Making My Way

If you’re bitten by the collecting bug, let’s say—no one needs to explain to you what it’s all about. I’m not talking about the hoarding of seemingly illogical stuff, although many of the unschooled eye would insist that I should make no fancier claims about my own bent. I haven’t seen much of the television programming where personalities like Oprah Winfrey, Phil McGraw, and others explore for all of the world to see the dysfunction of those who do hoard everything from clothing still bearing a price tag and piled piece upon piece to empty cereal boxes. The various things people bring home that eventually force them to live by maneuvering the paths remaining inside and outside of their dwellings boggles the mind and eye. The prospect is scary, but like so much of what we do and say, the truth is even scarier. Please let it be true that I am not worthy of Oprah and Dr. Phil’s attention. Just a simple lover of the beauty that the human hand is able to raise to the level of art—that am I.

The recently conceived reality series called “American Pickers” finds these two guys regularly visiting places where they excitedly dig through barns and piles looking for that one special treasure they think might make them a buck or two. I’ve watched the show a few times, and though I’m usually not all that interested in the things that ring the chime of these two guys, I get it. Having been bitten by the collecting bug as a child (even though I didn’t know it at the time), I’ve actively pursued my passion for most of my adult life.

I’ve just returned from the spring antiques market in central Texas, where I exhibit at the show that, as they say, started it all in 1968. Originally it was just referred to by collectors as Round Top. If you asked another collector, “are you going to Round Top”, there would have been no misunderstanding of the question. About 10 years ago, the show that began with 25 or so dealers offering some of the best of early Americana in the gun and rifle club hall in the tiny town of Round Top moved down the road to what is known as the Big Red Barn. These days, over 200 dealers of art and antiques from around the U. S. to offer same to an audience, many of whom come from around the U. S., to this twice-annual big deal. And it is a big deal—both for selling and acquiring. And the market has grown beyond imagination to include other shows and people set up selling their wares in fields and in buildings that have been put up for the sole purpose of addressing the market that still is called by many, simply Round Top. Early Americana is now just one of many categories of so-called treasure that draws people by the scores of thousands.

The spring market is now history. In its aftermath, I’m safely home, slowly reabsorbing into the barn I call home here in Texas the treasures that didn’t find a new home this time. Some rubber tubs go straight to the back of the barn, where they will wait silently for their next day in the sunshine. I try to pay attention to the packing so that the special things that came right out of my house can reclaim a place where I can look at them as often as they catch my eye. As I stow storage tubs and unwrap some other things, I wonder—again, at least a little, where did all this stuff come from? I know the answer to that question, and I know that even though I’m not amassing clothes that I don’t intend to wear or cereal boxes with coupons that I won’t ever redeem, I do have a lot of stuff. I wonder about the next time I pack and load the trailer and make my way to the antiques market. A lot of treasures came back home with me—a painting of a Native American papoose painted and given as a gift, inscribed on the back by the artist and friend; a pair of large mid century serapes; a stoneware jar decorated in cobalt with the name of the merchant in post-Civil War Galveston, Texas; more, much more. Yet, it was a successful show—by any measure. As I look at all the treasure that has been offered for sale one time or another—knowing that in anticipation of the fall outing I will be on the hunt for the next golden egg to add to my offering, I could berate myself, for daring to add to my trove. In spite of the success I feel and the modest rewards it has generated this time out, I could berate myself. But I won’t go there. I won’t pay much attention to anyone who would say, “why don’t you try to sell what you already have”.

I began yesterday unloading the trailer and unpacking the back of my 4Runner. I had made up my mind to take my time, unpacking some of the boxes and bags, and finding a place for a 1940s chair upholstered in a Navajo rug of similar vintage. The iron and tile table made in California, loaded at the back of the trailer with the 1940s chair, found a temporary home adjacent to the bathtub/shower. It works dandily for holding a towel or a change of clothes. There’s much more, much more; yet, so much didn’t come back to my barn home in central Texas. Furniture, paintings, pottery, old chaps, a rare game board from Pennsylvania, garden concrete—all gone to new homes.

Late yesterday afternoon I put the sprinkler to work in the garden at the front of my barn. The last 12 months have been dry. Fall and winter rains didn’t come to bless our ground, to fill our stock tanks, to give respite before another long, hot Texas summer. Though tired and uncertain in the aftermath of an intense week offering my share of treasure to collectors—those bitten similarly by the same bug that bit me as a child—I knew that I have some work to do around this place before heading back to New Mexico. And though I have begun to accept that I can only do so much, I feel obliged to give these gardens a couple of more drinks before leaving in mid April. I thought I had heard on the news something about the prospect of another cool front and maybe some rain. Still, early this morning I started moving the sprinkler head from one bed to another. There’s no water like water from sky, even if only for 30 minutes. The front came through, bringing cooler temperatures, and more March winds, even though we are now in April. It didn’t bring much rain, however, and so I continue to move the sprinkler head from bed to bed.

I feel renewed by the cool air. I’m ready to continue working, making plans, taking care of things. And I am oh, so thankful—thankful, by any measure. I’ll make just a little more sense of this home, as I consider one treasure or another that must find at least a temporary place. And my steps will seem just a little lighter as I put my shoulder to the work that needs to be done. It is the work, and sometimes the unexpected respite, that makes sense of this journey. I give thanks for all of these blessings. And so it is.

Making My Way—Normangee, Texas (April 4, 2011)
R. Harold Hollis