American Flamingo at Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center

A Flamingo, a Colorful Shop, and Surprises in Port Aransas


I started my day in Port Aransas walking the beach at sunrise, beachcombing for over an hour. The waves were rough, the sky heavy with clouds, and the early glow of pink from the rising sun quickly disappeared behind them. The sand was cool underfoot, and each wave left treasures along the shore. I collected a bounty of shells—mostly scallops, in shades of gray, black, orange, and white. Each one felt like a small treasure, a tiny piece of the beach’s beauty to carry with me.

From the beach, I wandered to the Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center, where another surprise awaited. In the shallow waters, a bright pink figure stood out—a lone flamingo, a visitor from far away who has called this sanctuary home since 2023. Believed to have arrived on the winds of Hurricane Idalia, this American Flamingo likely traveled from the Yucatan Peninsula. While flamingos are rare in Texas, locals have grown accustomed to spotting this striking visitor, who has become a star on Facebook birding groups and a favorite subject for photographers.

I had come hoping to catch a glimpse of the elegant Roseate Spoonbills, but the flamingo stole the show. I settled onto the sun-warmed bench with only my phone in hand, watching as it waded gracefully through the shallow water. Around me, the marsh was alive with birds—dozens of wintering white pelicans floated and fished, while a variety of ducks paddled quietly nearby. Their calls mingled with the gentle ripple of waves, creating a peaceful symphony of wildlife. Nearby birders shared quiet excitement, snapping photos and whispering observations.

Later, on another visit to Port Aransas, I met a woman who was equally unforgettable, though in a very different way. She owned a small shop, and her personality radiated from every corner of it. A woman of a certain age, she wore jeans that looked as if someone had graffitied them with bright words and colors, a vivid top covered in the word “love” in every hue, and bright red boots. Her shop reflected her energy—inside and out, it was a kaleidoscope of color, full of quirky details like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the West sticking out from under the front of the building. Even her car seemed to shout fun and originality. She was lively, exuberant, and unmistakably herself—much like the flamingo, a one-of-a-kind presence in this little beach town.

Both encounters reminded me of the small surprises that make life memorable. Sometimes it’s a bird carried by a hurricane that finds a new home, sometimes a person whose joy and creativity is impossible to ignore, sometimes the simple treasures of shells on the shore. All left me smiling, and all made me appreciate the unique character of Port Aransas—the way it invites visitors to notice the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Whether you’re wandering the beaches at sunrise, exploring the birding center, or stopping in the colorful shops along the streets, Port Aransas has a way of offering little moments of delight that stay with you long after you leave. The flamingo, the pelicans, the shop owner, and the colorful shells each have their own kind of brilliance, reminding me that life is richer when we pause to notice the unexpected, the vibrant, and the one-of-a-kind.

Slow Days by the Bay: A Season of Slowing Down

Eleven months ago, I retired from teaching. A year ago, my life looked completely different. I was still teaching full-time, and my mother was living with me. My days revolved around schedules I had very little control over.

As a teacher, your day runs on carefully planned blocks of time. Outside of school, you build more routines just to keep everything moving—family, household, responsibilities. Structure wasn’t optional; it was necessary.

When I first retired, my mother was still with me, and I built new routines around her needs. Then everything changed quickly after she had an injury that led to a hospital stay, then rehab, and eventually long-term care. My time shifted again—this time revolving around visits, paperwork, decisions, and the stress of navigating systems I never expected to understand. Even after things settled, I noticed I was still operating as if something urgent might happen at any moment.

You probably know the rest of the story since I started this blog. I decided to sell everything and travel, which led me to where I am now: a winter pause in Rockport, Texas.

When I first arrived in Rockport, I had already been traveling for about three and a half months. I didn’t realize how much I needed this pause. I spent the first week simply settling in. After that, I explored a little, but what I really needed was downtime and reflection.

Even with temperatures in the mid-seventies, I gave myself a kind of winter reprieve. I allowed myself to do very little. Slowly, small routines formed—sitting on the balcony at sunrise, writing reflectively, adding gentle morning stretches, taking daily walks. Beach walks happened whenever I felt like it. Some days I stopped by an art gallery. Other days I drove to Port Aransas to beachcomb. There was no pressure attached to any of it. I moved at my own pace.

What I realize now is that slowing down doesn’t happen automatically just because your calendar clears. It takes time for your mind and body to catch up. It took me a while to notice how tightly I had been holding everything together.

What’s shifting isn’t just my schedule. It’s my sense of worth. For most of my life, I measured myself by what I accomplished and how well I met expectations—my own and everyone else’s. Teaching reinforced that rhythm. Caregiving deepened it. There was always something to manage, improve, respond to. Now, for the first time, there isn’t. No colleagues. No evaluations. No one expecting me to perform. And I’m beginning to realize that I don’t need to fill that space. I can simply exist in it.

Giving myself the luxury of time allowed something to shift. My sleep evened out. My energy felt steadier. I wasn’t reacting all day long. I was choosing.

Now, about six weeks into this stay, I feel more lively and energetic. My routines have expanded to include more consistent fitness and a few art classes. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and talking to strangers more easily. The difference is that these things feel chosen, not required.

Last week I visited my mom for a couple of days—it was good to spend time with her. But returning to the bay felt like coming home, in a quiet, settled way. I’ve always loved being near water, whether a lake, river, or ocean. Here, slowing down has allowed me to notice that pull instead of pushing past it. This season—the slower mornings, unhurried afternoons, and steady presence of the bay—feels exactly where I’m meant to be right now.

Standing in the Shade of The Big Tree

A quiet visit to the oldest tree in Texas, where history, endurance, and imagination meet.

Have you ever seen a huge tree and instantly known it would have been the perfect tree for climbing when you were a kid?

Walking under the low, sprawling branches of one of The Big Tree’s offspring at Goose Island State Park in Rockport, TX, was one of those moments. Standing in the shade of massive branches stretched out like the tentacles of an octopus, I was in awe. Some branches are propped up with wooden supports, while others reach outward, seemingly defying gravity.

And this is only an offspring.

The Big Tree is surrounded by a rustic wooden fence, protecting her from the many visitors who come to see her for themselves. Her trunk measures more than 35 feet in circumference, and she stands 44–45 feet tall. I wished I could stand beneath the 89–90-foot canopy and touch the bark of this over 1,000-year-old tree. From what I have read, some believe the tree is closer to 2,000 years old.

I circled the enclosed tree, capturing every angle with my camera. Then I sat on a nearby bench, letting the quiet settle like a soft blanket around me and listening to the birds chirp and call across the branches. I thought about what I had read of the Karankawa, who held ceremonies beneath the tree, and the Comanche, who used this land as a gathering place. There are stories of pirates using this very spot as a secret rendezvous. Over time, the tree has also silently witnessed darker chapters of the past, including hangings and other grim events I won’t describe here.

Its strong trunk and outstretched branches stand as a testament to endurance—the kind of strength that has survived dozens of hurricanes, floods, droughts, and wildfires. Standing in the presence of something that has lived for centuries and weathered so many hardships is humbling.

On my second visit to The Big Tree, I brought Ryan and my three grandsons. They went straight to the first tree on the property and climbed into the wide, low branches as if they were walking on solid ground. I couldn’t resist taking photos of their adventures. Later, we imagined building a treehouse in those enormous branches and even drew a picture of our family in it. That day became a memory I will always cherish.

Standing there with my grandsons, watching them explore and imagine, I felt the full weight of time—centuries of storms weathered, histories witnessed, and life continuing in the branches above us. The Big Tree isn’t just a tree; it’s a quiet keeper of stories, a reminder of endurance, and a place where generations can pause, play, and dream.

Bronze statue depicting early settlers together on a waterfront monument at night, illuminated under a moonlit sky.

Slow Down, Look Up: A Personal Photography Project

Beside the tranquil waters of Little Bay in Rockport, TX, stands a bronze statue depicting a group of figures. I drive past it almost daily. It was here when I last visited about a year ago. I even stopped and photographed it one morning because it was dramatically silhouetted in a glorious sunrise on my way to the beach. Even though I saw it frequently, I didn’t really see it. Not far from the sculpture stands a giant crab, a familiar sight for tourists that’s easy to pass without really looking. We do that, as humans. We go about our day taking things for granted. Living on the surface. But how often do we stop and smell the roses, as the saying goes? Well, this extended stay in Rockport has invited me to slow down and do just that. And my observation of this lack of seeing inspired me to purposely look at things, which then inspired me to do a little project, which inspired me to challenge myself to do a project each month. So here goes …

I decided for the first project (January) to simply photograph things at different times of the day just to see how they appeared in different light. So, I chose some things … the sculpture by Little Bay, the giant crab, Marge – the fishing boat, a larger boat, the view of the old downtown from beside the shell shop, and a couple of other things. Then I set up my parameters – I would photograph them at sunrise, morning, afternoon, sunset, and night. True to my MO, I saw the big picture and neglected to think about how it would actually feel to drive to the location five times a day (in any weather, even after dark), although I apparently live in a geographical oddity where everything is four or five minutes away—still, I was committed.

My first subject was the sculpture by Little Bay, which honestly, I knew nothing about. Turns out it is titled “Cultural Interface” by Texas artist Steve Russell and was unveiled in December of 2023. On the first day I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and left the house before sunrise. It was a particularly cold and windy morning. I sat in my car for a few minutes until I saw the beautiful orange color silhouetting the sculpture. I made a mental note of where I stood for each shot, took the shots, and returned quickly to my car. Done. When I returned for my second shots, the sky was a gorgeous blue, and the light was hitting the faces of most of the subjects. I noticed there was a sign with a QR code, so I opened the link as I hurried back to my warm car. When I got home, I read the information about the artist and the sculpture. The figures were representational of the cultural history of Aransas County and feature a family of three Karankawa’s, a group of Native Americans who lived in the area, a Spanish Conquistador, a pirate, and a monk. On the third visit to photograph the sculpture, I really looked at it. The sky was still a beautiful blue, but the angle of the light had shifted and illuminated the whole front of the subjects. This time I noticed the beautiful patina on the hair of the Native Americans. I noticed the peg leg on the pirate, the garments of the Conquistador, and the compassionate look on the monk’s face. When the time for the sunset photo rolled around, I didn’t really want to go again. I wondered if someone had been watching me on each visit, standing in the same place over and over—would they think I was crazy? Or maybe they would question their own sanity: didn’t I see that very same sequence of events earlier today? Anyway, I went and was glad I did. The sky faded from a powdery blue into a pale orange that blended into a pinkish purple. Such a soft, beautiful sky! I knew the color would disappear quickly, so after I enjoyed the sunset for a short while, I decided to go pick up something for dinner and then come back after dark for the last photo of the day. Moonlight and the lights from town lit the sky with a soft blue glow, though to the naked eye it seemed dark. So, one subject was completed and I felt satisfied.

I went on to photograph several other things with similar results. The crab had a storied history: first installed in 1957 atop a local restaurant, it was moved, repaired, and repainted over the years, surviving hurricanes before eventually being rebuilt by the community—and again rebuilt after Hurricane Harvey. I also photographed the historic downtown cultural district, observing the streets transform from a lone jogger to crowds flowing from coffee to shopping to dinner.

All in all, I’m glad I completed this project. Even though I occasionally had to make myself go, I followed through. There’s a quiet trust that grows when you do what you say you’re going to do. I learned things about the community that deepened my belief in the importance of the arts in Rockport and gave me a little more insight into its history. And mostly, I slowed down. I took the time to really look at things and be an observer in this little town that I love, feeling more a part of the community rather than like a visitor.

I’m looking forward to beginning my February project!