Austin Farmers Market

I spent many summers with my grandparents in Paris, Texas. I worshipped them, and never tired of the time I spent there. We would eat take-home barbeque from Bono’s on spindly TV trays, watch Lawerence Welk , sip Coke floats, and play Scrabble and 42 until the wee hours. I saw Jim Shoulders splattered against the fence at the Paris rodeo, squirmed through interminable wakes, and listened, awed, as she told stories of my mother before she became “mom.”