Sandcastle Days South Padre

Sandcastle Days this past weekend was, I think, the best ever with the most “castles” I have seen.

It is amazing how intricate and beautiful these sand features are. Sculptors come from around the world to build the castles, and they didn’t disappoint. They are true professionals and it shows.

Their creations brought visitors from all over, and many were fashioning their own sand designs in the amateur section. Others were milling around, eating fried shrimp and funnel cakes from various vendors.

This is a great time of year on the island with temps in the mid-80s. It was a fun weekend to ride around in the Jeep, with the top off—of the Jeep, silly!! I don’t want to scare the crowds!

Courtesy of Edalisse Hirst

If this blog doesn’t make sense, it is because I am sleepy. You see, this past weekend was the “Roar at the Shore—Bikers’ Weekend,” on South Padre Island. Now, let me clarify. I am NOT a biker and I didn’t ride into the wee hours of the morning. Instead, I lie listening to the thousands of motors rumbling down Padre Blvd.

Actually, it is an awesome sight to see literally thousands of motorcycles in so many sizes, shapes, colors and models fill the island. The folks riding them are unique stories of their own, dressed in leather pants and Harley t-shirts from all over the country. Bandanas adorned most heads along with a few wildly painted helmets.

These aren’t just your run of the mill “bikes.” Most probably cost as much as my car, and these riders come bearing money that the SPI merchants fight to get by designating “HOG PENS” at every location. People from all over the area lined up as much as two hours early to watch the parade Saturday night, and they were not disappointed.

Biker weekend begins a series of fun autumn and winter activities. I love this time of year and look forward to all the island has to offer—especially the quiet and serene events like sandcastle days. Now, that’s gentle on my ears! Think I’ll go take a nap!

Summer Time and the living is easy—–and HOT. Having a good week. I have family visiting, and of course, we are doing all the local stuff, i.e. Mexico shopping, eating lots of seafood, swimming, beaching, and catching up on the prior year’s events.

We went to Nuevo Progresso yesterday, and shopped ‘til we dropped, but had plenty of guacamole and margaritas to sustain us. Today, it was a ride on the beach, and shopping on the island, along with swimming, and just hanging out.

Next week, I’ll get back to working on book 3. It has all come together now, and before long I’ll share a little with you. In the meantime, enjoy your summer, and stay cool!

Driving along Highway 100 in deep South Texas between South Padre Island and Harlingen there is not a tremendous amount of pretty scenery except in the spring when the yuccas are showing off their beautiful white, frothy blooms.

Most days the dust is blowing through the Mesquite trees and an occasional half-starved cow is trying to work his head through the wire fence long enough to snag a green blade of grass, which is not an easy find. I travel this road often because it is the primary route to the shopping mall and the airport so I am always on the lookout for something new.

Until a couple of years ago there was a rendering plant about half-way on the stretch of road, and that was always interesting to smell. I never got the full story of what this place did, but what I did hear, I didn’t really want to think about much. We called it “stink corner,” which was a great landmark when you wanted to tell someone your approximate location. Did it ever smell bad? At least it was just for the couple of minutes driving around the bend. Now, it’s gone and that’s nice, but that doesn’t leave much excitement along the way, except for the sign “9 TOE MOWING AND SHREDDING.” That guy has my kind of sense of humor!

I wonder what visitors think when they are driving down this highway on their way to the island for their first vacation. They probably think they have made a mistake until they reach the bridge and see the waters of the Laguna Madre. On a clear day looking straight ahead you can see the Gulf of Mexico and on either side of the bridge the bay that separates the island from the mainland, and then you have to know that however long the trip was, it was worth it. And I am lucky enough to call this place home.

Ahhh! Spring Break

Ahhh.  Spring break on South Padre Island. Not a bad place to be, even if you aren’t 18 or 20 years old. So, today we cranked up the hot tub and enjoyed the sun and warm weather right here in the backyard so we could just think we are “breakers.” It is nice to be home for awhile. I know I said I would write more about Dubai as well as my visit to Oman, but that has to wait until next week. Spring Break calls right now.

People ask me why I stay when the island is filled (literally) with college kids from all over the state, especially the University of Texas and Texas A&M. And I tell them they don’t bother me. I do whatever I need to do early in the morning while they are still sleeping off their hangovers and then by 3:00 in the afternoon I try to be sure I’m tucked in at home. This is not the week to be going out to a restaurant.

Actually, spring break is about a month long here because kids from other states visit here during their breaks, but generally they fly in and walk wherever they need to go, which is nice compared to all the cars this week. But, most of these kids are polite and nice, and just want to hang out and have fun. I will say though that the island does sort of vibrate from the bass on some of the less cool kids’ radios.

That said, however, unless you want to feel REALLY OLD, you stay away from the beach. It’s not cool to walk along the shore wearing Capri pants. Anyone over 25 definitely stands out in a crowd of bikinis. Of course, if I wore a bikini I would stand out, and bulge out and hang out…all over. But I must admit I did walk over one year just to see what was going on, and did I ever see!!! More than I wanted to!!

But a tradition I have developed is to ride around in my little red jeep with the top down so they can drive up and start to flirt. Then I turn and smile with my 58 year old smile and suddenly I see the look on their faces. I get such a perverted pleasure seeing their disappointment—maybe it’s my way of coping with being old in a sea of skin and youth.

Maybe, it’s simply because I am happy to be just where I am in life—comfortable in my own skin, even though it sags a little and shows a few wrinkles. They’ll get there if they live long enough. And I say, enjoy! It passes pretty darn fast.

Who says we don’t have a lot to learn in our old age? In these two winter months I have been in my condo in New Mexico. This Texas flatlander has learned loads about living in the cold, dry mountain air.

Since I am used to the humidity of South Padre Island, my skin has gone into shock!! It is so dry, I itch!! Not a little, casual itch, a major want to scratch off the skin ITCH. A “local” told me to get baby oil, and that was really good advice. It works extremely well, though I must admit I leave the soft fragrance of a fresh, newly diapered baby’s butt everywhere I go.

Maybe that young guy the other night at the casino wasn’t flirting after all; maybe I reminded him of his wife and newborn he had left at home!!

Another factor I have had to get used to, and haven’t quite conquered is the difference in altitude. Although I am much more acclimated now than when I arrived, I still huff and puff a little climbing the hill from the bottom of the condo complex to the top.

Several years ago I went over to play golf at Cloudcroft, about 30 miles away (elevation: 8,700) and I asked the lady in the pro shop if it was okay if we walked, knowing some golf courses require golfers to rent their carts. She looked at me and without smiling said, “If you think you can.”

I hesitated for a second, not understanding and went on my merry way. When I finished the first hole, I totally understood, and when I completed nine holes, I caught a ride with a friend who had opted for a cart and rode back to the clubhouse not sure I was going to live. There is no magic lotion for this problem, except I guess to get fit and in tiptop shape. Oh well, I’m leaving soon, so why start now??

And a couple of other things I now know: ice is really slick and deer in the road don’t really care if your car is bigger than them. Maybe someday I will spend the winter again in the mountains, but not until I get really hot, until my bare feet blister, and until fish walk in front of my car. Until then, I think I will see Santa deliver my toys in his boat, hang icicle lights on my palm trees, and eat fried shrimp on New Year’s. It’s been fun, but I’m ready to go “home.”

Tonight, friends and I ate at Daddy’s, a local “upscale Cajun seafood dive.” I guess that sounds a bit of a paradox, but there are all types of dives when you live in a resort town, and Daddy’s just happens to be one of those on the upper end of the scale—clean, but tacky, moderately priced with an assortment of condiments on the table at all times and locals at the bar.

Most of the servers wear shirts that read, “Who’s your Daddy?” Tonight however, our server, a bulging, round-faced young woman, was sporting a t-shirt that read, “It’s Harder to Kidnap a Fat Person, So Eat Up”. In the middle of my red beans and rice, I began thinking about this quote, and the more I looked at our server, who was, indeed pleasant, but noticeably carrying a few extra pounds, the more it struck me as true. Maybe I should quit worrying about my weight and just look on the bright side.

Since I was in elementary school I have watched my weight—watched it go up and watched it go down, and though I have never been fat, neither have I been skinny, which has been the ultimate goal. I know when it all started because every year in elementary school, the gym teacher would weigh us and then yell the results across the hollow sounding wooden floors to another person writing it down in our cumulative folders.

As the number ricocheted off those walls, even as a kid I cringed, wondering why they did this. I never knew them to do anything with this useless information. Can’t an adult just look at a kid and tell if he’s fat without announcing it to the whole world? It’s certainly something the other kids recognize daily and remind the pudgy one with pesky little jokes.

To this day I remember the two worst school days each year. One was the day we were weighed and the other when we had our voices checked for musical ability in front of the whole class and in listening range of about five square miles. Back then I was a little chunky (baby fat was the politically correct term in the late 50s-early 60s) and apparently tone deaf. I couldn’t do anything about the singing deal, but right then and there as a third grader I decided I didn’t want to be fat, thus beginning a fight that I have waged since. It was certainly easier before turning 50, but I’m hanging in there.

The reason for the struggle is that I like all the wrong kinds of food. Because my dad liked everything fried, my mother did just that. She fried steak; she fried vegetables; she even fried cornbread. And back then Crisco was sold in big cans, and she bought it often. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t snuck in some lard once in awhile. Then when you thought you couldn’t hold any more of anything, she plopped down a dessert at every meal—coconut cream pie, or chocolate pie with massive meringue, or chocolate sheet cake with gobbly-gooey frosting, sometimes with marshmallows for a little extra emphasis.

Though I am a much wiser and thoughtful eater and try hard to watch my waist and my weight, I still have “food weaknesses.” You won’t find me eating sushi, tofu, soy, or anything ending in those funny letters. I like “normal stuff” that ends in a “d” like bread, buttered, frosted, and…..fried!

Call me southern, but call me to dinner or better yet, kidnap me if you can!

After seeing all the Galapagos iguanas I couldn’t help but think about “Iggy.” Several years ago, Iggy apparently “escaped” from what was at the time a bayside restaurant and bar that had several iguanas and parrots as part of the natural décor. My neighbors thought he was so cute hanging out on the seawall at their house that they named him and began feeding him, which probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he had stayed in their yard.

Iggy was big, maybe not by Galapagos standards, but for my yard, a two foot lizard is big, (tail not included) and not welcomed. I do not want to watch a reptile bask in the sun, and I do not want a reptile watch me do anything. Besides I have read they have really keen eyesight!

My neighbors travel a lot to see their grown children so when they were gone for an extended period, ole Iggy began to “live” on my seawall and eat my flowers, which did not sit well, so I decided to take the situation into my own hands.  One afternoon, I retrieved from the boat the 10-foot pole which is used if one gets stuck in water that is too shallow, and proceeded to push Iggy into the bay, thinking he was a land animal that wouldn’t be able to swim.

I have never seen anything swim so fast or move in such an agile manner as Iggy, who joined me on the deck before I could lay down the pole. I could see I was no longer in control of this situation; actually it became obvious very quickly that I had never been in control so I called for reinforcement from my good friend Judy. Judy is a wonderful friend who I worked with for years. She is one of the most unselfish, patient and caring people I have ever known, but she is extremely bossy and ultra organized. Remember, I am very global. I don’t know if she learned that as a high school principal, but I tend to believe that she was like that at a very early age.

Now, every school district needs a good high school leader who can “boss” and give forthright directions, but since she is retired and no longer has teachers or students to give commands to, that only leaves a small contingency on which to use this attribute. Therefore, I knew that when I asked for Iggy assistance, I was abdicating my power. When Judy leaves this world, I know she will have God and St. Peter working off a “Things to to List” and when the roll is called up yonder she will insist that it be numbered and in alphabetical order. So I was prepared.

First order, “Get a bucket!”  Then almost immediately, “A BIG bucket, Cindy” with a hint of frustration in her otherwise usually patient tone.   “Hurry up; I can’t keep him in this net much longer!!” Next, “find me a top” Now, I’m not normally so frazzled, but I had never caught an iguana before. Well, I didn’t exactly catch this one, but I found a board and handed it to her for the top.

She looked at me incredulously and instructed me to find the keys to the red Jeep so that we could take Iggy to the dunes. Once in the Jeep, I saw no reason to hurry. She seemed to have everything under control, leaning heavily on the board and the bucket when all of a sudden; Iggy tried a sideways, somersault-type roll. “Can’t you drive any faster??”

Thinking that the iguana might jump in my lap, I hit the accelerator at Nascar speed, throwing Judy and Iggy toward the dash, but she held on, and within minutes we were at the last dune reachable by car on the north end of the beach. Carefully, she exited the Jeep, walked slowly to some sea grapes, placed him on the sand, grabbed the bucket and ran back to the Jeep. “Move over. I’ll drive.”

Iggy turned to look. “Go,” Judy instructed, “move on.” When all else fails, boss an iguana.

A month or so later the neighbors arrived home. After a couple of days without Iggy waiting for them on the seawall, they yelled over, “Have you seen Iggy” “No, it’s been awhile,” I replied and left it at that.

October is one of my favorite months on the island, because it is cooler (relatively speaking) and less crowded. The only downside is the scheduled events that the Chamber of Commerce and Tourist Bureau dream up to increase the flow of money. This last week was SPLASH, an alternative lifestyle convention, which means the island was overrun with the cutest, best dressed men of the whole year.

Trouble is they never show the slightest bit of interest in me—not even in chatting with me. Normally they spend a great deal of time at the beach, and though I am not really a beach person, I once went over just to check it all out.  Just in case you didn’t know—they make Speedos in all sizes!!

This week is the Bikefest, better known as the Roar at the Shore.  And that is no exaggeration.  There will be hundreds of very expensive Harleys, Kawasakis, Yamahas and Hondas on the island. It will seem as though this little strip of land is vibrating into the Gulf of Mexico from all of the noise.  Restaurants will have parking spaces reserved for “Hogs Only,” and everyone in leather will have a rip-roaring loud time. A parade caps off the weekend, giving the riders a chance to show off their latest bikes and biking attire. I really hate that I am going to miss it! I’m off to the Galapagos!

They’re coming! At first I noticed a few Iowa plates and then Minnesota began to trickle in.  Before long there will be a sea of Midwest license plates all over the island.  The Q-Tips are back for another season.  They call themselves Winter Texans or Snowbirds.  We call them Q-Tips because they wear white tennis shoes and have white hair. Tennis shoes, always, and t-shirts from Branson and other exotic places they have been, and not necessarily since last year. Some of these t-shirts look as worn and wrinkled as their faces, not that there is anything wrong with worn and wrinkled faces; I’m not far away.

Occasionally, I see the more fashion conscious Winter Texan wearing SAS shoes.  If you are not familiar with SAS shoes, then you aren’t around enough older people. Just wait, you will; they will be called “your friends.” Actually, these folks are just slightly older than I am, and extremely active, but they are just different than us locals or so we like to think.

The Q-Tips come in all sizes and shapes, and they are from a number of colder states, but it is their mode of transportation and the teams they root for that distinguishes them. You don’t even want to be within 20 feet of a big screen television when the Hoosiers are playing! And God help us if Green Bay is playing the Cowboys.

Now they are equally identified by their carriages and abodes.  The ones who stay in condos drive Lincoln Towne Cars and occasionally Cadillacs—the big ones. The fifth-wheel people drive those big ole diesel “doolies” (honestly I am not sure how this is spelled) with the double cabs.  I can hear them three streets over as they drive through the neighborhood on lazy Sunday afternoons.

The motor home owners kick around in Jeep Cherokees or similar mid-size SUVs, painted in the same color as their winter home. Now, I have no problem with that. I love matchy-matchy.  It drives my eclectic friends crazy (you know who you are).  None of those off center hanging pictures for me.  Line them up, the straighter the better.  I mean really, would you if you had a choice want one leg shorter than the other? Then why would you want a bunch of mismatched stuff when you can have it all matching?

Well, back to the Q-Tips.  They assign themselves to the same structure that we used to place kids in school before we got so politically correct— ability groups. Most of  it is determined by financial means, but another factor is a shared interests like fishing, bingo, golf, etc. There are even financial sub-groups to all those areas—boat owners vs. surf fisher people. This becomes way too complicated and nothing you really need to think about unless you live here and then those patterns and timeframes are important.

But not to worry about these groups, they put themselves that way.  The park model and/or fifth-wheel folks hang out together, sitting out under their awnings, swapping stories over a pot of coffee in the morning or knocking off a beer or two in the early afternoon. The condo people hit the communal game rooms for pot luck or sit at the pools drawing in the warm rays of a South Texas winter. Everyone is happy, and almost always they are in these groups, everywhere; a group to the beach, to the bars, to Mexico, to dine.  If you see a winter Texan by himself, you know he is lost.

I am friends with some of these people, and I hope to get to know many more of them as Keeping Faith hits the market.  These people are bright, articulate, wise with years, and many of them like to read novels.  Guess I better find my way to the condo pools and the Winter Texan hangouts. Guess I better not call them Q-Tips—they just might buy my book!