Think About. Willie Again. A weekend flight to Austin, Texas resulted in the extreme pleasure of visiting extraordinary friends and also the surprise of Briarcliff. Not surprisingly, near Austin’s city limits, famous (to some) for Austin City Limits, a likely contributor to the Texas capital’s claim to be Live Music Capital of the World. Briarcliff, Texas is illogically positioned somewhere in the niches of the side of one of the rolling ridges of limestone, somewhere between a mostly dry sky and an occasionally wet Cat Hollow in Travis Lake, a snaking river-like waterway, occasionally gully, sometimes raging terror.
After the 1960 sale of Night Life for $150, Hugh Nelson struggled as a songwriter with no dreams of being a real estate developer. The 1961 song called Crazy, popularized by Patsy Cline (and others) prompted an unmasking of the writer and the beginning of a financial flow unmatched by anything short of Whiskey River. Soon after, the urge to own was matched by what was clearly inexpensive useless, land which I strongly suspect was repurposed by Waylon and Willie and the boys in an all-nighter with Scotch. Briarcliff would be the name, and three separate, unconnected streets in the village would be n
amed Briarcliff, a sad night for Fed-ex.
The best news that night? There was land for the Pedernales (pronounced Perdanales, as in the river) Country Club. However, after what seemed like poor accounting practices, the Internal Revenue Service attached his holdings, selling them to the highest bidders, by strange coincidence close personal friends who gave it all back to Willie. Now it’s sometimes known as the Cut ‘n Putt, since the recording studios are the tail that wags the dog. Methinks the golf course, although a personal pet, is run with the owner’s tongue relatively firmly in cheek. Since the feds forced the “new owners” to open the membership to the public, there may be 50 of which my friend Jim and nine of his friends (The Gentlemen’s Golf and Poker Society) make up a significant portion. For the record, Jim doubles as village council member for the nearly 1000 citizen metropolis.
We should not leave without warning you of some of the rules I saw on a crudely drawn clubhouse sign at Willie’s Place. No more than 12 in your 4some. Bikinis OK, Tell your wife, you’re at the office. Excessive displays of affection are discouraged. Violators must replace divots and will be penalized five strokes. Lest you travel far for this pristine play, you may note that the “gentlemen” bring a rug to put on the ground for a relatively even surface to place the ball when planning to hit it.
Not owning a putter at the time of my quadruple bypass, my last words (bad choice?) were not from any golfers named Nelson. Instead, being rolled down the hall after sedation and before no certain future, I was last heard singing Toby Keith’s classic, I’ll Never Smoke Weed with Willie Again. Think About It.