Last Friday I struggled off of the sofa—my bed of late—dreading the day before me. On Saturday I would be setting out my wares at a one-day sale focused on antique Texas stoneware. Friday was set up day. As I had already said to a friend, “I’d rather be beaten.” The packing part mostly behind me, I had only to load the tubs containing my stuff and the furniture I use for display. In the early light I made my way to the bathroom and then back to the sofa to gather up my emptied water bottle, the book I wanted to carry on the trip, and “WHAT! Snow? March (implied)?”
Indeed, it was snowing. The upstairs deck was already completely carpeted as large flakes continued drifting down. My reaction was a mix of first disbelief and then dread for the job ahead of me, both colored by some amazement at what I saw outside the doors of my sleeping loft. My head wasn’t clear enough to consider how this unexpected winter wonderland would impact my plans, which had been feeling way too much like an obligation with little hope of worthwhile gain. A phone call to one of the guys hosting the Saturday event met with his assurance that it would all be over with in 45 minutes, according to the radar he was watching, and of course, snow doesn’t last long on the ground in our part of the world. He and the radar were pretty close to correct. With the sun shining and virtually all traces of our March gift disappeared, I pulled out of the driveway around noon. Without looking closely, no one would have known that a late winter, rare event had occurred that morning.
The sale turned out to be a pleasant enough experience. In an historic, lovely setting, artifacts also rare were displayed and offered for sale. For those of us gathered, these artifacts were evidence of our human artistic genius, even in crafting utilitarian objects intended in their day simply for storing that which sustains. Antique pottery from around Texas—some pre-dating the Civil War—reflecting the specifics of potter, clay, and tradition, gave visual testimony to a very specific reality. Someone happening by, with no clue to the truths represented by this event, could have easily concluded, “Gee, there must have been a lot of that stuff.” Not so, but maybe not as rare as snow in Texas, especially in March.
Friday seems far away now. Luckily I shot a few images of the morning with my digital camera. Spring continues to press forward. The 30-plus rose bushes I pruned on the eve of St. Valentine’s Day are leafing out, even the one I virtually decimated in my attempts to remove dead wood from among the canes. Blooms on two of my roses, the Old Blush climber and Cramoisi Superieur, are showing. The wild pear is having a snowfall of its own.
Daily I am reminded of how much work I face as I think about and try to do something about the accumulation of seven years of living in this two-story barn, where too much space has been at least a little bit of an enemy. Today I am reminded once again that when it’s all said and done, too much is, well, simply too much. As I look around at my own version of excess, though, I am thankful for gifts that sustain in unanticipated ways, asking me to ease up, consider the rarity that surrounds me each day, and be amazed. I am thankful for our creative genius expressed in simple things and for snow on March 7th in East Texas.
Snow in East Texas—Normangee, Texas (March 9, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
Indeed, it was snowing. The upstairs deck was already completely carpeted as large flakes continued drifting down. My reaction was a mix of first disbelief and then dread for the job ahead of me, both colored by some amazement at what I saw outside the doors of my sleeping loft. My head wasn’t clear enough to consider how this unexpected winter wonderland would impact my plans, which had been feeling way too much like an obligation with little hope of worthwhile gain. A phone call to one of the guys hosting the Saturday event met with his assurance that it would all be over with in 45 minutes, according to the radar he was watching, and of course, snow doesn’t last long on the ground in our part of the world. He and the radar were pretty close to correct. With the sun shining and virtually all traces of our March gift disappeared, I pulled out of the driveway around noon. Without looking closely, no one would have known that a late winter, rare event had occurred that morning.
The sale turned out to be a pleasant enough experience. In an historic, lovely setting, artifacts also rare were displayed and offered for sale. For those of us gathered, these artifacts were evidence of our human artistic genius, even in crafting utilitarian objects intended in their day simply for storing that which sustains. Antique pottery from around Texas—some pre-dating the Civil War—reflecting the specifics of potter, clay, and tradition, gave visual testimony to a very specific reality. Someone happening by, with no clue to the truths represented by this event, could have easily concluded, “Gee, there must have been a lot of that stuff.” Not so, but maybe not as rare as snow in Texas, especially in March.
Friday seems far away now. Luckily I shot a few images of the morning with my digital camera. Spring continues to press forward. The 30-plus rose bushes I pruned on the eve of St. Valentine’s Day are leafing out, even the one I virtually decimated in my attempts to remove dead wood from among the canes. Blooms on two of my roses, the Old Blush climber and Cramoisi Superieur, are showing. The wild pear is having a snowfall of its own.
Daily I am reminded of how much work I face as I think about and try to do something about the accumulation of seven years of living in this two-story barn, where too much space has been at least a little bit of an enemy. Today I am reminded once again that when it’s all said and done, too much is, well, simply too much. As I look around at my own version of excess, though, I am thankful for gifts that sustain in unanticipated ways, asking me to ease up, consider the rarity that surrounds me each day, and be amazed. I am thankful for our creative genius expressed in simple things and for snow on March 7th in East Texas.
Snow in East Texas—Normangee, Texas (March 9, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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