Washington-on-the-Brazos

In August, the Bridge Maniacs took a play day. . .a regular scheduled Wednesday work day that was purposefully set aside for recreation. Spouses and significant others were included. After gathering at Gfellers for a quick breakfast of biscuits and sausage gravy, we carpooled our way to Washington-on-the-Brazos State Historic Site, outside of Washington, Texas.  For most of us, this was new territory but at least we would not be complete strangers.  Mick Haven—formerly the interpreter for Bastrop and Buescher State Parks—had recently taken a new interpretative position at the Barrington Living History Farm, one of the major attractions there.  Not only were we going to learn about early farm life, but we were going to see first-hand “where Texas became Texas.”

Texas has a rich and colorful history.  Its story differs from those of other states’ early days in consequential ways.  Apart from the largely British-influenced “civilization” of the eastern states, Texas was shaped by Spanish influence and rule.  Settlers in Texas were a truly wild and adventurous lot, lured by promises of free land, wide open spaces and freedom to do their own thing.  Be it the war of independence with Mexico, an inhospitable hard scrabble frontier lifestyle, bloody protracted Indian wars, or the celebrated exploits of the Texas Rangers, Texans have always been regarded as fiercely independent and  a bit rough around the edges.

Much of this persona lingers today. Modern descendants of the Texicans carry themselves with a certain swagger; being a native Texan is a source of envy around here. Texas is the only state to enter the U.S. by treaty (the constitution of 1845 of the Republic of Texas) instead of by annexation. This has manifested in several interesting ways.  The Texas flag can fly at the same height as the U.S. flag, for example. All Texans know, despite the impurity of their lineage, that everything is bigger and better in Texas!  Our capitol dome in Austin is the only dome in the U.S. taller than the Capitol Building in Washington D.C.  The San Jacinto Monument is the tallest free standing monument in the world and it is taller than the Washington Monument.  The King Ranch in south Texas is larger than Rhode Island.

After about 1 ½ hours on the road, our caravan pulled off the main highway and slowly snaked along a narrow road into the reclusive historic site.  The sun got up, hot and bright as steel. The Texas flag sang in the August wind. Tucked into the natural beauty of the Brazos River Valley, we found ourselves on 293 acres of lush park land, the very spot where 59 delegates met on March 2^nd, 1836 to make a formal declaration of independence from Mexico.  First stop, the sprawling and modern visitor center. By far the largest of any state park I’d seen before, this premier Texas gift shop was well stocked with mementos, clothing items, books, toys and exclusive gifts, all reflecting Texas kitsch. The building also contained a labyrinth of interactive hands-on exhibits that walk visitors through the birth of Texas.

Due to time constraints, we chose to meet Mick Haven at the Barrington Living History Farm and leave the other attractions for another time.  These include Independence Hall (where the declaration was signed), a ranger-led guided

walking tour and the Star of the Republic Museum.  Barrington Living History Farm is actually a working demonstration farm that replicates the mid-nineteenth century farm of Dr. Anson Jones, the last President of the Republic of Texas.

After crossing a hand-built wooden bridge (that got some oohs and aahs from the Bridge Maniacs) we entered into a time warp, circa 1850.  Split rail fences, two slave cabins, a smokehouse, kitchen building, cotton house, a barn, an elaborate chicken coup, and the Anson home sprawled before us.  Everything was expertly reconstructed to look just as it did in that period. Clotheslined laundry was flapping in the breeze, nearby cotton fields were on display and everyone (but us) was dressed

in period costume.  The place was peacefully going about the business of daily chores; pickling pears in the kitchen building, tending livestock or working the fields (oxen apparently had the day off—a John Deere tractor was spotted sitting in the food plot–oops!).

All of the workers were of course actors, but they each had a role.  The cook was especially interesting, having notched 16 years of frontier cooking experience in various venues—she knew what she was doing and captured our attention as she demonstrated the different ways food was prepared during that era. Even though it was stifling

hot that day, she argued that the heavy wool dress, bonnet and long sleeved blouse were actually quite cool, with good insulation qualities—similar to nomads in flowing robes in the heat of the desert.  She quickly pointed out that if the kitchen became too warm, a slave was called upon to operate the internal air conditioner—a large flap of heavy cloth near the ceiling that moved up and down like a bellows. The kitchen was a separate building, a few steps away from the main house.

The current park hosts (also in period costume) served as the resident family—a most convincing family, father and

daughter playing checkers in a corner of the dog trot with mother looking on. The mother, of Russian descent with long bronze hands, was solemn with piercing eyes—eyes that authentically portrayed the grit and determination of someone accustomed to overcoming hardships. For his part, Mick was the farm supervisor, however not a convincing one.  He wore

1850’s clothing but his black horn-rimmed glasses felt short.  Also, during the entire time, he never beat or threatened anyone. Only a man who hates his privilege can be trusted with it!

A tour of the slave quarters was cathartic. There was something haunting in it.  No evidence of a well on the property, water was brought in from the nearby Brazos River. Inside the cabins, the bunks were wooden slats with lumpy corn husk mattresses, and the single room of less than 600 square feet housed an entire family.  A spittoon for humanity. There was no outhouse.  The old barn contained yokes and cross-cut saws, hay hooks and draw knives that some of us can remember from our grandfathers’ days.  Outside the barn was a conjoining chicken coup. All were heirloom varieties carefully bred and coddled to superior standards—but the rooster had an attitude. . . an air of entitlement, like he wasn’t about to tie his self-esteem to the whims of idiots. This is where the term “cocky” comes from!

As the afternoon heated up, we retreated to the visitor center to refresh ourselves before heading home.  The modern restrooms were a relief for everyone! It is so great to live in the twenty-first century.  There is no joy like stepping from the dog’s breath air of a really hot August day into the crisp, clean, surgical chill of an air-conditioned establishment—we complain of the physical hardships, we sons of the pioneers!

It was 2:00 pm and we hadn’t eaten!  With the Bridge Maniacs, there is ceremonial significance to the act of taking a meal together—some would say it is our raison d’etre. The staff recommended an eatery on the road home, outside Brenham, at the city airport. We hit that place like flies on a pecan pie! It was a 1950’s style diner—with shiny metal and glitzy neon signs—and contained a wait staff of petite Hispanic girls decked out in puffy petty-coat-stuffed ankle-length skirts, complete with bobby socks and period hair-dos.  Grease meets Tortilla Flat? It was like we had been pulled into yet another worm-hole of a different time, waiting for Elvis to walk through the door.  The food was delicious.  Huge, greasy hamburgers mounded with cheese, onions, lettuce, tomato and golden crisp fries carrying a subtle hint of bacon fat. Some present even pushed it over the edge with peach and apple cobbler for desert!  Mints and toothpicks rounded out this promiscuous experience as we hit the restrooms once again and waddled to our cars.

Somehow we managed to all get back to Bastrop around 4:30 pm—early enough for folks to keep their normal family routines intact without interruption.  There may not be anything particularly nature-related to this story, but, that’s not the point.  The real story is, we had fun!  After busting our buns week after week in all kinds of weather, it felt good to change the routine.  If you want to fly, you must first give up everything that weighs you down. I’m guessing we’ll do more of this in the future.