"Unless you don't give a damn for painting, painting won't give a damn for you." -- the French painter Jacques-Louis David (1748-1825)
Phaedra and I are officially in the transition tunnel. On the other side of this tunnel lies Durham, North Carolina: six weeks away. It's funny how stress multiplies like fruit flies in times like this. We're trying to keep our heads sane. Trips to the swimming pool and to the nacho bar at Chuy's certainly help, but there are moments when you wonder.
Anyhoo, we had a chance to go on a family vacation last week. That'd be my side of the family: mom and dad, Cliff and Christine and the kids, Stephanie and Scranton and the kids. We spent four days in the middle of west Texas, near a small town called Goldthwaite. I love that name. It's a name that belongs in a Cormac McCarthy novel. Our temporary home was a quintessentially Texas ranch: 800 acres, a small pond, a herd of Longhorn cattle, tractors, guns, a go-kart. We ate ribs and brisket. We drank strange brews. We played Farkle.
We jumped on trampolines and fed catfish. Dad taught the grandsons how to shoot a b-b gun. Stephanie almost led us in a Dan In Real Life-esque family kick-boxing workout. (We ran out of time.) Phaedra and I slept with an AC unit, a ceiling fan and two floor fans. We made homemade ice cream (mint and bolders of dark chocolate). And on the last morning before we all took the rode home, we céilidh danced, or danced a céilidh , or jumped a jig, or however you say that. It was very fun.
Here are a few pictures from our west Texas getaway.
(Phaedra tearing it up on the go-kart.)
(The pond with the catfish.)
(Skye Warner looking cute as a button and ready to run through that sprinkler in the background.)
("Papa" teaching Brendan how to shoot right.)
(Phaedra holding some red-headed yumminess: Sohren Twohey.)
(Sohren and Speight: mad max boys.)
(Early morning in the middle of nowhere and all is quiet on the Texas frontier.)
(Dancing with the Stars.)
(Riding down our dinner.)