Weekly Briefing from the North Texas Apocalypse Bunker, 4/8/22
Eighter from Decatur Edition
It’s been a breathtaking week here in North Texas, with gale force winds slamming into the region like a middle school tetherball, prompting the perennial question of which celestial being it was that we pissed off, and what, if anything, we can do about it. As of this writing, no definitive answers have been forthcoming, but rest assured, as soon as we can figure out which division “storm chasing” falls under, we’ll get right on it. It’s probably going to have to be one of the numbered divisions in Field Assignments. More work for Bunker Ops.
Despite the inclement weather, we managed to play host to one of my favorite writers and a good friend, Joe R. Lansdale hisownself. He and Karen came in, along with his son, Keith, and his lovely fiancé Danni, and we watched an episode of Hap & Leonard with a small but enthusiastic gathering of folks, some of whom made the trip over from Oklahoma. Joe also signed copies of his new Hap & Leonard collection, Born for Trouble: The Further Adventures of Hap and Leonard. It has been nearly three years since we last hung out, and that is too long.
Countdown to Surgery: Week 5
I have made it back to the gym, mostly so I can be in the habit of doing the elliptical machine already, as opposed to starting over at zero. I expect the doctor will want me up and moving after a day or two, and since I can’t do any bending or twisting, this will be a good, easy way to get some steps in without overdoing it.
I’ve just about got my brain re-wired to feel like it needs exercise instead of Moon Pies, and I feel better in that endorphin-releasing kind of way after I work out. I remember how I used to feel, back in my misspent youth, and this feeling is rather like that. At this point in my life, I consider that a new survival instinct.
Pre-Anniversary Wanderings
We recently embarked on another leg of the Alphabetical Tour of North Texas, making our way east to Decatur. That we did it on April 1st makes it our Pre-Anniversary, or, if you will, “Prenaversary.” We are nothing if not masters of logistics and efficiency.
For those of you driving from The Metroplex to Colorado, you will blow through Decatur on highway 287, unless you need a gas or food break. You’ll also see at least two large billboards for Sweetie Pie’s Steakhouse, on the square. Anyone who’s ever been to Decatur talks about Sweetie Pie’s. “Oh, you gotta go!” they’ll gush.
Steakhouses are one of those things that every Texan feels qualified to pontificate about. This is, of course, a terrible idea, because I’ve learned over the years that everyone has a different yardstick for what constitutes a good steak, and all of our yardsticks are calibrated differently. For example, I’ve not had a lot of bad steaks in my life, but the few that I’ve had were tough, rubbery, gristly, or in some other way rendered inedible. I’ve only had a few incredible, melt in your mouth, “holy shit what did I just eat” kind of steaks. That wide swing of say, 70% of the total, is the range of what I consider a good steak. You gotta do a lot to mess one up for me. Likewise, you gotta do a lot to elevate it over my expectations.
I now know that this makes me an outlier insofar as cooked cow is concerned. So, having said all of that, how was Sweetie Pie’s steak? Eh, it was good. Perfectly serviceable. Tasty. The correct temperature. It just didn’t wow me, for a couple of reasons. I ordered shish kebabs, made with filet mignon. What I got was a straight line of all the vegetables, and a second straight line of the steak. That’s not a kebab. That’s steak and bell peppers. No skewers. Janice ordered the filet mignon, and the cut of meat that showed up was about the right diameter, but nowhere near the right thickness. Aside from that, everything was cooked mor or less accurately and seasoned, and the service was great. Maybe it was just an off night. If you’re hungry for a steak and you happen to be in Decatur, by all means, go there. Just...maybe don’t make Sweetie Pie’s the sole reason for your trip.
We stayed at the bed and breakfast on the square; Janice picked it out, and didn’t tell me that there was a “Dean Martin Room,” or that she’d booked it. It was glorious. However, it was in one of those old buildings, from nearly a hundred years ago, when they didn’t have things like central heat and air and so one of the things they did was make rooms with twelve foot high ceilings. Hot air rises, keeps the lower half cooler. Science. Neat.
But see, when you have a building with multiple floors, the staircase to those floors is a lot longer, because you have to clear fifteen feet or more to get past the ceiling on the floor below. And, before building codes were a thing, it was perfectly acceptable to make stairs that were just wide enough for one person holding a sock, and steep enough to resemble a fire escape ladder. Which is how you get this:
It’s kinda hard to see, so here’s another photo from the top of the stairs, with me in it for reference.
The following morning, we drove around Decatur, looking at the older buildings and houses, and read up on the legend of “Eighter from Decatur,” a thing they all assured us everyone used to say. I’m pretty well-versed in the minutiae of Texas history, and also 20th century slang and idioms, but that was a new one on me. Maybe I don’t hang out at enough 1930s craps games.
Decatur’s square is basically one giant food court, with seven restaurants around all four sides, everything from coffee to pizza, and of course, steak. Decatur has officially made the list of places I’d return to for the sole purpose of chilling out for a weekend.
On the way back from Decatur, Janice looked up a couple of things on Atlas Obscura, which is how I ended up in a graveyard in Paradise, Texas, looking for what turned out to be a very small headstone. The world’s largest Bowie knife, conveniently located in Bowie, Texas, was much easier to find. In fact, we were so charmed by Bowie, we decided to replace Burkburnett as the B on our Alphabetical Tour list. Hey, it’s not our fault, Burk. Bring your A-Game next time. Or, in your case, your B-Game.
I really want to believe it's just an arm under that headstone. Seems like it'd make for a much better backstory...