Swinging with the Chickens

Welcome to Callahan’s

A life-size horse — tawny with black tipped ears and legs — greets us at the entrance to Callahan’s General Store. The smell of a million dusty summers and grilling meat mingle under the porch rafters. A Texan and American flag flap in the slight breeze flanking the two-tone, hand-painted sign, fat letters flaunted in a western saloon design. We came for chickens.

I pretend the glass door is an old-timey screened one as my husband, Dave, opens it for me and the kids. I can almost hear the screech and flap of my conjured image. Since moving to Texas, my man now introduces himself as Dave, eschewing his more formal David, even preferring Texas Dave on all his correspondence. Pigs, chickens, goats, and rabbits snort and squawk hello from a pen just inside the door. A western swing band with a Cajun twang fiddles out a rhythm that immediately starts my foot to tapping.

I glance up from where my hands are busy stroking the wiry fur of a baby goat. Dave bobs his head to the rhythm. The gals behind the selling counter seem immune to the beat and nimbly ring up customers.

Stepping to It

Dave circles to right of the band, finding a hitching post of postcards to stand out-of-the-way and watch the musicians. The general merchandise expands to the back, stretching wide, but Dave only has eyes for the band. I give the white pretty rabbit another pet and take a big whiff of the farm smell. I like it. The scent feeds my imaginary trip back in time. I sidle over to Dave and lean in slightly, pressing my hip into his in a way that is both familiar and hopeful. He pulses with the sweet rhythm.

“We could Balboa to this, you know.” I whisper in his ear.

To my surprise and delight, he takes my hand, and pulls me toward him. I immediately angle my body as he rocks forward, pushing me backward into the first eight-count steps of the Balboa. I pause a quick second and hand off my purse to our daughter.

She rolls her eyes with a good-natured smirk and grabs my purse.