Mike and I spent Easter Sunday at our recently purchased ‘holiday’ home in Corpus Christi. The house is situated just 3 minutes’ walk from the water; in fact, when you come out onto the front lawn and look left, you can see the bay and palm trees.
Inside the house, strangely enough, I am reminded of an English cottage. Perhaps it is simply due to the wainscotting on the walls, but each time I enter it, I feel as though I am stepping into an episode of ‘The Railway Children’. At the moment, we spend most of our spare time there clearing up – the house was full of dog hair and the pungent smell of mothballs when we first took it over. We have also been busy in the front and back yards cutting down dead or dying shrubs and trees, and I enjoy planning what might replace them. We have already planted a frangipane, a Texas ebony and a bottlebrush tree. However, these are tiny, in 1-gallon pots and Mike is somewhat leery of them. ‘How long will that take to get to full size?’ is his common refrain.
One of the first tasks on our list is to treat the front lawn which has a greyish, dead-looking spot; Mr Gonzales, the elderly plumber who replaced the old drain pipes before we took possesion, is certain that scrub-worm is the cause of it. All it needs, he told Michael, is to put a few holes in the earth and fill them with soap powder and water it well. (At this point I am reminded of one of my favourite books, ‘Stones from Ybarra’, written in the 1960s by a young American couple who inherited and did up a house in northern Mexico. I came across this book by chance in a second-hand bookstore in San Antonio and only then learned that Mike had read it years earlier. So when we first viewed the Corpus Christi house and I spotted ‘Stones from Ybarra’ on a bookshelf, I thought it a good omen.)
The house will need some renovation, including a new kitchen and the conversion of the office, which was formerly a garage, into a master bedroom and bathroom. Apart from that and the myriad small things that always needs to be done in a newly acquired home, it needs a thorough lick of paint. Most of the floors are covered in Saltillo tile except two of the bedrooms, one of which Mattie has claimed as hers.
Outside the kitchen, we will replace the cracked concrete patio with Mexican brick and its overhead metal cover with something more aesthetic. The back yard is quite extensive and at the back of the kitchen is a narrow, shaded strip which contains a couple of tall palm trees, a pile of terracotta shards and broken bird boxes. (There was a dead squirrel here, too, but this thankfully has since been removed by an opossum, perhaps, or a hawk.) There is the constant sound of birdsong in the garden and the occasional drilling of a woodpecker. Some of the birds I have seen in the trees I shall have to look up in my bird book.
Corpus Christi seems to be a friendly town and some neighbours have already popped round to say hello. Opposite lives the head of the art department at the local university (his wife, a working artist, commutes from Georgia at the moment.) Next to them live an elderly couple who built their house back in the 1950s. The wife’s immediate comment regarding the people from whom we purchased the house was ‘They were far too liberal for us,’ and within ten minutes she had regaled me with a potted history of not only them but almost everyone in the street… In the house to our right, Mario and his family have already offered to help out in case we need anything doing whilst we are not around. We haven’t met the people on the other side of the house but two dead-looking limbs of their Arizona ash tree hover threateningly over our side of the yard.
Corpus Christi has two fairly large beaches situated a couple of miles further east and dotted along the coast are a number of tiny parks, too. One of these, Poelnish Park, is close to the house and sports the tiniest of beaches (our ‘local beach’ I call it) and I intend to take a swim there one day. I pass by Poelnish Park each time I cycle, to the occasional sound of a helicopter hovering in the sky above, towards the naval coastal station about two miles east. Much of the ride is along a long narrow spit, on one side of which is Corpus Christi Bay and on the other some wetlands. Herons, pelicans, terns and many other shorebirds abound and at this time of year the grass verges are sprinkled with pink, lemon and blue wildflowers. On Easter Sunday, there was no traffic and apart from a few fishermen (and the birds of course) it was empty and silent, quite blissful in fact. I stopped cycling more than once to gaze at the city of Corpus Christi across the bay and the long bridge that crosses from it to the barrier island. Those of you who have read ‘Dear Mummy, Welcome’ might recall that Mike took me to Corpus Christi for a couple of days just before I adopted Mattie. At that time we had even considered living here. We definitely made the right decision to settle in San Antonio, but looking across the bay, it occurred to me that we have, in a sense, ended up here after all.