A town called Alice, Texas
Okay, I'm biased. I was probably conceived very near this town, and the first pictures of me - or some of them - are of my cherubic infantile self smiling and gurgling in my Unkie's arms on Northwood Street. Then there's the memory of playing in Mickey Hans' red wheelbarrow or rushing into Alice First Baptist church for Vacation Bible School. Don't get me started on the time Stephanie introduced me to my first pseudo-boyfriend at age 12 on Highland Avenue. Small towns are sacred because they're guardians of our memories. My grandmother, grandfather, and uncle are buried just beyond the animal hospital, in a cemetery that I am pleased to say enjoys a nice view of the open Texas fields (yes, beside the highway, but I'm sure my grandmother would have smiled knowing it was an easy turn-off.) But beyond knowing my relatives eternally rest close by, I have the pleasure of hearing about them among the locals. Church members remember a man I never will, my dear g...