From Chapter 4 of Training Freddie
In the years immediately following the Civil War, the village of Rockport had been little more than a fishing and shrimping community, and a coastal retreat for the wealthy. In 1886 the railroad came and by the turn of the century, fishing and shipbuilding, plus meat packing and shipping, had become established industries. The shipyards were especially useful in war production for both world wars. It grew popular in the fifties as a low-key, inexpensive holiday destination among the residents of Houston and San Antonio, both within three hours driving time. The creation of Key Alegro and its high-end vacation homes in the mid-sixties began to bring in the more affluent resort-seekers with their sailboats and interior decorators. Art galleries and antique shops sprang up along the main street downtown and seafood restaurants proliferated. But many mom-and-pop motels along Fulton Beach Road, with their rickety piers and rusty porch chairs, remained even into the twenty-first century.
Rockport, and its satellite Fulton, are located on a peninsula between Aransas Bay and Copano Bay, thirty miles up the coast from Corpus Christi, on the “Texas Riviera.” Merle could see Rockport from her front porch, only eight miles across the water, but driving there was a different story altogether. The only road skirts the south end of Copano Bay and takes twenty-eight miles to reach downtown Rockport. Fishing and shrimping are still major industries, but tourism has pretty much taken over.
Merle followed Fulton Beach Road north, passed the cut-off to Key Alegro at the humpback bridge, then turned the Jeep into Fulton Harbor
parking lot and eased into the last space available with any shade whatsoever. The bi-monthly Farmers’ Market always drew quite a crowd. After lowering all four windows a bit past half-way so Freddie could get air, but not jump out easily, she filled a Styrofoam cup with water from a plastic bottle she kept under her seat and set it in the cup holder between the two front seats. Then she dipped her fingers in the water and dampened Freddie’s nose.
“OK, here’s water if you want it. Now behave . . . I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“You’re leaving? You’re leaving ME ALL ALONE? Merle! Don’t you know the National Advisory Board on Pet Safety says NOT to do this? . . . Merle? . . . And I think it’s illegal . . .”
Merle shut the Jeep door, clicked the lock, and put the keys in her pocket, fob hanging out and flopping against her thigh. (Cantaloupes, first, then tomatoes . . . onions? maybe some mangos? Oooo, calabaza!) She wandered around a bit, looking at various booths, inspecting the fruits and vegetables, bunches of flowers, and homemade canned goods, all colorful and aromatic. A sudden gust of wind off Aransas Bay almost blew her hat off, so rather than walk around with one hand on her head, she took it off and stuffed it into her string tote bag, letting the wind whip her hair. (I’m going to look like I combed my hair with an eggbeater!) She was paying a young Hispanic vendor for two fat cantaloupes and a bag of yellow onions, when she noticed the tall man standing behind her. He appeared to be mid-sixties, was dressed in khaki shorts with a Texas Tech sweatshirt, and a pony-tail. (A pony-tail! I love men with pony-tails! Guess it’s my inner hippie self.)
She looked up at him, smiled, a front lock of her hair spinning like a pinwheel out of control. “I’ll be finished in a minute, here. I promise,” pushing the twirling hair back from her eyes.
“Take your time, little lady. Do you come here often?”
“I try to come whenever I’m down here on the right Saturday.”
“Oh? Where are you from?”
“San Antonio – how about you?”
“Me, too! I have an old house over near Jefferson High School, where I graduated, I might add. Same house, too, I inherited it from my
parents. I really love living in that historic area, all that great craftsman and art deco architecture.”
And so began a casual, friendly conversation that led to a discovery that they knew several people mutually and a comparison of recipes for calabaza, the Mexican squash stew which Merle usually served with corn bread instead of tortillas. Then a slow walk along the waterfront and an invitation for coffee at Starbucks when they both were back in San Antonio. (Wow. Is this how you meet guys? This is easy. And me with eggbeater hair, too!)
Merle gave the pony-tail guy her San Antonio phone number and finished her shopping. As she paid for a jar of Bluebonnet honey, she glanced back at her recent acquaintance one more time. He towered above the elderly tourists and Hispanic ladies gathered around the watermelons and honeydews, his pale silver hair glinting in the sun.
For some obscure reason Freddie was asleep on the car floor, back of the driver’s seat, and stayed there until they were half-way back to the cottage when he crawled sleepily over the console, pawed up the bathmat until he had it just the way he wanted, and curled up again in the front seat. Merle never even realized that she had just been “picked up.”