HOLSTER YOUR WEAPONS

 

Janna Zepp, San Angelo, TX, 1968/69, age 3.

This is me back when my folks and I lived in San Angelo. I have some vague, but genuinely happy memories about that time. I also remember this being the genesis of my familiarization of guns and gun safety.

My father was my first firearms instructor. When I'd play with these toy pistols, he'd correct my stance, how I held them, and how I carried them when I wasn't shooting. He told me only to shoot if I intended to kill, and only to kill in self-defense when other options were not available to me.

I was six years old when Dad taught me to fire my first real weapon. It was a Daisy air rifle. We shot at cans in the backyard of my Gammy's farmhouse in Peniel before the City of Greenville incorporated the area. I was never permitted to handle that gun--or any of his weapons--without his supervision and instruction. 

At age 12, he gave me a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun (no compass in the stock) for Christmas. I was re-instructed on gun safety and allowed to shoot on my own. I took out venmous snakes on our own slice of suburban farm land in Tyler, since we had a stock pond on the property and a fountain in the backyard that had goldfish in it. The snakes terrorized the fish and were an obvious hazard, so I dispensed with them when seen, after apologizing for what I was about to do. For the record, I learned to identify snakes early so that I only removed the ones that would hurt us and our dogs.

At 19, before I headed off to Austin College after my gap year in Germany, Dad gave me a .22 pistol. He showed me how to load and unload it, how to store it, and where to keep it in my car. He explained how to use it in an attack. He told me what to do afterward should I ever need to use it. And then he told me how to avoid ever having to use it.

I never had to use it.

It was the last gun he gave me.

After he passed in 2006 and after I married Frank, my mother gave me Dad's long guns. My husband is their caretaker and he's lovingly kept them well preserved.

Frank is my firearms instructor now. He teaches just like my father did. I enjoy going shooting with him. 

We support the 2nd Amendment, but not in the way you might think for a Native Texan and her military veteran. We're old school. Weapons are tools, not status symbols or social trophies in the way neo-Texans and AmeriNazis want to make them. 

Frank and I do not open carry. We don't advertise what we own on social media. We don't holler and whine about proposed gun control or gun safety laws on Facebook. We don't talk about our weapons except with trusted friends or at the shooting range. Frank's secure in his masculinity and I'm not a vapid little "I'm not like other girls! OOPs! Gotta go get my hair, nails, tan, etc. done!" woman who just follows her husband's politics because "he's the boss!" 

He's a moderate Republican of the John McCain variety; I'm just disgusted and suspicious of anyone holding a public office. I'm not liberal; I'm just a decent human being. More people oughta try that when they go vote.

By the way, we both wear the pants in this house. Ours is a relationship of mutual respect. I don't boss him around; he doesn't keep me under his thumb. If that bothers you, consider Viagra and a Christian Ethics class,  and leave us TH alone.

Guns are tools. They are, indeed, highly dangerous in the hands of the arrogant, criminal and/or stupid. They're not substitutes for your lack of money, a penis or personal beauty. They belong only in the hands of those with good common sense and firearms safety education.

You're right, it is a dangerous world out there. I pack because of that fact. I've had death threats made toward me and mine before. I'm not about to allow our government try to take them from us. But I don't like the National Rifle Association. I don't trust them anymore than I trust the U.S. Government, even if I worked for the Department of Defense with a secret security clearance back in the day. I know the government and I know the kind of people in charge. I'm not sure a lot of them are really someone I'd trust with firepower, yet here we are.

My point is this: I'm not sure when Texas became chock full o'2A AmeriNazis waving their guns around and wearing them out in public like designer handbags, but I think that influx started about 40 some-odd years ago when the Californians began moving here with a bunch of Yankees and Midwest refugees. A desire to out-Texan each other was born then and the abject proud ignorance exploded from there. 

Look, if you want to be a real Texan, that's great. But real Texans were never TEXAN!s, shouting it to everybody while waving guns around at Wally World. Not ever. 

You wanna be a REAL Texan? Be the man my father was. Dad was PRO-science. He was PRO-education. In fact, he held a Ed.D rather than a Ph.D. That's a Doctor of Education degree and it is harder to earn than a Ph.D. He believed in critical thinking skills, which means you learned HOW to think, not WHAT to think from your education experience. He had conservative values, but they stopped at curtailing personal choices in reproductive freedom and the freedom to run your business in a way that includes the safety of your employees. He was PRO-farmer and ANTI-big business/big government. He was PRO-middle class and PRO-equal rights. His voting style was that of "The unplanned happens so you oughta be able to plan for the unplanned without the government getting in the way or putting you in prison for it." He believed in the equality of women and people of color because he grew up hoeing cotton and corn on his father's farm right along side them. 

Dad was a REAL Texan, not a bad copy of a wannabe like the people responsible for our current unsavory, international stereotype. 

You want to be a REAL Texan? Put your gun back in the safe, put on your mask or get vaccinated, stop telling Texas women what to do with their bodies, trust science, check your news sources before blindly believing them, vote against ridiculous amounts of gun control and for requiring gun safety certification courses or proof of having passed them before purchasing a weapon, STOP turning politicians into rock stars and demi-gods, and just quit being loud-mouthed idiots in general. 

Don't be an AmeriNazi. Ever. And if you are, stop calling yourself a "real" Texan. Because, honey, you're NOT.

P.S. I believe in closed borders and legal work status only. But I believe in legal immigration and treating people like human beings instead of animals. Keep the families together and stop caging people like animals. I also think DACA is a good thing. Unfollow me. I dare you.

Everything’s bigger in Texas, especially the hair

By Janna Lewis, Sentinel Staff
February 12, 2009 Leisure

The first time I heard the term “big hair” in reference to Texas women, it made no sense to me. How the heck can hair be big? Hair is hair. It’s short or it’s long…or somewhere in between, right? But then, I’m from Texas. And I was born during a decade when “big hair” meant the perfect beehive hairdo. To me, that was just what a woman’s hair looked like. My father’s sister, Susan, had the most perfect beehive do ever. Their sister-in-law, Linda, rivaled her, surpassing Susan only in the variety of colors in which her beehive dos appeared. Aunt Susan and Aunt Linda were my role-models. I copied everything they did from the time I was old enough to grasp what it meant to be a woman in Texas, except that beehive. At age 5, I hadn’t quite mastered the engineering talent to pile my hair on top of my head like that and make it stay, even with copious amounts of hairspray.

By the time Texas girls are in middle school, we are experts in hair care products. We know how hairspray works from the time we are in kindergarten. We also know how to torch a giant centipede with it. That sounds cruel, but in Texas, especially Central and South Texas, those giant centipedes are big and aggressive. They like to ball themselves up in wet bath towels and wait for you, so that hairspray becomes a tool of self-defense. I do not recommend it. Don’t do this at home, kids; it is absolutely NOT safe. And if the bug’s longer than 12 inches, you need to call Animal Control anyway.

I was driving up Highway 195 back to post from Austin recently and noticed there was a hair salon in one of the small towns along the way that advertised “We do big Texas hair.” I must say, even I was frightened.

Mostly that “big hair” belongs to women of my mother’s generation. The women of my generation and younger don’t really do that kind of thing. I’ve heard it said, “The bigger the hair; the closer to Heaven,” but I think the Almighty loves us all regardless of how “follicley blessed” we are.

One of my favorite examples of “big Texas hair” has to be Bertha Bumiller, a character played by Joe Sears in the Greater Tuna Trilogy (if you haven’t seen these three plays, you must). That wig looks like a big, ol’ brunette polyurethane helmet stuck on his head. And he reminds me a little bit of my Aunt Wynelle. When my Aunt Wynelle died, the congregation at her funeral was a sea of big hair and mink coats. Her sorority from Texas Wesleyan in Fort Worth had showed up. Had anyone thrown a paper airplane during the service, it would have stuck somewhere pretty quick…and stayed upright, nose-down. That, mis amigos, was some big ol’ Texas hair.

I don’t really understand how we came to value “big hair” down here. It’s a real killer to maintain and it’s not practical, two things that don’t fly in Texas. Honestly, I don’t know that many women who have it, now that we’ve entered the 21st Century. In fact, the only example I’ve seen recently has been on Amy Winehouse and she’s from Britain.

I can’t say I have big hair. My hair is long and has a lot of volume. But big? No. Sadly, I don’t even think the Army Corps of Engineers or NASA could get my hair to stand up as high as my Aunt Susan’s 1960s beehive. My hair’s too heavy and about as thick and coarse as a horse’s tail. Back in the 1990s when big hair was about permanents and getting your bangs to stand straight up, I tried to follow the trend only to have my bangs lean 90 degrees forward. My college sweetheart said, “I’ve seen wavy hair, but I’ve never seen hair waving…til now.” Needless to say, I gave up and I’m glad I did. I am delighted that no photos of me exist that show me sporting anything remotely as dreadful as that trend in hairdos, though there is video of me hosting a law enforcement community policing update training show in a Dana Scully/FBI bundt cake paigeboy do.

Talk about you X-Files…

These days, I do my daily do with a straightening iron in hand. It’s practically effortless compared to hot rollers and curling irons. And, thankfully, it requires no hairspray. But not long ago, my twin daughters were brushing my hair (it’s a girl-thing) and one of them said, “Mommy! Your hair is so big!” Guess I’m guilty of having big hair after all.

Native Texans call transplanted Texans – naturalized

By Janna Lewis, Sentinel Staff
February 5, 2009

Not just anybody’s a Texan.

You must be born here to be considered “native.” If you grew up in Texas but were born elsewhere, you’re “naturalized.” You can’t just pick up a Texas driver’s license and call yourself a Texan. You’re turning red there, my friend. Take a deep breath and count backwards from ten. I’m not insulting you; I’m just ‘splainin’ things as we Texans understand them.

John Steinbeck wrote about Texas and Texans in his 1962 book, Travels with Charley. Steinbeck said, “Texas is a state of mind. Texas is an obsession. Above all, Texas is a nation in every sense of the word. ...A Texan outside of Texas is a foreigner.” Steinbeck proved himself worthy of that Nobel prize for literature upon writing that little bit of prose. He perfectly summed up how we Texans feel about our state and ourselves. Of course, he had an edge. He was married to a Texan, Elaine Anderson Scott. He lived in “Texas” regardless of where he and his Family traveled. As he said himself, he could not escape it even if he had wanted to.

Steinbeck’s right. Texas is a nation in every sense of the word. We were a republic before we were a state, and we’ve never forgotten it. What’s more, we don’t let anyone else forget it, either, which has earned us a reputation for being just a little bit obnoxious. We don’t mean to be that way; we’re just proud of who we are and from whence we came.

To be a Texan, one must be born here. It doesn’t matter which town or county, just so long as a person drew his or her first breath somewhere within the state lines. It doesn’t matter which side of the Family tree from which you trace your Texas heritage, just so long as you got a long, ol’ line from somebody. My mother was born in Kansas City, Mo. but her father was born in East Texas, so my “Texan-ness” from my maternal line only skips one generation; barely a blip on the great cosmic radar scope of the Texas universe. Besides that, Mama grew up in Texas. She talks a good “I was born in the Mid-West” game, but get her dander up over something about which she’s passionate and she’ll put you in your place in grand, Lone Star state style. By the way, my mother is the queen of the razor-sharp one-liners. I try never to argue with her. I lose every time.

Naturalization is a lengthy process. It helps if you transplant here early or have an open mind. My fella, Frank, was born and raised in Baltimore, Md. After more than 22 years in the Army, he chose to retire here. His first tastes of Texas were via El Paso and San Antonio. Having originated south of the Mason-Dixon Line, he has come to Texas at an advantage: he understands the Southern spin on life and all things Southern. But, bless his heart, he can’t stand Tex-Mex cuisine and I don’t think he ever will be able to. He does, however, like my chili. Here, folks, is progress in the naturalization process: Frank found something he liked about the state and has opted to stay.

I have not, however, shown Frank East Texas yet. I may have to blindfold him first so he doesn’t run screaming. East Texas is…well, it defies explanation. It’s like something out of the movie, Deliverance, but more frightening. I should know. I grew up there. A while back I saw a bumper sticker in the III Corps parking lot that showed two people in a canoe, rowing. The caption read: “Paddle faster, I hear banjos.” My first thought? “Hey, they’ve been to my hometown!” Frank’s introduction to East Texas may have to wait a few years.

I like “naturalized” Texans. They bring something fresh and new to our great state. Without them, we would not have Seattle-based coffee shops, cilantro, blue crabs and Cajun food restaurants all over our state. We have pierogies in the grocery stores now, which is good news for naturalized Texans from Pittsburgh.

We’ve got a case of hippies, too. We tried spraying for those. It didn’t work. Thus, we have Austin.

Naturalization is in the mind of the beholder. You have to want to be a Texan for it to work. If you fight your assimilation, you will be miserable. For the Star Trek fans reading this column, yes, we’re kinda like the Borg Collective. It’s a hive-mind with cowboy boots: “We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. DeeeeOOOOooohhhh!!!”

That being said, come on and get your Texas citizenship. Raise your right hand and recite the Texas Oath of Naturalization: “I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign football team, university, barbecue sauce, jalapeno pepper, boot maker or pickup truck of whom or which I have heretofore been a fan or a consumer; that I will support and defend the Texas way of life and the customs of its citizens against all anti-Texans, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms every hunting season against feral hogs on behalf of Texas; that I will perform acts of chili-preparation greatness; and that I take this obligation freely without any reservation because great barbecue joints don’t require them; so help me y’all.”

Congratulations. You’re now a Texan.

Soda, coke or pop, you are what you say you drink

Published on 2009-01-29
by Janna Lewis Sentinel Staff

I was in Montana when it happened.

We’d gone out for pizza after a hard day of hauling furniture out of our moving van and into our house. The cashier took my order and then asked, “Would you like a pop?”

“How’d you like a sock in the jaw, buddy?” I responded, rolling up my sleeves.

He looked at me, horrified, and said, “I’m asking if you want a soft drink!”

“Oh. You mean a coke,” I said, calming down.

“Okay, a Coke.”

“No. I want a Dr Pepper.”

“We don’t have that.”

Oh my.

The great pop-versus-soda-versus-coke debate had reared its fizzy head in the arctic climes of the American Northwest courtesy of one displaced Texan.

I’m not endorsing a particular soft drink folks. I’m just telling you what Texans and Southerners mean when they order a “coke.” I’m using the lower case “c” here to differentiate between a generic soda pop and The Real Thing.

I grew up calling soft drinks “coke” because that’s just what we all did. It didn’t matter if it was Pepsi, Royal Crown Cola, Mr. Pibb or Coca-Cola, “coke” was –­­ as it remains – the all-purpose moniker for the carbonated stuff. I knew that if I ordered a coke at a fast food restaurant, the cashier would always ask, “What kind?” and I’d say, “Dr Pepper” or “Sprite” or whatever tickled my fancy at that time.

Is this silly? Probably. Does it matter? Well, yeah. It does. In this Information Age brought to us courtesy of the Internet, cell phones and television, we all are starting to lose our regional differences. Is this bad? No. But it is rather sad.

In my memories of my Texas childhood, the sound of a soft drink being poured into a glass of ice instantly brings me back to my grandmother’s front yard on the farm in Greenville. I can smell the watermelon as she cut it. I can hear the cows in the pasture bawling at feeding time. I can hear my father ask, “Do you want a coke?”

That takes me down a whole dirt road of memories related to the summer of 1974 when I was 8. My parents and I had just come home to Texas from Wisconsin after being away for two years. Hearing a soft drink called a coke instead of pop reminded me of home, as it still does.

When we lived in Wisconsin, my father took a lot of teasing about his reference to “pop” as a “coke.” It was good-natured, of course. He found it easier to order soft drinks at restaurants up there.

The first time he ordered iced tea at a restaurant, the waitress brought him a dish of ice cream. After that, he’d just ask for a coke and that’s what he’d get. He laughed about that for 30 years afterward.

Daddy used to buy soft drinks by the case. I remember them stacked up on the back porch at our house. He got a deal on both Coca-Cola and Pepsi from one of the grocery stores in town and bought about three cases of each.

There they were, stacked side by side, until one day my father’s German Shepherd took the Pepsi Challenge and dragged a six pack out to the back yard, biting into every can in that pack. Daddy said it looked like a carbonated cola version of the fountains of Bellagio in Las Vegas minus the music. He said that dog practically beat himself to death with his own tongue trying to catch all that flying soda.

Knowing what I know now about dogs and caffeine, I’m surprised Chance survived. It took about three sessions with soap and a garden hose to get the stuff out of his fur.

Nowadays, I barely touch the stuff. It leaves a nasty, sticky after-taste, a fuzzy feeling on my teeth and I’ve gotten so that I can’t stand it anymore. I pretty much stick with water or unsweetened iced tea. But I still know that a Coke is a coke, and so is a Dr Pepper, a Sprite, a 7-Up, a Pepsi and any other cola, un- or otherwise.

Besides, who the heck would want a “pop and a smile?” It just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Texans who were presidents, vice-presidents

Upon the inauguration of our 44th president, I’ve been thinking about the roles Texans have played in the government of our nation. The Georges Bush are not the only Texans to have been involved in U.S. government.

The "Presidents George Bush" are East Coast by birth and Texans by grace. Being born in Texas is required to be considered a "native" Texan. W was born in New Haven, Conn., while HW was born in Milton, Mass. and grew up in Connecticut. Of course, W grew up here, so he’s a "naturalized" Texan. Laura Bush and daughters, Jenna and Barbara, are native Texans. But the "native versus natural" debate is a whole different column for another time.

One of the most notable Texans in history was Lyndon Baines Johnson. He became our 36th president due to a series of unfortunate circumstances about which many Texans find way too painful to talk. So painful, in fact, that if you don’t know how he became president in 1963, I’d just rather you go look it up.

Johnson was born near Stonewall, which is somewhere by the Pedernales River. He graduated from Southwest Texas State Teachers’ College, which is now Texas State University-San Marcos, and was a Texas school teacher for awhile. His subject was public speaking and debate, and folks, he was the grand master of persuasion.

Johnson joined the Navy reserves after December 1941 and while he was still in Congress. He asked for a combat post, but got sent to inspect shipyards instead. I imagine this ticked him off a whole heck of a lot, too. Texans such as Johnson love a good fight and I’m guessing he was not thrilled with the prospect of poking around docks in Texas and the West Coast, which is where he ended up before a short, albeit exciting, tour of the South Pacific.

Johnson was an intelligence-gatherer, a talker and a showman of epic proportions. He had a persuasive style people called "the treatment" which he used depending on his target’s weaknesses, convictions and desires. According to those who knew Johnson, mimicry, humor and the genius of analogy made "the treatment" an almost hypnotic experience and rendered the target stunned and helpless. Some historians called Johnson the most effective Senate majority leader in the history of the United States.

He’s also remembered for picking up his beagle, Him, by his ears. Johnson caught a lot of heat for that from the public, but the dog seemed to have forgiven him.

Johnson has been remembered for a lot of things, among them that he was the president who signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Higher Education Act of 1965.

He credited his years as a public school teacher for his decision to sign these acts.
"I shall never forget the faces of the boys and the girls in that little Welhausen Mexican School, and I remember even yet the pain of realizing and knowing then that college was closed to practically every one of those children because they were too poor," Johnson said in his address to students at Southwest Texas State after having signed the Higher Education Act. "And I think it was then that I made up my mind that this nation could never rest while the door to knowledge remained closed to any American."

I’m rather proud of the fact that it was a Texan who helped open the doors of education to all Americans.

A little personal sidebar about Johnson: when he came to Southwest Texas State University for that address, my father presented the president with a photograph of the school’s Old Main building at night with a full moon over it. Daddy took that photo. A copy of it hung over our fireplace until a fire at my parents’ home destroyed it in 2000.

I could spend a lot of newspaper space on Johnson, but there is another Texas politician you might not know about and he deserves a little spotlight, too.

John Nance Garner, who was the 44th Speaker of the House of U.S. Representatives and the 32nd Vice President of the United States, was born in Detroit, which is in Red River County. He began his career as a lawyer. He had a habit of calling some journalists rather unflattering and profane names that usually were euphemisms for "coward."

I don’t know a whole lot about the guy, but I like him already.

While a member of the Texas State House of Representatives, Garner supported the prickly pear cactus as the plant to represent Texas. The bluebonnet won out instead, but he earned the nickname "Cactus Jack" as a result. Considering his gift for handing out terse and unflattering monikers to others and his blunt personal style, I think it was appropriate.

Garner was elected to the United States House of Representatives in 1902 from a newly created congressional district covering tens of thousands of square miles of rural South Texas. He was elected from the district fourteen subsequent times, serving until 1933.

Of the things for which he is remembered, if just barely, is that he supported term limits for presidents and opposed executive intervention in the internal business of Congress. He’s also remembered for being somewhat of a burr under Franklin Roosevelt’s presidential saddle. While the two were in office, they clashed over a whole bunch of issues. Roosevelt ran for a third term; Garner said "Enough!" and went home to Uvalde in 1941.

Garner spent 46 years in American politics. He died 15 days short of what was to have been his 99th birthday making him the longest-living Vice-President in U.S. history and, at this writing, still holds that record.

There are many more Texans who have influenced the way this nation runs, but I can’t fit ‘em all into this column. They’re all colorful characters, whether they mean to be or not. That’s kind of a Texas thing, whether "native" or "natural." I think we’d all be a little disappointed if Texans were anything less that that.

Toward more Texasesque speech or “All y’all are fixin’ to run screamin’”

Y’all.

It’s a part of Texas speech. Actually, it’s pan-Southern. Go anywhere in the American South and Texas and you will hear “y’all.”

We Texans and Southerners have taken a lot of heat for using “y’all.” I got hollered at by a college professor for using it in class.
“Educated people do not use ‘y’all,’” he snapped.
“Educated people also don’t sound like geese flying south for the winter,” I said, sans Texas accent, in response to his nasal, Midwest accent.

I can feel the heat right now from all y’all who are from north of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but he had it coming. He honked like a goose every time he opened his mouth. And he was in Texas. When in Rome, do as the Romans. And when in Texas…reeeee-lax, would ya?

I’d like to believe that “y’all” is original to these parts, but it isn’t. It’s not even American.

It’s Scottish. At least, I think it is.

Years ago, I worked with an American bagpipe band. We traveled to Glasgow, Scotland for New Year’s Eve 2001 (Hogmanay is what the Scots call it) on a trip for the band and its fans. We were standing on Argyle Street when a woman approached one of our Families about being careful of pickpockets.

“Y’all might want tae pay mind to yeer luggage,” she said in a thick brogue. “Y’all will get picked clean.”

The Texans in the tour group stood there, open-mouthed. There it was: the proof that “y’all” originated from somewhere other than Texas and the American South.

In Texas, we talk a lot about our Spanish and French heritage. Czech, German and Polish settlements are here. But look at the names of some of the towns around here and you’ll see a definite “plaidness” about the place. McGregor, Hamilton, McKinney, Anderson, Henderson—even Killeen—reflect a Celtic ethnicity. Our trip to Scotland provided us the possible linguistic missing link to Texas speech.

By the way, that’s “Celtic” with a “k” sound, not an “s.” “Celtic” with an “s” is a basketball team.
The plural of “y’all” is “all y’all.” Just thought you’d want to know.

Now, let us address the phrase “fixin’ to.” I know that drives some of y’all bug nuts crazy, but all y’all hear me out.

“Fixin’ to” is our way of putting verbal flip-flop sandals on the phrase “preparing to.” We don’t mean any harm in using it; we’re just dialing down the tone of formality. Using a less gussied up phraseology in no way indicates a lack of education. And if y’all keep harping at us about it, we’re going to make an extra special effort to use it as often as humanly possible just to watch you run screaming north over the Red River.

Let us look at the myriad of ways “fixin’ to” is used:
“I’m fixin’ to go to the store.” Translation: “I am preparing to go to the store,” or “I am about to go to the store.”
“I’m fixin’ to call the doctor.” Translation: “I am preparing to call a physician,” or “I am about to call a physician.”
“I’m fixin’ to fix dinner.” Translation: “I am preparing to cook dinner,” or “I am about to cook dinner.”

While we are on the subject of meals, I must address the regionality of dinner versus supper. In some areas, “dinner” means lunch and “supper” refers to the evening meal. I personally use “dinner” and “supper” to indicate the evening meal, since “lunch” means lunch.
Yep. I’m with you. It’s confusing to me, and I’m from Texas.

How Texans drive in an ice storm

Recent inclement weather brought up the discussion of Texans driving in ice storms. A while back, I addressed the one day of winter here, and that day is coming soon, so y’all pay attention. This is about your survival.

Folks, Texans cannot drive when an ice storm hits. You have been warned.

After that, I shouldn’t need to say more, but I’m from Texas and we love to get long-winded.

It’s January. February is coming. We are about to enter the prime time for that one day of frozen hell that takes all the salt and vinegar out of a Texan’s courage and makes us drive like a discount retailer had a sale on drivers’ licenses. I hate to admit this about my Texas kith and kin, but hey. It’s true. We do not get a lot of wintery days that require snow tires or tire chains or any of that Yankee paraphernalia. Add to that the miles and miles and miles…and MILES of Texas and you have a real recipe for disaster. When that first bit of sleet starts coming down, we freak out like a high school girl over a zit on prom night.

Heather Graham, our news editor at the Sentinel, asked, “Why is it that Texans either drive 30 mph or 90 mph at the slightest sign of ice?”

Ummm…well, I don’t know. Sheer terror? Panic? Nothing better to do?

For those who try to break the sound barrier on our Texas highways, I’m guessing they’re trying to outrun the stuff. For as many tornadoes as we have here, you’d think we’d learn that weather just can’t be outrun.

For the Texans who do about 30 mph when the ice starts coming down, I’m guessing they’re thinking that slower is better, and in this case it might be, but only if everyone on the road agrees. Otherwise, it’s a recipe for disaster. Speed kills. It’s just a question of what speed? Too fast? Too slow? Again, I don’t know.

My advice to you is this: when the ice starts forming on bridges and overpasses, go home. Stay there. Lock down your house and don’t go back out until around June.

I found these driving tips from the American Automobile Association, Texas. My enlightened commentary is in parentheses:

--Avoid driving during the storm if possible. If you must drive, be sure you are alert and able to focus closely on the road. (This reiterates what I just said: don’t leave home. Period.)

--Use your seat belt every time you get in the car. (Now, I thought this was state law, but apparently to some folks, it’s a mere suggestion.)

--Never warm up a vehicle in an enclosed area, such as a garage. (This is one of those to file under “Well, duh!” Carbon monoxide poisoning is serious, so pay attention to this one.)

--Make certain your tires are properly inflated. (I keep a tire pressure gauge in my car anyway.)

--Never mix radial tires with other tire types. (Didn’t know this one. Much wiser now.)

--Keep your gas tank at least half full to avoid gas line freeze up. (Hey, I didn’t know this was possible. Now I’m completely freaked out.)

--If possible, avoid using your parking brake in cold, rainy and snowy weather. (Do I want to know why?)

To minimize the dangers associated with wet winter driving, both the vehicle and the driver must be prepared in advance. The following items carried in your vehicle will be invaluable should an emergency develop:

--Small bag of abrasive material such as sand, salt or kitty litter (And you might want to use the kitty litter in the driver’s seat. I’m just sayin’’…)

--Small snow shovel (You might want a regular shovel too. With precipitation comes mud.)

--Flashlight

--Ice scraper

--Cloth or roll of paper towels

--Booster cables (We call ‘em jumper cables.)

--Blanket

--Warning devices such as flares or triangles (Not a double-barrel shotgun, effective as it may be.)

The advice AAA gave also included this: don’t panic and keep your composure during inclement weather, which made me chuckle. Hey all y’all 23,507,783 terrified Texans. Y’all don’t panic. It’s just an ice storm, not Armageddon.