And we're off!

It has been a busy couple of months, and there is no sign that it will be slowing down any time soon.  Family funerals and weddings, personal trips, Young Women camp and a church youth conference, a high school reunion...Some people would suggest simplifying the schedule, prioritizing some things and cutting out the rest.  Nonsense!  Sometimes the best thing to do is lean into the busy, and with that slightly masochistic perspective we dive into our first summer adventures.

One of the things the southwest is famous for—or notorious, depending on your perspective—are the missions.  Thick-walled adobe structures, remnants of the Spanish colonization of the New World, dot the mesas and dry creeks of the desert west.

There are three near El Paso, part of the Camino Real (Royal Road or King’s Highway) comprised of trails and trade routes that was the primary route for the Spanish colonization of what is today Texas.  San Elizario was established as a presidio, or military fort, in 1789.  Nothing really remains of the original fort; the chapel was actually built in 1877.  A large, chalky white building in the distinctive rounded Traditional Spanish style, the walls are massively thick for both cooling and defensive purposes.  It’s still an active Catholic church.  Out of respect, we didn’t take pictures inside, even though there was a pair of incongruous giant pink and blue plaster angels that were practically begging for a photo op.

To be honest, the rest of the historic parts of the town were more interesting than the chapel itself. Besides a couple of signs, the chapel had very little information about it.  San Elizario is a rather unprepossessing place; like many small desert towns, it is little more than a stretch of dusty, wind-scoured buildings with sun-faded paint.  The crown of San Elizario is the historic district, a handful of stone and adobe structures dating back to the 1800s.  The mercantile has some of the original stone walls that have been refurbished over the centuries; a nearby building has the massive wooden doors of the original chapel.  At the mercantile—which pulls double duty as a thrift store and the local military veterans museum—the proprietor was proud to point out that one of the oldest streets in Texas ran just outside the door, and how San Elizario was established as a town over 400 years ago.

Rick was taken with the veterans museum, a collection of photographs and memorabilia from families in the town.  It was simply done, just walls of pictures and lovingly mounted uniforms and medals, but it was impactful.

My personal favorite stop was the jail.  A gnarled old gentleman with a cane and a magnificent beard showed us the original steel jail cells and told us stories of Billy the Kid (William Bonney, for you history nerds) and the Salt Wars.   Seriously, the best part about any touristy place is the people.  One, the docents and hosts are generally dying to talk to someone; their job is very boring otherwise.  Two, they always have the coolest stories to share.  A generational resident of San Elizario, Mr. Sanchez was simply delightful, and it was fun hearing the history intermingled with his own personal opinions about the anecdotes and his family’s history in the town.  His name also made my Book of Life-loving heart happy.

Side note: remember those flooded salt flats I dragged the kids to last summer?  Those are actually part of the salt lakes at the center of the aforementioned Salt Wars, which were a political turf war over the rights to mine the salt flats at the base of the Guadalupe Mountains. Another side trip turned history lesson. Boom.

When we were done trundling through history and dust, we headed 5 minutes down the road to Licon Dairy.

Licon Dairy is a stable-to-table working dairy farm with a petting zoo and questionably placed restaurant that specializes in burgers and asado cheese.  Armed with reasonably-priced animal feed, we descended on the goats, ducks, and miniature donkeys in a tornado of petting and squeals.  The mini donkeys were a general favorite, but the ostriches also won a few fans despite trying to swallow entire hands. Rick developed a friendship with a rather belligerent macaw.  The cows, perhaps aware of their ultimate fate thanks to the smoke drifting over from the grill, were somewhat standoffish.  Or maybe they just preferred hay to dried corn.  The more stubborn of us persisted until we patted some cow noggins.  After a brief stop at the playground, which was delightfully stocked with the deathtraps of an 80s childhood, we headed back home.

They were just small adventures, but they ticked all the boxes—local flavor, practically free, and not my couch or Walmart.  If I’ve learned nothing else from spending my entire adult life on the move, I’ve learned that life is more fun when you get out and do instead of sit down and don’t. Sometimes they’re underwhelming, and sometimes you find a gem.  The girls are already asking about returning to Licon Dairy, and there are two more missions on this stretch of the Mission Trail.  Hopefully they’ll be a little more exciting than San Elizario.  Personally, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for another Sanchez.

Mothers Mine

Mother’s Day is almost here.  It’s a day that is very close to my heart, but not just for the reason(s) you think.  This year, I’ve been reflecting on the many women I’ve been privileged to know, the women who have mothered me as often as I’d let them—and even when I didn’t.

My natural mother served in the army for 22 years; she has that casual assertiveness that comes from two decades of being 5 feet tall and in charge of people who could fold her in half. She is confident, unflappable, and a provider.  Thanks to her, I never believed being a woman was any kind of limitation.

My mother-in-law was fiercely loyal and protective.  She was quick to open her house and her heart to strays, particularly human ones.  There was always an extra plate at her table; no one went away hungry.

My paternal grandmother was a dragon.  After thirty-five years in a abusive marriage that kept her acceptably small, she found herself and lived loudly for the next forty years, the iron-fisted and iron-browed queen of a sprawling, wild family.

My husband’s grandmother has been polished by years of love, faith, and dedicated service, with a patient gentleness and solidity that well suits a matriarch who has weathered nearly a century in this tumultuous world.

I am rich in sisters, thanks to my husband’s family.  Together we have weathered the stormwrack of addiction, death, adultery, poverty, and mental illness.  We have lifted each other in victory and cherished each other’s children.  We have fought and loved and forgiven.

I have had sisters in the military and the gospel who, though not blood, are still family.  Some of them were so in passing—women who brought a meal or corralled a feral toddler at the airport or gave offhand advice about how to do something better.  Women who saw me struggle, and took the time to ask why, or to offer a hug and a few words of comfort.  Friends who reached out after years apart to check in.  Women who reached out to the new neighbor and welcomed me into the community every time I had to start over.  A high school teacher who taught me how to write, and a college professor who let me find my voice. A cousin who will drop everything when I need help.  A free-spirited bohemian in the Yuma desert.  The friendly extrovert who adopted me in San Antonio.  The mad violinist with six girls of her own and zero qualms about barging in when she hadn’t heard from me for a couple days, and shared her sofa for long hours of conversation.  The women who shared Mondays with me during the last deployment, one full of gentle humor and faith and the other a foodie full of zest and cheeky adventure. The women who took my horde on a moment’s notice in emergencies. A retired Marine wife who was an example of grit, competence, and strength of character.  A neighbor who was always up for brunch and a vent session. Another whose laser-focused, sincere attention made me feel seen and heard. Women who shared their soft testimony or outrageous laugh or their company so freely that I never felt alone.  Women who loved and served my girls as if they were their own.  There are so many, many more.  I am who I am because of these women who encouraged and challenged, loved and rebuked, inspired and taught me. 

Thank you.

I’m past the stage of diapers and sleepless nights and always smelling faintly of old milk.  I’m at the much harder phase where my girls batter themselves against me, roughing out who they are by where I end and they begin.  We are closer to dating and college than we are to story time and kindergarten; it’s hard watching them grow and knowing that I won’t always be there to comfort or defend or counsel.  It’s even harder to deliberately hang back and let them test their limits.

 To be honest, I’m not really ready for it.

It's a little easier, though, knowing that they will have a thousand mothers and sisters to help them along the way, just as I did.  For those already here and those to come, thank you.

I’ve tried to help in turn. I’ve brought meals and random surprises, shoveled driveways and watched children, listened to sorrow and had hard conversations. It always seems so little compared to what I have received.

So thank you to all the mothers I’ve known for what I can never repay.  You made more of a difference than you’ll ever know.

Happy Mother’s Day.