Lone Star Colossus: Lyndon B. Johnson Nat'l Historical Park 3/25/12

When we last came to the LBJ Ranch in May of 2007, our obsession was not with passport ink or National Park sites, but rather the headstones of former presidents. Following our maniacal treks through the Civil War battlefields of the east, we moved along to executive gravesites and, at the time, Johnson’s final resting place in the Texas Hill Country was the final stop, save the sudden and last-minute inclusion of Gerald Ford’s Michigan slot. And since Lady Bird was still alive (though not for long), we did not have access to the Texas White House, a crucial part of the overall tour that was a shame to leave behind. Now, having graduated to the stamping fix and in the area for the San Antonio Missions, we simply had to visit the LBJ site once again. After all, was there not a new stamp to be had? And surely we had to replace the mail order sticker with an actual book impression, right? If anything, we just had to know if that crazy tram operator was still rambling to rube and tourist alike as she snaked around the ranch roads.

Due to predictable budget cuts, the LBJ National Historical Park tour has indeed changed, and no longer do tourists have to gather at the state park visitor center for a bus ride through the hills and valleys of the ranch. Folks are now on their own, aided by an audio CD for use in their own vehicle. The disc is helpful to be sure, and probably not much different than the live guide, though matters are dramatically helped by the inclusion of Johnson’s own voice throughout the brief interlude. It’s a restrained, somber Lyndon, though, reserving his commentary to matters of the landscape, rather than balls-out invective that all but gives you the Johnson treatment right through the stereo speakers. In some ways, the CD is part of what makes the LBJ ranch tour – though informative – not exactly what one might expect, given the subject at hand. Yes, Johnson was shaped and developed by the very land before us, but his gargantuan personality seems to have been put on hold, lest we run for our very lives. I get that no “official” site is going to present the man in full – the man arguably the most obnoxiously gifted politician in American history – but there’s little here of the cock-first bully so gloriously chronicled in Robert Caro’s still-unfinished chronicle. It’s like we’re coming home to the LBJ of his final years; where he put up his feet and let his hair grow long, with no chests left to poke, or bitter wars to be won.

Still, we made the full drive around the site once again, checking off the reconstructed birthplace, Junction school (where he returned with his teacher to sign the Elementary and Secondary Education Act), family cemetery (LBJ and Bird, together again), show barn, and hangar. It is at this last stop where the unfamiliar part of the tour began for us, and how wonderful to be greeted first by “Air Force One-Half”, a Lockheed JetStar that had been rotting away in an Arizona desert, all but forgotten to history. Newly restored, it’s a genuine treat, and it answers the question of how LBJ got to his ranch when it was clear that the site’s runway could never handle the jumbo-sized Air Force One. A short distance from the plane’s resting place is the hangar, which has been recently converted to an additional visitor center, and the launching pad for all tours of the Johnson home. The displays in the hangar are few, but there’s a movie to be had, as well as a new stamp for the faithful. Visitors can also get an up-close and personal look at a few of LBJ’s cars, which had previously been behind glass. On this day, house tours were running every twenty minutes or so, and the crowds were growing by the minute. As much of the house had only been opened to the public in December 2011, there was palpable excitement, certainly on our end.

Given that this was a frenzied Sunday, we knew our tour would be rushed, but getting inside was enough, and what better place to start than LBJ’s “Oval Office”? Restored with pinpoint accuracy, thanks to numerous photos, we had to quickly catch our glances as we were pushed aside, but not before we saw a wad of “Johnson bills” near a desk. Now there’s the LBJ we know and love – replacing Washington’s face with his own, likely to allow for souvenirs that could supplement the ever-present bronze busts (which he had mass-produced to hand out as “gifts”). Next up, we glimpsed the dated kitchen, the dining area, and yes, even a bathroom, with a wall phone right next to the toilet. No telling if the shower retained the legendary Lyndon shower head, which was said to exert the water pressure of a fire hose. The closet was a particular treat, what with the dozens of monogrammed LBJ shirts and suits. It’s an impressive collection to be sure. The next to last room, Johnson’s bedroom, is the most historically important, and consider me tickled for being able to stand right next to the bed where he suffered his final, fatal heart attack back in January 1973. Listen closely for the charming anecdote about the room’s massage table, and yes, there’s even a rug that was a gift from the Shah of Iran. It’s not often one gets to stand in the very room where a president has died, and at last, I felt the circle close for this second ranch visit. Lady Bird’s bedroom is right next door, and according to the guide, its appearance – a bit garish for modern tastes – was left exactly this way, right up until her death.

All but pushed out the side door, visitors can observe the pool, a spot, no doubt, for late nights of aggressive skinny dipping, as well as strategic bull sessions. LBJ was, above all, the most political of animals, and from all accounts, he never turned it off. He simply had no other interests. He read little and was certainly no intellectual, but few human beings understood human nature more, and his mastery at the game had no rivals. Curiously, the home is, all things considered, rather modest, and it speaks well of Johnson that he had no real interest in living like a sultan. It is said that his upbringing in poverty motivated most of his future political positions, perhaps including his marriage to a woman of relative means. Here and there, the site reflects the president of staggering achievements – Civil Rights Act, Voting Rights Act, Medicare, Medicaid, federal funding to education, environmental and arts funding – but at bottom, this is a personal stop; a retreat into the man, rather than the myth. Needless to say, there’s also precious little concerning the all-consuming madhouse of Vietnam, or even the race riots that defined Johnson’s final years in office. But who needs it when we have the amphibious vehicle where Johnson scared the crap out of visitors by pretending to have lost the brakes while driving into the river? We can practically see Lyndon himself raise a glass of Cutty Sark to his own cruel sense of fun. The current manifestation of the presidency has rarely felt so small by comparison.

FINAL RATING

9/10

Forget the Alamo: San Antonio Missions Nat'l Historical Park 3/26/12

There is an understandable temptation to reduce the whole of one’s San Antonio encounter to the Alamo. It is, after all, the most mythologized structure in the entire United States, so defining the American frontier experience that it has become inextricable from a catchphrase now synonymous with never-say-die courage, patriotism, and rugged masculinity. We remember it, lest we descend into the sort of barbarism that took so many heroic lives those many years ago. It matters little that few laymen even bother to understand what really took place there, or the context in which it was “defended”, as so many of us are now content to be blinded by the girth of Texas itself, and what it means to our very identity. Conveniently, we’ve also stripped that doomed cause of its essentials – the system of slavery that drove the Lone Star State’s quest for independence in the first place being foremost among them – focusing instead on the coonskin caps, one-dimensionality, and flag-waving bluster that so often substitute for actual historical analysis. The legend, naturally, long ago supplanted fact. No mere half-finished mission, the Alamo has become that bulwark of our very exceptionalism; one of a few choice locations where, in essence, we came to be.

No matter that the building itself is a mere pipsqueak of inflated glory; a humble mass of reconstructed mortar now dwarfed by the very commercialism it claims to oppose. Blink hard and you’ll miss it, and depending on the crowds, you just might skip it altogether in favor of the cheesy museums and tourist traps that threaten to reduce the whole thing to irrelevance. But there it is, surrounded by teeming hordes who, by this point, take its supremacy on faith, and were it not for the ubiquity of its narrative power, it’s likely few would care to stop for the moment it takes to snap a picture. That it remains iconic is beyond dispute, but at this point in its long shelf life as one of our nation’s historical must-sees, there’s no real reason to visit save the fact that someone, somewhere decrees that we must. There’s an odd charm to the surroundings, given that it appears the Alamo has been dropped from above by a cheeky god, smack in the middle of irreparable kitsch. But the real beauty lies elsewhere. Yes, the Alamo, is, technically, part of the full mission experience, but rather than turn the damn thing over to the National Park Service, the favorite son remains an enterprise of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, if only to ensure that no actual historians or fact-finders get in the way of a good story. And, well, to foster the belief that against the odds and an endless paper trail, Texas never actually signed on to the whole United States of America thing.

But if you have any interest in the particulars of what Texas really means to our national life, leave the Alamo behind and hit the four missions included in the NPS-protected San Antonio Missions National Historical Park. Sure, all four do not reach a level of pristine detachment so consciously avoided by the Alamo, but at their core, they remain committed to a living history that dares to intrude on a sense of mindless celebration. In essence, the four 18^th century Franciscan missions along the San Antonio River – Concepcion, San Jose, San Juan, and Espada – are a rebuke to glory; they stand as a reminder that so much of our country was founded as a means by which to impose our muscular will. In this case, to offer starving and frightened Native peoples shelter and food in exchange for their very souls. Yes, the Missions were about conversion and domination, so afflicting the assorted tribes of the area that they “gladly” surrendered their customs, habits, and rituals in order to avoid dying, often terribly. So in this way, I agree with those who choose to highlight the religious nature of America’s birth, as long as they sign on to the blood-soaked reality. Spaniards wanted gold, guns, and glory, but above all, they wanted to prove their superiority again and again, primarily by establishing these godly fortresses to their vengeful deity. Thankfully, the Spanish forces supported beautiful architecture along with their more sinister aims.

The first stop, Mission Concepcion, is the best preserved of the lot, looking much as it did in 1731. As with all the others, it remains a working church, a fact that might appear odd given its government support and protection. In this case, however, the “living” feel actually enhances the experience, cloaking the buildings with a warmth that an otherwise static building could not possibly convey. People lived here, yes, but by god, they still do. To remain open for business, so to speak, brings history into the present, even if the ultimate goal has shifted slightly. God is still front and center, but he’s less inclined to kill you with smallpox. Many of the original interior paintings remain at Concepcion, and subsequent restorative work has revealed a beautiful array of frescos. Spanish and Moorish architecture dominate, and the grounds are isolated enough to provide a sense of privacy and removal. Again, say what you will about the Spanish army that invaded the continent, at least their religiously inclined could appreciate fine art and striking décor. There was a nobility and intellectual sense to their standards, unlike the modern push for sameness and generalized hostility. Then, one could paint and worship. Now, the prayer comes with little else but an insistence on laziness and willful ignorance. The Franciscans were ultimately evil, but they came armed with what passed for the science of their day.

Mission San Jose is the centerpiece of the tour and as such, the most crowded. Its visitor center has the most by way of displays and education (the film is a lesson on how the current Tejano culture came to be via the initial Spanish and Indian conflict), and the grounds themselves the most involved and striking to behold. Much is reconstructed here, but the NPS has done a wonderful job of seamlessly evoking the past while remaining true to our modern need to understand. San Jose, founded in 1720, was a major social center in its day, and the expansive central compound is a testament to that fact. The walk is relaxing and eye-catching, and along the perimeter stand the residential “homes” that, while humble, were likely preferable to the naked exposure outside the walls. Trees, flowers, and bold greenery dominate every corner of the facility, while the church itself practically envelops the sky. Along the walls (where they once stored grain), there is an interactive display from 1968 that, shockingly, rises above its dated trappings to provide a full view of life at the mission. We see that the Natives were treated like children, of course, handed meager rations for their quiet obedience, but without this little mock-up, it would be that much more difficult to picture a “day in the life.” San Jose’s main edifice also comes with its own built-in legend – the “Rose Window” – from which some say a broken hearted man pined for the mail order wife who never arrived. Romantic to some, but tempered somewhat by the reality that any such wife would, upon arrival, be treated as indistinguishable from the baskets of grain.

Mission San Juan, an even more remote locale, came to be in 1731, and is now undergoing a bit of reconstruction. The presence of scaffolding and work crews hinder the visitor’s desire to be transported to the past, but the mission remains stunning in its own way, even if the grounds are far less imposing than those of San Jose (and there’s no access to the actual church). As a way to distract from the imposition of modernity, a black cat wandered the lush landscape, proving that for all of their detachment from the real world, Catholics can still dress up a place with beauty and beast alike. One will spend the least amount of time here, that is, until construction is complete, and I’m still not sure where the visitor facilities were. There’s a nature trail in the back, but as we couldn’t see where the hell it led, we refrained from getting lost in the brambles.

The four-stop tour wraps up with Mission Espada, established at river’s edge in 1731 after being moved from its original locale. It’s easily the most removed of the sites, even if our walk along the perimeter was interrupted by the blast of Guns n’ Roses coming from a nearby food stand. Still, the landscaping is a genuine treat, and the flowers pop from the ground with brilliant color. It’s a quiet, reflective section of the park, and as Brooke told me later, its small visitor center taught her more about spurs than she ever cared to know. While I missed that reluctant education due to being obsessed with getting the proper passport book stamped with the proper stamp, my focus allowed us to get the San Juan picture stamp that was nowhere to be found at the actual site. Thankfully, clearer heads realized it was best moved from the construction zone to Espada’s facilities. Once again, a cheerfully plump cat roamed the grounds, and while the church was open to the public, it was much smaller and less imposing than the first two sites. Still, kudos to the godly man or woman who saw fit to empty out a sweet tea container in order to house the group’s holy water. Perhaps it was the same wry fellow who placed a battered rope in front of the altar, insisting that to cross it was forbidden, due to the “sacred” elements behind it. As always, however, the architecture leaves a visitor breathless, as well as with the unavoidable conclusion that with this historical park, the NPS got it just right, even if the original inhabitants of the missions rarely did.

FINAL RATING


9/10