In early July, I found myself trucking down Interstate 35 in an aging Ford with our dippy, big-eared hound dog in the extended cab. Months ago, my husband and I had bought our ’95 F-150 with the aim of being analog on purpose, a result of our household’s pandemic- and deep freeze-inspired, light, liberal Austin prepperism. If we were going to be the kind of people who drive an electric car, we’d better also have a gas-powered vehicle in which to haul ass out of town. Without a CD player or a Bluetooth connection, we enjoyed the drive back to Austin from East Texas rolling the radio dial to the next available twang whenever the music got fuzzy.
It was the first proper road trip I’d taken since the Before Times. We spent the weekend with my folks in Franklin County, playing card games and trying out my new stand-up (or fall-down) paddleboard. Tired and happy and blessedly not-sunburned, I flipped through country stations on the sunny Sunday evening, ready to be back home but relishing finally, finally, not being at home.
The truck, the dog, Waylon and Willie on the radio—it was all just so Texan! And it was the first time in a long time I felt safe and optimistic and unafraid.
