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Boots, BBQ, and a self-indulgent gun shot

My vacation in Austin included dancing with gentlemanly strangers with boot-scootin’ skills at The Broken Spoke, a silver-lame-masked bartender at The White Horse in East Austin, coveting objects new and vintage, for men and women, at Stag and Uncommon Objects along South Congress, and more meat than a person should consume in a day, let alone one midday meal at The Saltlick on the way out to the Hill Country, where I stayed at a friend’s family ranch called Broken Foot. It got its name more than 20 years ago, when the owner was clearing trees alone on the property and fell some thirty feet, shattering his foot. He crawled to the (stick-shift!) truck and drove himself to the hospital 30 minutes away. There was wide-open space, laidback but luxurious hospitality, gun-shooting with same expert-shot owner, impromptu dance parties til 4 am, firepits, and the offer to return – and put the “work” back in work, something I feel missing in my daily life – for July peach season. I’ve still got dust on my boots and Austin in my heart.

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