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by C. Jeanette Tyson
It’s
spring.
My son goes to school wearing his sweatshirt and returns dragging it
along behind him. The neighbors are bringing in topsoil and painting
the fence. Tiny buds are peaking out, everywhere growth and new life.
The kites flew high over Zilker Park, riding the winds, waving at us as
we drove out of town. We were on an expedition south. First stop,
lunch.
We pulled into the parking lot at Palmer’s in historic San Marcos.
Although the brochure promises to accommodate up to 250 of your closest
friends for any occasion, reservations for Sunday lunch were definitely
not needed.
A three-tiered fountain burbled in the middle of the lush, shady patio.
The tables were poised, ready for warmer weather when, the waiter
assured us, the place would be rockin’. I’m pretty sure he said rockin’
and not rockin’ chairs.
On this day, two older couples talked quietly in one corner; three
20-something’s sat in the other. Another couple sat in between, eating
silently, having said everything they needed to say to each other long
ago.
We had stepped out of the fresh sunlight into the darkness. Dark
paneling on the walls and on the ceiling. Dark green carpet full of
ferns. Dark green wallpaper. Dark, narrow hallways.
I kept thinking of all the after-church meals I was dragged to as a
child; how miserable I was, not that hungry in the middle of the day,
just itching to be out of my dress and into the sunshine. But the
church crowd I expected never did arrive. A few couples filled more
tables. The staff continued at their own slow pace.
National Geographic magazines lined several bookshelves by a fireplace,
leaning yellow fence posts, marking out territory like they marked my
grandfather’s den.
We began to talk about our dead fathers.
It’s been a decade since my father died but only a year or so for my
two friends. But in this world, in this club, there is no time just as
there are no maps. The conversation is almost impossible to have and
we all walked around the edges of it. There is no vocabulary you can
hurl at this pain to chase it away.
Still, there’s a kind of bonding that happens around these
conversations. We have them once in a while because we have to, to keep
from going crazy, to work through things. And like conversations about
childbirth, you only talk about lost fathers with certain people.
Then, just like that, all in relieved agreement, we moved on. Glorious
gossip. Re-modeling. Pets. Clothes.
It’s a broad menu at Palmer’s; there’s pasta, seafood, chicken and
burgers and you can get just about any of that fried. We started with a
spinach artichoke dip that was adequate and crabcakes that were a bit
less than that. The salads -- spinach, Cobb and Greek -- were fine enough.
After a day of serious outlet shopping, I’d definitely pop by Palmer’s
for an ice-cold beer. I’d just sit outside, that’s all.
From there we ventured over to the Wittliff Gallery at Texas State University
to see an exhibit from its own collection Eyes to Fly With: Photographs by
Graciela Iturbide.
What the eye sees is the synthesis of what you are or what you’ve
learned to do; this is the language of photography.
The exhibit (and accompanying book) worked through this famous
photographer’s long career, including portraits, self-portraits and a
pivotal series called Death in the Cemetery, displayed for the first
time. The black and white prints were luscious and mysterious. Some
were documentarian—she’s shot indigenous cultures in Peru, India, Cuba,
Panama, Japan, Russia and Ecuador, as well as her native Mexico
and the United States. Others were beautifully stylized.
There seemed to be a lot of funerals, angels, dead bodies lying in the
streets and then birds. Birds everywhere, in courtyards, held over her
own eyes, like blinders.
I didn’t quite understand it all.
Then I read more of her story, how one of her children died and she
began to explore the imagery of death. One day she followed a Mexican
family to the cemetery to bury their child. Along the way there was
another decaying body, one that had never received a burial. She turned
her camera on it and suddenly birds appeared from everywhere. She
continued to explore the same landscape, of death and grief, but
shifted her gaze.
One day…I dreamed a sentence over and over: In my country I will plant
birds.
From these rooms we drifted into the Southwestern Writers Collection.
We talked about mentors and working well and reading all those books we
meant to read.
A few women on an afternoon away from their own world can work around a
lot of subjects, if not all the way through them.
Privately. Publicly. Collectively. Beautifully. All you can do is work
it through.
We emerged from the Gallery into the bright and lovely spring.
__________
C. Jeanette Tyson is mom to Maddy and Jackson and a freelance writer.
Her award-winning advertising and branding work can be seen at
thethinkkitchen.com
Palmer’s
is at
512-353-3500.
