Greg and I joined a couple friends of ours along with some of their family for dinner Friday night. We ate at a German restaurant in a teeny, tiny town called Wahlburg. Or Walburg. There seemed to be some disagreement among the townsfolk about how the name is spelled. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the place had any actual townsfolk. The restuarant seemed to be the only business in town. Unless you count the church down the road.
After gorging on a tasty German buffet — sauerkraut, sausage, and all the fixins — we headed to the beer garden out back. A band played polka music under an open tent, and everyone was drinking some sort of lager or bock. I sat down at a picnic table and began to survey the beer garden. And then I noticed it. The playpen. It was sitting at the back of the tent, unoccupied.
“Is that a playpen?” I asked my pal LuAnne (who is a born-and-bred Texan).
“Yes,” she said. “That’s nothing. There’s this bar in Temple that has a sandbox for little kids to play in. Right in the middle of the bar!”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“You’re in Texas now,” she said.