View From Three Feet

We would leave at 2am to travel from Van Horn to Del Rio. My Buello (pronounced Well-O and means granddad) would have the car completely packed and then would come inside and get us. 

Sometimes it was my brother Chris and I going. Sometimes it was my cousin Vonnie and I going. 

We would crawl into the back seat of the car where a “bed” with pillows and blankets waited for us. My grandmother would make a little cross on our foreheads with her spit. She would then tuck us in and hope that we would go back to sleep. She then got into the front seat and would pray, “God, keep us safe as we travel.”

I usually would stay awake and watch out the window as we sped south on U.S. Route 90 from Van Horn, Texas to Del Rio, Texas. 

Three hundred and three miles. It would take five to six hours before we would see my grandparents front door. 

As we sped along the road, I would peer out the window into the heavens. I learned to identify the Milky Way and Big Dipper. I watched for shooting stars. And I got to watch as the first rays of morning light would peer over the road in front of us. 

I was the lookout. Usually I would end up in the front seat between my grandparents. My job was to watch for deer and rabbits. My other job was to keep the map ready. 

I think my grandmother, I called her Buella, would have preferred I stayed asleep. 

I would ask questions and then would listen as my grandmother pointed out things. 

“Over there”, she would say, “is where your cousin so-and-so died when his car went off the road.” She would say his name. I’ve just forgotten through time. 

And then she would tell me to watch for what was coming next. 

Valentine, Marfa, Alpine, Marathon,...all sped by.

As we sped by Marfa, she would get quiet and then say, “sometimes you can see lights out there.” And obediently, I would search the dark desert for those mysterious lights. Never saw any. 

She would point out the old foundations of a now abandoned airfield. She told me that my granddad herded goats out in the desert beyond the base. 

Then she would pat me on the head and pull me close and tell me to sleep. But I was waiting for Alpine. 

I would watch as my Buello would slow down through Alpine. At that time of the morning, the streets were deserted. The predawn town was still sleeping...and I wasn’t. 

As we passed Marathon, she would point off to the right and say, “I grew up over there.” Sometimes, if my granddad was too tired to drive, we would stop at my grandmother’s sister’s house so he could sleep for a couple of hours. 

We were expected to sleep too. 

She didn’t have a toilet inside. It was outside in a little building. I always expected a spider to bite me. I would hold my pee if I could. I was brave and bold. But not that brave or bold. 

If we didn’t stop in Marathon, I would usually doze for a while. Especially if it was still dark. If it was a good night, I could watch as a train made it’s way across the desert floor beside us. 

Finally, my granddad would stop in Sanderson. There was an old cafe, that was also a bus stop, and it’s bathrooms were on my grandmother’s “they’re okay” list. We never ate there. I’m sure he also got gas in town but I’m not sure where. 

This stop was usually the signal to fold up the blankets and move them and the pillows to the trunk. If they stayed in the seat with us, they would become weapons of war. 

My grandmother was wise like that. 

She would also bring out whatever snack she prepared for us. It could be bean burritos (homemade tortillas and refried beans. No cheese). With those she always had a jalapeño for herself. 

Sometimes it was store bought cinnamon rolls in a little foil pan and had shiny, sticky icing. 

Our drink was water that came from a green water jug. One glass. No such thing as germs with family. 

Then out came a towel and a little more of my grandmother’s spit to make sure faces and hands were clean. 

All this while we were speeding down the highway. 

I loved this section of 90. The mountainous terrain and rocks tickled my imagination. 

I would whisper to my brother, “Look over there. Bet there’s Indians behind that hill!”

He would peer out the window and then turn back to me and say, “Nuh-uh!”

If I was a kid in 2021 I would say, “Made you look!”

If my cousin was in the car, then the barbies came out and we played quietly in the back seat. Barbies really liked to travel because they could have new adventures on the road. 

When the Pecos River Bridge would come into sight, we would line the window looking out to the right and oooh and ahhh appropriately. It was always breathtaking. I don’t know why, but I always tried to peer around the bend of the River that I could see in the distance. My grandmother said that Mexico was not too far in that direction. 

The next bridge crossed was an old river that had been diverted for the new lake. It was called the Devil River (pronounced Deee-vell River). We would watch as the dry river bed quickly filled our back window. We knew that Lake Amistad had forever changed that waterway. 

Comstock next. And then we would watch for first sight of the lake waters. 

Almost there. Just a couple more landmarks. 

We knew we were in Del Rio when we passed the fighter jet that was forever posed for a right roll. 
Home for the summer. 

As we would pull up to my grandparent’s home, out would come my grandmother’s thumb with more spit. She would quickly smooth back the hair on top of my head that had escaped my braids and say, “Oh Teresa (pronounced Te-des-sa).” 

“What!” I would reply. 

Doors would open. Out we ran. We were at Buello’s and Buella’s and the fun was about to begin. 

Del Rio, Texas. 

A favorite place for this 3’ tall little girl to explore.