On Texanness. Or not.

I'm not sure Galveston is really Texan. The only cowboy hat I've seen was on a tourist. I haven't heard a single "Y'all." An awful lot of people speak plain vanilla English. One exception was a tour guide, who advised us to put our cell phones on "vah-bah-rate." For a second I thought she was naming the place we were to stash our phones while on the tour.

Maybe Galveston, with its long history as a beach town, has acquired enough furriners who stuck around to give it a Middle American air. On the other hand, Texas is so big there probably aren't any real "Texan" characteristics, and of course we wouldn't want to stereotype anyway, would we?

On the third hand, there are several things that tell me I'm not in Maine anymore. I wandered into a cowgirl store that advertised bling with your Western flair. Love and Bible verses, too, apparently. 

They also had, I kid you not, fur stoles trimmed with three inches of suede fringe. And candlesticks shaped like crossed pistols.

Several stores were selling what I take to be the latest in beach wear, flip-flops trimmed with enough rhinestones to cross your eyes. Speaking of crosses, you can buy them almost anywhere. We're not talking about crucifixes, but decorative crosses, usually trimmed with metal in a rich variety of styles. 

Finally, at least for now, on the nature front: I finally found a tiny nature sanctuary I'd driven by twice before recognizing it. Down the path, there was a sign, but it didn't say "Welcome to Corps Woods," as I expected. It said "Beware of snakes."