All of us, save those who are either military brats or true gypsies, have one spot on the map to which we will always feel a connection. It might be one’s hometown, a place you were born, raised, graduated from high school, and where your family of origin still resides. For others it is a city where you started your career, fell in love (for real this time) and started a family of your own. A third category would be a place that forever will link you to your forebears.
I fall into that last criteria.
The place is Seguin, Texas. It has a population of some 25,000 residents but still pales in size compared to its nearby neighbors, New Braunfels (40k) and San Marcos (over 50,000, although I don’t know if that takes into account the student population of Texas State University).
Even though it boasts the world’s largest pecan and has a couple of state historic sites (Los Nogales and Sebastopol) many Texans are unaware of this place. In fact I had a recent phone conversation with a professional colleague in which I mentioned my recent jaunt to Seguin. This person lives and works in Austin, barely an hour’s drive to the north. She didn’t know whereof I spoke and one of her coworkers had to clue her in.
The regular readers of this blog who are not members of my family might deduce this is where my recently deceased grandmother lived. You’re right. If I recall correctly she lived there for 68 years. My mother, while not native to Seguin, lived there for most of her childhood, leaving after high school graduation to attend the University of Texas. She and my father retired to Seguin many years back. My aunt and uncle were born there. I’ve visited this town more times than I can recall. Since I’ve lived several places and several states during my life I can’t say I have a true hometown. I do, however, have Seguin.
And there lies the connection.
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Flashback to Tuesday, March 2. I’ve landed at Austin Bergstrom and am zooming (as much as the speed limit and rush-hour traffic will allow) toward Seguin. To show you how task-oriented I was at the time, I drove by two renowned barbecue joints in the town of Lockhart, which unabashedly proclaims itself to to be the “Barbecue Capital of Texas,” per the state legislature. I’m hungry, it is the dinner hour, and I’ve been traveling since 7:30 in the morning. I don’t stop and eat at either Black’s Barbecue or Kreuz Market. Nope, I tell myself. Gotta get to Seguin.
I’m traveling alone and I admit I enjoy the solitude and low stress level of making a journey by my lonesome. I don’t have to hear the wife and child getting fed up with each other (or me feeling the same way about them). No talking. I get to be alone with my thoughts.
I reach Luling and merge onto Interstate 10, westbound. The sun’s going down. Fatigue is starting to get me. “Just a short distance more,” I keep telling myself. Soon I see a sign: “F.M. 1104, Kingsbury, next exit.” My mother’s words from the mid-1970’s came into my head.
“See that sign? It’s Kingsbury. That means the next town is Seguin.”
Ever since moving “back” to Texas from the east coast in 1974, the drive to Seguin was something of a family tradition. Several times a year mom, dad, my sisters, and I would visit Seguin and grandma. Always took Interstate 10. Usually started the trip in late afternoon (if it was a Friday). Depending on the time of year we would sometimes arrive in darkness. And always that Kingsbury exit sign was a harbinger that our destination was but a few more miles down the road.
Back to the present. I pass a new Texas rest area, large and welcoming. There’s a nice traveler center and free Wi-Fi. None of us could even imagine a thing like that back in the days of President Ford, a 55-miles-per-hour speed limit, and cars running on leaded gasoline. Then I pass a construction zone. This must be the interchange for the new Texas Highway 130, a toll road. (Yet another thing you couldn’t fathom back in the old days).
Finally I see the lights of my destination. End of the road for now. Check into the hotel, make sure I look somewhat presentable, and go out to meet the rest of the family.
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I remember 1982. Fourth of July holiday time. Our family was in the midst of a move from Texas to Albuquerque. First stop was Seguin. Spend a few days at Grandma’s before dad and I hit the road to New Mexico. At that time Seguin’s Independence Day celebration was referred to as the “Freedom Fiesta.” Huge midway, kiddie rides, face painting, a haunted house (which always served to scare the beheejees out of my younger sister), live bands, and food. Lots of food.
At this particular Fiesta I saw someone holding what looked like a taco. Only it wasn’t a taco. Not the traditional version, anyway. I saw strips of meat in a flour tortilla (in Texas at this time the corn tortilla ruled the Mexican food roost). It was a small flour tortilla, almost the size of its corn counterpart. I’m not sure why it looked appealing to me, I only remember that it just did. “I’ve got to try one of these.” I headed over to the food vendors and soon found my prey. The Seguin Jaycees were selling something called “fajitas.” I queued up, paid my money, and soon held in my hand that mysterious concoction that looked so appealing just a few minutes before.
First bite. My taste buds sent the brain’s pleasure center into overdrive. After downing that first fajita I bought another. Soon the rest of my family was intrigued by this unknown combination of grilled flank steak, guacamole, onions, and jalapenos served in a small four tortilla that folded in half, similar to a taco.
Those Jaycees must have done well with the fajita booth that July. I think my clan alone paid for several of their civic projects over the next fiscal year.
Illegal drug users, especially those who used cocaine or heroin, always describe their very first use. Because of drug use causing changes to the brain chemistry they never experience that wonderful, euphoric “first high” ever again.
I think I myself will be chasing that “first fajita high” for the rest of my days. I’ve eaten them at dozens of restaurants in numerous locales over many years but never again have I had one as good as those first ones in Seguin.
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I haven’t lived in Texas since the aforementioned move out of state in 1982. But it seems no matter where I live I always feel anchored to Seguin. While my own child likely won’t have the same connection to this burg I am positive the “family ties” will continue in my extended kinsfolk. Whether it’s from those who graduated from Texas Lutheran University or simply those who make frequent visits to my mom and dad’s house, my maternal grandparents’ descendants are unquestionably tied to this nondescript South-Central Texas town. It’s not a perfect place and no doubt it has its seedy areas (some of which I saw on this most recent visit). Still, revisiting the words I used to begin this essay, just about all of us feel some tie to a place on the map. Seguin is my place. I knew this all along but it wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I could cognitively determine this bond. Grandma’s death and funeral, which necessitated my journey, seemed to finally put it all together to the point where I can translate my thoughts and memories into the written word. For those of you reading this who are not members of my family, be sure to enjoy and celebrate wherever it is you feel that unchanging and indescribable bond . And for those of you who are a part of my mother’s family, I’ll bet your place is Seguin, too.
