Michael Gos Archives - Page 4 of 4 - Bay Area Houston Magazine

Responsibility

November 1st, 2014

The shady seating at Harry’s Tinaja in downtown Alpine.

Alpine, Texas

After a long day at the ranch, we were sitting outside at Harry’s Tinaja in downtown Alpine. Harry’s is a bar with a small, rustic outdoor courtyard under the trees and since it was a truly magnificent west Texas autumn day, I wasn’t ready to be indoors. This was the perfect spot.

I was visiting a friend who is an outstanding cowboy poet and a real 21st century philosopher. Like most artsy types, he needs a day job to pay the bills. For him, that means ranching. He owns a section of land north and west of town and he and his ranch hands had been working cattle all day. They spent the better part of it on horseback doing a variety of jobs as the need arose. I followed along watching, trying to get some sense of what ranch life was like.

I was particularly fascinated by one of his cowboys who seemed to be the very best at everything he did, and yet, on this beautiful October day, in this magnificent place, he was just plain grouchy. He seemed to really hate every aspect of his job. As we nursed our beers, I asked my friend about the cowhand and why he seemed so unhappy. The answer sent me off on a whirlwind of soul-searching that still haunts me today.

My friend told me that this man was born and raised right there in Alpine. He had spent more than 20 years, all of his adult life, as a ranch hand. He was well paid, had a nice house on a mountaintop and a beautiful wife and two kids—and he hated his life. My friend said he had once overheard the man telling the other ranch hands that he was sick of the life he led. He claimed one leg was shorter than the other from 40 years of first playing—then working—the mountainside. All he wanted was to go somewhere where the ground was flat and where he’d never have to look at another cow or horse again.

Of course, being a city boy by birth and a resident of college towns and suburbs since turning 18, I didn’t understand how anyone could tire of a place this beautiful, and I said so. My friend, ever the philosopher, had an answer.

“Some are born to the mountains but will never be mountain men. And then there are lots of city people who are doing the mountains a grave injustice by not being here. That’s you.”

My immediate response to his explanation was to take it as a compliment—like he was saying I was a natural. I said, “Thank you.”

He answered, “Really? Why?”

I thought about it for a second, considered elaborating, but quickly suspected I was missing something. In an attempt to avoid embarrassing myself further, I said nothing, and the subject was never brought up again.

That was almost a year ago and since then, my thoughts have been all over the board on that conversation. I thought for a while that maybe it was a reprimand, an accusation that I was somehow letting someone, or something, down because I chose to live somewhere based on how much money I could make there. But then I decided that couldn’t be right. This man is one of the sweetest souls I have ever met. I can’t imagine him attacking someone, even in such an understated way. And yet, his response clearly indicated he didn’t intend it as a compliment. What did it mean?

A hiker overlooks the terrain at Big Bend National Park.

In trying to understand it, I went back and looked at many of the things I have said and written over the years on the topic of choosing the right place to live. In the last five years I’ve talked about picking a place where the spirit can be free to function at its highest level. I’ve also argued that we should choose a place where our creativity is unleashed—and again, where we can do great things with minimal effort. In re-reading those old essays, I noticed that all these ideas about choosing a home had one common thread: they were self-centered. I was arguing that we should pick our spot on the planet based on what is best for us as individuals. But here, staring me in the face was a very different perspective. Maybe I have responsibilities beyond myself.

Of course, we all understand that idea on one level. We have responsibilities to our families to provide a good, safe environment, an adequate income and an opportunity for happiness. Clearly we understand it is not always all about us. But in my friend’s words, there was something different. Maybe that responsibility extends beyond taking care of our loved ones—perhaps far beyond.

Most secure online casino invites players on an exciting journey into outer space, where they can feel themselves a part of incredible events and challenges. Like a responsibility to your family, playing this casino will make you feel that your capabilities and luck are not only revealed in your driving, but also in unpredictable space adventures. Casino winnings not only add excitement and excitement to your life, but can also to provide sufficient income for a happy and comfortable existence. It is an opportunity for travel, education, entertainment and fulfilling the needs of the family. Being able to provide for your family, you can enjoy the joy and gains that monetary gains provide. This makes it possible to be a strong support for loved ones, giving them a happy and safe life.
Receiving casino winnings not only becomes a source of income, but also opens up new opportunities to achieve the dreams and goals of the family. They create financial stability and the opportunity to enjoy life next to loved ones.

I have always been aware of the comfort I feel when I’m in the Big Bend area. Sure, every Texan loves the national park, but my comfort extends to Marathon, Study Butte, and especially, to Terlingua. I go there as often as I can, and it is never often enough. I make every one of those trips for me—because it feels good.
Now, months later, I’m starting to think my cowboy friend might have been saying that in return for all I’ve gained, I have a responsibility to those mountains, to the Big Bend area, and that up to this point in my life, I have been shirking that obligation.

Is that possible? Can we have an obligation to a place where we don’t even live? It may be arrogant, but I have always thought I did my part in supporting all the communities I have lived in over the years. I volunteered for civic projects, served on various city boards, and even chaired a few committees. But now I was hearing that I might have an unfulfilled obligation to another place. I struggle with this. It seems very conceited to think that the mountains suffer because they lack my presence. They’ll be just fine many centuries after I am gone. And surely, we have to go where we can make a living, don’t we?

But philosophers and poets are strange birds. Maybe in their view there are things more important than a job or a career.

Sometimes, I wonder if we just think too much!

Tags: Alpine, Michael Gos, Responsibility, Texas
Posted in News | No Comments

On Language

October 1st, 2014

Uvalde, Texas

I was in Uvalde to watch the World Gliding Championships. It is a rare opportunity as the championships are held in America only about once every ten years. Lately, when it is in the U.S., it is in Uvalde. I guess it has something to do with the perpetually clear skies, the abundant updrafts caused by the billowy white clouds, and maybe just because Uvalde is big enough to have lots of recreational options for the pilots and crews. With Garner State Park, Leakey and Utopia close by, there is even a lot to do if you want to get out of town. But in spite of all that, Uvalde has a small town feel that make you feel comfortable almost upon arrival. The people are among the friendliest in Texas. I’m proud to call several people there friends.

Watching the gliders cut free from their tow planes and then ride in large circles, climbing higher and higher, I couldn’t help but puzzle over just how they do that. But by the end of the day, I was tired of thinking and famished so I headed to Oasis for dinner. Oasis is a strange combination of a ranch supply store and restaurant and I love the salad bar there. After I filled my plate and sat back down, the waitress brought me my usual pitcher of water (the perfect antidote to a day in the summer sun) and I thanked her.

Her response: “No problem.”

I thought about that for a while. I can’t count the number of times I have heard that from wait staff in the last year or two. When did this start? And why? Unlike the traditional and innocuous “thank you,” her response carries a very different, perhaps darker connotation. If you think about it a minute, you realize that it suggests that my request for water may have in some way been problematic. Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable—like I’ve gone beyond the realm of what is a polite request, beyond the normal boundaries of civility. I’m sure that wasn’t what she meant. At least I hope it wasn’t.

Language is a tricky business. The whole concept is a kind of Mobius strip where a language develops as a reflection of the way a society thinks, yet at the same time, language also limits the way in which its speakers can think. Confusing? Let’s take those one at a time.

The Yup’ik Eskimos have 40 words for snow; the Inuits have 53. Those words are not synonyms. Snow is a major part of their lives and those words each identify a different kind of snow. We can see this same phenomenon on a smaller scale closer to home. I ask students in my Humanities and Linguistics classes to tell me the difference between sleet, hail and freezing rain. Students who have lived in northern latitudes are asked to sit quietly. The native southerners make several guesses, for the most part incorrect, and finally acknowledge that they aren’t sure there even is a difference. Ask the same question to any 12 year old in Michigan or Minnesota and you’ll get the right answers. Why? Because these weather phenomena are not a big issue here in the south. Up north, they are a common part of everyday life.

So our language reflects our lives, our environment and the way we think, but at the same time, it also serves the seemingly contradictory purpose of limiting the way members of society can think. Consider for a minute the placement of adjectives in English and some other languages. In English we put our adjectives before the noun (red wine). In French and Spanish, just to name a couple, that order is reversed (vin rouge).
Try this: Low, long, wide, black, curvy, shiny…

As a listener, I have to remember each of those words until the speaker decides to give me the noun they modify. And, I have to hope my memory doesn’t fail me before that happens. In French, the process would be very different. I get the noun first—car. Then, when the speaker adds “low,” as the listener, I change the picture in my head to a low car. When the speaker adds “long,” I again modify the picture. There is nothing to remember and the list of adjectives can go on forever; in these languages the listener just continues modifying the picture in his mind. In English, the length of that list of adjectives is governed by the listener’s memory.

So how does this control our thinking? As speakers of English, we cannot use as many adjectives in our speech. In essence, our language prevents us from being as descriptive, as emotional, as detailed as those who speak French or Spanish. Our language limits our thinking.

Languages are always changing. If you’ve tried to read Chaucer in Middle English you probably found it hard to pick out even a word or two, and Old English is completely indecipherable to most of us. Could it be that the waiter’s use of “no problem” is just the first stages of an evolution from “you’re welcome?” That’s a possibility, but if so, I find it interesting to contemplate how such a change reflects the thought processes of our culture today. What does it say about the way we view the world? To say “no problem” suggests that my request for water was, or should have been, problematic, but I was being assured it didn’t turn out that way. What a relief!

As a culture, have we come to a time where a request for water is unreasonable, or perhaps where a waiter is no longer expected to comply with a reasonable request—where those requests are a problem? I’m not sure I like that option.

Instead, I decided I would hope that “no problem” is just a passing fad that will die out under the weight of its own silliness, as have previous common phrases like “you know,” John Denver’s “far out,” and using “like” every fourth word. I’d really hate to think that this bit of language is indeed a reflection of our culture and the way we think.

By the way, I left the waitress a 25 percent tip. I was grading on her service—not her speech impediment.

Tags: Michael Gos
Posted in | No Comments

Missed Opportunities

September 1st, 2014

By Michael Gos

Nacogdoches, Texas

There are two kinds of places in the world: those you drive through and those you drive to. No one ever just drives through Terlingua or Luckenbach. They are destinations. If you find yourself in either of these towns, it is because it is a place you wanted to go to. On the other hand, I regularly drive through Houston on my way to Big Bend or Hill Country, but I never drive to Houston. Nacogdoches is in that latter category. I have driven through it many times on my way to other destinations, but not once have I stopped. A friend who did her college years there calls it Naca-nowhere, and for more than 20 years, I treated it as such. But after a day at Mission Tejas State Park, with another at Caddo Mounds to follow, it was a convenient place to bed down for the night.

I suppose I could have done what most people do—stay at a Holiday Inn Express or a Motel 6, but if I had to be in Naca-nowhere, I figured I’d at least try to make some kind of an adventure of it. A couple of days before the trip I got on the Internet and found what looked like just the ticket—an old cabin deep in the woods built by Tol Barret, the man who drilled the first productive oil well in Texas (and only the second in the world—he missed being first on that count by just a matter of days). The Barrets lived in the house from 1848 till 1920. Today it is a B&B of sorts, but not in the usual sense.

When you rent the Barret house, you are there alone. There are no employees around to mar your tranquility. Breakfast fixings are placed in the refrigerator prior to your arrival, but when morning comes you have to cook them yourself. In fact, you don’t even see the management. A bill is left for you on the kitchen table and you leave your payment, either cash or check, on that table when you leave.

It wasn’t easy to find, especially in the fading light. A country road on the edge of town led to an old Jeep trail that went back about a mile into the woods. When we finally found the cabin we were out of daylight. We unloaded what we needed for the night from the Jeep. The rest could sit there. Who would be out here to steal it? Then with a sense of exhaustion, we sunk into the benches on the cabin’s front porch with beverages in hand. We were in dense woods with not another sign of human existence anywhere, no power lines, no road noise. The only sound was that of a few birds serenading the fading twilight. In our barely-above-a-whisper voices, we talked ourselves into drowsiness. It was barely 10 p.m. when we finally called it a night and went to bed.

I am an early riser, so at dawn I was back on the porch. I had hoped to take in the morning concert and the birds were certainly doing their part. Even the squirrels chirped along for rhythm. It was the perfect start to the morning—but it didn’t last. I’m not sure why it happens, but sometimes my thoughts just run wild with no recognizable pattern and with quantum leaps at inconvenient times to unrelated new thoughts. It’s like trying to follow a James Joyce or Virginia Wolff stream of consciousness novel. I tried to remember whether it was butter or margarine that would kill me this week, I tried to plan a summer trip that would take me outside of Texas for the first time in years, and I wondered why my second toes were longer than my big toes. (I know that doesn’t sound important, but after you have stubbed them for the 2,648th time, you think about these things.) Finally, I gave up, went back inside and cooked the enormous breakfast that came with the cabin.

We had planned a trip to see the Caddo Mounds that afternoon but after breakfast, we had a few hours available, so we decided that since we were here, we would take a look around town. The first stop was the arboretum and gardens at Stephen F. Austin University. It was a good choice; they were magnificent. I can only imagine what they look like in the spring when the hundreds of azaleas are in bloom. Then we drove around the old part of town to have a look at the grand old houses and neighborhoods. Along the way, we stumbled across a sign that said “Old University Building” and pointed to the left. I thought it was a part of the SFA campus and figured I’d have a look. As it turns out, by accident really, we had stumbled onto the site of the first college in the newly founded Republic of Texas. I was absolutely delighted when I realized what I was looking at. Being a professor, that probably had more meaning for me than for most people. But that tie to history, to education, to the days when Texas was a republic, had a haunting effect on me. I’d not had this feeling since that moment long ago on a train out of London, when I first saw the spires of the Oxford University campus. It was almost a religious experience.

As the mid-day approached, it was time to move on. We headed out to the Caddo Mounds site and spent a couple of hours there before coming back to town and a fantastic dinner at Clear Springs Café. What a day it had been. I realized that somewhere in the last 12 hours, I had changed my way of looking at Naca-nowhere.

That night, back on the cabin porch my thoughts went in a very different direction. This time the randomness was gone. There was no stream of consciousnessno James Joyce novel. I was focused on just one thing. I had seriously misjudged this town and, as a result, for 20 years I had missed the opportunities I found here this weekend.

And then I thought about all the other opportunities I may have missed in my life because of my hardheaded propensity for preconceived notions of this type. Were there places that could have been special to me? Were there people who could have been important? Were there experiences that would have been life-changers but never had a chance because I just blew them off? I can’t say that I recommend this kind of self-examination to anyone; the answers you get might be scary.

But there is always a bright side. Everything that happens, especially the unpleasant things, are learning experiences. I had a lot to learn from this weekend. In looking back now, I think I can more clearly see the lesson. In the time left to me, I suspect I will be far more open-minded about the places and experiences that present themselves. Will I drive to Houston? Probably not—for me it is still a place to drive through. But I’m pretty sure the number of places I drive to in my life will increase greatly. You can count on that.

Tags: Michael Gos, Nacogdoches
Posted in | 1 Comment