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You know the expression, “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”? Well . . . I should be capable of kicking some major butt. I have had a few setbacks in my life, some recent, some tragic, some laughable, and while I occasionally wallow in the trough of circumstances, I always pick myself up, dust myself off, and move on to the next challenge life offers.

Take for example this web site. It was conceived by my brother. We began brain storming about my future and my passions – writing and gardening. I put down my pen and gave up gardening a number of years ago, and, together, we decided that this was an avenue worth exploring again. This site will be dedicated to exploring my personal pitfalls and triumphs and www.thirdcoastgardening.com will explore my adventures in gardening. Everyone has a story to tell, and while there will be no chronological chain of events, I will delve into love, death, divorce, sex, dancing, literature, unemployment, hot dogs, children, dogs, big brothers, music and the lessons I hopefully will learn as a result.

My story begins in 1955. I was conceived in Pierre, South Dakota when my sweet, innocent mother decided, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”. Daddy and Slim Poppa had left her alone with my 4 year old brother and were most likely at a local honky tonk dancing with fast, loose women and hustling pool. After Mom consumed most of a bottle of Mogan David wine (eeeeeyewww!), Daddy came home, no doubt smelling of beer, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, and, well . . . . . nine months later I arrived. The night I was born, Daddy came into the hospital room, kissed my mother, told her, “thanks for the baby girl! Pop and I are going to see Bob Wills.” Thus, in some odd, unexplored way, my love for music began. Daddy was a welder and we traveled all over the state of Texas,  even Colorado – wherever there was a paycheck. I was born in Dallas at the Methodist Hospital, but my rearing took place along the Canadian River; Brisco, Spearman,  Shamrock, and then Amarillo and Canyon. A Red Dirt Girl through and through, I was the only girl among 7 male cousins and an older brother. I could spit, hit, and run with the best of them. I learned to dance standing on the top of my Daddy’s cowboy boots. My Great-Uncle Dale was a two-time Texas State Fiddle Champion, Slim-Poppa aspired to be, my cousin, Mike, could strum a mean guitar, my Grandmother played piano by ear, Daddy was a wicked harmonica player, and I danced. My family began migrating south when I was 15 years old; the age I lost my virginity to a cute, skinny, tall, blond boy from Seabrook. Now I find myself on the Third Coast, one block from the bay. Whether destiny or fate, I know not, but here I am, and here I will stay, until a hurricane sends this High Plains girl, who is terrified of high winds and tornadoes, to the “hidey hole”.

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