Tales From The South, Part 1: Rest Stop Whiskey, Early Morning Gunshots, Stowaways, And Two Lane Roads.
In late 2017, I decided to move to Texas from Western Australia.
I had felt pulled towards the American South for quite some time and so I packed up my house, put everything in storage, arranged for my kitty to join me, and headed over to San Antonio with a hope and a dream. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out quite as planned and I found myself being rescued by an older woman (the Cowboy) who offered me and my sixteen-year-old pussycat a place to stay on her property out in the country.
On the day that I drove down to check out the cottage that had been offered, I stopped at a tiny gas station a few miles from the house to buy some soda water, delighted to see old gas pumps standing strong outside a rundown building. I had seen this scene a million times in movies but never in reality, and was still smiling that this was to be my new normal as I set the water down on the counter.
“You got some whiskey for that?” drawled the old chap behind the counter.
“No,” I laughed as he eyed me suspiciously and rang me up.
Apparently, you only buy water in rural Texas if you plan to add whiskey to it. I couldn’t stop smiling as I cranked up the country music up in my twenty-year-old Ford SUV and put her in drive.
Settling into the cottage proved challenging as it looked remarkably like it should have been in an episode of “Hoarders” — it seemed the Cowboy’s idea of cleanliness could have been a cornerstone of the Redneck Manifesto! A few days later she came over for dinner, bringing some warm beer with her which she quickly stashed in the freezer to chill.
As we ate, she told me about a raccoon that was driving her nuts and had been stealing the barn cats’ food every night, knocking over the plastic pellet feeder sitting on a table on the back porch and eating everything inside.
“I’m going to have to do somethin’ about ‘em,” she lamented. “It’s costing me a lot of money to keep filling the feeder.”
“Don’t you dare shoot them,” I said, my eyes blazing with fire, making an assumption that this is what country folks do.
Despite her rough appearance and brusque disposition, the Cowboy was actually a huge softie when it came to any type of critter and she promised me she wouldn’t. She told me that she had a cage trap and would release them somewhere far from the house; I say them as the Cowboy believed that Mr. Raccoon had himself a wife, and together they were pulling off the Bonnie and Clyde type heist.
Feeling confident that the critters would survive to see another day, I sent the Cowboy on her way and went to bed.
At around 5am I woke to the sound of a gunshot, so loud and clear that I sat bolt upright in bed from a dead sleep. My little cat was also startled out of slumber, alert and wide eyed. Without turning on a light, I snuck over to the window and peered out. Who was shooting who in the wee small hours of the morning? I was, after all, now living in rural Texas where the Second Amendment was gospel! I looked out a few windows for the flashing lights of a police car, straining to hear any more shots ringing out, but I saw and heard nothing. That poor raccoon! I was disappointed in the Cowboy as she had promised to keep him safe, but there was nothing I could do now, so I sent up a prayer for his little soul and went back to sleep.
The Cowboy was heading out to run some errands and quickly stopped by my cottage to ask if I needed anything whilst she was out.
“Did you shoot that racoon?” I asked almost in tears.
“I did not,” she replied using as few words as possible as was her style.
I apologized for my assumption and related my tale about the early morning gunshot and she looked concerned, wandering out to the front gate for a look around before she left for the day. I continued with my routine and around lunchtime, I went over to the freezer to take something out for dinner. It was there that I encountered my gunshot — an exploded beer can. The Cowboy had left one of her beer cans in the freezer overnight and it had exploded around 5am in the morning.
“I figured out what my gunshot was. One of your beer cans exploded in the freezer.” I texted her as soon as I found it.
This amused her endlessly and she claimed that only a city-slicker could mistake an exploding beer can for a gunshot. My reputation was saved a week later, however, as she retold the story to one of her friends who has also been raised in the country and agreed wholeheartedly that an exploding beer can did, in fact, sound exactly like a gunshot. I rest my case councillor!
The Cowboy had been in the Quarter Horse business for decades and she was trying to make a winner out of her youngest filly who came from good breeding stock. She was ready for the racing circuit so we set off early one fall morning to run her in Dallas. About thirty minutes into our journey we stopped for gas at the most famous gas station chain in Texas — Buc-ee’s. It was at this point that we discovered our very own stowaway — one of the barn cats who had obviously found the horse trailer to be super comfy for the night, had been locked in before we took off. Why she didn’t run off as soon as the large Sorrel mare was loaded on, God only knows, but there she was.
It was far too late to turnaround so she was coming along for the ride.
We moved her into the living compartment of the massive four-horse trailer and went in search of cat food and kitty litter. Side note: trying to find kitty litter at truck stops is a mission doomed for failure so we grabbed a cardboard box top, threw in some stall shavings, and placed it in the bathroom section of the trailer along with some water and a sachet of food.
We ran the filly and began our long drive home to feed the rest of the menagerie. The Cowboy was never happier than behind the wheel and I was exhausted, so decided to break the law and try to get some rest in the sleeping compartment of the trailer. If you’ve ever been in a gooseneck trailer whilst it’s on the move, you’d know that it’s not the smoothest of rides; coupled with the noise that the metallic joints make with each bump in the road and a terrified barn cat trying to climb under the blankets whilst meowing loudly at the constant movement, I realized that sleep was not an option!
“When you stop for gas, I’m coming up there with you.” I texted the Cowboy.
After getting back into the truck I related my story, which she found highly amusing having spent more than her fair share of drives in the back of a trailer, but she kept quiet after getting a look of “keep going and you may not make it home,” from me. We all got back safe and sound, the terrified kitty tearing into the darkness after she was let out, and the Sorrel mare happily munching hay in her paddock.
I’ll end Part 1 of these Southern Tales with one of my fondest memories of my time in Texas. There was a lovely little two-lane country road that ran from the highway to the road that we lived on, and it was here that I took the opportunity to do something I had always wanted to do. The Cowboy owned a lovely little sporty red Cadillac and so on our way home one evening, I opened the sunroof, stood up, and stuck my torso through it. With the Cowboy’s driving as steady as a rock, she laughed as I enjoyed the summer air whipping at my hair as we drove down the two-lane road like teenagers with nothing but time.
That moment of carelessness on a warm southern evening in Texas remains one of my favourite memories.
Make sure to read the next installment of Tales from the South and more insanity from my time in the Lonestar State.
