Part Eight: Super Bowl XLV Comes to Big D

Part Eight: Super Bowl XLV Comes to Big D

While riding the Union Pacific Metra commuter train to work this morning I yanked a copy of D Magazine—the official periodical about all things Dallas—out of my briefcase to kill time while passing through various north-side Chicago neighborhoods. Somewhere around Andersonville, a trendy, gentrified neighborhood through which the train passes that features at least two gastronomic landmarks—Hopleaf, which features Chicagoland’s best beer selection (at least in this humble Texpatriate’s view), and Hamburger Mary’s, a quirky burger joint where at Sunday brunch you can order a traditional eggs-n-bacon breakfast replete a huge, greasy, mouth-watering hamburger (yum)—I stumbled across an article about Bill Lively, my dad, that would make any son swell with pride. This is especially so for a kid from Dallas, home of America’s Team. There were no tears running down my cheeks—at least not that I’m willing to share in this piece—but I did experience a palpable sense of astonishment and wonder as my train sped down the tracks toward the Loop.

The article in question was featured in a special edition of D Magazine dedicated entirely to Super Bowl XLV, which lands in North Texas in February 2011. Near the bottom of the article were two quotes from Texas legends Troy Aikman and Roger Staubach. The article explains, “Both Aikman and Staubach go out of their way to heap praise on [Bill] Lively. Aikman says, ‘I would find it very difficult to believe that any effort had been headed up by a more organized, finer human being than he is.’ And Staubach says, ‘I thank God every day that Bill Lively is Bill Lively.’”

Hail Mary, and Amen!

As I think about that quote, it’s actually rather difficult to formulate a response. Quite frankly, I’m speechless. (And that is rare.) Perhaps my feelings may best be expressed by the immortal words of Smokey Robinson, who sang, “I second that emotion.”

For any son to read such a quote from Roger Staubach about his father would fill him with pride. For a Texan—especially a kid from Dallas—such a quote is frankly overwhelming. As I think about how to express my feelings to friends in Chicago I realize I’m ill equipped to find a comparable figure other than Walter Payton, who is deceased. (Some would say Ditka, but he’s hawking cheesy time shares on cable TV and isn’t even close to Staubach. Perhaps Michael Jordan, but his status seems to have faded some lately.) But to truly understand how I feel upon reading this extraordinary quote, I must first take you back 31 years to the penultimate year of the disco era, at the end of the decade when the Dallas Cowboys became “America’s Team.”

January 21, 1979

On a cold morning in January 1979, my family boarded a plane to Miami. It was my first time to visit Florida, and I’m fairly certain it was my first time to miss school for a reason other than illness, which felt both exotic and mischievous. More importantly, I was in town to see the Dallas Cowboys—America’s Team, my team—play the Pittsburgh Steelers in Super Bowl XIII. The Cowboys easily beat the Broncos in Super Bowl XII the year before, and they were in Miami to defend their title. I had just turned eight earlier in the month, and I don’t remember much before the day of the game, January 21, 1979. But the events of that Super Bowl Sunday—from morning to night—are etched in my brain.

You see, by January 1979 I had already attended several dozen Cowboys home games in spite of my youth. From 1973 until 1989, when Jerry Jones bought the team, my dad was the director of the Dallas Cowboys band. Beginning with Super Bowl XII in January 1978, Tex Schramm, the Cowboy’s larger-than-life general manager, invited the band to travel with the cheerleaders to support the team.

Early on Super Bowl Sunday, my mom, dad, sister, brother and I left the Bahia Mar Hotel in Fort Lauderdale—our home during this epic football sojourn in south Florida—and joined the band on a chartered bus, which had a sign in the front window that read, “Cowboys Players.” Rather than park in the lot near the masses of drunken tailgaters, our bus drove us through hordes of screaming fans past the stadium gates and into the Orange Bowl tunnel down toward the field.

Steelers fans had initiated the “terrible towel” tradition several years prior, and it seemed to me that they significantly outnumbered Cowboys fans based on the enormous volume of stupid yellow dish towels waved by moronic Pittsburghers wearing black and gold. They looked like a bunch of fat, drunk bumblebees with bad facial hair and hillbilly haircuts straight out of Deliverance. Let’s face it: I hate the Steelers and their obnoxious fans. Apparently, the “Cowboys Players” sign in our bus window caused fans of both teams to think—quite erroneously—that Roger Staubach, Tony Dorsett, Drew Pearson, Ed “Too Tall” Jones, Harvey Martin, Randy White, Billy Joe Dupree, Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson,” Tom Landry, and the rest of America’s Team were on board. It was rather amusing, actually.

Our bus parked and we walked toward the bandstand, which was placed on the field near the end zone painted Steelers' gold at the open end of the horseshoe in Miami’s old Orange Bowl. My brother Bill and I were seated near our dad’s podium on the field. We effectively had front row seats, albeit with poor visibility past the twenty yardline nearest us. Each of us had red Super Bowl credentials tied to strings around our necks, which made us feel official, and which indicated—at least to these two young, impressionable kids—that we belonged there, in front of all the action.

Our end zone saw most of the action, including highlight reel favorites of Steelers’ fans for the past 30 years, such as the John Stallworth catch in the second quarter and the unbelievable Lynn Swann catch in the fourth quarter, not to mention the dreaded Jackie Smith drop in the third quarter. (Damn you, Jackie Smith!) In the end, Dallas lost the game, and my brother and I were heartbroken. But the game was arguably one of the most competitive and exciting Super Bowls in history.

In addition to the game, I distinctly remember watching the halftime show performers, which consisted of hundreds of dancers in colorful Caribbean outfits lined up at the fence adjacent to our seats near the end of the second quarter. Eight year-olds are easily distracted, and I remember peering all around at the Super Bowl spectacle as much as I remember watching the game. The game was amazing, but the crowd, the colors, the noise and the energy—especially since we were seated on the field—were truly unforgettable. To an eight year-old, Super Bowl XIII was a blizzard of yellow and blue; 1970s haircuts and bell bottomed pants; profane, rowdy Steelers fans mixing with cool, sedate Cowboys supporters; and Tom Landry in his fedora stoically looking toward the field trying to conjure another extraordinary comeback. I remember the roar of the crowd and the terrible towels waving frantically. I recall the final seconds when the Cowboys almost recovered a second on-side kick before the ball was smothered by the Steelers, who ran the clock out to win by four points, 35 to 31. And I remember the heartbreak of defeat, especially since I truly believed America’s Team would prevail.

But my team played with intensity that day and I was proud. Most of all, I remember seeing my heroes, Staubach, Dorsett and Pearson up close—much closer than our seats allowed at Texas Stadium. As a small kid, they were truly larger than life, especially Staubach.

Following the game, (players) Bob Breunig and Herbert Scott joined us on the bus to the hotel, and they graciously gave my brother Bill and me autographs in our Super Bowl Gameday programs. Later that night, following a late dinner at a Miami restaurant with a big-screen TV—the first I had ever seen—that was airing the Burt Reynolds classic The Longest Yard, my Mom, sister, brother, and I ate a quiet dinner and relived favorite moments from the game. We had lost the game, but we had also just seen our Cowboys play in a Super Bowl from seats located right on the field, and we were sky high with emotions.

After dinner we returned to the hotel and we made our way to a large ballroom where dozens of empty cots lay in neat rows. A few curtains here and there attempted to separate sections of the ballroom, presumably to help segregate men and women. However, the four of us were alone at the moment in this spacious, empty room. My Dad was with the Cowboys Band playing a set at the Super Bowl party, which was much more subdued relative to the year before following the victory over the Broncos (see Part Three: Coming Home with Country Music).

My mom tucked Billy, Debbie and me into bed and we fell asleep on three cots in the middle of the enormous ballroom. We awoke the next morning to find the entire Cowboys Band as well as the famed Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders sleeping in cots all around us. The once empty room was now packed with eccentric North Texas State University jazz musicians who comprised the majority of the talented Cowboys Band and dozens of bleach-blonde cheerleaders, and I was frankly stunned. Apparently, the Cowboys of the 70s traveled on a tight budget. To this day I wonder what the band members and cheerleaders thought when they returned sometime near dawn to find three kids, plus my mom, sleeping in four cots in the middle of a massive ballroom lined with rows of beds. I’m sure my brother, who was 12 at the time, was much more curious how the Cheerleaders found their way to the ballroom during the night while he slept. By 1979 the Cowboys Cheerleaders had achieved rock star status everywhere, and here they were sleeping all around us. Unfortunately, as an eight-year-old, I didn’t quite appreciate this fact at the time. Timing is everything.

We left on Monday morning and returned to Big D. Back at school I briefly had superstar status as the only kid anyone knew—except Major and Delon Greene, Mean Joe Greene's sons, who also attended my school—who had ever attended a Super Bowl. (Ironically, Delon and Major Greene, who were a few years older than I, lived near us in Duncanville. Every kid at school loved their dad's Coke commercial, even though he was a Steeler.)

I wouldn’t trade my Super Bowl experience with any other in my life except perhaps the birth of my daughters and my wedding day. (I'm sure my wife could easily think of several others.) Watching Roger Staubach, Tony Dorsett and Drew Pearson in the Super Bowl during the Cowboys’ heyday left an indelible impression on this eight-year-old. To me, Staubach was the captain of America’s Team, and anyone who played against him was simply the enemy on par with the Soviets. It was good versus evil. Period.

How ‘Bout Those Cowboys

Like every good Cowboy fan, I watched in awe as the Cowboys won three Super Bowls in four years during the 1990s. Indeed, those were great victories and wonderful times. But for a kid born in that weird period between the 60s and 70s known as the Nixon era, Staubach was near superhero status compared with just about any other football star.

Don't get me wrong—Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith and Michael Irvin, and all the Cowboys of the 1990s have a special place in that part of my heart reserved for football, which as a Texan is decidedly oversized. They won three Super Bowls, and more importantly they beat the Steelers, which made all us kids from the 70s very happy. Simply said, they returned the glory back to Big D. But the experiences from one's childhood leave a stronger impression than those from adulthood. And as a kid “Roger the Dodger”—or “Captain Comeback,” as he was also known—was my hero.

You see, over time professional sports were demystified by my overexposure to them. In high school I began working for my dad as the band’s equipment manager, and during college I worked both in the press box and on the field during the game. Actually, it was rather extraordinary to watch games from the field as a college student. The game was so fast and the players so big: nothing on TV or in the stands even comes close. But having seen more than a couple hundred live Cowboys games by 1993, the year I left Dallas, I was simply spoiled. I had seen so many games from such unbelievable vantage points that the excitement and drama of the game began to wane in spite of the remarkable success the Cowboys had begun to enjoy under Jerry Jones’s leadership.

Over time I became more interested in the game as entertainment rather than sport. Each game I would ride to Texas Stadium with my dad several hours before kickoff and watch the stadium and all its myriad workers prepare for the game. The concessionaires cooked hot dogs and popcorn, security guards moved into place, ticket takers opened their booths, photographers reviewed notes and stats while chomping on cheap hot dogs in a small room up the ramp across from the Cowboy’s locker room, and the news media—composed of radio, TV and print journalists—gathered in the press box adjacent to the luxury boxes to grab a quick bite and take a restroom break before the coin toss. In fact, two years in a row—in 1991 and 1992—I ate Thanksgiving dinner at Texas Stadium with football legends John Madden and Pat Summerall alone in the media dining room before the rest of the media descended on the press box. Mine was a surreal existence during my 20s.

All of it—the build-up, the preparation, the execution, and the artifice—was a fascinating and complicated production made possible by thousands of people each Sunday. In reality, the game was actually rather boring compared to the complicated machinations required to prepare for taking tickets, selling food and clothes, cleaning the men’s rooms, preparing for halftime, reporting on the game, and managing tens of thousands of fans coming and going peacefully. The game, which comprises only one hour of play split into four quarters, is in reality, the simple part.

As I explained, the NFL experience had become demystified to me. However, I still love the Dallas Cowboys. I still love watching them play every Sunday in the fall. And every summer in late-August my spirits begin to lift as football season approaches. However, in spite of the nearly unlimited access to players, coaches, and media, the experiences of an eight-year-old child will always create a substantially more magical and exotic memory than anything experienced in one’s teens or twenties.

Super Bowl XLV

On February 6, 2011 Super Bowl XLV will be played at Cowboys Stadium, the shiny new billion-dollar stadium—dubbed JerryWorld by the press—that is rivaled in scale and grandeur only by the coliseum in Rome. And it just so happens that my Dad is the President and CEO of the Super Bowl XLV Host Committee. Roger Staubach is the Chairman and Troy Aikman is Vice Chair. Members of the Executive Committee include Emmitt Smith and Ross Perot, Jr., among others. It’s a who’s who of Dallas.

Obviously, my dad’s position and subsequent interaction with Staubach and Aikman provides him access for which most Dallasites—or Texans for that matter—would sell their soul. And I am keenly aware of my dad’s friendship and working relationship with Staubach. I also know that my dad has a special talent for building and managing complex organizations and at crafting and staging big events. Let’s face it: in the U.S. there is no event bigger than the Super Bowl. So Roger’s quote shouldn’t be all that surprising to me knowing my dad’s working relationship with Staubach. Yet, in spite of all that, the eight-year-old deep down inside couldn’t help but swell with pride.

As my train approaches the Ogilvie Transportation Center in downtown Chicago I find myself stuck emotionally in 1979 reliving my Super Bowl Experience. Quite frankly, I don’t want to go back to 2010 for a few minutes so I close my eyes as my fellow commuters exit the train, and I try and remember the sights and sounds and smells of Super Bowl XIII. As the train empties I say a quiet, personal thank you to my dad for providing such extraordinary experiences and memories over the years. Most would say it was just football, but I know it was much more—it was an opportunity to witness a uniquely American cultural experience in the glory days of America’s Team.

Roger, I thank God (and Sam Houston) my dad is my dad every day, too.

Part Seven: Commuters in Paradise

Part Seven: Commuters in Paradise

It’s 8:02 AM and the train is just arriving at my stop, Main Street, Evanston, where I stand along with several dozen fellow Evanstonians awaiting the sleek silver commuter train that will deliver most of us within a few blocks of our respective downtown offices. It’s July and I’m already sweating as the heat index approaches 93 degrees and the humidity, always elevated near Lake Michigan, is near 80 percent. I reach up to loosen my tie and unbutton my collar while carefully balancing a to-go-mug filled with mediocre home-brewed coffee, today’s Wall Street Journal, my black Tumi briefcase—which is heavy with nonessentials and extra books (from my ever-growing queue of expensive, store-bought, hard-cover literature) that I've packed but continue to put off reading until some later date—and my iPod, which is currently playing Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried.”

As I attempt to loosen my collar, my coffee spills onto my newspaper and into my briefcase while my iPod goes crashing onto the sidewalk. I manage to gather up my dripping mess just in time to board the train and find one of the few remaining seats next to a woman with a wet, persistent cough who dresses as though she’s an extra on Maude, circa 1975. As I sit on the narrow seat, with all my wet gear settled in my lap, I can feel perspiration dripping down my neck onto my collar, which is growing moist.

Today I’m riding the Union Pacific Metra train (i.e. the suburban commuter train, known simply as the Metra), having given up on the “L” (i.e. Chicago’s elevated train) several years ago following multiple service cuts and countless standing-room-only rides in un-air-conditioned, rickety train cars that reeked of foul McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches, body odor, cheap perfume and other random effluvia of unknown origin that my dulled olfactory receptors failed to recognize. Taking public transportation is an experiment in active democracy as multimillionaires routinely sit beside homeless riders, and virtually every walk of life is represented. Actually, that democratic nature is arguably the most appealing aspect of public transportation. But democracy is not always easy, and the train can challenge one's senses and patience. Unlike most Dallasites in their comfortable, air-conditioned sports cars and SUVs cruising along the North Dallas Tollway in sanitized splendor, millions of Chicagoans endure daily L and Metra rides, both of which provide a more crowded, colorful, odorous, and messy experience—especially for riders like me who can’t juggle all their gear.

While Metra trains are far cleaner and more civilized than the L, they still have plenty of urban character—especially as they pick up passengers closer to downtown. Consider the woman with the consumptive cough and 1970s Bea Arthur outfit to my left, and the homeless man in the first row muttering at fellow passengers in Russian or Polish (I can't tell the difference); the business man in a smart Brooks Bros suit reading the WSJ adjacent to the neo-hippie whose outfit, politics and bathing habits—but not his iPhone—are stuck in 1968; and the attorney on his cell phone two rows in front of me yelling to his paralegal about some abstruse legal concept about which she is clearly oblivious. All—or at least most—are headed to jobs downtown, and upon leaving the train they scatter like fire ants toward myriad offices and coffee shops and bagel joints.

For the past few years—ever since my daughter entered pre-K and needed a ride to school—I have driven to work. However, the last few weeks I've been riding the Metra while my daughter is on summer break and my wife is at home on maternity leave. And this sudden jolt back into the world of public transportation has reminded me of my many years taking the train before I switched to driving.

During my first four or five years in Chicago I took the L to work. Eventually I got fed up with the infrequency and inconsistency of trains and subsequent crowds and switched to the Metra, which I took for a couple years. Compared with the L, the Metra feels like an oasis of calm. However, once I began driving two years ago I got used to the cool, consistent breeze of my car's air conditioner, listening to NPR’s “All Things Considered,” a guaranteed seat that is both clean and comfortable, and a relatively short walk from the parking garage on Wabash to my office (compared with a mile-long walk from the Metra station)—and I found it hard to switch back to public transportation, especially in the dead of winter or middle of summer. (Have you heard the old joke? Chicago has only two seasons: winter and construction season, plus maybe two weeks—at most—of spring and fall.)

Now I'm back on the train, and I’m trying my damndest to enjoy the simple pleasures of commuter life, including: truly fantastic people watching, discovering new and exciting smells, time to read books I bought two years ago but never got to, time to write and edit new chapters of "A Texpatriate in the Windy City"—including the one you're reading—on my Blackberry, and the absence of weaving and dodging in heavy traffic on southbound Lake Shore Drive at rush hour. Also, with a mile walk to my office from the Ogilvie Transportation Center, my train's terminus, at least I'm getting some exercise and a chance to clear my head and stretch my legs before staring at my computer screen for several hours.

Central Expressway at Rush Hour Circa 1993…Good Times

My first experience as a commuter was in Big D, where I witnessed firsthand just how awful rush hour traffic can be without having to be stuck in it myself. When I left Dallas in 1993 North Central Expressway hadn’t yet been widened and deepened. It made for some rather interesting driving experiences. (It now feels like a different road altogether.) Five years earlier, in January 1988, I got my first car: my grandmother's sky blue 1977 Monte Carlo replete with white vinyl top and white vinyl seats, including bucket seats that swiveled (yeah, that’s right: they swiveled; I know you’re jealous!). It was affectionately known as the Luv Macheen—or alternatively "that piece of shit," depending on whether the AC was working—and it was bigger than most yachts I see floating in Belmont Harbor alongside Lake Shore Drive. In this exquisite piece of 1970s machinery I could barely get up to 60 MPH on the highway without first turning off the air conditioner.

In 1993 the entrance ramps to Central Expressway near SMU seemed to be about 25 feet long, if not shorter, which was only slightly larger than the Luv Macheen itself. In order to enter this Godforsaken road I had to get up to 50 MPH before the start of each entrance ramp just to merge with traffic. Considering the Luv Macheen could do zero to 60 in about four minutes, you can imagine how much fun this was.

As a college student at SMU I didn’t have a full-time job and thus never had to endure the old Central Expressway (a.k.a. “Central”) traffic at rush hour on a routine basis. Mostly I just drove above Central on the Yale Blvd overpass on my way to campus from the cheap, rundown apartments I rented near Greenville Avenue. Each morning on my way to school I looked down at the poor folks stuck on Central in bumper-to-bumper traffic moving slower than an ambulatory centenarian on barbiturates and I thanked God and Sam Houston I didn’t have to sit in that traffic every morning and afternoon.

Now I’m one of those folks I used to pity, only I’m in even worse traffic in a city with millions more people—hence, millions more drivers. If you will agree with my rather nonscientific hypothesis that at least two in ten drivers are essentially lousy behind the wheel, and two in thirty are downright dangerous, that means—statistically speaking—that Chicago has hundreds of thousands more bad drivers than Dallas, and tens of thousands who shouldn't be driving at all. (At least public transportation mitigates traffic density here somewhat, especially when a gallon of gas regularly exceeds $3.25 a gallon.)

As almost all Dallasites and Houstonians know—along with nearly all residents of any major metro area without a major train network (in other words, every big city except New York, Chicago, Boston and D.C.)—driving in heavy traffic at rush hour isn't exactly fun. Indeed, driving in Chicago on southbound Sheridan Road and Lake Shore Drive—dodging left and right in between taxis, CTA accordion-style double-length buses, drivers making illegal turns at most intersections, and countless bad drivers going either too fast or too slow—gives one the sensation of being a stunt driver from Bullitt (absent the San Francisco hills and Steve McQueen's cool) or the French Connection (without Gene Hackman's silly hat). Without a robust public transportation system—given Chicago's population density—the volume of traffic near the Loop would make driving here virtually impossible. Quite frankly, driving at rush hour in any city—including, if not especially, the Windy City—sucks. But it is still more comfortable, fragrant and sanitary—not to mention climate controlled—than public transportation.

Quite frankly, the concept of and reasons for a long commute are rather absurd. Let’s review the basic logic (or illogic, as it were). Families tend to look for a home with the most space at the lowest price to fulfill the American Dream of owning a home big enough to raise their 2.5 kids and family dog. The idea is simple: buy as much house as possible to provide a comfortable lifestyle for the family within a reasonable distance from one’s office. Yet, the farther one goes away from downtown the longer the commute. Therefore, the desire to have a nice, big home in which to spend time with family actually ends up minimizing—and thus compromising—time spent with family since nice, big homes near work are typically unaffordable.

For every family, there is a sweet spot—the distance from work at which the family can afford a home to fit their collection of junk they’ve accumulated since becoming a unit but close enough so that the adult(s) of the household can commute without having to spend more time in the car than the office. And those are just the basics. Throw in the search for good schools, proximity to family and friends, availability of public transportation (at least in Chicago), location relative to one’s personal interests and hobbies (e.g. many folks here want to live near Lake Michigan), etc., and it takes a Ph.D. in geography and transportation logistics to identify the ideal commuter sweet spot. My goal seems rather simple: I want to find an affordable home in an attractive northern suburb with excellent schools that is closer to Chicago than Milwaukee. (It is much easier said than done.) Thus far, my real estate divining rod hasn't been too successful.

My good friend and fellow Texpatriate, Jim Nickelson, has the perfect commute: he lives with his family in the beautiful resort town of Camden, Maine and he commutes from his bedroom to his home office down the hall. Jim is a successful patent attorney who works remotely from his law firm, which I believe is based in Austin. Unlike Jim, the lucky son of a bitch (and all around great guy), my current job requires that I work most days in the office. Even if it didn't, I don't possess the willpower to work from home on a consistent basis. (After one day at home my wife would return from work to find me nearly comatose on the couch watching Ice Road Truckers and Deadliest Catch marathons on cable TV with little or no work done.) Thus, I am stuck with the commute due to personality deficiencies coupled with my chosen profession of university fundraiser.

Commuting in Chicago, 18th Century-Style...By Canoe

I suppose my commute is a bit easier than Jean Baptiste Pointe du Sable's, the first non-native to make Chicago his home. As the first non-indigenous settler—and first person of African descent in Chicago—du Sable moved to the site of present-day Chicago in the 1770s and established a fur-trading post. Without a doubt, du Sable had a vastly more difficult existence along the swampy Chicago River banks at the juncture of Lake Michigan, especially in February, compared with our rather comfortable lifestyles in quaint bungalows, roomy brownstones and swanky high rises. And our daily commute, while seemingly challenging in a 21^st century perspective, is downright glamorous in comparison. Unlike du Sable, we have access to trains, cars, Gore Tex jackets and boots, aspirin, penicillin, hospitals, paved roads, GPS, and DVD players in the back seat for toddlers—and there are far fewer outbreaks of cholera and typhoid fever today.

Du Sable lived alongside the banks of the Chicago River where the Michigan Avenue Bridge is now located. Most likely his commute required a horse, good shoes and a homemade canoe. This last part of the commute, i.e. the canoe, I can actually appreciate. Three years ago my friend Dave, an FBI pilot and ex-Top Gun aviator (yes, that Top Gun), and I paddled his canoe approximately thirteen miles, from Evanston south to Dick’s Last Resort in downtown Chicago. Okay, so our canoe trip was slightly different than du Sable’s daily grind. Anyway, our trip was still an adventure of sorts.

On a hot summer day in 2007 Dave and I packed sandwiches, a can of Pringles, and a 12-pack of original Coors in a dry-bag and we loaded up his canoe at the Oakton Street landing of the Chicago River Sanitary Canal (a.k.a. the North Shore Channel), which runs south from Wilmette toward the north branch of the Chicago River. During the first couple miles through Evanston and Rogers Park, on the far north side of Chicago, we saw an abundance of turtles, cranes and unusually exotic wildlife considering we were passing through an urban jungle better known for street gangs and pawn shops. By the time we paddled south through Ravenswood and Roscoe Village, near the confluence of the Sanitary Canal and the north branch of the Chicago River, the wildlife was all but gone. Water quality grew poorer and poorer until we reached Webster Ave in west Lincoln Park, where an old tire factory deposited foul smelling chemicals into the murky, brown water, which looked about as clean as the Gulf Coast following the BP oil spill. Thereafter we tried to avoid touching the grimy, bubbling water for fear that exposure would almost certainly lead to sterility and the possible loss of an appendage or two.

Farther south, as we paddled past the west border of Goose Island, the man-made, corrugated steel riverbanks grew taller—as did the buildings—and we began to feel slightly more exposed and claustrophobic in the deep, urban canyon. Fortunately we had each imbibed about five beers and were feeling rather robust and Hemingwayesque. At the fork we turned east toward the locks leading into Lake Michigan and we began to weave in between huge boats loaded with tourists learning about Chicago's architecture. When they looked down upon us they looked equally surprised and jealous.

We paddled beneath several drawbridges and stopped at the Trump Tower, which at the time was just a construction site eight stories tall. My friend Dave chatted up the curious construction crew who found our canoe rather quaint. A hundred yards or so farther east, just past the Michigan Avenue Bridge, near the site of du Sable’s home, we drank a toast to good ole’ Jean Baptiste. And we wondered why he chose to build his home in this Godforsaken climate along the banks of a middling river in the middle of a murky swamp. And then we drank another toast to du Sable for good measure.

A few yards beyond the Michigan Avenue Bridge we came upon three kayakers. One of the kayakers—who we later learned was the head football coach at Carleton College—offered to pay our docking fee at Dick's if we would pass him one of our two remaining beers. We obliged him and we all paddled east toward the locks then north toward a small tributary that ends at Dick's Last Resort, a cheesy watering hole. After 13 miles and nearly as many beers between us, we considered paddling back north to Evanston for all of 1/1000^th of a second—and then we decided to call Dave's wife Jane and ask her to pick us up. (It was an excellent decision as we were in no condition to paddle another 13 miles much less 13 feet, especially after a couple more beers at Dick’s with our new friends.)

As we paddled deep into the urban canyon along the Chicago River, I reflected on the differences between our view and that of ole' Jean Baptiste more than 225 years ago. He would be utterly bewildered by the changes. Not only is the landscape entirely composed of man-made objects of staggering size and occasional beauty and grandeur, but the river actually flows in a different direction. In 1900, after several deadly epidemics of cholera and typhoid fever caused by locals dumping human waste into the river—which flowed into Lake Michigan, the source of the city's drinking water—engineers figured out how to reverse the flow. (Incidentally, they’re considering reversing the flow again to keep the menacing Asian Carp, a.k.a. Kentucky Tuna, out of the Great Lakes.) Only a few spots anywhere along the river or lakefront look remotely as they did when du Sable roamed these swampy parts. At least Chicago has retained miles of parks and open space along the lakefront, unlike so many American cities that have sullied pretty views with freeways and massive developments.

"Next Stop, Ogilvie Transportation Center"

Back on the Metra, as my train approaches the Loop, I gather my wet belongings and prepare to exit. As I depart the train and begin moving toward the Ogilvie Transportation Center vestibule down a long corridor between my train and another that just arrived from the northwest suburbs, I scan the hundreds of bobbing heads in front of me walking in near unison through a narrow corridor toward the station and experience a curious sensation. The cluster of bobble-head commuters remind me of a herd of cattle meandering through a chute or cattle run, masticating on sesame bagels and Dunkin' Donuts instead of grass and hay, on their collective way to myriad destinations in the Loop.

(N.B. Ironically, the cattle industry has connected Chicago to North Texas—specifically Fort Worth, my hometown’s sister city to the west—for more than a century. When the railroads were extended to the west and southwest around 1900, cattle from Denver, Kansas City, Wichita and Fort Worth ended up in the stockyards and meatpacking plants of Chicago. In fact, the introduction of railroads coupled with Chicago’s stockyards and meatpacking plants helped to create the famous Fort Worth Stockyards, which was incorporated by businessmen from Chicago and Boston. Thus, the history of Chicago and North Texas will be forever linked by America’s appetite for beef.)

If I close my eyes for just a second I can almost hear these workaday drones mooing as they hoof it out of the station. Like cattle ambulating toward a watering hole this herd of humanity heads collectively to the nearest Starbucks for their morning dose of legal, addictive stimulants. (Don’t you just love how Texpats can always find a way to relate all their experiences in some way to the homeland?)

Coming Soon: Part 7.5, A Collection of My Favorite Public Transportation Stories and Anecdotes

Part Six: Where I’m From

Part Six: Where I’m From

Several years ago, while relaxing with my wife on a bench outside a beautiful old stone church in Vail, Colorado awaiting the wedding ceremony for a friend of mine from business school, a nice older couple in their early 70s sat beside us and began making small talk. Our conversation was the typical banal banter between strangers who don’t expect to speak to one another again: “Isn’t this weather beautiful? Are you related to the bride or groom? Have you visited Vail before? It sure is beautiful here, isn’t it?” Etcetera, etcetera.

The husband’s east Texas twang was particularly thick, and it was refreshing to hear a voice that sounded like home while sitting on a bench in glamorous, highbrow Vail, of all places. The groom whose wedding we were attending grew up in Dallas—Highland Park, to be precise—and I expected to run into fellow Texans at the wedding. However, I didn’t expect what happened next.

After a few minutes of chitchat I asked the couple where in Texas they were from, and the wife said, “Oh, we live in a tiny town in East Texas.”

“Whereabouts?” I asked. “I was born and raised in Texas.”

“Oh I’m sure you’ve never heard it…we’re pretty close to a town called Palestine [pronounced PAL-es-teen]. Are you familiar with Palestine?” she inquired.

“Sure,” I responded, “I’ve driven through Palestine many times on the way to my great grandparents’ house. What town do y’all live in?” (Don’t you just love how smoothly the word “y’all” flows off the tongue when visiting with fellow Texans.)

At this point the husband jumps in: “I guarantee you’ve never heard of it…it’s a little place called Grapeland and it ain’t much bigger than a main street and a feed store.”

“Well sir, I know Grapeland. In fact, I’ve been there many times.” I explained, as they nodded in disbelief. “It’s just off Highway 287 about 30 minutes southeast of Palestine, right? My great grandparents—Will and Rubie Mae Lively—lived in Grapeland and I used to go there several times a year when I was growing up in Dallas.” Just for kicks, I added, “Don’t you just love the piney woods of East Texas?”

The couple sat speechless and stunned on the cold stone bench beneath the warm Colorado sun. My wife was also mute. It was a classic Texpatriate moment. It truly is a small world, especially when you’re a multigenerational Texan.

“My God, that’s something.” The husband remarked, raising his eyebrows and digesting this surprising bit of information. He then paused for what felt like a full minute before inquiring, “Are you related to J.B. Lively? He used to be the sheriff of Grapeland back in the 60s.”

“Yes,” I replied, rather surprised and quite pleased to make such a connection. “I believe he was my grandfather's cousin.”

There was another exceedingly long pause as though we were characters in a Harold Pinter play. After what seemed like an eternity he responded, “J.B. Lively was the meanest son-of-a-bitch I ever met. I'm tellin' you, he was downright mean. Scared the hell out of me back in the day.”

Yep—that's my family. Or at least that’s one distant cousin who shares my last name and bloodline. In addition to J.B., I have several ancestors with questionable—if not downright ignominious—pedigrees: one rode with Jesse James, several owned slaves, another worked as an evangelical tent preacher (in spite of being a lousy, mean drunk), several fought as loyalists during the Revolutionary War against George Washington and the Continental Army. Only God and Sam Houston know what other disreputable relatives I have among the various branches of my family tree. (In fairness, the vast majority of my ancestors would make most folks proud, but it’s the colorful ones we like to remember.)

To be honest, I can’t quite remember how I responded to this septuagenarian’s frank remark, other than to agree with his assessment (i.e. I had heard the same thing about good ole’ J.B., to be honest), congratulate him on his nephew’s nuptials, and wish them both a good evening.

Lone Star Connections

Family is a complicated and beautiful thing. I owe everything I am to my family—all my unique personal characteristics, from the positive and irritating to the downright embarrassing. It is to my four grandparents and their ancestors that I ultimately owe my life and my good fortune. And it is they who helped shaped the culture of my family—and in their own small, unique way they helped to shape the culture of Texas, my home.

My grandparents were all born and raised in Texas, and on my mother's side I can trace family in the Lone Star State back to the 1840s (and possibly earlier), in Austin. The relative whose residency in Texas dates back the farthest—at least that I can verify at the present—was Ephraim Hanaway, an old Mexican War veteran (N.B.: it’s now referred to as the Mexican American War). Hanaway is my third great grandfather (i.e. for those who care, he is my mother’s, mother’s, father’s, mother’s father). When he died, in Austin at the beginning of the 20th century, he was the “oldest Mexican war pensioner” per the faded obituary from an Austin newspaper found in my cousin Helen’s family bible.

Good ole’ Ephriam had three daughters and no sons. His daughter Mamie, born in 1867, married Frank Pfaefflin, the son of a German immigrant. Incidentally, Frank’s brother, H. Pfaefflin, was the key government witness against William Sydney Porter, also known as O. Henry, who embezzled money from the American National Bank, Austin, where they both worked in 1898. For all you short story connoisseurs, O. Henry—for whom the most prestigious short story writing award is named—published his first stories while serving time in an Ohio prison following great uncle Pfaefflin’s testimony and Porter’s subsequent conviction. I’d like to think my ancestor is at least partially responsible for helping to launch the career of America’s most storied short story writer—is that a stretch? (If you haven't seen the O. Henry house, which is now a museum, on 4th street in Austin, check it out.)

Frank Pfaefflin’s granddaughter Anna May, my maternal grandmother, also had unique ties to a Texas literary icon. Apparently, while studying at the University of Texas (or sometime thereafter) in the early-1930s, Anna May Pfaefflin worked as a clerk for Professor J. Frank Dobie, an American folklorist known as “Mr. Texas.” Dobie was the first serious Texas intellectual and he is widely considered the father of Texas literature. How and why my grandmother found a job clerking for him at UT is a mystery. But ain't it cool?

Anna May Pfaefflin was barely five feet tall, but at times her personality made her seem more like an NBA Center. She was a firecracker with a quick temper, a sharp tongue, and very few kind words—at least in public—for Royal Kelley, her husband of more than 60 years, whom we called Papaw Kelley. (This is not to be confused with Papaw Lively, my other grandfather; apparently there’s not much creativity in my family when it comes to selecting family nicknames). However, Nanny, as we called her, was a wonderful grandmother who spent countless hours babysitting each of her six grandchildren. Such are the paradoxes of family. She was smart as a whip, and she was tougher than a sidewinder rattlesnake. From Nanny we inherited toughness, true grit and a wry sense of humor. Nanny could stare down and verbally outmaneuver the toughest characters.

Cowboys and Bandits in the Family Tree

Anna May Pfaefflin married Royal Hobart Kelley. Kelley, as Nanny always called him, was just about the strongest yet gentlest human being I have ever known. To understand Papaw Kelley, one must first understand his background. Papaw was the great nephew of Otho Offutt, a member of the notorious Confederate rangers known as Quantrill’s Raiders. William Clarke Quantrill and his Quantrill’s Raiders, whose ranks included Frank and Jesse James as well as Cole and Jim Younger, were infamous for robbing and killing northerners. Their most notorious operation was the Lawrence Massacre—in Lawrence, Kansas, in August 1863—when Quantrill and his gang looted the banks and stores, burned nearly all the town’s building, and killed approximately 200 men and boys. I think Papaw explained it best in one of the many stories he told over and over: “They burned the houses, spared the women and furniture, and killed all the men.” Following the raid Quantrill led his men to Texas, behind Confederate lines. (The James and Younger gangs kept on looting and killing long after the Civil War using tactics learned while riding with Quantrill.) Needless to say, Papaw Kelley’s great uncle Otho was a tough son of a bitch.

Papaw’s father Otho Kelley wasn’t much nicer. As a young man, the younger Otho—who was named after his tough as nails uncle, Otho Offutt—worked as a cowboy at the famed XIT Ranch, which at one time comprised more than 3 million acres across the Texas panhandle. The XIT was the biggest private ranch in the world. After breaking both of his legs in a hay bale crane accident, where he fell more than 30 feet to the ground, he quit cowboying and became a tent preacher. From my 21^st century perspective, this was a dubious profession for such a mean son of a bitch but times were different and Texas at the turn of the 20^th century was still the edge of the frontier—and fire-and-brimstone preachers had to be a tough bunch to save any souls. Eventually, Otho Kelley settled in a rough section of Wichita Falls where he ran a rundown general store. Mostly, however, he was just a mean SOB who liked to drink whiskey and beat his son.

As a young teen of thirteen of fourteen—at the heart of the Great Depression—Royal Kelley had endured enough violence from his abusive father and, following his mother’s untimely death, decided to leave Wichita Falls for something better. As a teenaged hobo he hid underneath train cars and road the railroads alone all the way to California, where he stayed with distant cousins whose dispositions were kinder than his father’s.

Ultimately, this skinny kid from Wichita Falls with Gary Cooper-looks joined the Marines followed by the FBI Academy, and he eventually served as a policeman and a highway patrolman across Texas in Uvalde (where he lived next door to then Vice President John Nance Garner, who served under FDR), Austin, Amarillo and Abilene. For the last 27 years of his career he served as chief of security for LTV. In retirement he played golf nearly every day, it not twice a day. (Once he told me he played from sunrise to sunset, and he never used a golf cart.)

As a kid, Papaw Kelley was always my favorite grandparent. I know kids aren’t supposed to choose a favorite, but Papaw was like a huge teddy bear who would pick me up and give me a hug and a kiss every time I saw him. The countless stories he told about his life—such as growing up beside a Hooverville (i.e. a depression-era shantytown) during the Great Depression, running away from home in his teens and traveling on freight trains to California, lying about his age and joining the Marines at 17, attending the FBI Academy under J. Edgar Hoover, winning awards as an expert marksman, and riding motorcycles as a Texas State Highway Patrolman—were the stuff of legend, and they excited me to no end. These were adventures about which a young grandson dreams.

Now, as an adult, his stories and experiences have taken on new meaning for me—a poignancy that I did not fully appreciate as a child. Despite losing his mother as a young boy, enduring an abusive father, and having few role models in the callous depression-era Wichita Falls in which he matured, Papaw was among the kindest, gentlest and most caring individuals I’ve ever known. Indeed, it was his kind, gentle spirit in the face of hardship and cruelty that made me appreciate him so much more—and which still makes me appreciate what is important in my own life today.

Papaw Kelley was without a doubt the strongest man I’ve ever known. His intensity and strength were palpable to all who knew him. In his 70s and 80s, Papaw played 18 holes of golf almost every day, without a cart, and could still hit the ball farther than most 30-year-olds. Even in his last years, with cancer eating away at his body, Papaw would walk laps around Presbyterian Village, where he lived in South Oak Cliff, to maintain his endurance and strength. Simply put, he was a survivor.

It was these dual qualities—kindness and strength—that made Papaw Kelley unique. This duality formed the core of his amazing character, for which he was known and loved by family and friends. And I am thankful to him for passing along even just a small part of himself to me.

Hook ‘em Horns

My paternal grandmother came from educated, serious North Texas stock. Mary Alice Keeton, whom we grandkids knew as Memaw, was the daughter of William Fount Keeton of Bonham, Texas. Granddaddy Keeton, as he was known by my dad and his brothers, was a serious man who represented Fannin County in the Texas House of Representatives in 1927 and again in 1929. His daughter Mary Alice was a serious woman. She was introduced to the University of Texas as a young girl while living in Austin during her father’s years in the Texas legislature. After graduating high school she eventually matriculated at UT and was graduated four years later. Henceforth, Memaw became a devoted Longhorn who—even in old age with extremely poor eyesight—would grab her binoculars and turn on the tube to watch UT play Oklahoma or A&M, or whoever would be defeated by her beloved Longhorns that day.

Memaw was a loving grandmother, but like her father she was a serious person. She did not joke nor did she appreciate tomfoolery of any sort. (Her four sons definitely tested her patience.) Her husband Henry (Papaw Lively) had a monopoly on humor and wit in their marriage, and he almost always had a smile on his face. But it was Mary Alice who insisted on a first class education for her sons and her grandchildren. She would often count the number of undergraduate and graduate degrees attained by every child and grandchild in her family, and she wore that accomplishment like a badge of honor—sharing with anyone who cared to listen. Except for her Presbyterian devotion to God and her devotion to family, education was primary to Memaw.

While my father had a closer bond with his own dad, he and his brothers inherited Mary Alice’s serious demeanor, devotion to God, and commitment to education. From Memaw, I inherited a deep seriousness of purpose and a belief in the primacy of education. Indeed, her devotion to education has clearly influenced my own career, and I share many traits with Memaw, including some about which I am proud and some—such as being too serious (or humorless, as my wife would likely suggest) too often—that I wish I did not.

Lively: Is it A) an Adjective, B) an Adverb, C) a Last Name, or D) All of the Above?

My last name, Lively, is an English surname—or at least it’s a derivative of an old English surname. It’s both an adjective and an adverb, providing countless bad jokes for kids and adults alike. It’s an uncommon name in Chicago, and adults here typically crack the same kind of insipid jokes I heard as a youth. (You don’t need me to repeat ‘em as I’m sure you can think of several obvious moronic Lively-as-last-name jokes on your own.)

At some point in the late-1600s, John Lyfolly, of Oxfordshire, England, was imprisoned for a crime—likely petty theft—and sent to prison in Barbardos (an overflow prison for British criminals and miscreants since the infamous Newgate Prison was apparently overbooked). Somehow, this 17^th century ne’er-do-well left the Caribbean prison and made his way to South Carolina where he joined other Lyfollys making a living in the colonies. Within a generation or two the name Lyfolly would became Lively. During the Revolutionary War the Lively clan made the unfortunate decision to fight as loyalists on the side of King George.

So to recap, my forefathers with whom I proudly share a last name were basically criminals who fought against the founding of the world’s greatest living democracy. At least the Livelys got one thing right: they eventually moved west to Texas.

By the mid-1800s several members of the Lively clan moved to Houston County, the oldest county in Texas, where they tenant farmed and tried to avoid getting scalped or robbed and killed by gunslingers. Once, as a young boy Will Lively—my great grandfather—was in school when the teacher made all the kids crouch beneath their desks as Jesse James was riding through town. (It’s possible Otho Offut was with the infamous outlaw when he rode through Grapeland, making this the first near encounter between two sides of my family.)

By the mid-1900s Will and Rubie Mae (Herrington) Lively were able to purchase their own land. Their two sons, Henry and Carl Lively, left Grapeland for college and eventually both moved away to start families in other towns—Carl in nearby Lufkin and Henry in Dallas. Henry, whom we knew as Papaw Lively, was a hard-working man who spent his years selling life insurance, serving Oak Cliff Presbyterian Church, raising four kids, and playing golf with his many friends. What he was known for, however, was his personality. Henry never met a stranger, and his smile could warm even the coldest of hearts. Like his wife, Henry was a serious character, as his sons can confirm, but he also found great joy in life, in the company of good friends and family—and especially in the beauty of the majestic Colorado Rockies.

After attaining a college degree from Sam Houston State Teachers College (now Sam Houston State University) and completing officer candidate school in New Haven, CT during the Second World War, Papaw built a hugely successful career in Dallas selling life insurance. He and Mary Alice raised four sons—each of whom attained graduate degrees and made substantive contributions to the communities in which they live. His sons all spent magical summers on the farm in Grapeland with their favorite grandfather, whom everyone in town called “Uncle Will,” that would help to shape their character and their lives. But Papaw preferred looking forward not backward. He was conflicted about his childhood and the culture of Grapeland in which he was raised.

Papaw’s grandchildren—myself included—grew up yearning for days spent on the farm shooting BB guns at tin cans and watermelons, listening to Great Granddaddy Lively’s stories, and walking through piney woods with Papaw Lively. Every Christmas and every summer—usually during extreme cold or brutal summer heat—we visited Grapeland. All the grandkids loved the farm. We loved its simple pleasures: Great Grandmother’s pies and fried chicken and time spent on the porch swing listening to great grandparents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and near cousins and distant cousins tell stories about the old days. I can hear the conversations in my head as I write this: I can hear the thick east Texas twang and the slow, deliberate voices of Great Granddaddy and Great Grandmother and Papaw and (his brother) Carl reliving childhood moments before they had electricity or cars or money; I can hear my uncles Bob and Jim telling stories about the old days that made their brother John laugh until he cried; I can hear the ringing of Great Grandmother’s hearing aid and the sound of the old gas heater on the floor in the den and the sound of the porch swing swaying back and forth as folks sat out front drinking coffee after lunch and several helpings of home-made pie. There was something manifestly romantic about days spent on the farm. Even the drive back home to Dallas was usually memorable: Uncle Bob would tell Wendigo (i.e. ghost) stories to a car full of scared nieces and nephews ready to scream at every twist and turn.

For Papaw, however, his childhood memories were quite different. I remember my dad once explaining to me in secret that he believed Papaw was embarrassed about his humble upbringing. As a teenager, I just didn’t—or couldn’t—understand that emotion about such a magical place. We loved the farm. We were proud to have a grandfather who was raised on a farm—it was exotic, especially to kids in suburban Dallas. I remember telling Papaw, sometime after my dad shared this secret with me, just how much I loved visiting his childhood home hoping he would agree with me. He didn’t really respond to my declaration and it was clear Papaw had complicated feelings about his childhood in Grapeland. In reality, growing up on the farm involved long, grueling days of endless toil. The culture of Grapeland and the daily grind of life on a farm was not the romanticized version of farm-life that his sons and grandchildren perceived it to be. Yet it was on the farm—through the enduring love of his parents and the lessons of hard work coupled with the extraordinary gift of an education—that Papaw learned to possess a quiet grace that I only now fully appreciate as a father who has been given much in life from his family.

And it is from Papaw that I learned to find joy in nature—especially in the Rocky Mountains—and for that I will be forever grateful. If only I could sit with him underneath his favorite ponderosa pine in Estes Park and see his smile and hear his laughter once more.

Prodigal Son

How this kid from Dallas with roots that lie deep in the heart of Texas got to Chicago is a long and not very interesting story. But, here I am. The prodigal son. A Texpatriate in Chicago.

I think everyone expects me to return home eventually. That remains to be seen. However, what I can promise, regardless where I live—whether it's Chicago or Grapeland or Dallas—I will always be a Texan at heart. And I will continue to be the amalgam of complicated, conflicting, rich personalities inherited by good people (along with a few shady characters) who were shaped by—and who in turn helped to shape—the unique culture of Texas.

...And hopefully, many years from now, when a distant relative or grandchild of mine meets someone who knew me back in my prime—which presumably is now—I hope I fare better than ole' J.B. Lively, the mean old son of a bitch.

Part Five: The Bush Library at my Alma Mater…That’s Great, I Guess?

Part Five: The Bush Library at my Alma Mater…That’s Great, I Guess?

As a Texan living in Chicago—a Democratic stronghold—I am frequently asked the question, “What do you think of President George W. Bush?" This is, of course, a loaded question for a Texpatriate in these parts.

Most Chicagoans are decidedly anti-Bush and there is no question what folks here think of our 43rd president. They simply hate him—even now, 18 months after leaving office. Moreover, just as Chicagoans are most likely to be Democrats, at least statistically, most Texans are Republicans. Thus, when Windy City yokels ask me what I think of W., they automatically assume I’m a Republican and must be a fan.

I should first mention that Chicagoans are usually startled to learn that I’m a Texan since I don’t much sound like one. When they learn that I’m a 7th generation Texan they’re even more surprised that I left the homeland at all. (So are most of my friends and family; even my wife of 10 years is continually surprised.) But finding out that I didn’t vote for President Bush simply shocks the hell out of them.

To Chicagoans I am a paradox: I’m a multigenerational Texan living in Chicago who sounds vaguely like an Iowan (i.e. I am told I have almost no Texas accent whatsoever) and I’m not a raging conservative. Folks here assume that since I’m not a Republican I must hail from Austin. To non-Texans, Austin is perceived as the only place where one can find that unique species known as a Liberatus Texana (i.e. Texas liberal). Moreover, Austin is the one city that most non-Texans find appealing—not that most Chicagoans have ever visited Texas, much less its capital. But everyone outside of Texas has heard about Austin’s reputation for laid-back attitudes, great music, beautiful landscape, and hip culture. (All these stereotypes are at least partially true and Austin is indeed a great town, but it's certainly not the only great place in Texas.) Of course, I’m not really a raging liberal, either—at least not by Chicago standards—as I don’t vote straight ticket for the local Dems. To do so would mean voting for likely felons and narcissistic ne’er-do-wells.

Ultimately, Chicagoans don’t know what the hell to make of me. I think it bothers some folks here that I don't fit neatly into their stereotypical view of Texans. On too many occasions to count I have been present when a friend or colleague openly criticizes Texas for one reason or another—usually to condemn Pres. Bush, Gov. Rick "Tea Party" Perry, the “greedy oil industry,” the Texas State Board of Education and its ignoble decisions regarding the content of history textbooks, or some loony secessionist with a gun. They usually remember I’m a Texan midsentence and sheepishly proclaim, "oh…but you're different, Dave." (Most of the time, I simply want to respond: “Yeah…and you’re an asshole from the bland, Godforsaken Midwest.”)

To Chicagoans—or to just about anyone outside of Texas, other than the big cluster of red southern states reaching from Oklahoma to Florida—Texas is a gun-loving, Bible-thumping, oil-obsessed, evolution-in-schools-banning, redneck-sounding, uneducated, unsophisticated, Republican-dominated, unmitigated hell hole. Moreover, most non-Texans tend to assume Texans are stereotypical one-dimensional caricatures in cowboy hats wearing six shooters and quoting Ronald Reagan and John Wayne. (Okay, to be completely fair, there are certainly plenty of folks who fit that description.) But Texas is much more complex and diverse than most outsiders would believe. In fact, non-Texans tend to think of Texans much the way Europeans think of Americans: simply put, they think we’re a bunch of rubes.

My Pet Goat

I voted against President Bush twice and both times my candidate lost. With respect to political choices and voting history, I’m generally quite familiar with defeat. I was hugely disappointed in many of Bush’s decisions, especially the ill-conceived invasion of Iraq. I found his leadership style and his glib manner disappointing and unbecoming of a president. Yet, I had—and have—difficulty hating him, unlike most of my fellow Chicagoans. After all, hate is a pretty strong emotion. Furthermore, I tend to assume that all presidents have thousands of challenging decisions to make and they genuinely try their best to make the so-called "right" decision based on the facts available to them. Perhaps that’s naïve, but I honestly believe that anyone behind the desk in the oval office—regardless of what the liberal or conservative pundits would have you believe—aims to make decisions that are in the best interest of our country and its citizens. What is “best” is, of course, up for debate. In reality, the conservatives and liberals in the U.S. are not really that far apart, relatively speaking. (Seriously—it’s not like we’re stuck having to vote for Kim Jong il, Mao Zedong, Pol Pot, or Adolph Hitler, regardless of what you might be instructed to believe on Fox News or MSNBC.)

I did hate many of W's decisions, but I tend to reserve most of my hatred for more important things, such as: the Washington Redskins, the Philadelphia Eagles, all Florida football teams (both college and professional), the Big Ten, the White Sox, the Bears, the BCS, bland Mexican food in the Midwest, drivers who don't use turn signals, green relish or ketchup on hot dogs, brown gravy (vs. cream gravy) on chicken fried steak, sour cream on anything, “happy talk” anchors on the local news, reality TV shows, Orlando—or anywhere in Florida—in August, window-unit air conditioning, and music of just about any boy band (and that means you, New Kids on the Bloc, ‘N Sync, Hanson, Jonas Brothers, and Backstreet Boys, to name a few). To be fair, I also hate the simplistic vitriol of Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Fox News, caustic far right- and left-wing pundits, and the 24-hour news cycle that contributes to the perpetual political stalemate we find ourselves in lately.

In this Texpat’s humble opinion, hate is an emotion best employed to express simplistic responses requiring little depth or nuance. Politics (and politicians), government service, wars, and other truly nuanced, weighty issues simply deserve more thoughtful, subtle emotions than hate. Anger, frustration and disgust are perfectly reasonable, but hate is something altogether different. For issues and matters of true seriousness and importance, hate is intellectually lazy. The world is far too complex and abstruse to reduce the work of our government and its leaders to simplistic emotions such as hate. Silly sports rivalries, lousy cuisine, bad drivers, and other daily annoyances in life—as well as the shrill music of boy bands (and I know you agree with me)—are more appropriate outlets for our hatred. (Florida college football teams are especially appropriate.)

I don’t have blind faith in the decisions or abilities of our political leaders, I am just keenly aware that U.S. presidents and political leaders in congress must make difficult decisions that may not be popular—and which may turn out to be flat wrong with hindsight. (And, in my opinion, Bush’s decisions were dreadful quite regularly.) But I think it’s far too easy to play armchair quarterback with each and every decision after the fact.

I do wish George W. had cleared less brush on his ranch in Crawford and spent more time focusing on things that matter. (After all, I never much enjoyed hours of yard-work in August and have difficulty understanding why the leader of the free world should enjoy it quite so much.) Bush clearly made errors in judgment with respect to selecting a Vice President, appointing key cabinet members (Rumsfeld and Rice, to name a few), and executing important initiatives, from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to his response to Hurricane Katrina. But not everything he did was bad, despite what many of my friends may think (e.g. aid to African). Similarly, President Obama is criticized for every decision from the right. The endless partisan blame game is both exhausting and disgusting.

So when I learned that Bush was creating his presidential library and think tank at SMU, my alma mater, I was rather conflicted. As a history major and one who understands and appreciates the value of the archives that will eventually be accessible to scholars at SMU from this critical period in American history, I am thrilled. Moreover, it’s very hard to know how the Bush legacy will be perceived and understood in fifty years or more. I know enough about history to comprehend that historians of different epochs tend to view the past differently than prior generations—especially contemporaneous generations in history.

On the other hand, I have to endure the indignity of explaining to folks in my adopted city of Chicago that: A) SMU, my alma mater, is not a radical religious college run by the likes of Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, or other right-wing religious nut jobs whose sole aim is to burnish the Bush reputation, and B) yes, President Bush’s library will contain more books and archives than a single copy of “My Pet Goat” (i.e. the book Bush was reading on 9/11 when the Twin Towers were felled by al-Qaeda). In this context, it often feels as though SMU won the booby prize of presidential libraries. Well, if we can endure the NCAA death penalty in football, I guess we can endure the short-lived ridicule associated with the Bush Library.

Of course, my Chicago friends have very little to be proud of with respect to politics other than Presidents Obama and Lincoln.

Politics in Chicago vs. Texas

Today in Chicago my former governor, Rod “helmet head” Blagojevich, entered a courtroom in the Dirksen Federal Building—two blocks from my office—to commence his corruption trial. Blago was indicted 18 months ago on 24 counts of fraud, conspiracy, bribery, and racketeering. His shock and awe corruption campaign included a failed attempt to sell President Obama’s vacated senate seat to the highest bidder. (Who wouldn’t? After all, “it’s bleeping golden!”) Amazingly, Blago campaigned for governor as a reformer in the wake of scandals involving George Ryan, our prior governor, who is currently serving a six-year sentence in Terra Haute, Indiana for a corruption conviction. (Instead of a prison in Terra Haute, the authorities should have made him live in a typical Gary, Indiana neighborhood—I guarantee prison is safer and preferable to Gary.)

Illinois has a long, proud history of political corruption. Indeed, six Illinois governors have been charged with crimes, either during or after their administrations. Otto Kerner, Jr., Daniel Walker, and George Ryan all served time in prison. Two others—Lennington Small and William G. Stratton—were acquitted. (They must have had friendly Chicago juries.) Blago is the sixth to be indicted, and jury selection for his trial began today.

Just in the city of Chicago, Blago’s hometown—and my adopted home—29 aldermen have been convicted during the last four decades. That has to be a record for any American city. (For context, we only have 50 wards in Chicago. Given how corrupt politics is here, I’m frankly surprised the number of convictions isn’t higher.)

I don’t know precisely how Chicago’s corruption compares with other American cities, but I’m willing to bet that it’s at or near the top (i.e. the top being the worst). An FBI friend here corroborates my assumption about Chicago being the most corrupt big city in America. (I’m so proud—at least the Second City is number one in something!) In the City of the Big Shoulders, shoulder pads are required as politics is a full contact sport, and the referees tend to get bought off to ignore most violations. To put it bluntly: this place reeks of corruption and everybody knows it.

So when friends ridicule Texas politicians—as lousy as many of them may be—they don’t hold a candle to the likes of Blago and his fellow Chicago politicians who make Rick Perry actually look good by comparison (as hard as that is to admit).

The Library…Last Thoughts

I am actually eager to visit the Bush Library, once it’s completed. Having visited the LBJ Library at the University of Texas, which houses a fascinating museum and a historical treasure trove of documents and memorabilia, I genuinely appreciate the value of these unique places. Johnson was arguably even less popular than Bush when his library was created in the late-60s thanks to the escalation of the Vietnam War during his tenure. Yet today, the library is an invaluable archive for historians and political scientists.

So, at the end of the day, I’m actually rather excited about the Bush Library. Perhaps I’ll even check out a copy of My Pet Goat, just for kicks…