by Karon -

A Week in Bandera: All of Us Together

For a couple of months, I had been thinking about this week.

Planning it. Imagining it. Holding it quietly in my mind.

A week in Bandera, Texas— a former home. A place where my kids grew up, where school days and ordinary routines once filled our lives. I pictured the things we would do, the places we would return to, the feeling of stepping back into something familiar.

And then it came.

And just as quickly, it was gone.

Isn’t that the way with the moments we look forward to the most? They arrive with so much anticipation, and then they pass in a blur, leaving behind something harder to name.

Amy and Corey stayed the full week with the boys, while Ryan and Jackie were only able to be there for a few days. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that, for a little while, all five of my grandsons were together.

And not just them—but all of us.

There is something incredibly special about having your children and their families in one place at the same time. It doesn’t happen often, and when it does, you feel it. In the noise, in the laughter, in the simple act of everyone sitting around the same table. It meant more than I can fully put into words—and I know it meant just as much to my mom to see everyone together.

There is something about that—watching them run, play, eat, and just be together—that settles into a place deeper than memory. It’s not just what we did. It’s what it felt like to witness it.

We filled our days, of course.

An Easter egg hunt and picnic with my mom. Another day, we picked her up and took her with us to Wildseed Farm, followed by a quick stop at one of Fredericksburg’s many wineries. A cousin dropped in for a visit, adding another layer to the gathering. These weren’t big, dramatic moments—but together, they created something full and rich.

We walked into town, slipping easily into the rhythm of Bandera. Lunch at the OST, still standing as it always has. Ice cream from the General Store. Trying on cowboy hats at the Cowboy Store, because how could we not?

Down by the river, the little boys threw rocks and sticks into the water, completely content in the simplest of ways. Nearby, my oldest grandson and his dad went for a swim. Different ages, different ways of experiencing the same place—but all part of the same memory being made.

We visited the Bandera Natural History and Art Museum and its dinosaur walk—something added after we moved away more than ten years ago, so it was new to us. It was really fun, and honestly felt a little unexpected in a small town known as the “Cowboy Capital of the World.” A reminder that even the places we once knew so well continue to change.

And breakfast at El Jacalitos—the “little shack” that isn’t so little anymore—still serving the kind of breakfast tacos that somehow taste like both the past and the present.

It was a full week. A busy week.

But more than that, it was a reminder.

That places hold stories, but they don’t stay the same.

That time moves forward, whether you’re ready or not.

And that sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t the ones you plan—they’re the ones you feel while they’re happening, knowing, even then, how fleeting they are.

by Karon -

Halfway Up Enchanted Rock: A Sunrise Hike in Fredericksburg, Texas

An orange glow was beginning to peek over the hills as we approached the entrance to Enchanted Rock State Park. After two months of getting used to temperatures in the 70s along the coast, the morning air in the 40s felt downright cold. Despite the chill, we began our pre-sunrise ascent up the granite mountain.

My niece Mary is an avid hiker, and we had made a simple plan. She would continue all the way to the summit while I stopped about halfway up to sit on the rocks and take photos as the sun came up. I had a feeling the halfway point might be the perfect place to take it all in.

It felt good to be out in nature on a cold morning watching the day begin. Enchanted Rock is such an iconic part of the Fredericksburg area. Each year hundreds of thousands of visitors come to climb this massive dome of pink granite, which formed more than a billion years ago. Rising about 425 feet above the surrounding terrain, the rock stands at 1,825 feet above sea level — a bit of a contrast from my recent morning walks along the flat beaches of Rockport.

Sitting on a large boulder about halfway up, I thought about the Big Tree in Rockport and how I am drawn to natural things that have survived through centuries. Standing in their presence makes you pause. You can’t help but wonder about the stories they could tell if they could talk.

And sitting there watching the light slowly spread across the Hill Country, it struck me how brief our presence is in places like this. People come and go, taking photos, climbing to the summit, and heading back home by afternoon. Yet the rock remains — silent and steady — having witnessed centuries of change. There is something comforting about that kind of permanence in a world where so much of life feels temporary.

I looked down and could barely see the structure where we had started. My legs felt strong and steady, and the climb up had seemed surprisingly easy. I really wanted to continue to the summit, but I knew the descent on the granite could be slippery, and my shoes weren’t really the type I needed for it.

I quietly wondered if I was truly being logical and practical — or if it was my old fear of heights creeping in. The climb down had always been the scariest part.

I decided I would come back another day after buying more appropriate shoes. For now, I settled back onto the warm granite and turned my attention to photographing the amazing scenery around me.

As the sun slowly rose above the hills, the granite around me began to glow with soft shades of pink and gold. Early morning hikers appeared as tiny silhouettes moving across the dome above me. The Hill Country stretched out in every direction, rolling layers of blue and green fading into the distance. It was quiet in that way early mornings often are, before the crowds arrive and the day fully begins.

After a while I spotted Mary making her way down from the summit. She was full of energy and stories about the view from the top. I was happy for her and just as happy with my decision to stay where I was. My morning had been exactly what I needed — a quiet place to sit, watch the sunrise, and take it all in.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t found at the summit, but halfway up a mountain, sitting quietly on a warm piece of granite and watching the day begin.

Mary’s picture from the summit.
by Karon -

From the Coast to the Hill Country: Leaving Before You’re Ready

As I drove past Boerne, I began to see the hills. I almost felt I was seeing the area for the first time (even though we lived in this area for years). The hills looked hillier. Maybe it was the contrast from being by the sea for two months. I was struck by the thought of how we grow so accustomed to the things in our daily life that we don’t even see it anymore. Being more observant is a gift that comes with this nomadic lifestyle. I feel more awake and in tune with my surroundings.

The drive had seemed long, but I was now in the last hour. I thought of how I had not really been ready to leave Rockport. I had hesitated to begin packing as if that would delay the inevitable. There was a painting class coming up that I really wanted to take at the end of March. There was a volunteer opportunity at the Little Theater starting in a few days. I never made it over to the uninhabited island for shelling. I didn’t take a boat tour. How had I let these things slip by? I had packed and loaded anyway.

I have discovered with travel there are always things left undone. The more places you explore in one area, the more you realize you want to do. I found this in Vicenza. I found this in Japan. The more you learn and really live in an area, the more things you uncover that tourists miss. Somewhere along the way, maybe while I was living in Japan, I began to slow down. To really explore the hidden and off-the-beaten-path kind of places. No, now that I think of it, I think it may have begun in North Carolina with the little coastal towns.

Whenever it began, I really developed a love for just driving to a destination with a few things on a list to see and then meandering through the town and stopping when something caught my eye. Many times it would be something that I just absolutely had to photograph.

Now I am beginning a month in Fredericksburg. I will spend time with my mom. Take her outside and talk about the trees beginning to bud out and the birds. We will decorate a little for Easter and have some quiet meals together. I will structure in time for me as well. Time to walk on Cross Mountain. Maybe I will get a temporary membership at the gym. I will try to find a couple of opportunities to listen to live music. Maybe I will even brave that alone. Meandering through some art galleries is a must. And hopefully the wildflowers will start blooming while I’m here.

Even though I really wasn’t ready to leave the coast and I loved my time there, I am learning that I rarely leave a place because I am finished. I leave because it is time. And each time I go, I begin building a small rhythm in the new place — a favorite walking path, a cozy coffee shop for chai tea, a few quiet rituals — knowing that before long I will feel the tug to move again. Perhaps the ache of not being ready is simply proof that I was fully there. As I top a hill, the cross on Cross Mountain comes into view.