Near sunset, the summer heat melts into dusk. We walk the fence line toward a pair of beige horses. They turn away from us and nibble at the unseasonably ample grass this damp summer. Two semi-tame deer look at us curiously (Why are you here?). I hold a tiny crabapple in my palm and the braver deer sniffs my fingers for a moment before turning away.
As the sky fades to fingerpaintings of pink and purple, we stroll toward the faded wooden church. The stained glass has the look of newness. On closer inspection we realize it's painted tin. We peer inside the one real window and see, not pews, but an overturned motorcycle resting next to two large water tanks. Inside another section of old building we spot a computer.
A hand-painted sign on the gate says SALOON and points into an empty field. The ads in town touted live music and an exact replica of the Alamo. We never find them, but glimpse the skeleton of new structures high on a hilltop.
Darkness drops like a knife and we take refuge in the Frontier Cabin. We stick frozen dinners from Nighthawk (another fallen Austin comrade!) into the microwave oven, pop the cork on a bottle of Fall Creek Mountain Blush and surf the satellite TV offerings before settling for the ironic synchronicity of "Frontier House," PBS's reality program that simulates life in 19th Century Montana.
After a comfortable sleep atop Ralph Lauren linens, we pop the tops on tiny bottles of Dr Pepper (real sugar; none of that modern-day corn syrup for us true Texans) and dine on German pastries purchased yesterday in town. Cows dot the tree-covered hillside. A light rain commences. We rock in our chairs and drift. This is my Texas. This, my friends, is why we are all here.