In the late seventies, celebrated pianist Val Cliburn inexplicably disappeared from public life. No tortured artist in hiding, Cliburn is having the time of his life sitting around his Fort Worth mansion in his bathrobe.
When Randall Adams was sentenced to death ten years ago, the Dallas community thought a cop killing had been put to rest. But it hasn’t.
A crusty, cranky, curmudgeonly species of bird is proliferating within our borders. And maybe that’s good.
If it fits on your dashboard, you can take it with you.
Should a judge’s friendships survive his election to the Supreme Court of Texas?
Highly partisan justices are at the center of the Supreme Court scandal.
Try North America’s best travel bargain—the Copper Canyon train ride. For $9 you can see Indians who run down deer on foot, Mennonites who speak German, and the most spectacular scenery in Mexico.
Using a circular saw and a shrewd commercial sense, Plano housewife Sandy Stein chiseled a new life for herself as a sculptor.
Dallas on the couch.
My father’s Panhandle grape patch gives him a new cash crop and a new pride as a farmer.
Everyone in Raising Arizona has a libido for the ugly, and the guys in Tin Men can’t see past their hood ornaments; Hollywood Shuffle loses its hip mind; Street Smart has a crazed, electric menace.
A good record store is more than just a supermarket of sound.
Houston ignores its AIDS crisis, Dallas restaurant gossips chew over hard times, San Antonio headline writers get their due. Plus: Chuck Robb’s blooper, Larry McMurtry’s sniffles, and Shearn Moody’s new taste in nightlife.
Travels through the Trans-Pecos—splendor in the Big Bend, the greening of the Alpine grasslands, today’s version of profitable ranching, escape from the rat race in South Brewster County, innkeeping Indians in Van Horn—to El Paso, way out on the edge of Texas.
An initial foray.
Getting an airline off the ground; achieving your children’s education; cruising through adolescence; rambling through the Valley.
Hobby may be a Hartbeat from the president; the feds dump nuclear-waste workers on the Panhandle; Cisneros’ future remains rosy; Kath Whitmire’s doesn’t.