Cactus and Leather

My wife and I are the proud owners of a swath of broad (in width), but thin (in thickness) ribbons of rusted metal transformed, through extraordinary creativity and raw skill, into a brown metallic rendition of a saguaro cactus. It's about four feet tall and looks wonderful against our back fence, near the two forlorn windows that I've nailed to the fence. We envision a funky little gathering place at the back fence one day, a place where we can sit in the early evening, listening to crickets, watching clouds, and sipping a cool beverage, all the while soaking in the mood of a favorite outdoor bar. At the rate I'm going, it wil be complete in 2066.

The sculpture was created by a Mexican man who has horribly bad teeth and whose English skills are only slightly better than my Spanish skills. He appears to me to be in his early to mid forties, but he could be younger. I tend to overestimate age in others and underestimate it in myself.

We bought the piece from the man, who was exhibiting his work at a large but very poorly attended outdoor flea market on the outskirts of a small town north of Fort Worth. The flea market was poorly attended not only by the public, but by artists and other merchants. Most of the "booths" were tired and empty. It was, all in all, a very sorry-looking collection of people selling old tires, broken garden implements, used furniture, gadgets of all kinds, and assorted paraphenalia whose useful lives had ended years if not decades earlier. The Mexican man was one of a very small group selling art. He told me, in very broken English intermixed with Spanish, that he would not be back next weekend, but would be back the following week; his wife is having a birthday next week and he cannot be away.

I wish I'd had my camera with me today. I would have taken pictures at the place, especially a group of gray-haired old men, all of whom looked like ranchers/farmers, who were sitting and chatting near the entrance to the place, underneath a covered porch. I think there were 4-5 of them, all wearing well-worn straw cowboy hats and very, very faded denim. I say the hats were well-worn because they were stained just above the brim, all the way around, evidence that they had spent many hours being sweat-soaked in a dustry environment. One of the men was clothed in a severely-worn pair of denim overalls. The faces of the old men betrayed their work histories more so than did their attire. The leathery sun-browned skin on their faces wore deep creases, evidence of squinting for hours on end during long years in the sun. I suppose one of them is the spouse of the gray-haired woman who we saw wheeling about on an ancient golf cart and who said, when I asked whether she was the one in charge, "no, I just own the place."

I am sure can take a decent photo of the metallic saguaro and, one day before long, will post it here.

All of this, and much more, happened after we went seeking, and found, our breakfast migas. We went exploring places we'd not been before, including a brief visit to Eagle Mountain Lake, where we had lunch at a colorful little restaurant and bar (that, like the old men and their attire, showed signs of a long, hard life) located next to a busy boat ramp and adjacent to some docks. The patrons were a slice of life cross-section of society. The clientele included aging bikers, wearing their chains and tatoos and baring their missing teeth; young couples trying to make conversation but experiencing awkward silences as they struggled for something to say; scantily-clad post-teen girls giggling as they ran dripping to the ladies' room; uptight middle-aged couples who obviously felt very uncomfortable with the clientele; waitresses who showed signs of lives lived too fast and with too little regard for consequences; and young families herding their small children into the place and who seemed, adults and children alike, utterly oblivious to the denizens of the seedy-looking little place.

I have lots of memories from today that may, one day, find their way into my writing. Most of that, though, won't be here. I'm still planning on a book. One day, a book, a cohesive set of ideas and story lines, many of which will have made very brief appearances here, will emerge from this twisted mind of mine. But who will publish it? Who, indeed. There's time to worry about that later. For now, I will settle onto a sofa and relax.