East Texas and Leon Russell

Recently I drove from Oklahoma to my parents house in northwest Louisiana. I followed Interstate 40 west to Henryetta, then south down the Indian Nations Turnpike -- almost to the Texas border. Soon after crossing the Red River, you realize that you’re truly in East Texas.It was after five, already late in the day for mid September, when I reached the gently rolling, piney hills near Atlanta.

Yes, Atlanta, Texas – probably named by Georgia transplants looking for fertile cotton-growing land. I had driven for miles in silence when I decided to play a CD. By coincidence, I chose a Leon Russell album that I hadn’t heard in many moons. Russell’s songs were, it turned out, perfect for the remainder of my drive through an area that’s sometimes called the "Pine Curtain."

When my Grandmother, Dale, was alive, she’d had a farm fifteen miles from Atlanta. It was down a narrow, winding blacktop road that continued past the O’Farrell Methodist Church. My Grandmother had been a longtime member. I presume the old wooden structure is still there, but I didn’t stray from my intended location to find out. An adventure saved for another day.

As I continued along the country road, shadows from tall pines beginning to darken endless curves, I had an epiphany. Having lived most of my adult life in Oklahoma, it suddenly dawned on me why East Texas is so guarded, secretive and mysterious. In Oklahoma, vision unhampered by trees, you can see for miles in all directions. In East Texas, you can’t see a hundred yards in any direction. Pine curtain, indeed!Leon was belting out a tune, proclaiming his reasons for leaving the woman he loved and returning to an island. "To watch the sun go down," he sang, "And hear the sea roll in. I’ll be thinking of you and what might have been." His voice, at first blush, seems wavering and untrained. Then you realize his tremolo is calculated, his vocal range probably greater than Pavarotti’s. Like the haunting sound of a slide guitar in the able hands of a bluesy maestro.

To reach my Grandmother’s house, you would turn off the blacktop at the O’Farrell Methodist Church and follow a dirt road another five miles. She lived at the end of the road, both figuratively and in reality. Once, confronted by a dozen guinea hens in our path, my Mother said, "Slow down, Jack. You’ll hit the birds."As if the prove her wrong, my Father stepped on the gas instead of slowing. "You can’t hit one of those crazy fools," he said. "They’ll get out of the way."

Three didn’t, laid testimony by the hollow thump, thump, thump of the birds being crushed beneath the car.No one said anything, but I’m sure my Father felt terrible about the incident. Leon would have understood. You only have to hear his poignant lyrics to realize that.

I stopped at O’Farrell Road and took a picture. Everyone needs a memory. This is just one of thousands that sometimes recur when I hear a certain song, see a particular building, or drive a familiar stretch of road.When I reached my parents home in Vivian, stopped the car and rolled down the windows, the sun was beginning to set, crickets and tree frogs, like Leon, harmonizing in the distance. As I switched off the singer’s last dulcet refrain, I realized there were people in my past that I had left behind in order to return to my own island. And that sometimes the destinations we think we simply have to reach are places that we never really left. http://www.ericwilder.com http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com http://energyissues.blogharbor.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com