Austin Adventures: Part 4

My plan to fly to Austin and simply sit on Savannah's couch was being thwarted at every turn. My eldest daughter could not abide the idea that her mother not be engaged and enriched every moment of the blessed day.

"What would you like to do today?" Savannah asked.

As if she didn't already know.

I had been VERY clear.

"There's some sort of tulip farm not far from here," she said, moving to interrupt my locked gaze from her large television.

Darn it.

"That just popped up on my Facebook algorithm," I admitted, begrudgingly.

Apparently Facebook knew I was in Austin. And was also intent on enriching me.

I sighed. I guess picking a posy wouldn't kill me.

We broached the subject to my younger daughter, Sydney, who typically adores photographic opportunities. Turns out that, for Sydney, a forty-five minute drive wasn't worth the experience of frolicking in a field of flowers. By Wyoming County standards, forty-five minutes is a mere blink of an eye so I buckled up for this blossom-based adventure.

Texas does NOT disappoint. 

Drive to the middle of nowhere and you will, inevitably, find something.

A two-story tall shovel sculpture, for instance. I believe Sydney Linda arranged that particular excursion (And where was she now?).

Savannah and I finally came upon the tulip farm, yes, in the middle of nowhere and realized, immediately, that we had not done our research.

We didn't have time to explore the lovely barn packed with farm-related animatronics, fudge, backed goods, and gifts galore because we were racing to reach the miniature baby goat pens that stretched, a mile long, behind the barn.

Again...I tip my two-gallon hat to Texas. If it weren't for your three-digit summer temperatures, I'd happily embrace the notion of "Go west, middle-aged woman!" A cute little chain hooked each enclosure and anyone could go waltzing in to kick-back with the kids. Savannah and I danced right in.

Want to pick up a miniature baby goat? Go ahead! No snooty lecture or list of regulations required. 

Want to kiss and hug a miniature baby goat? Go for it! No animal rights group was picketing these pens...just families buying feed or bottles to nurse our happy little friends. The area was clean with ample shelter for each creature. A waterline ran the length of the pens. It wasn't fancy but SO MUCH FUN!

But we weren't done!

We had a MAP!

We had two complementary tickets to shoot apples out of an air-compression cannon but, in my excitement of blowing giant bubbles at the giant bubble blowing station we encountered on our way to the air-compression cannon BEFORE looking for the miniature Highland calf that we never actually found because we got waylaid by the racing pigs before contemplating zip-lining through a forest to land on in-ground trampolines the size of a basketball court, I lost one of the tickets. NO-OO-OO! I sacrificially gave the remaining ticket to my daughter and the young man, in charge of apple distribution, was so moved by my selfless gesture that he grandly gave me an extra apple! 

And Texas just trusted that we would just know how to operate this insane (but delightful) weapon that annihilated apples. Lock and load, baby!

We did finally make it to the tulip field. 

Beautiful.

We agonized over each choice as we filled our container.

I imagine that a tulip field in Holland would be like walking into an Impressionist painting. Walking into a tulip field in central Texas is like slipping under the cozy cover of a velvet painting depicting Elvis playing poker with a group of cheating dogs. "Savannah, climb on top of those wooden shoes (bigger than her car) so I can take your picture." 

"Do you think we should try over by the grand piano parked in the patch?" 

"No...that's a high traffic area. Let's try over by the windmill and the bicycles." 

"Are there more tulips over there?"

"At least we know there are a few pedals!"

Savannah and I were big fans of the tulip farm!

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

Austin Adventures: Part 2

When my girls were home briefly, in January, I told Savannah that the only thing I wanted to do when I visited her and Lisa in Austin the next month was to sit on her couch and do nothing.

Simple.

Easy.

Yet...here I was: Rotating swiftly in a narrow water channel beneath the blue skies of Austin, shrieking with laughter with my daughters in a donut boat, of all things. 

Wasn't even on my Bucket List:  Captain a donut boat.

But...check.

We had woken up that morning with no clear plans.

And had, somehow, landed here.

God bless Texas where the life preservers, fire extinguishers, and first aid kits are casually pointed out, they have you take a picture of a map of the lake, make sure you have an inventory of alcohol, show you how to go forward and reverse in a small round boat before casting you off, waving, and shouting, "Good luck!" No red tape. No regulations. Alarmingly few rules. And. So. Much. Fun.

I, at first, questioned Savannah's decision to book us for an hour. Thirty minutes seemed more than reasonable to me. What if we got bored? I was ready to buy the boat before we had unraveled our way out of the harbor. Driving a round boat is as easy as it sounds. Savannah was happy to relinquish her steering duties to me after we'd crossed the small lake. I just wanted to spin. And spin. And spin. 

We spilled our drinks.

Laughed.

Loudly.

Smeared the complimentary chocolate-covered strawberries all over ourselves and the boat (A wonderful idea but not practical in execution...appreciated, nonetheless).

Laughed.

Sang along to Sydney's playlist (once she wrestled it off her Sleep Sonata channel).

We basked under the Austin sun...bobbed gently on the water like a child's bath-time tub toy...and just enjoyed ourselves and each other.

I had taken a circular route but I hadn't strayed too far from my original goal. I wasn't on a couch but, as I stared up at the brilliantly blue sky and slowly spun, I smiled as I did absolutely nothing.

Austin Adventures: Part 1

 I was trying, valiantly, to NOT write off 2026.

Sure...January sucked. But February was just a few days away.

I skipped into that second month like it was a new bar with a fun theme, half-priced drink specials, and forgiving lighting. Instead, it sported sticky floors, watered-down drinks, and unflattering fluorescents. Oh boy...February wasn't shaping up to be the clean slate I was so desperately seeking.

But wait...a week off???

Was February flirting with me? (cue a bashful blush)

Let's be clear...Amy Mosiman is no tease but a little light conversation never hurt anyone. And if that conversation was tinged with a bit of Texas twang and a promise of better weather, well, all I could say was "Giddy-up!" So I strapped on my spurs and headed West.

My last few plans to go visit my daughters had, unfortunately, fallen through so, to make up for that disappointment, Sydney had surprised me by booking me First Class on one leg of this journey. Turns out, I was born for steerage. Amy Mosiman has a capitalist mind-set but a socialist heart. Sure, my booty enjoyed the ample roaming room in the generous seating and I could have given a Can-Can Girl a run for her money with my ability to perform high-kicks as the seat in front of me was, like, a mile away but I didn't enjoy the feeling of blowing pass all of my fellow passengers...the huddled masses...still stuck back at Ellis Island waiting to get a button-hook to the eye. 

I was such a fraud.

My fellow First Class Seatmate deduced my duplicity immediately because I was unaware of both the presence of OR the triggering mechanism related to: A super-secret cup shelf. My gasp of surprise didn't help. Or my exclamation of "Real glass?!?!" when my Prosecco arrived. I tried to nonchalantly explain that my glassware at home was made up of diamonds but I don't think anyone bought it. 

An assortment of fancy snacks arrived in a brown wicker basket. My seatmate casually extracted three items. I agonized over my choice, and then, realizing I was taking too long in Fancy-Town, blindly grabbed one. 

Who eats chickpea nacho chips?

Apparently...posers in First Class.

Test #1:  Finding super-secret beverage-shelf button.

Failed.

Test #2:  Holy Grail selection of First Class goodies

I chose...poorly.

My companion, the Mayor of Fancy-Town, ordered four drinks on our under-two-hour journey.  He selected three items from the snack basket each time it went by and sighed because of the noise emanating from the  riff-raff behind us.

I only ordered my one beverage and choked down the chickpea nacho chips as I read my Christian-lite romance novel about a Quaker spy who snuck a shovel in, under her skirts, to a prison. I yearned for a spreadsheet to peruse or a stock page to inspect. 

I WAS fourth off the plane.

Delightful.

But I couldn't get over the feeling that I was winging it the entire time.

Maybe I need an altitude adjustment.