The Where I Live series aims to showcase our diverse city and region by spotlighting its many vibrant neighborhoods. Each week a local resident invites us over and lets us in on what makes their neighborhood special. Have we been to your neighborhood yet? Get in touch to share your story.
The sunflowers that in early summer screened a derelict pickup truck from view have since turned sere and spiky, their blossoms but a memory. The mustang grape vines that draped the street have left behind only the smudged remains of fruit on the asphalt. And the scarlet Turk’s caps that here and there flanked the “avenue,” as it’s grandly called, have retreated in the heat.
East Pyron Avenue, really more of a short road (there are neither curbs nor sidewalks), begins at South Presa and ends abruptly at a barricade atop a bank overlooking the Mission Reach segment of the San Antonio River. There are only seven houses (but a slew of squirrels), and if yard signs during election season are an indication, the left side, at least, leans similarly. We take in one another’s mail when necessary and unite in dealing with illegal dumping — an all-too-frequent issue on a secluded, dead-end street.
There are occasional neighborhood meetings, too, in which teachers, potters, musicians, architects, accountants, writers and others mingle, but for the most part, it’s waves in passing on the narrow way or along the hike and bike trail flanking the San Juan Acequia. It’s that trail and its continuation along the river that, for me, is the core of the enclave. Active engagement with surroundings is encouraged here, and in late summer that means early morning walks.
I can be lazier in spring and early summer, and this was an exceptionally good and colorful one. Especially along the acequia trail that parallels the river, wildflowers put on a riotous display — the best in years, we all agreed. Sunflowers tended to dominate by virtue of height (some were as tall as eight feet or more), but beneath, carpets of gaillardia, Mexican hat, and black-eyed Susan competed for attention with blue-eyed grass, Texas prickly poppy, winecup, and delicate basket flowers. Pungent horsemint appealed to the indecisive with blooms in three shades from white to pink and lavender. There’s only one dependable patch of bluebonnets south of Military Drive, but you can’t have it all. And If the occasional coral snake intrudes, there’s always an egret, an Egyptian goose (they love to perch on my roof) or a huddle of turtles on a rock to compensate.
Near Mission San Juan, “Whispers” by Arne Quinze, one of the trail’s commissioned pieces of public art, seems inspired by seed pods but is colorful even in winter. For me, this marks the southern end of what I consider “my” territory. A husk of another kind, the stabilized and tidied-up remains of Hot Wells, is only a few minutes’ walk to the north.
The bathing pools that were once filled with water from sulfur-scented wells have long been dry, and the Flame Room, a bar that was still in operation when I first arrived in San Antonio, has guttered and gone out. But if the opulence and supposed health benefits that once drew the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and Rudolph Valentino to the hotel and spa (in private rail cars, no less) are now the stuff of history, a spark of renewal has appeared in the form of Camp Hot Wells.
There are no deep and shady verandas, but sheltered nooks abound, and thanks to a newly drilled well, patrons can indulge in a hot springs soak in a private tub. Beer, sodas and snacks from a small but determined list add to the neighborhood clubhouse vibe — despite the lack of an actual clubhouse. But that would be too fancy for East Pyron Avenue.
There’s always my own house to retreat to, of course; it’s been in some form of slow renewal and revitalization of its own for decades. Surrounded by way too many books (those on cooking alone number in the hundreds), works of art both folk and fine and a collection of early-modern furniture by former employer Marcel Breuer, hanging out here doesn’t depend on the rhythm of the seasons. A day in front of the stove, a few friends over for dinner, some carefully chosen bottles and East Pyron could easily be anywhere I choose. The right lighting also helps.
