocate, someone who understood the challenges they faced and who was willing to push deadlines to the breaking point to give them every last second to hone and polish their stories. Sometimes, it cost me because, after all, the DMN was an editor’s newspaper.

But I don’t kid myself. When all was said and done, I was nothing more than a journeyman journalist – competent, dependable and versatile. I was no Ben Bradlee. No Seymour Hersh. No Bob Woodward.

What I will say – with some pride and humility – is that I always pulled my weight. That’s what a journeyman is expected to do. That’s what I was and that’s what I did.

Area playoff champs: Southland Carroll 38, Odessa Permian 7

 On to Round Three!

Mojo is a no-show once mo’

The Odessa Permian Panthers, whose rabid fan base believes the Mighty Mojo is a whole lot better than it really is, left Abilene last night in a very foul mood.

They had watched in growing frustration as their beloved Panthers were whipped soundly by the hard-charging Southlake Carroll Dragons. And they had sat slack-jawed as Permian committed a series of costly mistakes that stymied promising Panther drives and cleared the way for the Dragons to build a comfortable lead before the first quarter ended.

If the noise coming from their section of Abilene Christian University’s Wildcat Stadium is any indication, they no doubt will blame the drubbing on the 117 yards in penalties assessed by the Waco officiating crew against the Mojo.

Of course, they’ll have to ignore the uncomfortable fact that the refs also walked off 117 yards against the victorious Dragons. And they’ll have to overlook the brilliant performance by senior quarterback Hunter Holden, who passed for 257 yards and 4 touchdowns.

And even if the referees were a little heavy flag-happy last night – which they were – it still doesn’t explain why the Panthers’ sleight-of-hand option offense couldn’t put any points on the board until the last 2 minutes of the 3^rd quarter. Unless, of course, you consider the Carroll defense, a disruptive force that played perhaps its best game of the season.

Truth be told, both teams played a pretty sloppy game. The Dragons just had enough offensive clout to survive them.

 That was demonstrated vividly in a sequence in the second quarter, after Carroll had built a insurmountable 24-0 lead over a stumbling Permian.

Wiped out

It started when Dragon Josh Spaeth intercepted a pass by Panther quarterback Harper Terry (6-15, 85, passing; 92 rushing), then sped 91 yards to the end zone, ending the first promising drive by Mojo. But an illegal block in the back wiped out his achievement and the Dragons eventually had to punt.

Panther Hayden Bays erupted through the line and leaped for the ball as it came off Joe McFadden’s foot. It sailed through his outstretched fingers and he crashed instead into McFadden. A roughing the kicker call keep the ball in Dragon hands, but not for long.

Mojo defender Joaquim Hernandez intercepted a deflected Holden pass. The ensuing Permian drive ran aground at the Dragon 20, where the Panthers failed to convert on a 4^th and 12.

Given a second chance, Carroll managed to put points on the board 34 seconds before halftime.

So let the West Texans yelp all they want. It doesn’t change the fact that the Dragons advance to the third-round of the playoffs, and the Panthers took a miserable bus ride back to the oil patch.

Carroll meets the 10-0 Arlington Martin Warriors in the Regional Round on Christmas Eve in Global Life Park. The Warriors have won 10 straight and sent a resounding message through 6A’s Division I when they demolished the Lewisville Farmers yesterday, 68-0.

All we want for Christmas...

It was a thoroughly humiliating beatdown for the proud Farmers. Martin scored on the opening play of the game, then completed discombobulated Lewisville with a series of deceptive special-team plays. By the end of the 1^st quarter, the Warriors held a stunning 44-0 lead.

In Martin, the Dragons will face their biggest challenge of the year. Word is that the Warriors are fast and efficient on offense (I guess!) and sturdy on defense.

But the Dragons aren’t the Farmers, who have been drilled in the playoffs the last two years. Under the steady leadership of Holden, who started his sixth straight game last night for injured superstar Quinn Ewers, Carroll has an explosive offense in the air and on the ground, where sophomore phenom Owen Allen continues to bulldoze defenders. Against Permian, young Allen rolled to 178 yards on 15 carries and made a TD along the way.

Offensive star

But Holden was the offensive star of the night. While Dragon Nation wonders when Ewers will return to the field, Holden has proved to be much more than adequate in filling the cleats of his fallen teammate. Cool in the pocket and a smart, opportunistic runner, he’s deadly in the air and dangerous on the ground.

Last night, he engineered a 5-play, 68-yard drive to open scoring for the Dragons. He nailed a 47-yard pass to Landon Samson to move the Dragons to the Panther 21, then zipped his 16^th passing TD of the year to RJ Maryland. He would loft three more to his favorite receiver, the remarkable Brady Boyd.

Trouble for the Panthers began early on their first drive, when a 27-yard run was wiped out by a holding call. Five plays later, Dragon defender Cade Parks sacked Terry and forced a punt.

It took the Dragons exactly two plays to score. Starting from his own 15, Allen plowed 31 yards to the 46, then Holden sent a zinger to Boyd (5-143), who took it 54 yards for his first touchdown of the night.

Permian fared no better on its next drive. First, it had a 29-yard gain wiped out by a chop-block penalty, then Terry was downed behind the line of scrimmage on a 3^rd and 16.

The Panther punter, shocked to see a mob of Dragons closing in, attempted to outrun them but was buried well short of the first down.

When the Dragons took over, Allen ran to the 3, but the drive stalled and the Dragons had to settle for a 33-yard field goal by Joe McFadden.

Boyd would score twice more before the half. He snagged a 34-yard pass in the end zone early in the 2^nd . And after Allen darted 43 yards down the right sideline to the Permian 4, Boyd grabbed another missile and fought his way across the goal line.

Ending with a flourish

Allen ended scoring for the Dragons in spectacular fashion mid-way through the 3^rd .

When a 28-yard Panther field goal failed, Carroll took over at its own10.

Holden moved the Dragons into Panther territory with a 46-yard toss to Boyd. Allen then scooted through the middle of the Permian line and bolted 46 yards to the end zone.

After that excitement, the Panthers managed to put together a lengthy drive that slogged its way the length of the field before Lucas Salazar put the Mojo on the board with less than 2 minutes left in the 3^rd.

Unfortunately, the frustrations of the Odessa crowd – angry at the refs, angry at the Mojo misfires, just plain angry – also seemed to infect players on the field. Unsportsmanlike-conduct calls flew around, and at one point, Dragons and Panthers had to be pulled off each other by officials and coaches. It’s a reminder to fans that their impact on the game can be both positive and negative.

You can’t say enough about the Dragons defense, which is coming together at just the right time. Facing their first real tests in the playoffs, they have jelled into a smart, stubborn crew. They held Permian’s offense to 85 yards in the first half.

Avyonne Jones was just superb – he always is – as was Cade Parks, who sacked Terry twice and was in his face all evening.

The defense will have to play lights out against the Warriors to extend the Dragon season into the Fourth Round for the third straight year. It can be done, but it won’t be easy.

Not normal times

In normal times, this would be the championship weekend of the playoffs. In fact, Argyle put a cap on a perfect season by winning the 4A, Division I championship yesterday.

But a COVID-delayed beginning to the season for 5A and 6A teams means their playoffs will extend into the new year. A crucial game on Christmas Eve? That makes it pretty rough on families already reeling from the hardships forced on them by the pandemic upsurge.

Much as I’d like to see the Martin game, I’ll spend the day with my family instead. I hope it’s an early kickoff although Dragon Radio was talking about an evening start. If that’s the case, perhaps I can sneak off for a few minutes from opening gifts to catch the score.

I could say that all I want for Christmas is a win against Martin. But that’s a little extreme, don’t you think? (Uh, Santa, if you’re listening …)

Go Dragons!

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 15:

 

Austin's iconic symbol

By the time I moved to Austin as a reporter in 1981, growth already had robbed it of much of its quirky charm and iconoclastic college-town vibe.

On the day I got into town, the Armadillo World Headquarters, a legendary music venue that launched the cosmic cowboy scene and helped establish Austin as a music mecca, closed down.

It was demolished within days to prevent any attempts by music fans and preservationists to save it as a cultural landmark. Plans called for a bank to be built on the site, thus adding insult to injury. But the land remained bleak and empty for the entire four years I lived there.

Austinites mourned the loss of the Armadillo as if it were a cherished member of their family, which, I guess, in a way it was. Even now, when you mention the Armadillo, long-time Austin residents nod sadly and a shadow passes over their faces.

I never covered Texas state government, as this elaborate ornament might suggest. But I covered everything else for the Austin American-Statesman: the byzantine fuckery taking place at the University of Texas, the occasional cop shop shift, the business beat and features – lots and lots of features. CLFs (cute little features) were my specialty.

No, this ornament, which depicts the front of the Texas Capitol, an Austin icon, gets a special place on our Christmas tree because it represents a very happy time in my life.

I had loved Austin since the first time I visited there as a college student in the early 1970s, so I jumped at the chance to trade the tension-filled, high-pressure newsroom of the Dallas Times Herald for the more laid-back environs of the American-Statesman. Almost all my newspaper colleagues thought I was nuts.

But to Austin I went to join the lotus-eaters, pot-heads and eccentric artists and clowns who I envisioned filled its streets.

I was mostly wrong about all that. But I still fell under Austin’s seductive spell and surrendered to its siren call. If I’m honest, I have to say I didn’t do my best work at the Statesman, never giving it the attention and devotion it deserved.

I was too busy having a good time. I lived at the edge of trendy Barton Hills, in a small apartment perched on a cliff directly above peerless Barton Springs Pool in Zilker Park.

In the summer, I could open my sliding-glass door and hear the merry chittering of the crowds at the spring-fed pool and the squeals of shock when swimmers jumped into its ice-cold water.

Lake Austin was a short walk away, and across the river, the rooftops of downtown could just be seen from the parking lot of my complex. I was close to almost everything.

I discovered the oak-shaded patio at Scholz Beer Garden, the sunset deck of the Oasis on Lake Travis, fajitas at Cisco’s, chicken-fried steaks at Broken Spoke, live-music clubs like Antone’s, the Continental Club and Hut’s Hamburgers. That’s right, a hamburger joint that also featured live music – that’s the Austin I fell in thrall with.

And when you tired of the city’s charms, all you had to do is jump in your car and in minutes be in the Texas Hill Country, the very best part of Texas.

But the REAL reason Austin will forever have a place in my heart and this nostalgia-imbued ornament a place on my tree is that it’s where I met Marice – song of my heart, mother of my children, and the most patient woman on earth, a fact she proves every day she stays married to me. Thank God for that.

I met Marice the first day she arrived in the Statesman newsroom, a beautiful, fresh-faced girl-next-door with a ready smile and a confident attitude.

I wasted no time in making my way to her desk. Newsroom lore insists that I stayed there a loooong time, a scurrilous allegation I deny. Over the next few days, however, I did drop by regularly to chat.

Eventually, Marice got tired of my distractions and agreed to a date. The rest is history.

We left Austin together a year or so later, made a short-lived detour to Missouri, and eventually returned to Texas, where we both got jobs at The Dallas Morning News. When Marice decided it was time – about damned time – to get married, Austin was the logical place to do it.

We called our friends Jim and Karen Pinkerton and asked to borrow the backyard of their South Austin home for the ceremony. We spent our wedding night at the Driskill, partied the next afternoon with friends and drove back to Dallas in time for work on Monday. Some honeymoon.

From time to time over the years, Marice and I have discussed moving back to Austin. But the talk never leads anywhere. For better or worse, we’ve made our lives in the suburbs of Dallas and Fort Worth, cities neither of us particularly like but where our careers led us.

In our memories, Austin remains – rightfully – as a time and place when the world was young and so were we.