by Zenna LoneStar 
The wind shifted out of the north right as my coals turned that sweet, glowing ash white. I pulled my favorite tie-dye shawl a little tighter around my shoulders and tucked a loose silver-and-red curl behind my ear. You can always tell when late October has finally decided to settle into the Hill Country because the oak leaves start rattling like dry gourds.
That was when I heard the sputter of an air-cooled engine coming slow up the caliche road. Most folks who visit my patch of yard come straight to the gate without needing a map, drawn by memory and the smell of post oak smoke. This old bus, painted a faded burnt orange that made my Texas Longhorns fan heart skip a beat, belonged to somebody new.
An Empty Cooler and a Heavy Lock
It rolled to a stop right under the big live oak, and the side door groaned open. A young woman stepped out wearing dusty boots and carrying a dented metal cooler wrapped tight in a thick hemp rope with a brass padlock on the latch. Now, as a lifelong Southern hippie, I have seen plenty of curious sights, yet nobody brings a padlocked ice chest to a barbecue unless they are guarding a mighty big secret.
She looked at my smoking grill, then at the peace sign painted on my rain barrel, and her shoulders dropped an inch. I wiped my hands on my apron, threw up a little Hook 'Em sign to break the ice, and waved her right on over. True Southern hospitality means you feed the hungry soul first and ask about the heavy baggage later.
She set that locked cooler right beside my rocking chair and whispered that someone in Austin had told her only Zenna could help open what was inside. I poured her a mug of warm cider and reached into my pocket for the iron key I have carried since nineteen seventy-three.
