Before I left England to join The First Lady in sometimes sunny southeast Texas, a colleague at The Daily Express, the British national newspaper I was working at in those days, gave me two pairs of cowboy boots.
This might not have been unusual, except for the fact that my pal was a Scotsman, so to give an Englishman not one but two items with a genuine smile rather than through clenched teeth must have been a supreme act of fortitude for a member of God’s most parsimonious race.
There was, however, a slight drawback. He’d worn both sets of leather a couple of times, so they were definitely secondhand goods — the sort of thing used-car salesmen describe as “previously enjoyed.”
As someone who has an almost phobic suspicion of any “previously enjoyed” garment not known to have been fumigated in the meantime, I thanked Wee Jock profusely and promptly consigned the boots to the back of my wardrobe. After all, when would I ever wear them?
Such was the question TFL put to me some time last year when she emptied several crates I’d shipped across the Atlantic and had not yet unpacked. (She calls me the great procrastinator — I maintain I’m just forgetful.)
So where was I? Ah, yes — what to do with those boots. They joined a truckload of surplus stuff that went to a church somewhere in or near Hitchcock, where I’m confident they found a far more appreciative home from home.
All fine, until last weekend. Having been invited to the Black Tie & Boots ball on the island, I found myself the owner of only one third of the items of apparel necessary to present myself in acceptable attire. Meanwhile, TFL had played safe by buying herself a rather snazzy new dress.
I was still running about the house wearing my black tie and little else when the heavens opened with such ferocity that our journey from Moses Lake to the seawall would have been possible only by jet ski. Reluctantly, we abandoned our evening’s plan.
While ruminating on the possibility of being subjected to the 250th or so episode of TFL’s favorite nightly TV program, “Nancy Grace investigates, charges, indicts, tries and convicts Casey Anthony,” I realized worse was yet to come. Worse bootswise, that is.
Here I was, due at the Galveston County Fair and Rodeo ground on Tuesday morning at the behest of F&R stalwart Barry Lala, with no footwear capable of countering the effect of what must now surely be a quagmire.
On Monday, Barry all but confirmed as much when he called to advise me to be prepared for mud. “I’ll bring my deck shoes, spare socks and a towel,” I replied, faintly rueing my promise to visit Hitchcock.
Then, Hallelujah! Tuesday dawned as brightly as that day, exactly 173 years previously, when Sam Houston and his Texian fighters saw off the might of Santa Anna’s sleepy Mexican army.
A beaming Barry met me at the county fairground gate. “We’ve dried out,” he said. “The problem now is dust.”
Well, it sure was dusty, but “problem” was one word far from everyone’s lips as, first, Barry and, then, F&R board member Albert Ramirez escorted me on a quite charming guided tour.
We were surrounded by some 800 special-education students and their mentors, who had arrived from school districts in this county, as well as some in Harris, Fort Bend and Brazoria counties.
The members of the rodeo, aided by about 60 local students and other volunteers from the likes of the county sheriff’s office, the carnival-ride operators, Kemah City Police Department and BP, were treating them to an entertaining and quite exciting free day out. Albert had even flown in from his contract work in Alaska to be part of the action.
It was one of three such free days — the others are for senior citizens and schools — that F&R president Paul Tibaldo and his tireless team provide each year and, to mark my visit, Dear Reader, I will tell you more about it, with pictures, in Applause on Monday.
Meanwhile, can anyone recommend a supplier of “yet to be enjoyed” cowboy boots?
Englishman and former Fleet Street journalist Ian White is editor of Applause. Contact him by e-mail at ian.white(at)galvnews.com.
