Feast day of St. Herve
Patron Saint of Allergy sufferers. Don’t ask, don’t smell?
Dallas. Coming up I-35, that last little patch of open road, the big, wide sky opening up and beyond.
Then there’s one hilltop, and from there, the Dallas Phallus is low and to the west, whereas the rest of the skyline just makes my heart skip a beat.
Dallas. Big city lights. Big city nights. Disco. Deep Ellum. Big hair. Then my bad attitude kicks in.
I keep forgetting, I like to visit, I just don’t like to stay too long.
It was perfect, too, the setting sun, Gram Parson’s singing about Las Vegas, that Crystal City. I’ve always figured that Las Vegas and Dallas have much more in common than the surface would indicate.
I picked up Sister at the big airport, not that dinky one close to the house. She got off her airplane and started dialing, “Brother, where are you?”
“Baggage Claim A – 16,” I replied.
There she was, wheeling along her little suitcase, talking on her phone, looking right at me. Must be a Left Coast thing.
No trip to Dallas, with both kids present, no Father’s Day, would be really be complete without a trip to the hardware store. All I managed to purchase was a potato masher, per Ma Wetzel’s request.
