From Backroads to Broadway

In 2015 Ron and I planned a 4-day weekend family trip that fall with my sister, Ann, and her wife, Marianne, who live in Houston. We don’t travel much with “the girls,” as we call them. Their schedule is flexible since they’re retired and we’re not; additionally, we have different travel methods and different preferred destinations. However, we all agreed that it would be fun to spend time together outside of Dallas or Houston; therefore, in the spirit of compromise, family, and fun, we chose Fredericksburg as our meet-up spot.

Fredericksburg is a small town with a strong German heritage located in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, known for its food, wine, shopping, and charm. I had visited the general area a few times but not Fredericksburg proper, and Ron had not been to that part of Texas at all, so Fredericksburg was an excellent choice. It’s essentially the same distance from Dallas and Houston; it also helped that the girls had visited there before and knew their way around.

When traveling, the girls prefer to stay in Air BnBs, while Ron and I are all about hotels. However, we agreed that each couple would be responsible for cooking dinner one night, so we needed something with a kitchen; the girls found The Nest, a charming 2-bed, 2-bath cottage on a quiet side street, about a 10-minute walk from downtown. The house was super-comfortable — perfect for 4 people and filled with the owner’s personal artwork, as well as a fully equipped kitchen.

Ron and I arrived on Thursday afternoon to find the girls waiting on us with snacks — always welcome, especially after driving on I-35, which seems to be continually under construction. After taking a couple of hours to unpack, settle in, rest a bit, and have a wee chat, we headed downtown to visit some charming shops and have dinner at one of its many German restaurants.

After browsing for a while (and finding some delicious goodies at a local market), we settled in for a delicious dinner at a German restaurant — schnitzel, sausage, gravy, and beer ahoy! Here’s Marianne with a delicious adult beverage in hand!

On Friday, after a quick breakfast at the cottage, we headed to the Lyndon B. Johnson Ranch and National Historic Park in Stonewall, about 25 minutes east of town. LBJ was born and raised in that area and is buried on the ranch, which he and his family used as a getaway during his presidency; after his death in 1973, his widow Lady Bird lived at the ranch part-time until her death in 2007.

We began with a driving tour of the complex; sites included his birthplace, the family cemetery, his first school, and the hangar — the girls pretended they were waving to voters from the steps of Air Force One! After their “political pose,” we headed into the house — a white clapboard, sprawling, 2-story ranch house north of U.S. 290 and along the Pedernales River.

The Johnsons did little to no remodeling over the years, so the house was a time capsule of 1960s design: Formica, vinyl tile, shag carpet, earth tones (orange, yellow, and rust), black rotary phones, wood paneling in LBJ’s office — the works. But it was fascinating to hear the park docents share stories of how LBJ ran the country from this cozy retreat, and how they used it for family gatherings with daughters Lynda Bird, Lucie, and their families.

Saturday was cool and a little rainy, so Ron and I opted to visit The National Museum of the Pacific War, located on Main Street (the girls skipped because they had visited the museum on a previous trip). The Nimitz Foundation — named for Fredericksburg native Admiral Chester Nimitz, a fleet admiral in the U.S. Navy and World War II hero — runs the museum. I had a particular interest in going as Dad was in the Army Air Corps (the precursor to the U.S. Air Force) and was stationed in the Pacific (mostly Guam, I think) during World War II.

He didn’t see battle — because of his background from growing up on our family farm, he was slotted as a truck driver and mechanic — but I’m sure the experience affected him profoundly. He made lifelong friends with fellow soldiers from other parts of the country, but he never described his life there — and I never had sufficient curiosity to ask him, which is a big regret.

The museum was small but well-curated as it guided you through the history of Pacific theatre and our battles against Japan in chronological order. It was enlightening to read the displays to see how challenging that time was and think of Dad, a young man in his mid-20s, thousands of miles from home, doing his part to serve his country.

The final exhibit — which was pretty dark — was dedicated to the final months of the war with Japan, including the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. As Ron and I went through the exhibit, I had a nagging feeling that the ”after” images of those cities were familiar — that I had seen them before — but I couldn’t quite figure out how, when, or where.

When we returned to the cottage, I mentioned my feelings to Ann, who replied “Don’t you remember Dad’s photos?” Then it hit me — he had a few black-and-white aerial photos of both cities after the bombings that he kept in Mom’s cedar chest in one of the guest bedrooms.

I then remembered that he became friends with the pilots; at least one of them took him up in a bomber so that he could see the destruction, and he took photos with a Kodak Brownie camera similar to the one at right. It must have been a sobering sight for him — I really wish I had asked more questions about that part of his life.

Saturday night was our turn to cook for the girls. Ron and I are no whizzes in the kitchen, but anybody who can read can follow a recipe, right? When I need to cook something fairly simple that can feed several people, I turn to my old standby: Mom’s spaghetti, accompanied by a salad and some French bread.

Mom didn’t create the recipe — someone shared it with her — but it’s pretty straightforward. I love it because the sauce is meat-driven (as opposed to liquid), and the (optional) chili powder gives it a bit of a kick. I’ve provided the recipe in case you want to give it a whirl — so, as Julia Child would say, “bon appetit!”

2 small white onions
1 small green pepper
1 cup chopped celery
1 button garlic (or garlic powder to taste)
3 pounds hamburger meat
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon oregano
½ teaspoon cumin
1 can tomatoes, 14.5 ounces
1 can tomato sauce, 8 ounces
2 pounds spaghetti

Braise onions, green pepper, celery, and garlic in 2 tablespoons of fat. Add and brown hamburger meat (after it’s done, drain some of the fat). Season with salt, pepper, chili powder, oregano, and cumin (depending on your tolerance, you can add more chili powder or leave it out completely). Add the canned tomatoes and tomato sauce, and simmer for 30 minutes.

Cook spaghetti in large pot according to directions or preference, then drain and rinse lightly. Pour sauce over spaghetti and simmer for 5-10 minutes, and serve.

That dinner closed the chapter on our long weekend with the girls. We headed to our respective homes on Sunday (and Ron and I got caught in traffic jam on I-35 just outside of Temple — par for the course). The trip wasn’t long, and the distance wasn’t great — but spending time with Ann and Marianne, and creating memories with them, is always a treat!

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Kirk had mentioned the Texas Hill Country more than once before we actually went there — always with a wistful sort of charm, as if it held some secret cure for stress or a recipe for slower breathing. Having heard of the Texas Hill Country when I was stationed at Fort Hood, TX, I had always been curious to visit the area so I quickly agreed to the road trip.

So, in 2015, when the opportunity to visit Fredericksburg with his sister Ann and her wife Marianne, we happily crammed our suitcases into the back of the Santa Fe and hit the road for a relaxing weekend retreat.

Before I get too far along, I would love to paint you a quick portrait of our traveling companions:

Ignoring the intermittent yawning that migrated slowly around the little house afterward, we shuffled through a stack of tourist pamphlets left by the homeowner, trying to figure out which adventures suited us best. Eventually cards were dealt, laughter was shared, and somewhere in between glasses of wine and “Oh! We should do that!” we completely forgot to write down what “that” was…..so the first evening ended softly, porch lights twinkling like they knew a secret, as we sat out back sipping beer and wine. One by one, like dominoes after a long day, we all shuffled off to bed — none of us entirely sure what we’d decided to do come morning!

Ann is the kind of free spirit who could talk you into a spontaneous road trip with nothing more than a broken compass and the prospect of adventure, which is something I admire greatly. Marianne has always been a bit more cautious and thoughtful. Navigating the world with a compass that points “true north” and a willingness to listen with a keenness often reserved for scantily clad men atop a mountain, I appreciate that you always know exactly where you stand with her!

The balance they provide one another is so sweet to watch, especially after a second glass of wine and the promise of a fun evening of hanging out on the patio with family you don’t see often enough!

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This trip was a bit of a first for us — I think this was our first time to rent an AirBnB instead of staying in a hotel. Since we’d stayed with Ann and Marianne plenty of times before, I wasn’t too worried about getting in anyone’s way or stepping on any toes (figuratively or otherwise). Ann and Marianne are wonderful hosts in Houston, but Kirk and I didn’t want them to feel like they had to run an entertainment committee the whole weekend.

We rented this adorable house called “The Bird’s Nest.” It was a very…curated and crafty home embellished with knickknacks and bric-a-brac at every turn — the sort of place that looked like Etsy had exploded inside a treehouse.

Mismatched mugs. Painted rocks with phrases such as “breathe deep” or “nest and rest” in whimsical fonts that suggested they were penned by emotionally insecure woodland creatures, and so many doilies stacked atop one another I felt the need to sleep with one eye open, awaiting the silent tsunami of needlework.

The first evening was spent nesting in. More accurately, following a very indulgent evening meal of jaeger schnitzel with potato salad and sauerkraut at Friedhelm’s Bavarian Inn Restaurant & Bar, we were ready to hunker down and make some plans.

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The next day, we piled into the SUV and headed to Lyndon B. Johnson National Historical Park to drive through LBJ’s ranch.

The ranch itself was fascinating. The Junction School, lovingly maintained, felt like stepping back into a time when chalkboards ruled the world. There were fresh flowers in a tiny vase on the teacher’s desk, and the air carried that faint, warm scent of history and dust that somehow always feels comforting. We even swung by the livestock barn and feedlot, because — well, when on a ranch in Texas……

There were plenty of other sights to see, but the moment that stuck out was watching Ann and Marianne pose at the top of the boarding stairs of “Air Force One-Half.” Kirk and I snapped pictures from below while they struck a pose like the First Ladies of Fredericksburg!

Returning to town, we dropped by the Fredericksburg Fall Arts & Crafts Show that afternoon. The air was sweet with the mingled perfume of cinnamon candles and fresh kettle corn…..like someone had bottled “autumn nostalgia” and turned it loose on Main Street. In a town so rich with talented local artists, we couldn’t resist taking a slow amble along the rows of booths. Each table seemed to hold something handcrafted with both heart and a healthy dose of hot glue.

As we strolled, we were greeted by row after row of creative crafters, all eager to share a story, a smile, and perhaps encourage us to part ways with a few dollars in the name of “supporting local art.” One gentleman tried to convince us that his hand-carved birdhouses were “avian architecture at its finest.” Another lady sold soaps so beautifully swirled they looked good enough to eat (almost).

Avoiding the temptation to dive headfirst into the delectable treats was well worth it. When we finally returned to the little house, Ann and Marianne were already at work, conjuring one of their magical “looks-like-no-trouble-at-all” dinners. Honestly, those two could feed an army, a small navy, and still have leftovers for brunch. The kitchen filled with the kind of smells that make you close your eyes and sigh…..the universal language of comfort and home.

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On Saturday, we visited The National Museum of the Pacific War, which gave Kirk a chance to connect with part of his dad’s military history.

I’ll never forget the look on his face when he spotted a photo sharing ghostly similarities to one his dad had taken above Japan. I waited over to the side while Kirk spent an extra moment respectfully appreciating the gravity of the photo.

Afterward, we joined a small cluster of museum visitors in a secluded memorial courtyard. The chatter around us softened as folks paused to remember friends and family from those days. It was one of those moments that I was thankful to have been a part of.

On our final evening, Kirk and I volunteered to cook one of our favorite meals for them: his mom’s spaghetti. This wasn’t just any recipe. This was written on a well-loved, slightly bedraggled index card that had seen more sauce than a Sunday supper table. Kirk keeps it lovingly tucked away inside an old dog-eared First Methodist Church of Seymour recipe book on a shelf so high up I have to boost him up to bring it down from its perch above the fridge.

The recipe also happened to be the first meal he and I ever attempted to make together shortly after we began dating. That evening, we learned more about one another than either of us expected to; to say it had sentimental value is putting it mildly.

Together in the nest we shared with the girls, we laughed over boiling pots, swapped stories, and managed not to set anything on fire — making the most of the opportunity to create even more sweet memories thanks to Lois Couch!

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As our weekend with Ann and Marianne drew to a close, I felt grateful for the time we’d spent with them. Between the card games, quiet porch talks, and laughter we shared, we built some wonderful memories. As always with Ann and Marianne, even a rainy day can’t stop the fun from happening, so….thank you both for always sharing your sunshine!

I’d be lying if I said the trip was life-changing. At the time, I was dealing with some health issues that made everything feel a little muted, like someone had dialed down the volume on my usual curiosity. And compared to our usual city-hopping, activity-packed adventures, this one felt more subdued.

Kirk was great. Understanding my quiet approach to our vacation, he sat by my side on the sofa as I quietly appreciated his strength and support.

By the end of our time with Ann and Marianne, I was reminded that not every trip has to be filled with glitter and rainbows. Some trips are soft-focus. Some whisper instead of shout. And sometimes, the slow ones — the ones with second cups of coffee, quiet evenings on the porch, and people who know your story without needing the recap — end up carving out a softer, kinder corner in your memory.

Fredericksburg didn’t change our lives. Instead, it reminded us that lives don’t always need changing. Sometimes, they just need to be a little quieter.

And maybe a second helping of spaghetti.