The small-town bakery is a disappearing thing. If it vanishes, a whole generation of children may never savor the unforgettable aroma of fresh-baked bread or experience the special affection that used to flourish like a grandpaternal bond between a baker and the kids who clustered in front of his glass cabinets gravely pondering how best to spend their dimes.
On a Saturday morning in January, 1971, three days before the inauguration of Governor Preston Smith and Lieutenant Governor Ben Barnes, the then-Assistant US Attorney Theo Pinson strolled into Houston’s Avalon Drug Store after a toot on the town, a bit disheveled but still resplendent in his midnight blue tuxedo, to keep a fateful meeting with lawyer Morton Susman.
The candidate for Congress had forgotten his cowboy belt; his hair was a bit curly and he looked more like Ed Muskie than John Connally, but his legs were long enough, and slant-heeled boots didn’t appear to hurt his feet. Yet he seemed too introspective for an aspiring Texas politician, and his voice was all wrong: precise in its consonants, expansive in its vowels—the Eastern-educated kind of accent that used to curl Lyndon Johnson’s lip.
“I take it we’re all here,” he said. “Shall we go?”
There have been more changes in the commission schedule for brokerage transactions during the last six years than in the previous 60, and no one seems to connect that fact with the 85 generally lousy market we’ve enjoyed during that period.
“Oof!” I grunted as my breath left me.
“I think you’ll come to enjoy your treatments after a while,” said my chiropractor. “Most of my patients actually look forward to their sessions.”
“I’m—oof!—sure I will,” I gasped while the bones in my neck popped in succession as my head was twisted farther and farther around.
It was the French gastronomic philosopher, Brillat-Savarin, who stated: “Tell me what you eat: I will tell you what you are.” If I were to speak up, then I would be a chicken-fried steak. I didn’t expect it to turn out this way, but after almost two months of criss-crossing Texas, and eating chicken-frieds at every opportunity, I have no one to blame but myself.
Since the end of my trip, I have been loafing about in a brutish haze, a sort of Philistine dementia, that I can only attribute to an excess of cream gravy.
Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works? And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity. Matthew 7: 22-23
The elevator doors open on chaos. Teams of workmen are transforming the eighteenth floor of the Republic Bank Building in Dallas into the offices of Republic of Texas, the bank holding company which will have the state’s second largest bank as its flagship institution. The visitor picks his way over and around stacks of sheetrock and piles of expensive blond paneling, precut and numbered.
Family togetherness takes on a new meaning when you take the kids to Europe.
I haven't traveled much with my children. The last brief flight we took within the state started pleasantly enough. No one threw up on take-off.
