The transition of day to night during Austin’s summer months is best experienced on Saturday
evenings, with a flick of the radio switch. It’s Twine Time on KUT,
maybe the most singularly perfect soundtrack to darkening skies over the
cityscape.
The sun is still high at 6pm, when Twine Time starts. At my home on
the
banks of Town Lake just below downtown, I can take a jambox to the river’s edge
and tune in. The scratchy sounds of vinyl synchronize with the chatter of birds
as they zip from tree to tree in search of the evening’s resting place.
Sometimes deejay Paul Ray will spin a Motown chestnut while the nutria that
live creekside scamper in and out of the water. Other times, a bluesy classic
will serenade the swans, who skim the lake with imperious grace.
The 7pm sun hovers above the city. The neighborhood cats show far too much
interest in the birds, who are bedeviling the ducks, who are snapping at the
turtles, who are trying to snag the occasional pieces of bread I’m tossing them
before birds swoop down and swipe the crumbs. A water snake shimmies on the
surface, headed toward the favorite nesting spot of a family of ducks. Out of
nowhere, two ducks burst through the tall grass on opposite sides of the snake,
who pauses momentarily while the ducks flap their wings and squawk angrily. The
snake, unimpressed, merely slides below the water; the ducks sputter a bit
more, then return to the nest. On the radio, a Ray Charles ballad complements
the lazy humidity like too-tight jeans.
At 8pm, the sun is just above the horizon, tinting it with heathery purple,
glowing pink-orange, and fading blues. With the heat off the water’s surface,
hordes of turtles gather at the mouth of the creek that pours into Town Lake by
my place. Trained or by instinct, they know that the time of day means food.
There are at least three different varieties of turtles: box turtles, painted
turtles, and snapping turtles. The snappers are sizable; some of them measure
at least two feet across the shell. I estimate the largest of the seven I can
identify, affectionately dubbed “The Eternal Yertle” by a young friend, weighs
35 or 40 pounds.
About four dozen turtles regularly inhabit the lagoon. At feeding time, some
of the ducks who nest across the way will join, as do the nutria, various carp,
and perch. The fish are as aggressive as the turtles, who aren’t quite as
aggressive as the ducks. But none of the creatures can match the swans for
sheer chutzpah. They circle the lake at dusk, looking for suckers like me with
a bag of bread. They sail into the lagoon regally, but their dissonant honking
reveals they’re an ill-mannered lot. The turtles have no compunctions about
asserting their homeboy status: They’ll swim underneath the swans and nip
webbed feet, sending the birds flapping and screeching out of the water.
Sometimes the swans will snap back. Sometimes they will swim off in a huff.
Sometimes they’ll have sex.
The turtles enjoy bread and flour tortillas, but what they really go crazy
for
is meat. I stop at the store occasionally and get cheap cuts to toss in among
the bread wads. The meat sinks, and several turtles will dive for a mouthful.
One will grab the chunk and swim off victoriously, only to have it snatched by
a larger turtle, who carries it the other way. In the background, Paul Ray
plays a Texas shuffle and the crickets keep time.
It’s also time for the bats to emerge. Birds zoom about the sky frantically;
the flurry to nest for the night is imminent. The bats come in a small, dark
funnel from under the Congress bridge that ascends the sky in waves of black,
twisting ribbon. Once they reach altitude, the ribbons separate in various
directions, nightflying in a feeding frenzy until they become one with the
quickly approaching darkness.
The sun is gone. It’s left the violet crown of the west on the head of the
Hill Country, while neon lights outline the corona of downtown. Twine
Time is over. Wonder who’s playing out at the clubs tonight….
This article appears in May 19 • 1995 and May 19 • 1995 (Cover).