OFF DEADLINE

It took me nearly six years in New Mexico to make it out to Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu. I can’t count on two hands how many times I told someone I’d been meaning to head out there, but I was so bent on having “enough time to explore” I ended up putting it off until I knew I was moving and that’s one of my few regrets.

I’d heard Ghost Ranch inspired much of Georgia O’Keeffe’s most well-known work, but I wasn’t convinced it would be much different than the beauty I’d witnessed all across the state. I was proven wrong. There is a stillness in the space that speaks through silence. I felt a kind of peace looking out on the mesa and imagined what O’Keeffe thought and felt in those moments. I wonder how much of her art was about the landscapes and how much was about everything else, just reflected on what she saw in front of her. 

I’m often guilty of romanticizing “place,” but where you watch an artist completely changes the show. I’ve had the chance to catch musicians I’d loved for years and acts that were completely new to me everywhere from stadiums and ampitheaters to dive bars and living rooms. And there’s no doubt venue transforms performance. 

When I moved to San Antonio, I was thrilled to gain access to halls that hold so much history and character- and I was stoked when my news director approved a story about what makes them so special. It’s impossible to fully capture that thesis without bringing someone to experience them in person. And it’s tough to do them justice in a piece that only lasts a few minutes. 

But I hope this story at least gives a glimpse at how much more lives within the walls of a dance hall than beautiful wood and simple stages- and that photojournalist Mike Humphries and I convince you these gems are worth the drive. 

You can read more of our interviews with Jason George, Shane Roch and Jo Nell Haas, and find links to each music venue, here. 

Sometimes it feels like it’s easier to juggle ten things at once than it is to do one at a time. It’s easier than ever to be distracted, and whether it’s society or self-aggrandizement or a calling, we conceive pressure to put more on our plates than we need. 

We do have so much work to do- personal and professional, sure, but also a communal work, to feed the hungry and be kinder to each other and leave everything better than we found it. I know I need to do more. We can always do more. 

Saturday, Twin Sisters Dance Hall held its annual Hill Country Trail Rider’s Dance with the John Christopher Way Band. Built in the 1800s as a dance hall and community center with a bowling alley nearby, it’s now a nonprofit run by volunteers who say its history is too valuable to forget and its purpose has never been more important. You drive up 281 from San Antonio toward Blanco and see a sign on your right, then take a paved road through rows of trees to a gem that looks simple on the outside- and feels magical on the inside.

Almost everyone I talked to at Saturday’s dance told me about how, growing up, they remembered sleeping on pallets underneath glossy wooden tables with “TSH” carved on top while their parents danced into the night. The bartender has been shelling out drinks for 30 years; before that, he remembers sleeping at his grandma’s feet as she watched the dance floor from a platform above. A lot of families would spend the night and, in the morning, go to one of two churches nearby. Jo Nell Haas, head of what’s now a nonprofit, says it began and for a long time remained the “heart of the community,” home to meals and bazaars and meetings. But with time, interest waned, fewer and fewer people showed up for events, and Twin Sisters was at risk of shutting down altogether- until a robust effort by preservationists and people who refused to let the site of so many first dances, first kisses and family milestones fall to pieces. Now, it’s seeing a resurgence- with longtime patrons’ kids, Texas newcomers and social media spreading word of that little time warp in the woods.

The night before I fell in love with Twin Sisters, I went to Southtown First Friday, an artwalk where you can pop into galleries, buy pieces from vendors and explore the neighborhoods nearby. By seven, the streets started filling up- something neighbors told me isn’t the case every Friday, but is every *First* Friday. After a few hours walking around, I went to a friend’s house about a block from the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, and we found a square with a small local band playing and local artists with boxes of paintings and handmade jewelry before going to see Celebrando Tradiciones. 

While each environment felt different, there was a common tug at my heart I felt in each space -- one I remember feeling in the Midwest pulling a cooler-on-wheels down the street to cul-de-sac block parties, or while pitching folding chairs in someone’s driveway to watch kids on bicycles for hours. There’s so much talk about “our generation” living through Instagram-story, and the emptiness it caves into our souls. But I don’t think we’re headed for Black Mirror. In two nights, I saw people of all different ages and backgrounds choosing to “get out there” and turn “strangers” into friends. And I saw very few phones out -- in any of the above.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that building a kinder world is going to take us all coming together, in person, more often. And for everyone who feels lonely and disconnected- there are places where you can feel a part of something. I think that’s something we all crave, deep down. Whatever you’re interested in, there’s a block party or five out there, for you. And in a time when so many people are struggling with that feeling of isolation, I hope we can promote and protect the places and moments that build community and spark possibility. 

Most of the music I loved in my late teens and early twenties came from friends. Some of it still does now, but there are so many more ways to find music easily that between playlists, podcasts and a couple music blogs, more of what I listen to is curated by people I don’t know. It’s opened me up to a lot of great stuff, but listening feels different. When someone thinks of you to share a song, there’s a piece of them in it, too. I love that. I think that’s part of why certain music imprints on us so much. 

I was a sophomore in college when one of the guys I worked with on our student newspaper, The Maneater, introduced me to James Blake. I think the song they shared was “The Wilhelm Scream,” and it was like nothing I’d ever heard before. There was this electronic element that I didn’t have much experience with, but it was his voice that really got me. I found the track above, “A Case of You,” on his Enough Thunder EP, and I couldn’t stop listening to it. Every word and every note took me somewhere else. That song was the soundtrack to a full season in my life, and I never knew it was a cover.

But seasons change, and so did what I listened to. New music came out, and life changed. I graduated from college. I moved to New York. I was living alone for the first time, in a gorgeous shoebox-sized studio along the East River. One night, it got cold and  I remembered that song. I looked it up on YouTube, and found out that this wasn’t the only-or first- “A Case of You.” 

This performance was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. There are the words, and the notes, and Mitchell’s voice, and it’s all just so simple and pure and deeply touching. There are so many perfect turns of phrase and moments that make you sigh. But there’s a simple line that I didn’t think much of until I knew more about her.

“I’m a lonely painter / I live in a box of paints.”

Mitchell has said she thinks of herself as a painter first, and musician second- and called herself a “painter derailed by circumstance.” Knowing this adds so much more depth to this line. It tells you something about her. But it’s also dumbfounding to think about the fact that someone who had so much incredibly raw talent, and tailored those gifts into such important work, didn’t even define herself as that. 

I fell in love with state parks (and national parks and city parks and county parks) in New Mexico, where valuing open space was (generally) a uniform core value.  When I moved to Texas, I bought my state parks annual pass before I even picked up my library card (not saying trees > books, just saying trees = <3 ). 

I ended up choosing somewhere to live on the edge of San Antonio. Sometimes I wish I was downtown, but on weekend mornings I’m only thirty minutes from what feels like wilderness, so it’s worth it. My first trip just weeks into life here was to Pedernales Falls State Park. It’s under an hour from home, but can feel like another world. The appeal for most is, of course, the falls- but swimming in these fields of sunshine felt like a close second.

Until 1970, much of what’s now Pedernales Falls State Park was private land. When the state bought a large chunk of it, seller Harriet Wheatley reportedly said: “it wrenches my heart to part with the ranch. But it would be harder if it were not going to the state. ... It is my wish that it be conserved, and all of the wildlife be taken care of, and that it be enjoyed from generation to generation.” This month’s Garden & Gun features an article on St. Phillips Island detailing former owner Ted Turner’s similar sentiments about one South Carolina oasis. 

Ownership of land is a complicated topic (assuming you believe land can be owned), and proper protection of it’s beauty can be a controversial one. And our system isn’t perfect- maintenance costs money, much of which comes from entry fees that might restrict some visitors from access. But spend some time in these spaces and it’s hard to argue that we shouldn’t be conserving them and promoting them as spaces for *everyone.*

A lot of journalists move often. In TV, it’s typical to hop from market to market every two years. But New Mexico captured my heart and what I thought might be two turned to six. Taos sunsets, Chama snowstorms and Ruidoso weekends reshaped my heart. That sounds saccharine, but I say heart because sometimes it was as if I could physically feel it changing. Views I saw and art I witnessed and music I heard and stories I told during that time would fill my heart up, break it into pieces, and restitch it together. But while I craved planting roots, something told me the soil wasn’t quite right, and it was time to go, at least for now. Even when I made “that decision,” though, I didn’t know where I’d end up. 

I wanted trees and sunshine, and maybe a good live music scene too, if I could be choosy. But having moved eight times before this one I knew I’d be “happy” anywhere, and I was ready to jump and see what happened. 

Five months in, I feel like a missing piece pushed into the right puzzle. San Antonio is a city of culture and tradition in a compelling time of transition, and I can drive for hours through the Hill Country without a plan knowing I’ll find something to fall in love with. Everyone I’ve met has been welcoming and open and warm, and there’s so much that I’m excited to learn and explore. My heart is so full and I’m so hopeful and ready to learn. 

But there are times I feel impatient with myself. I still don’t know how to get around without a GPS sometimes. There are traditions and terms I don’t “get” yet and I don’t have routines set and sometimes I don’t squeeze every moment out of my days. I feel guilty when I could be exploring and I get sucked into a West Wing marathon, or when I don’t know the “right questions” to ask on a story until after it airs. But I’m just trying to give myself a little grace, and remembering that all of this takes time. It hasn’t been half a year, and there’s growth that only time and experience can bring, and no matter how hard I try to dig these roots in, I can’t force them to grow faster than the rain will allow.  

There is beauty in the sky, every inch of blue splashed with colors and shapes and dreams. But the real magic is on the ground; in early morning hours spent loading trucks and unrolling envelopes, testing pilot lights and briefing chase crews, predicting whether “the box” will deliver and off-roading through gravel and sand, trying to keep up with the wind.

The joy is in the work; in setting alarms to race the sun and hedge bets on whether the weather will agree, knowing that if it doesn’t, that basket will never leave the ground. The warmth you feel is a coffee mug between your hands after landing and pulling rope and riding in the truck bed between coolers and hoodies.

But there *is* magic in the flight; as the winds welcome you with softness and the sun blesses you with its hands and you fly so high and so well that God joins you in your laughter and sets you gently back again into the loving arms of Mother Earth.

New commute.