I've become a sort of pessimistic accepter of the changes that have beset the Hill Country in recent years, unacceptable though many of them may be. But I'm grateful for having experienced the hills earlier, when change was slightand grateful too for corners and stretches still untouched.
Photographer Keith Carter’s latest pet project reminds me of big Texas dogs I’ve owned—some clownish, some serious, but every one of them great.
In my 86 years I’ve come into the possession of an assortment of firearms: a Colt .32-caliber semiautomatic pistol that my grandfather bought at a hardware store in Cuero; a Remington Model 870 pump, 20-gauge shotgun that my Aggie uncle-by-marriage used to shoot birds; the Winchester Model 06 pump .22 rifle I got on my tenth birthday; and many others. And each one has a story.
What do the city of Lubbock, a defunct restaurant, and a submerged neighborhood have in common? They’re all places in somebody’s heart.
Texas’ beloved live oaks are falling victim to a creeping fungus, and no one knows how to stop it.
Saint Paul said that a little wine is a fine thing. He must have known something.
Fly-fishing is a particularly fastidious way of trying to fool a fish, but it’s also a particularly pleasant one.
For a man and his daughter out for a pleasant day’s fishing, the first sign of danger was a man’s hat floating silently down the stream.
This one has been a humdinger, but every Texas summer is broiling hot—and that’s nothing to get all steamed up about.
