My maternal grandfather was born and raised in Houston, Texas. Because his work later took him all over the world, his Southern drawl was not as pronounced as that of his relatives who had lived in Texas their entire lives. His voice carried only a gentle trace of it, slow, measured, and warm.
My maternal grandmother, however, had been raised in Louisiana, and her Southern accent was beautifully soft, with the faintest touch of French lingering in certain words. When she spoke, her voice flowed like warm honey. Simple words sounded musical in her mouth. I loved listening to her talk, sometimes more than I loved the stories themselves.
When I was nine years old, we traveled to my cousin’s wedding in Texas. We drove in our new Buick Vista Cruiser, our first car with air conditioning, which felt like a great luxury but became a necessity the further south that we drove. The car smelled faintly of new vinyl seats warmed by the sun. My parents turned the trip into a family vacation.
Before we left, my parents carefully tutored my siblings and me on proper manners. We were taught to stand when our elders entered the room, and to answer questions with “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” Our table manners were already well practiced, as we rehearsed them every night during family dinners. My mother reminded us that in the South, good manners mattered.
My Great Aunt Ada’s Queen Anne style house was a gorgeous example of Southern architecture. The ceilings were high, the wood floors polished smooth from generations of footsteps, and ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm air. Wide wraparound porches shaded the house, their wooden planks creaking softly underfoot. The scent of jasmine and magnolia blossoms drifted through the open windows.
My cousins’ accents were much thicker than my grandparents’. Their words rolled slowly, stretched and softened in a way that felt both foreign and comforting. “Y’all” seemed to fill entire sentences, and vowels lingered in the air long after the words were spoken. It sometimes took real concentration for me to understand what they were saying, but I loved it. Looking back, their voices sounded like the South itself, slow, warm, and unhurried.
One of the special activities planned for our visit was seeing the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus at the newly opened Astrodome. In those days, people dressed up to go out. The outing to what Billy Graham called the “eighth wonder of the world” felt like a grand event.
That afternoon we went to the beauty parlor. Women sat beneath large hooded dryers, chatting and laughing as stylists moved quickly from chair to chair. My hair became especially curly in the Houston humidity, each curl springing to life the moment we stepped outside. The stylist smiled when she saw it and decided to take full advantage. She teased and lifted my curls higher and higher until I had a big Texas hairdo that seemed to reach for the ceiling. Clouds of hairspray followed each brush stroke until my hair felt almost sculpted into place.
A few days later we drove to Galveston. As we crossed onto the island, I could smell the ocean before I could see it. The air carried the sharp, salty scent of the Gulf, mixed with the warm smell of sun-baked sand. A steady breeze blew in from the water, tugging at umbrellas and beach towels.
When we reached the beach, the horizon stretched endlessly in front of us. The Gulf of Mexico rolled toward the shore in slow, steady waves that sparkled under the bright Texas sun. The sand was hot beneath my bare feet, so hot that I had to run quickly toward the water.
The moment the waves touched my toes, warmth surprised me. Soon I was wading in deeper, letting the salty Gulf water swirl around my legs as the tide pulled gently at the sand beneath my feet. My siblings splashed nearby while the adults watched from folding chairs, their voices drifting across the beach as they continued their easy conversations.
Every now and then I could hear my grandmother’s soft Louisiana accent carried by the wind, and my great aunt’s slow Texas drawl answering her. Their voices blended together like part of the rhythm of the place.
Standing there in the water, I tried to imagine the story we had heard earlier; the night long ago when my twelve year old grandfather drove his very ill mother through the great Galveston hurricane of 1900 to reach the hospital. It was hard for me to picture a young boy driving in such a terrible storm while the sun shone brightly and the waves rolled so peacefully onto the shore.
But the story seemed to give the island a deeper meaning. The beach was not just a place for swimming and laughter; it was a place where our family’s history lived.
Even now, when I think about that trip, I remember the sounds and voices most of all, the music of Southern accents, sweet iced tea on the porch, the laughter of family, and the steady rhythm of the Gulf waves rolling onto the beach.