Hearts, Minds, Souls and the Wild Lands

It has been suggested that I should consider the parallel lives and inherent divergences of Florida and Texas.

For the better part of 40 years, my compass has swung between these two landscapes – roughly 20 years claimed by each. My movements within their borders have been varied, from the piney woods of East Texas to the sprawling plains of the north, and from Florida’s glittering Treasure Coast to the grittier First Coast. The highways of both states have become familiar arteries, always leading me onward.

The intervening years have wrought significant transformations upon both Florida and Texas, attracting a global influx of new residents. Speak to someone in a freshly built subdivision near Allen, Texas, and the odds are they arrived recently, drawn by the burgeoning tech sector. Stop by a house in Oviedo, Fla., and you’re likely to encounter a New Yorker, fervent in their belief that Gov. Ron DeSantis has forged the Sunshine State into a bastion of freedom.

These are not, for the most part, the people who occupy my thoughts here. For them, these states often serve as temporary way stations, a stepping stone to the next career move, the next paycheck, the next state line. There is no judgment in this; it is the American condition, a nation perpetually in transit, forever becoming. Some, of course, do lay down roots. But they are part of a broader migratory pattern.

The individuals I seek to understand possess a deeper connection to these places, a rootedness that transcends mere residency. These are the people for whom these landscapes hold intrinsic meaning, a legacy passed down through generations, a personal investment in the soil itself. They, too, are evolving, but their trajectory is one of deepening entrenchment, their cattle trails etched into the American pasture, their roads intimately known.

Something ventured, yes, but the ultimate accounting remains to be seen.

Florida and Texas present a study in contrasts, yet their shared history and regional identity create unexpected resonances. Both bear the scars of the Confederacy. Both stand as major population and economic engines of the American South. Both once echoed with the hooves of cowboys driving cattle across open ranges. Both share a palpable connection to Latin America. And both exist as potent American myths – one a sun-drenched idyll, the other a land of stark horizons and gushing oil wells. Both are often misunderstood, sometimes even ridiculed. The list of parallels could continue.

And yet, the fundamental character of these two states diverges sharply. They are the untamed edges of the South, of America, though the hand of civilization has undeniably made its mark.

It strikes me that the people mirror the land.

Perhaps it is best to begin with Texas, a state that, on the surface at least, appears more readily decipherable. It is a linear place, a state conceived in the ledgers of bankers and managed with the precision of engineers, populated, in part, by the descendants of those who could not coax a living from its soil.

The romanticized image of the cowboy, so central to the Texas mythos, bears little resemblance to the actual business of the state. Most Texans do not ride horses and harbor no particular desire to do so. Their affections lie with pickup trucks and the cool blast of air conditioning. The genuine horsemen one encounters are more likely to speak with the drawl of Australia or the cadence of Brazil.

Texas is a dry land. Caddo Lake, straddling the Louisiana border, stands as its only significant natural lake. The bodies of water Texans refer to as lakes and ponds are, more often than not, tanks – feats of engineering designed to capture and contain the precious resource.

I recall reading about Robert Caro’s immersion in the Texas Hill Country, sleeping under the vast expanse of the night sky in an attempt to understand Lyndon B. Johnson. Whether this method yielded profound insight is debatable, but Caro’s narratives are rich with the stories of the men and women who homesteaded in this unforgiving terrain, their struggles for survival etched into the land itself. The essence of their experience can be distilled thus: they found the land both promising and resistant, the limestone bedrock an unyielding obstacle. Many faltered. But those who endured learned a profound conservatism – a careful stewardship born of infrequent rains and the necessity of holding something back.

My articulation of this feels inadequate. Perhaps a more effective approach is to consider Texas as a cultural crossroads, where the sensibilities of the South meet the pragmatism of the Midwest. Like their Southern brethren, Texans possess a certain fiery intensity, a wellspring of passion and even resentment that fuels their daily lives. Yet, akin to Midwesterners, they often struggle to articulate these emotions directly. They are awkward in matters of the heart but possess a keen instinct for settling scores. Poetry eludes them, but the synchronized steps of line dancing come naturally. For all their outward confidence, Texans are a people wrestling with internal contradictions, navigating life one measured drop at a time.

And yet, they are neither Midwestern nor purely Southern. They possess their own distinct cunning, a set of survival skills honed by generations who faced down hardship.

A lyric from Texan George Strait’s “Ace in the Hole” resonates deeply with this mindset:

Life is a gamble
A game we all play
But you need to save something
For a rainy day
You’ve got to learn to play your cards right
If you expect to win in life
Don’t put it all on the line
For just one roll
You’ve got to have an ace in the hole

Texans are human, and that ingrained “ace in the hole” can sometimes ignite a restless impulse. That carefully guarded reserve begins to feel like a burden, a temptation to risk it all. Going bust is not an anomaly; it is woven into the fabric of the cycle. But Texans possess an inherent resilience, a stubborn refusal to stay down for long. They endure the relentless heat, both literal and metaphorical.

Culturally, they are not a particularly adventurous bunch. Their literary tastes often lean toward the predictable, their musical preferences toward the saccharine. Their aspirations may reach for the highbrow, but their comfort zone resolutely remains in the middle. The discovery of oil in the 1930s brought immense wealth, a bounty they have often seemed unsure how to deploy with true sophistication.

They are adept at securing a place at the political table, but their grip often falters once they arrive. This is not mere opinion; the historical record bears witness. The names Ross Perot, Rick Perry, and George W. Bush come readily to mind. Even Lyndon Johnson, a master of wielding power, seemed perpetually ill at ease on the national stage. A similar fate befell former Speaker of the House Jim Wright. In essence, Texans excel at accumulating wealth and weathering adversity, but they exhibit a surprising propensity for stumbling just before the finish line.

I attribute this to a certain ingrained certainty, a belief that their way is the only way. To a Texas hammer, everything inevitably resembles a Texas nail. They possess an unwavering conviction that everyone operates by the same rules, drawing from the same well of experience. This fosters a clannishness, an insularity that discourages genuine curiosity. They are more than willing to reinforce each other’s biases and limitations. Lessons in Texas arrive slowly and with considerable resistance. It is a state awash in data and information, possessing some knowledge, but often lacking true wisdom.

Again, I turn to a more incisive voice to illustrate my point. I am reminded of the Kentuckian Hunter S. Thompson’s blunt assessment: “anybody who wanders around the world saying, ‘Hell yes, I'm from Texas,’ deserves whatever happens to him.”

And yet, I hold a certain admiration for Texans. I like them, though perhaps not with the same fervent affection I reserve for Louisianans. They are resilient and possess a rebellious streak. They are complex and have a knack for expressing themselves in memorable, often humorous ways. They gave us the raw energy of honky-tonk music. And, by and large, they maintain a state that functions with a degree of order. They understand their brand. The trains, for the most part, run on schedule. They are not driven by idealism; their feet are planted firmly in a sometimes overly harsh reality.

There are no true Texans in my lineage. My father’s roots lie in the plains of Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma, with a later branch extending to California. They appreciate Texas, but they remain keenly aware that they are not part of the inner circle.

And so, I must now contend with my own people – my mother’s kin – the Floridians. They inhabit a place aslant, living lives that often defy easy categorization.

Florida, surprisingly, boasts a cowboy history that may well rival, or even surpass, that of Texas. Many are familiar with the epic narrative of A Land Remembered, but that is merely the opening chapter. The fortunes of families like the Adams and the Lykes were built upon vast cattle ranches and the hard work of Florida cowboys.

If scarcity defines the Texan character, then abundance shapes the Floridian. Water is plentiful. Vegetables, fruits, and wildflowers flourish with minimal coaxing. The natural beauty is readily apparent, easily marketed.

But Floridians are also creatures of storms, both literal and metaphorical. Their weather patterns shift with bewildering speed (a claim Texans often make, but one that pales in comparison to the reality of Florida’s mercurial climate. The North Texas prairie can succumb to a persistent gloom for weeks; Florida can begin cool, end sweltering, and sandwich a torrential thunderstorm in between).

The early settlers of Florida also toiled and struggled, but their experience differed from that of their Texan counterparts. Florida is an inherently individualistic place. Many of the early Texas arrivals came in organized groups – Germans, Southerners – and established communal settlements. Floridians, on the other hand, often drifted across state lines as individuals, driven by personal, political, or business disputes.

Consequently, Floridians tend to be hot-headed and emotionally volatile, often exhibiting a lack of emotional regulation. They are also a surprisingly intellectual bunch, drawn to poetry, history, and the art of storytelling. Beneath a sometimes-carefree exterior lies a shrewdness in business, politics, and the wielding of power. Florida is a place where the world washes in with the high tide and retreats with the low. Those who manage to hold on are a cunning and resilient lot.

Pirates, smugglers, showbiz kids – Floridians possess a knack for playing dumb while harboring a preternatural street smarts. They are effortless code-switchers, defying easy definition.

They carry a significant chip on their shoulder, a collective defensiveness born of being consistently underestimated and dismissed. This has fueled a simmering resentment and, paradoxically, a struggle with self-confidence. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers’ “Even the Losers” always seemed to capture this perfectly:

Baby, even the losers
Get lucky sometimes
Even the losers
Keep a little bit of pride
They get lucky sometimes

Floridians are more than willing to gamble everything on a single roll of the dice. Indeed, they seem to live for that high-stakes moment. Sometimes, improbably, it even pays off. Where Texans hoard reserves – money, information – Floridians tend to hold back a part of themselves – their true intelligence, their underlying ideals. And so, these two distinct types find themselves back at the table, time and again.

The crashes are more spectacular, more devastating, and more frequent among Floridians. When they fall, they fall hard. Their recovery is often swift, but consistency and measured restraint are not their strong suits. There is a certain inherent madness to the Floridian spirit, a willingness to plant oneself directly in the path of the storm for a fleeting glimpse of beauty. It is a wild and perhaps foolish way to navigate life.

Floridians are impatient, restless, prone to squandering their resources. Eventually, their luck often runs out. Keep drawing cards from the lotería deck, and sooner or later, La Muerte will appear.

Floridians have a tendency to blink, to falter at crucial moments. Ron DeSantis did it repeatedly, a key factor in his stalled presidential ambitions. Marco Rubio seems perpetually unable to control his blinking. And because they often undervalue themselves, they have a habit of selling out for far less than they are worth. Texans secure the mineral rights; Floridians opt for the quick cash, which they then promptly spend.

A truly effective Floridian is a meticulous Floridian. Bob Graham, an undeniably eccentric figure, governed the state and then served as senator with the aid of a constantly updated notebook, tracking every minute detail. He embraced his oddness, maintained a steady pace. But Bob Grahams are rare.

No, the more archetypal Floridians are the Ronnie Van Zants, the Zora Neale Hurstons, the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlingses. They are so fiercely individual, so wonderfully strange, that they struggle to integrate seamlessly into the broader American identity – and often don’t even get along particularly well with each other, too busy with their internal squabbles.

Again, I feel I have inadequately captured the essence of Floridians. They are an exhausting and challenging people. They possess a captivating beauty, yet there is often a toxic undercurrent. They are skilled hunters and resourceful survivors, but they can also be cantankerous and exasperating. They embody every shade on the color wheel, all at once, which is, quite frankly, a lot to process.

As I near the conclusion of this exploration, I find myself thinking of the final scenes of The Last Picture Show, a film that could only have unfolded in the specific landscape of Texas.

There is an almost Ethan Frome-like quality to its slow burn, its quiet unfolding of events, a stillness that echoes the languid pace of another Texas film, Slacker. And yet, beneath the surface, things are irrevocably shifting. This story, in its essence, could never take root in Florida. Someone would inevitably end up in jail.

Texans are the stoic cacti of the American landscape. Floridians are the vibrant, sometimes unruly, wildflowers.