by Stefani on 10-February-2009

We’re back!

We had a wonderful time, but I came home with a cold, and I’ve been no end of whiney ever since.
Me and my green bottle (NyQuil) are inseparable these days.

Despite the crummies though, I always have this grounded, solid feeling when I come home from the piney woods.

My ancestors lived out their lives there. They were born, raised, had families, grew old and died, all along a little stretch of highway. It does me good to walk their ground and know, remember, that I’m a part of a bigger story.

My boys got to visit a natural gas rig where my uncle works.


If I were to list for you all my family and friends that have worked a rig… well, it would be a very long list indeed. Just about anyone in east Texas could say the same.

Hard hats and dirty boots, hard work and calloused hands, they are a part of my history, and now a part of my guys as well.


I think it will be a long time before they forget the noise, the awesome height of that rig. They’ve passed a million of them, rolling down the highway, but it is another thing to be up close, to hear it breathe.

On the day that we visited, they had laid enough pipe to dig down 10,000 feet – something my guys could not begin to wrap their heads around.


After the rig we did something my husband does not understand at all. We visited the cemetery.

It’s just this thing that we do.


I guess it might seem scary and weird, but in a way, it’s really comforting. The names on all those stones are the same ones that populate my memories. They were the names that circled over our dinner tables, wound through our holidays. Pena, Posky, Luna, Martines, Cloudy… those names have echoed through our woods for nearly 200 years, and it feels good to walk among them.To see them carved in stone, it feels sort of tribal. These are my people.

We laughed and played cards and caught up and then we travelled the long road home. I unpacked and found myself laughing and crying over our laundry. My boys have clearly taken up their place in this family… their jeans were covered in red dirt – the dirt that my family has plowed, drilled, danced upon, built a life upon, the same dirt under which they rest, even now.

It is a part of my men too, as are the dreams of so many before them – to dance, and to laugh, and to love.

What More Could You Ask?

What more could you ask than that?

Previous post:

Next post: