DRIVING TEXAS

Recently, in the past 4 or 5 years, I’ve been on Texas roads and highways racking up lots of miles. From the New Mexico line to Louisiana, I-10 stretches nearly 900 miles, all in Texas. Once off the inter-state system there are good, divided highways like rivers of concrete flowing from who-knows-were, with only exits, never a destination. Then the local, two lane roads that interconnect rural Texas; they can be picturesque but between towns it can feel like you are on the moon.

I have a cousin who lives in the Texas outback, several miles from one of those old, bare bone towns, hadn't seen him in 50 years. He promised that my GPS would lead me to his driveway so I plugged in his address and followed the wandering arrow on my device. After what seemed like forever, the last mile was a one-lane, gravel road that wound through small cedars and scrub oak. When I got the word that I had reached my destination on the right, there was only an old, dilapidated, mobil home and I knew he had built the house he lived in. The road made a sharp turn with no view of what lay ahead so I drove on. Shortly, an open gate on the right framed a dry but deeply rutted driveway; it led back to a simple little house beside a pond. The number on the mailbox matched the number he gave me, I was there. My overnight visit was warm and familiar. Even though our lives had taken very different trajectories, we were old men who shared the same beginnings. His whole family, parents, siblings had taken to religion since last I saw them; I thought it strange. My side of the family had been the church-goers and his, not so much. He alluded to his Faith frequently, prayed over our food with well practiced precision. He spoke of God a lot but nothing about Jesus. That could have meant something but I wasn’t going to explore it. My unbelief never surfaced and our visit was blessed, whatever that means. 

The next morning I left early as I had another long day of driving, much of it on Texas backroads. I’m not so good with maps as when my eyesight was 20-20 and maps unfolded big as bed sheets. So I followed the digital arrow and turned when I was told. Driving into one little hamlet I heard; “In 400 feet, turn right on Texas 1486.”  I slowed down, passed a string of red brick storefronts that had been forsaken for decades; a photo opportunity. So I stopped, took some photographs and realized I didn’t know the name of the town. 

Up the road, on the way in there was a modern fuel stop with an orange and green lettered neon sign advertising gas prices. I drove back to it, the only person there was an Indian or Pakistani shop keeper. I asked the name of the town, he told me but it sounded like he was speaking his native tongue. I asked if he could spell it, realizing after the fact that I had put him in a cultural bind. He wrestled with it for an uncomfortable moment and said, ”S-S-I-R-O.” 

That night in Baton Rouge I tried to look up, Ssiro, Texas but no town by that name. I checked Google Map, looked up Texas route 1486 and traced it back to its intersection with highway 30. There it was, Shiro, Texas; zoomed in on the RR crossing and the old brick buildings. Now I know. The railroad is the Burlington - Rock Island, the town formed around the railhead in 1902. By the 1930’s there were over 500 people living there. Singer, Lyle Lovett recorded “This Old Porch” a nostalgic look back on how Texas used to be. One line goes; “And you know this brand new Chevrolet, hell it was something back in ’60 . . .” I thought about how the song fit Shiro, Texas. I bet it was something back in ’35 when life there was large, when the train stopped, when over half-a-thousand people listened to the whistle as it pulled out of town, and it’s never been the same.