DOWNTOWN KERRVERTVILLE: If you ever wondered where all the
Hippies went, look no further.
Story & Photos by IRA KENNEDY
Every year for 18 days beginning around Memorial Day
folks gather at the Quiet Valley Ranch some nine miles south of Kerrville for the annual
This year featured over 80 musicians and some 30,000
I had been
to Laredo and Fort Worth in one week so, despite my newfound appreciation of Interstates,
I had my fill. Before heading out of Cowtown
I carefully studied my map, first by inches, then by half-inches, and saw Hwy 281 which
went due south and avoided I-35 altogether.
Naturally I got lost, found myself on a toll road,
drove some 25 miles, asked for directions from a Constable parked at a Wal-Mart and was
soon back on I-35.
At Hillsboro just north of Waco I gave Hwy 281
another try and found myself back on I-35. Jeez... I decided God wanted me to go
straight home. But when I got a good look at the heavy Memorial Day weekend traffic
stacked up ahead I determined She/He was just testing my resolve.
Just then my cell phone rang. It was Brenda of
Bill & Brenda -- two of my closest friends. She wanted to know if I might be
interested in going with them to the Kerrville Folk
Festival. She promised I didnt have to drive and Id be excused from
all responsibility. How could I say no to that? (Fast forward to the Festival.)
& Brenda paid my admission I think they wanted to see what I would make of all
them Kerrverts (that's what the regulars call themselves). With Guide Bill I was given the
Kerrvert tour through the sprawling campgrounds with tarps, tents, teepees, vans, busses
and motorhomes all bunched together. Apart from shooting photos for Tourin Texas, I
shot some 3-D photos and later made a montage which includes something from nearly every picture.
We wandered around for a spell then lit out for the
concert area which also held booths selling most anything. After loitering around a
spell I returned to another friend's campsite and listened to an exceedingly intelligent
space cadet explain how he could make cement structures that would last longer than
forever. (That's handy, I thought.) After a few more beers he was fast asleep
sitting upright in his chair dreaming of his archaic seeds that folks could find in his
cement pyramids when all other plants had died from disease, neglect or a passel of other
disasters headed our way.
(Seemed he was one of these pessimists who could
imagine the absolute worst scenario then invent a novel solution you'd have to get from
him. Watching him sleep I kept worrying he might pass on to the after life before he
could save this one.)
day I was back home when a call came from another long-time friend -- John
Mulhollan. He wanted to know if I was up to a little Barbeque out at his favorite
sister's place in the Hill Country between San Marcos and Blanco. (How could I say
no to free food and old friends?)
I knew the Mulhollan boys were major golf nuts I just didn't know how far they were
willing to go. On my arrival I saw them whacking a few hundred golf balls downhill
into the cedar brake.
I figured one of them just hit it big on the Lottery
and were seeding the landscape with little white balls so archaeologists could puzzle over
them in the distant future.
When they ran out I reckoned the fun was over.
But no. They lit out into the cedar brake hunting them down like Easter eggs. Not
being one to shirk my social responsibility I joined in the hunt. I returned with
about 80 or so balls stuffed down the front of my t-shirt and yelled, "Look
fellers!" Pulling out the front shirt-tail I pretended to birth balls like
After that little exercise I was itchy all
over. Kicking back with food, friends and a longneck I watched golf balls disappear
into the western sky and surmised that I had safely returned from my longest Texas road
trip and evereverything was back to normal.
1: TO FT. WORTH / PAGE
2: DOWNTOWN COWTOWN
PAGE 3: THE MUSEUM / PAGE 4:
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