A City of the Violet Crown

Something about the quality of the sunlight in the spring always takes me back to Austin. In 1894, O. Henry, a poet and an Austinite, referenced what some have said was this quality of light, calling his home ‘the city of the violet crown.’ Most people think he was referring to the summer sunlight’s bright, almost violet glow; but some have speculated that he called it that as a satirization, a reference to the fact that Austinites of that day, in their desire to be a center of culture, described their budding city as the ‘Athens of the South’. Athens, Greece, as you may you may know, has long been considered the center and the origin of world culture, even the birthplace of civilization. It is also said to have a violet crown for the incredibly mundane reason of the presence of a great deal of mauve tinted marble on the Acropolis hill. But I swear, whether or not it was just hubris, honest desire, or even just willful stubbornness (...a decidedly Texan trait, I might add...) but when I think of Austin, I do think of Athens, of culture, and for whatever reason, I do recall, with startling clarity, an almost mystical purple glow hovering above it exactly like a violet crown.

Austin is a beautiful city, situated on the Balcones fault line; it has three lakes within the city limits as well as the sprawling grandeur of the Texas hill country that starts at about Lamar Avenue and rolls westward like the waves of a sandy limestone ocean all the way out to the west Texas desert. It is a green city, in both the literal and more recent definitions of the term, forethought and planning have kept it so. Laws were passed to protect trees in the old neighbourhoods, meaning that parking lots are often gerrymandered through thickets of post oak; huge tracts of land were protected and made into the broad green belt that encircles and holds up the downtown as well as forming the numerous and pleasant parks that connect throughout the city to create a second, silent Austin for pedestrians and cyclists who almost never have to fight city traffic for a bike lane. It is a city full of youth: a major University fills a large, central bit of downtown real estate, in addition to a number of smaller colleges, and, thanks in part to this, the businesses have developed a quirky, fun and creative subculture all their own, catering to that vibrant spirit. Austin’s official motto is ‘The Live Music Capital of the World’ and its unofficial one is ‘Keep Austin Weird’, a nod to that well defined culture that distinguishes the downtown core. It is also a wealthy city; the state capital is seated here, always a good source of cash flow for those lucky enough to be so geographically and politically inclined; and its youth culture and reputation for fun and quirky cool has also attracted a big, cheesy slice of the high tech business pizza pie. Though it is not perfect, (traffic congestion has always been a challenge) it is still one of the most livable cities in the world, attracting a broad spectrum of talented, creative people who come from everywhere to help keep its unique spirit alive.

I probably first saw Austin as a kid with my folks on a road trip to visit my aunt and uncle. I seem to remember the Capitol building and its unobstructed views and the exit for the LBJ library. I also remember the way that the upper and lower levels of the I-35 interstate highway split into four separate roads that run in parallels; two over and two under, through much of downtown. Driving on the lower levels is a bit like driving through a scene from a 70s sci-fi film, especially at night, where, in the eerie glow of the streetlights you feel like you’re shooting forward into some kind of giant yellow columned and starlit covered corridor. We didn’t have any highways like that back in Bryan.

The first time I really saw Austin was in high school, when a friend and I pulled the classic ‘I’ll say I’m staying at your house, you say you’re staying at mine’ ruse and, unlike in the movies, actually got away with it (...‘til now, I guess, sorry Mom...) We drove, ecstatic and slightly intoxicated by our courage, through the cool fall night to attend a Halloween party at the home of a friend who graduated the year before and had moved to Austin to live—as if someone could actually do that! I’ll never forget that night in Austin, the first of many and varied trips over the next few years to visit friends and to experience culture in that beautiful city that was just an hour and half drive east from where I lived. It seemed like so far to drive at that age, and so, so much closer now in my memory. Austin, to us, was where you went if you were a kid like me; you know, ‘different.’ I didn’t play sports, I played music. I didn’t wear boots and I didn’t rope steers, instead, I grew my hair long and, you know, got accused of being queer. I wrote poems; I liked books, not trucks. I ate vegetables; I did not ‘fit in.’ For us, for the weird kids, Austin was our light at the end of the long miserable tunnel that was the life of an oddball teenage Texan. It was our prize. The Austin of my youth felt like an entire city that was built for me, for my people; I felt that even just walking down the street I could and probably would have random encounters with strangers that would feel more meaningful than all of the polite, but ultimately frustrating, high school conversations that I’d ever had. I know it’s just nostalgia, but...

I didn’t move to Austin right away; several of my friends did, it took me a bit longer. I had a few things I had to work through first, and that’s another story. It took me a couple of years, but then one day a friend, a former bandmate, came over from Austin to visit me in Bryan. I was living alone, recently divorced (you know, the other story,) very sad and feeling very isolated. I’ll never forget the way he asked me ‘Why the f*$# are you still here? Why don’t you move to Austin? That’s where the rest of us are!’ It all came back, all the visits, the road-trips, that Halloween party, the sunny afternoons in Zilker park, the original Whole Foods market, Mother’s Café (an actual vegetarian restaurant!) Suddenly, for the first time in my, at that time, short adult life I felt like I might, just possibly, have a home...or at least a chance at one.

I spent much of the next four years in Austin, cooking by day, trying my best to survive in the competitive, glorious, and joyfully noisy music scene at night. When my car broke down, I was amazed to discover what people who grow up in cities know by instinct, that a bus pass and a bike are as good as a car for almost any need, even in the car culture ground zero of Texas. After a couple of jobs trying to build on my experience in Italian cuisine, I realized that I didn’t have to—I could cook what I actually ate (vegetarian at the time...) and even make a living at it. I lived on the flight path (...you would have had to be there...), played in a band, and even found and lost love a few more times, as youth will have us do. Like many who live in Austin, I saw so much great live music that I became stony in the face of quality that would send shivers up my spine today. I ate well in a wonderful food city: tacos and BBQ, Vietnamese and Thai, my first tastes of sushi, of Pho, of habañero chilies, of good coffee, of homebrewed and of craft beer, of finer wines, even of anything organic, were all tasted there. I became a film buff: I discovered, with the expert tutelage of the good folks at a shop fittingly called ‘I Love Video’, how to mine the depths of a director’s or an actor’s career. I became a music nerd in earnest, with the help of the folks at Sound Exchange and Waterloo Records. I learned how to dress myself, carving out a fashion sense aided and abetted by the thrift stores, secondhand shops, and the excellent examples of my many well dressed friends. In short, I became myself; I became the Bruce we all know today.

I moved away from Austin in the mid-nineties and spent a few years in San Francisco. I even travelled to Europe and, of course, Canada... Over time I found a great deal of what I started looking for all those years ago in Austin, and then, I got a chance to do something very interesting. I got a chance to move back. Nicole and I landed in Austin for a year and a half before we finally settled back here in Canada. It was and still is weird, wonderful and welcoming. It is still a place where art and culture create a magnet that pulls on the hearts of a thousand small town misfits. It is still, for me, a place that I will always feel at least a little bit at home. I got a chance to go back, and when I did, I think part of me hoped to recapture some bit of that magic, that sunshine, that taste of youth that had so sweetly seasoned my memories of Austin. But instead, I had a job. A life, you know, a bunch of things to do....

You see, for all of my spit-shine and polish on those early years in Austin, they were not the best days of my life. To be fair, the fact that they were not my best days was never Austin’s fault. Austin is a wonderful city, a beautiful city. But living for days on end in a state of hangover followed by drunk followed by hangover, with the metallic taste of bourbon, cheap cigarettes and Lone Star beer lingering like acid reflux in my sinuses; living in hovels or sleeping on couches, occasionally having to pick up extra shifts at work just for a chance at a staff meal; finding love, sure, but losing it again and again and wanting it so badly, aching for it for so long...I feel like those days, when I’m honest with myself, that even while I was being shaped and molded, that even while I tried so hard to live a full and storied life, I was almost always discontent, searching, hoping and looking for something...They were heady days, sure, ‘days of wine and roses,’ they were good days, fun days, but there were plenty of bad days too and no, when I’m honest, knowing what I know now, they were not the best days of my life.

The best days started with Nicole, the eloquent answer to that deep and anxious question posed so starkly by my heart, ‘will I ever find true love?’ The best days continued when I met Abigail, our daughter and, strangely enough, the same answer to the same question. Those Austin days were exciting, fun at times and certainly full, but these Kemptville days are surely the best.

But that is my story, not Austin’s. There was and still is something there, something important. Something tangible, something so sweet, and not just what was baked into that nostalgic batter; there is something to be found in what lies beyond and through that giant yellow columned and starlight covered corridor. As I have grown older, I’ve come to realize that the Austin that I go to on these bright spring days is no longer to be found on a map at the junction of Interstate 35 and Highway 290; it is, instead, a place in my heart, a place in my mind, a place in my spirit. It is the place where my dreams came alive and where my hopes took flight; a place where that misfit kid, where that young and lonely divorcee could go...a place to hope for, a place to belong. When the sun shines in the spring and for whatever reason, I see in its light that violet crown I feel, even if just for a fleeting moment, that sense of hope, of belonging, of peace, and that, that’s my Austin.

I’ve also been lucky enough to discover that my Austin fits in my suitcase. Austin did not become the place that it is by accident. Lots of people over lots of time built the culture that has become the magnet. People who needed a place to go, to be together, to feel included, all moved closer and closer together until something happened, something clicked, and then, after it did, they fought like hell to keep it. I guess, in a way, that is the story of any town, but it is not the story of every culture—just the good ones, just the ones worth keeping. I’ve taken a little bit of Austin with me everywhere I’ve ever gone. I’ve even, I hope, brought some of it with me here. In a way, the branch is my Austin now: smoky barbecue, enchiladas, live music—even a chance to sit outside in the sun, in the spring, on the patio. We’ve brought, I hope, a little bit of that Balcones beauty to our little town in other ways, helping with arts and culture wherever we can, be it by helping to start the Farmers’ Market, by hosting arts shows, historical society meetings, movies, charity events, or even, at times, by sitting on committees or in meetings with other folks, like-minded and otherwise, and by trying to remind them that there is more to a gathering of people in a municipality than just a momentum of years; that there is an important lesson in the hard work of creating the kind of place, the kind of culture that makes people want to not only come here, but to stay; that makes them want to come back year after year, that makes them want to call it home. Kemptville is on the precipice of a lot of growth, a lot of change, and we all have a great opportunity, and maybe it’s not as simple for us as saying: ‘Keep Kemptville Weird’ (...although, there is something to be said for that idea...). But maybe, as we grow, like those folks back in Austin who had the foresight and audacity to call their city a new Athens, maybe it’s time for us to seriously consider the kind of culture we want to create, the kind of community we want to have. We can have another Barrhaven if we want to—and we may if we aren’t careful: no downtown to stroll through, giant houses on small lots, chain restaurants and stores... Or, if we are bold, we can build on the kind of community that is already growing, that is already here; the small quirky businesses, the green space, the trails, the wealth of arts, of local foods...we can choose to support each other and we can work together and build the kind of oasis, the kind of magnet that will make us sustainable, strong, interesting and the kind of place that I think most us would like to call not just a bedroom community, but a living room and maybe even a kitchen community as well. We can, if we want, make Kemptville into our Athens, our Austin; not the physical one, but more like the one in my suitcase. Our sunshine daydream. A place to hope for. A home.

When I think of that mystical glow, that violet crown that hangs above the Austin of my memory, of my heart, I can’t help but think that the reason it exists is not just a simple flaw in my recollection or even some weird spectral phenomenon explained by a trick of the light. It is there because of people like you and me, people who needed it. It is there because we crowned her, because we decided that it should be. That crown exists, that violet crown. It is real over Austin, and it is real outside my window over Kemptville today. And it is there because we put it there.