Everyone knows that it’s quite possible for memories to fade, especially as one grows older. Sometimes they’re the short-term ones and other times, they are the long-based ones. Given this fact, I have to say there are some of my memories I hope I never forget. One of which is something I decided to write about today and that was my childhood experiences in Crosby, Texas.
Crosby, Texas is a rural community about 25 miles away from Houston that has a population of around 2220. There’s really not much to do in the town itself, but it does hold a special place in my heart for one reason and one reason only. It’s the place where my mother’s parents owned a lake house that I visited every single year growing up until just before it sold in the mid to late 90’s.
I truly have very fond memories of this lake house. It was situated in a small community off a road named Appaloosa Trail and was the third to last house on a dead-end cul-de-sac. For about two weeks every year, my family would visit my Grandma and Grandpa Tenz there. Most often it was to get away for a quick stint from the cold winters we experienced in upstate New York.
I was always so excited to fly Pan Am Airlines there, as back then flying was a lot more fun. On those flights, I’d get a full meal in coach class, a wing pendant from the captain, and even a new deck of cards to play with from the stewardess. But the first real treat I got was once we landed and walked down the jetway, because it was then I felt that warm, humid air hit my face, given how different it was from the cold, dry one I had just left a few hours earlier.
My grandparents always gave me a huge, warm hug, as they greeted us once we entered the terminal because back then everyone was allowed to wait by the gate. Leaving the airport was fun as well because the parking garages had these huge cylinders that cars had to drive around to get out of them. It constantly felt like a mini-roller coaster to me. My grandparents drove Pontiac Bonneville’s, one brown and one blue, each with plush interiors and AC consistently cranked. Ironically that blue one would become my first car many years later. Anyway, the drive home from there was mostly country, but I fondly remember we always had to cross Lake Houston on a bridge that felt quite peaceful to me. I think that’s mostly because my grandparents had a patio you could sit out on and see the sunset over both that bridge and the adjacent railroad one too. And I frequently thought it was kind of neat to watch trains cross the water from their house, especially when they blew their whistle and roared across it.
Passing into Crosby, Texas held one other distinct memory for me as well. On either side of the road were these small metal cranes that were constantly moving up and down, bringing oil to the surface. The immediate sight of them was when I knew we were almost to our lakefront destination. And not too long after, we’d take a right turn into their development that I can honestly say I don’t know how it looks anymore, as it’s been almost 20 years since I last drove down Appaloosa Trail. But back then, the houses were all relatively small and unique looking, evenly spaced from one another, each with very coarse and short cut grass. The very last thing we’d pass prior to actually entering their driveway was a small playground on the right and a golf course on the left. I used to play on that playground quite a bit, enjoying the most a circular contraption that kids pushed you around on until you got dizzy.
Anyway, the first thing I’d generally notice while pulling into the open carport that never had any garage doors was the small fire pit along the driveway. I used to love burning some of the brush and debris there and smelling the smoke in the air. The driveway also had a nice slant to it, which made it a great place to ride bikes or play outdoor games on.
As for my grandparent’s one story home, one might say it was not all that spectacular to look at, nor large by any standards, although I found great beauty in it. Each of its bedrooms were quaint, especially the one my sister and I shared, which contained two bunk beds. As a young kid, I liked sleeping on the top bunk the most, but as I grew older, I gravitated towards staying down below instead.
Across from our room were the front door and a bathroom, and a small hallway that led to either the main room or my grandfather’s office where he collected and stored each of his stamps and coins. The other side of his office was the guest room where my parents stayed that contained a second door to my grandparent’s room. It was rarely opened and next to their bedroom were the other bathroom and small hallway that also led into the main room, which really was my favorite part of the inside of the house to spend time in.
In this room were huge vaulted ceilings that had exposed wooden beams sprawled across it. I often tried to jump as high as I could to see if I could touch them, but I never did. The room was also filled with a huge beige sectional, two rocking recliners, a color television that got about 7 stations, floor to ceiling windows that either looked out onto the driveway or out onto the lake, and a tiny kitchen that had a long countertop, which reminded me of one that could be seen at an old-fashioned soda fountain. We ate all our meals at this countertop on tall spinning stools, which of course I always liked to see how fast and how many revolutions I could do when on one. Breakfast was always my favorite there only because my grandmother bought the 12-pack of those sugar cereals that my parents only let us eat on vacation.
The most alluring parts of the property though for everyone were the wooden deck, the backyard, and the dock, boat and lake just down the winding sidewalk. I spent a lot of time out there exploring like a kid usually does continually finding tons of lizards, spiky balls that dropped from trees that hurt incredibly if you stepped on them, ducks, and plenty of other things in nature to enjoy, like the drainage ditch that went into the lake or the waves that crashed up onto the cement wall.
I learned how to waterski, and fish in that lake and even remember being able to drive my grandparent’s boat a few times down to the dam. But ultimately, I think what I remember most often from each of my trips to their lake house in Crosby, Texas was how my family would somehow come together and act like a family for the time we were there. We played games, took walks, had long bike rides for sodas and frozen treats, watched shows on television, go out to nice dinners, and laugh a lot.
While we haven’t owned that home in almost two decades, and while Crosby, Texas may be a distant memory for me now, it’s still one that brings me warm thoughts anytime I think about my vacations there. I really miss those times, mostly because I don’t remember the fighting, the arguing, and the misery that often came in our home back in New York, but for whatever the reason, life on Appaloosa Trail for me was how I always imagined family life could be. I thank God for these memories and truly am grateful to have a place that will forever hold a loving place in my heart.
Peace, love, light, and joy,
Andrew Arthur Dawson