Fillin’ station

So we’re going to have to address this topic at some time or another, and I’ll spare you the photo.

Deer poop.

First off, encountering deer poop while walking is a little like going on an Easter Egg hunt planned by a blind man. Or like it’s fixed to benefit the fastest kid in the group. It’s all there in a nicely arranged constellation. The other thing I’ll say–and, mercifully, the only other thing I’ll say–is that it’s really not “gross.” You know? It’s almost kind of cute. Like deers’ eyes themselves. Or their tails. Or their snorts that the protective mother deer thinks is so aggressive but which we humans go “Awwwww” to. Deer poop. I almost stepped in it today but thought I’d let someone else benefit from the Easter treasure.

Now, onto a more edifying topic. In fact, an edifying edifice.


On Jefferson Street behind H-E-B–See? There go the hyphens; I’d feel guilty otherwise–is this pretty cool filling station. You can’t even call it a gas station. It’s a “filling station.” Or even a “fillin’ station.” That old Ford truck–which I trust is a Ford, I’ll have to verify; after all, I’m a New Yorker and at thirty paces I might mistake a Ford truck for a Hyundai Sonata–is a dull but country green. It sits there every day, and this location looks almost museum-like. I find it fascinating. And beautiful.

I need to drive by there later anyway, so I plan to go snooping around and see if I can find someone who can tell me the story.

But if you’re a local and your initials are KK, JH, or LLL, and you already know the back story, please don’t go spoiling it for me.


Back to work.


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