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Ghosts in Austin

The closeness, the heavy humidity and dark low clouds, a black shade of grey, holds the ghosts close to the earth this morning and they accompany me, bringing along their loneliness from being trapped outside this time and place. We walk together through this neighborhood where I used to live. Twenty-five years ago.




It‘s an anomaly, a quirky mixed residential and commercial area, barely touched by the changes of a city that has exploded in population. In 2000 Austin’s population wasn’t much more than a half a million. But it has grown, stretching its borders so that the metro area now houses two and a half million people. Traffic on the major arteries back then and the ensuing air pollution was enough that I comforted myself in the thought that along with all of the things I loved about living here, I was leaving that behind. 

Now it’s even hard to find those major arteries as they are buried within larger, even more congested ones. I took a bus from the airport to my old neighborhood and had trouble discerning just where I was. Even the downtown skyline was unfamiliar. 


But when the bus dropped me off near the home where we had once lived, I felt as though I’d been dropped in to a time warp. So much was the same here. Only here. I could almost touch the past.

But along with it came sadness. My children were no longer children. A tall house had been jammed into the yard across our back alley. How was that even possible? The kids who’d lived in the house that fronted the street on the next block were their friends and the five of them climbed the trees and ran freely through that space no longer there. Who would even want to live crammed in there with no yard and facing an alley? That basketball hoop, once my son‘s, faces their front door. It’s a desirable neighborhood given its location, but still…

Apart from that kooky development, much remained almost frozen, with only the dilapidation time brings.  My next door neighbor hadn’t painted her house or mowed her lawn and I would not have expected her to as those were not her priorities. 







While home maintenance is certainly important to protect your investment and safety, there is something refreshing, something wild in the attitude prevalent here. The emphasis is more on living than appearances. That’s not to say that there are not many old homes that are works of art. There are. But the fix is fresh paint in lively shades rather than adding on until the homes are ostentatious. Too, many of the yards are simply native plants. They are not overly-manicured, requiring pesticides, copious amounts of water and fossil fuel emissions to maintain.





My neighborhood is just north of Hyde Park and while Hyde Park is lovely, with many of the homes owned by UT professors, it feels less authentic, more curated. The wild herbs and lavender in the yards are carefully placed and maintained; there is nothing shabby about its homes.

Conversely, my neighborhood was in the flightpath of the old airport and attracted a lower income and more mixed crowd. A full half of my children’s classmates in their elementary school spoke Spanish as their first language. Too, there were college students with Pokémon balloons hanging on their porches and other fun nonsense that was and certainly remains absent just a few blocks south.

Curiously, unlike South Austin, where the food trucks have been banished and the affordable housing mowed down in favor of ubiquitous high end retail stores, our little section up to and including North Loop remains almost the same. Sure, there are a few modern replacement homes with manicured lawns, but not enough to strip it of its character. 

The commerce on North Loop, two blocks north of our home, has retained its character.


 











Sure wish they were open today.

I met up with three friends from different parts of my life in days of yore here in the old hood. We didn't skip a beat in picking up the conversation. This only added to the time-warpiness of it all.

Nonetheless, there is very little the same in south Austin. With a bit of sleuthing, I was able to find a few old haunts that tenaciously held on. The Continental Club, Guero‘s Tacos and the Magnolia Cafe, though the Magnolia Cafe is no longer open 24 hours which says something about the changed demographic.




I don’t even know what to say about 6th Street. Back in the day it had over 100 live music venues, most of them open every night of the week. Many only had a few patrons and I loved dancing down there on week nights. I don't have a picture of what it looks like now because it would be nothing but people.




I stopped by on a Saturday night, returning from Willie Nelson‘s Fourth of July picnic. I couldn’t wait to escape the scene after only a few blocks. Hundreds and hundreds of drunk twenty-somethings plowed down the streets, shoving each other to get through. I am tiny and old and shoved back just to make it out. Over their bobbing heads and through the plate glass windows I saw scantily clad drunk girls dancing on tables screaming into pretend microphones and honestly, the scenes did not call my name. I’ll no longer feel winsome about leaving Sixth Street behind… and somehow that is easier to accept than the rest of it. Maybe because it’s so very different in atmosphere than it once was.



But here, back home, even the soundtrack is the same. The mourning doves still coo and haunting wind chimes still stir. And just beyond their quiet pealing, I hear my children talking to each other in the backyard.