At 9 a.m. on a Saturday, still two weeks before I would pack up my belongings and move to Texas, Texas arrived on my doorstep.
Charlie and I had a majority of our belonging displayed on our Fraser, Colorado front lawn. We were selling sweaters and coats, skis and snowboards, and the sale item we were most happy about — our collection of snow shovels.
We advertised it in the classifieds as a “Moving to Texas” sale. 9 a.m. No early birds.
Instead of early birds, we got snowbirds – or Winter Texans, as I’ve heard them called. They came in a swarm of exiled Texans who love the state but, for whatever reason, were in Colorado.
They were full of questions about where we were moving and loads of advice — never ignore a sign that tells you to not to drive through a flooded street, get a subscription to Southern Living and stay away from Austin where the liberals live.
You’ll learn to judge good Mexican food by the tortillas, they said, and you’ll also learn that you’ve never had real barbecue in Colorado.
And go to Gruene Hall, they said. Go to Wurstfest. Learn to two-step. Buy your own toob. Buy two toobs. Learn to spell tube with two “o”s.
And look up my friend, they said. Several people showed up at our garage sale with phone numbers of people from New Braunfels who would be happy to meet a young couple like us.
I already felt at home in New Braunfels and I was still a 16-hour drive away.
I arrived in town late on a Thursday night and started work as the new managing editor of the Herald-Zeitung the next day. That was three weeks ago.
I was so excited to move here, there was a part of me that was afraid to be let down because my expectations were so high. But I haven’t been disappointed.
That pre-feeling of being at home I felt during the garage sale hasn’t faded yet. In fact, it’s only gotten stronger as I meet more people and settle in.
In some strange way, it is a homecoming.
As my dad said, “Your grandmother thinks the rapture has come because you decided to move to Texas.”
My grandparents live in Longview, along with my aunt and uncle and cousins. My extended family lives in Houston. My dad grew up in the Texas Panhandle, the third generation of his family to do so.
Everyone assumed that Texas had skipped a generation with me. I grew up in Wyoming and when it came time to move away from home, I had a penchant for colder places — Alaska, Maine, Colorado.
But as it turned out, I wasn’t to live my whole life out of Texas. Here I am.
My door is always open. I can be reached by calling (830) 625-9144 ext. 200 or e-mail aphillips(at)herald-zeitung.com.
