Sam Houston was a tall man

66 feet tall if you believe the statue. I went to the city named after him this weekend for a family reunion (of Jen's family). We (Us and Jen's sister and her husband) drove a rented mini-van all night Thursday, so that Jack could just sleep the whole time, which he did. We met a very stoned, very butch tweaker-girl at one of the various gas stations along the way. She clamed she was looking for her friend Crystal, and we figured out hours later that this was actually a drug reference, and we all felt really old and out of touch. We continued on our way, arriving around six in the morning. We handed a fully rested baby off to the grand-parents, ate some greasy-spoon breakfast in Baytown, and slept it off at a really shitty hotel. This was after showers and switching rooms due to an undisclosed liquid being on the bedding. Could have been salsa, could have been blood. All we knew was that it was red and that we didn't want to sleep on it.
On to the reunion. Lots of family, lots of catching up, lots of passing Jackson around for people to scream "Isn't he CUTE!" and make loads of snap judgments about his life, pleasent and future. My fav being that he must love all things round like balls and knees because they remind him of boobies. We are a heap of barbecued burgers and hot-dogs and mac and cheese and salad.
The next day was much the same. Sitting around and yapping, although this time the cooked an entire pig on a giant spit. That was cool to watch, but the the meat wasn't very good. Kinda gamey and under cooked, even after being over the coals for most of the day. We checked out the bay, and sat through a series of torrential rain storms. Sunday we drove home, and Jack was a bit more perturbed about it, but slept most of the way, meaning he was fulla energy all night long, so I'm a little sleepy now. On the whole I had a good time but the drive wore on everybody after a while, and we were glad to come home.