Texas Loves You Anyway

There's a cow skull hanging over the tequila bottles. It's wearing a blue-and-red ribbon that droops through one eye socket.

I'm in Wimberley, Texas, home to 2,000 people. Wimberley is known as a great place to retire, so it's surprising to find this thumping bar just behind the town's ice cream shop. And it is a nice town to retire in, with little stores full of antiques and boxes, candles carved into unusual religious designs, Native American jewelry, a catfish joint—it's the small town every small town aspires to be. There's nothing too fancy or flashy, and the activities are centered around community and inclusion, which is how I ended up at the town pub.

Cowboy, the local musician, recommended it to me when I met him at an open house earlier tonight. A group of merchants had set up wine, story telling, poetry, tiny pastries and music in the small park that adjoins all their shops. The white fairy lights that twinkled along the walkway beckoned, so even though I'm just passing through, I began to pick my way between the stores. By the time I finished, I'd been treated to a free chair massage, great artichoke dip and a glass of local plum wine.

" 'Scuse me ma'am, but you know you look just spittin' image like Johnny Cash's daughter?"

The voice came from a little man—peppered hair, belt buckle big enough to kill a cow, and a guitar pick in between his teeth. My own mouth had a lingering taste of plum and a smattering of crumbs. I wiped my face and gave a smile. It's been a long time since I've been in a place where people just talk to you because they want to, but my smile was all the encouragement Cowboy needed. Next thing I knew, he found out I was from Nashville, he found out I sing, and then I found myself on stage. We harmonized all the standards while I sipped through the wine, and sometime after stumbling through "The Mercedes Song," I called it a night.

"But the night's still young, Darlin'," Cowboy shouted as I headed off through the lit-up cedars. "There's a great band over at Cypress Creek Bar."

And that's how I found myself here, sitting in a leatherback bar stool and trying to blend in. I'm wearing red, and that's all right in Texas, but everyone else has sleeves on their shirts and steel toes on their shoes, whereas my shoulders are bare and my toes are hanging out of my flip-flops. The old man sitting down at the corner bar stool has been giving me the evil eye, but I play it cool and start to doodle on my napkin.

The bartender interrupts my artistic moment to ask what I would like. It's Texas, where people drink Pabst beer, and I don't want to stand out more than I already do, but I risk looking too upscale and order a glass of Merlot.

"I'm Laurie," the bartender says as she flashes her huge smile at me. Her eyes crinkle at their lavender eye-shadowed edges. "This is such a great wine," she says, "and the first glass is on me!" I thank her and swivel back to watch the couples swarm like a bunch of cicadas on the dance floor.

The band, all over 50, is revving up for "Margaritaville" and everyone can feel it. Soon, the floor is a mess of two-stepping cowboy hats and sashaying pairs of jeans. Belts with silver adornments gleam in the lights.

Even though I haven't lived in Texas since I was 8 months old, I have to wonder if my parents might have been one of these couples had we stayed. They're all laughing with their cheeks pressed against each other. Hands are clasped and bodies sway to a time signature that echoes against the walls of their veins. People walk from table to table, slap each other on the back. I feel alone, out of place, out of town.

Suddenly, the evil-eyed cowboy is next to me. "I'm security, ma'am," he snarls as he points at the now covered-in-doodles napkin. "Gonna have to confiscate them there notes." I put on my Southern charm and tell him I'm just writing notes about the great atmosphere. His leathered face thaws into a smile and he starts to lead me around on his arm.

I meet the owner, the rest of the bartenders, the son of the guitarist, the hippies sitting outside, and the 6-foot-2 blond wife of the lead singer. "Here, honey," the blonde yells as she kicks off her shoes and pulls me to the floor. "I learned to lead a long time ago."

Two hours later, I collapse on the bar stool. Laurie brings me my third glass of Merlot, along with her phone number in case I need anything while I'm here. "Wednesdays we have a fire twirler come in," she giggles. I promise to come back for the fire, wave a grand goodbye all around, and start walking the one block to my motel room.

On my way, I pass the carved Jesus praying to a candlewick that sits in the window of the local wax store, and the sign for the community theater. It's a strange feeling being back here, in this native state I left so long ago, but there is comfort in the nighttime noises. Something about the low-lying hills and the stunted mesquite trees speak to me, their gnarled roots and branches reaching up from the dust to hook me home.