La Pastorela, Thespians, Dracula, and other memories of /ˈæktɪŋ/

I have nothing against thespians. As a matter of fact, and for this blog record, I consider myself fairly liberal in many things, and what people decide to be, is up to them. I am a strong supporter of the thespian, and have been for many, many years. I’ve contributed to thespian causes over the years, including having deductions made from my paycheck to the Combined Charitable Campaigns back in the 90’s as a young airmen. But let’s get one thing clear, so there won’t be any misunderstanding around the term thespian, which isn’t used as often as it should, but I’m not here to start a petition on reintroducing it into our daily language. The thespian I’m referring to are not those folks from Thespiae, though I’m sure they were great people who enjoyed fine foods and art and who held extravagant after parties. Here I am speaking of the /ˈæktər/: one who acts.

he fell in love with a fly…

I met this man in his 40’s who fell in love with a fly. He listened to Los Panchos nearly every night. It reminded him of his mother, who died shortly after his birth. He spent his days and nights at his home, a prisoner to his wheelchair. His best friend was the 1950 hi-fi record player his mother received for her birthday. This was Miguel. It had been raining for twenty one days, and he knew his new friend was near death. Actually, his new love. She would die soon. He was heartbroken. She was a fly. The evening news reported that the month long rain would stop shortly. The time was symbolic for his new friend. When the rain stopped, she would decease. Miguel knew this. I listened to his story, as he played Piel Canela by Eydie Gorme and The Trio Los Panchos.

I wondered if he was insane. He wasn’t. He had seen beauty evolve in its most purest way. I saw it too, and witnessed this beauty.

The mean little white boys down the road

Oyster Creek, Texas. No oysters, but plenty of mean little white boys. That’s the Oyster Creek I remember. If it offends some, so be it. Our experiences speak for themselves. Gilbert, me, and John. Louis was too small to remember.

A town of little under a thousand people, Oyster Creek is an hour south of Houston. Someone once called me crazy for saying that this town was an hour south of Houston. “You’re crazy, that can’t be. You’ll be in the ocean.” Well, we were a couple of miles off the coast. The point is, we were near Houston, and we were near the coast. But this town has nothing to do with Oysters. A creek does run through the north part of town, but only a couple of homes overlook the creek. The other creek, which I never knew the name to, splits the town into south and north. The highway, FM 523 splits it east and west.

Oyster Creek is the stepchild of Brazoria county. It’s surrounded by Freeport, Clute, Surfside, and Angleton. We Oyster Creeksters were backwards. I felt this as a child.