Bum Phillips, Snickerdoodles, and Manure

Louise here.
Bum Phillips (former Houston Oilers coach, and more importantly, former football coach at my alma mater, Amarillo High School) said Amarillo, Texas was the coldest place he ever lived. As you know from Trish's previous post, this is where we met. Where the ghost of Bum Phillips walks. Where the land is brown eight months of the year and flatter than a penny left on a train track. Where the sky goes on forever and the road never ends. Where the wind goes howling down the plain. Where the leaves swirl, the blast of cold air from the north can knock you over (think fire hose), and where there is none of that annoying scenery to worry about.

So I'm up there in the land of barbed wire last weekend for my book signing. And it happens that my high school buddy Jimmy Gleason is the community relations manager at the Barnes & Noble where my event is. He played the French horn in high school and used to empty his spit valve on me. I pay him back now by invading his store once a year and bringing my own cookies. More on that later.
Here's Jimmy and me:

Note that I am leaning down. This is another way I repay Jimmy for all that spit. I am now, like, forever tall. He should never have watered me. My brother gave me that sweatshirt for Christmas, by the way, on the theory that it is not possible to have too many big, grey sweatshirts. It says, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel."

So. Here's what happened in Amarillo. First of all, Trish wasn't there. So that was a big fat drag, because we always have a grand time when we go to the panhandle together. Plus, she's a great tour manager/roadie. But she was unavailable, tragically. Lucky for me, though, my best friend from childhood, Karen Stewart Grantham (Stewey to me) was there to pick up the slack. We met in Brownies in 2nd grade. She went all the way through Girl Scouts to whatever the highest thing is. The Eagle Scout of Girl Scouts. I got kicked out in 5th grade for beating up another little Girl Scout. But that's another post. Anyway, Stewey still lives in Amarillo, four blocks from the house I grew up in. Her little girl looks JUST LIKE ME! Which is why I insist on calling her "Little Mel." She has adopted this as her identity, even though her real name is Jennifer. Here are the two Mels:

I spent much of the evening (when I was not signing books) teaching Little Mel the proper use of the phrase tough beans. By the end of the evening, the whole crowd was into it. Someone would say something like, "What happened to all the cookies? I asked you to save me one!" And we'd all cue Little Mel and she'd say, Tough beans! with all the authority of a veteran. I did explain carefully, though, that this is a phrase you never, ever say to your parents, especially your father. There are times and places for things.

I had asked Stewey if she'd order some snickerdoodles (those of you who have read my latest book, My Soul to Keep, will understand the significance of my cookie choice) from Belmar Bakery. Belmar Bakery is the bomb. Everything they make is delicious. I have a particular fondness for their chocolate/cinnamon cake, which I just found out you can order and have shipped to you. I will be availing myself of this service forthwith. I called Stew when I arrived to see if she got the cookies (as though she was the one who needed managing) and she said, "I got 'em, but I thought they were a little bit hard. I know some people like 'em that way, but I don't, really, and I don't think many people do, so I sliced up some apples and put them in a container with the snickerdoodles. They'll be soft by the time the book signing starts." This is Stew. This is Amarillo. People up there know how to soften the cookies. Plus, they bother to think that sort of thing in the first place.

By the way, the reason there are no pictures of Stewey in this post is that she, of course, was the one who was taking the pictures. She's hyper-competent. Otherwise, I probably would never have made it out of childhood alive.

Throughout the evening, I greeted friends I'd known since I was a kid. Some who are friends of my parents:

(I did not break this man's nose, by the way. I hung up my gloves in fifth grade. Someone else is responsible for this). And some who were friends of mine since the days when I used to judge how cold my hands were by checking the color of my mood ring. We all ate snickerdoodles, helped Little Mel hone her tough beans timing, and laughed and visited for three hours. A two hour book signing (7-9) ended at almost 11:00 when the store was about to close. We had a ball. Plus, I sold a ton of books. And not just to my friends. Lots of people had come in response to an article in the paper that morning.

Which is what you hope for if you're a writer. Strangers who want to read your words.

I'm a Dallas girl now. I admit it. I have the Uptown office, a couple of expensive handbags. Lots of shoes with three inch heels.

Years ago, I was driving down LBJ Freeway in Dallas on a fine spring day with the top down on my car when I was suddenly overcome by a stunning wave of homesickness for Amarillo. It came out of nowhere. My parents had moved away years before. At that point (this was before I was writing books), it had probably been 10 years since I'd been up there. But there I was, longing for my hometown. My very brown, flat, windy hometown. What was triggering this madness? A song on the radio? The breeze swirling through the convertible? I pondered for a while before I realized what it was. I was following a cattle truck. It was the smell of manure.

And now that I'm old enough, I understand why. Bum Phillips was wrong. The air up there is cold. No denying that. But nothing else is.

At heart, I am and always will be from corn-fed panhandle stock. Amarillo is softened snickerdoodles and uncomplicated friendships and the sheer simplicity of being loved, thoroughly and forever, by people who have known you since before you were anything. People who will not dump you just because you get kicked out of Girl Scouts. People who are not in competition with you. Who will not undermine you. Who will not lie, cheat or steal. And who can make an entire evening of fun out of teaching a six year old when to say tough beans.