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The Maine Coon
About Cheeptrills
Meet the Cats
Meet the People
Meet our Graduates (Some of the cats we've sold)
Finding a Kitten
Tips for Cat Owners
Our Sales Contract
Origins of the Maine Coon
Great Maines of the Past
Of Cats and Queens
The Rainbow Bridge

The Joy of Cats
Panic in the Night
Homecoming
Cats 'n' Consequences
On the Road
My First Show
For Better or Worse
Life in South Texas

South Texas is a strange and wonderful place. Extremely nice people, but things can go awry. For example: the spa heater wasn't working, so the "handyman" came over to fix it. He set it on fire instead. Burned it to the waterline. Then we needed transmission work done on the Volvo; took it to a highly-recommended place (which looks like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies in their pre-Beverly Hills days) where they said it'd be ready Friday. (Friday is the day everybody always says something will be ready, unless it's already Friday, in which case it'll be ready next Friday.) Friday came and went, and we didn't hear from them, so I called them on Monday. They said it'd be ready Friday. Apparently as long as you don't specify which Friday, you can mosey along to your heart's content. So we let a couple of weeks go by (things don't move very fast down thisaway) and I called again. Bob (the transmission guy) said "Oh, yeah. That's been ready since Friday." I asked him if he had planned on ever letting us know that the car was fixed or if they'd grown attached to it and were just going to let it live there. Bob allowed as how he'd figured that when we needed it we'd call. They did, however, do a fine job on the trannie, plus they washed (or worshed, to be pronounciationally-correct) and waxed it.

If a South Texan says he'll be over at 1:00 p.m. to "fix" something (or possibly blow it up or burn it down), plan on seeing him around 3:00 p.m., or possibly Friday (unless it already is Friday, in which case see note above). But they're so darned nice that you don't mind. Also, plan on "visiting" for at least an hour after the destruction is complete. Keep a gallon jug of sweetened iced tea on hand at all times.

South Texans have moseying down to a fine art. Honest. I went to a store the other day, and it took me almost 45 minutes to get out. The lady behind the counter and I had a long discussion about her recent move, her cats, my cats, the weather, the Padre Island problem (will it or won't it be worshed away in the next storm, and who should pay for it), her ex-husband (the bum), the various virtues of Chevys, Fords, and Dodges, and etc. etc. Other people waiting to check out joined in and absolutely nobody was in a hurry. Same thing happens at the supermarket (the HEB - named for its founder, Mr. Herbert E. Butt. Mr. Butt wisely decided not to name his store "Butt's," so he used his initials instead. It's a great store. Real friendly folks. Mike absolutely loves it; the highlight of his Saturday is moseying around in it.)

The streets (many of which are bordered by sorhgum, cotton, and corn fields) are populated by good-looking cowboys in tight jeans who amble along, going who-knows-where, but looking good on the way. They tip their hats, open doors for you, and call you ma'am at every opportunity. The women call you ma'am, too. You are expected to do the same. "Thank you kindly, ma'am" is the phrase of choice. A woman is expected to address a man by his last name until he says, "Please call me Bob, ma'am." Women, however, call each other simply "ma'am" until the addressee says "Please call me Elvie, ma'am."

Then there's the food. People mostly kill their own. On any given day you may be offered venison, goose, goat, shrimp, duck, fish, quail, dove, and the occasional 'possum. "I have a tad more than I can use, ma'am" is the correct wording when giving away your kill. Everything is fried or barbecued. And we're talking serious barbecue grills here. 100 gallon drums with chimneys. And the guys stand around them and debate the merits of cast iron vs. steel. Every Easter everybody roasts a goat. Catfish is big here, as is any kind of sea-life (except dolphins; they wouldn't kill a dolphin if their lives depended on it).

Pickup trucks outnumber cars by a factor of 100:1. I think we have the only Volvo in all of South Texas. But BeRT (my Big Red Truck which Mike gave me as a 25th anniversary present - some women want diamonds; I wanted a huge truck) has been a big hit. I've actually had good-looking cowboys shout "Nice truck, ma'am!" as I drive down the street. And speaking of streets, the speed limit on the main highway through town is 65. On the Farm to Market roads it's 70-75. Or whatever feels right.

The only down-side is don't, bygawd, ask for directions. They have no idea. "Waell, go daown about 500 yards er so and turn thataway. Ye'll get thare eventually." Right. Or possibly end up in Kansas.

It certainly isn't Washington DC, for which we are profoundly grateful! Living here has been so refreshing after the hysteria of DC, and we've both benefited from the slower, friendlier life-style.

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