Richard Avedon

Motor home

Inside the bus

Horse trading

Richard Garber

Roger Anderson

It has been a weekend of contrasts. Yesterday, at an equine trade show, I boarded a “motor home”, immediately informing the salesman that I had no intention of buying, but was merely curious. He was more than happy to indulge me. Every possible convenience was available on what was, essentially, a purpose-built single-decker bus: double bedroom with walk in closet and en suite bathroom; separate shower; refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave and gas range; wide screen plasma television; ergonomically designed cupboards, with doors that folded out of sight; soft carpeted floors. And all for a cool $1.4 million.

Horses were traded for around $4,000, with an auctioneer that sounded just like those on the movies. And for the same price, you could get a custom-made, hand-tooled and stitched leather saddle. For slightly less (but only slightly less), you could get a pair of Mercedes boots to fit you like a glove. I have to admit that I only spent $8 on getting my current boots shined – a process that takes at least ten minutes, and leaves them gleaming like glass.

On my way back, I passed the Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth, and remembered a colleague telling me about an exhibition by the recently-deceased photographer Richard Avedon, entitled “In The American West”. It is a collection of portraits, taken over a four-year period in the early eighties, and focuses, not as usual on the more fortunate members of society, but on those closer to the land: farmers, oilfield workers, carnies, coal miners, drifters … (http://www.cartermuseum.org/Exhibitions/avedon/). I remember, some years ago, seeing the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC, and subsequently getting the book “The Wall” (which is mostly pictorial) and being moved to tears by some of the images. The Avedon exhibition moved me similarly – if you can see the picture of Richard Garber (a drifter), read the (very brief) background, and not feel his sense of despair, you’re a better man than I. I immediately bought the book from the museum shop so that I could share the images with others at home. But the exhibition is not about despair, or misfortune – though somehow you can see in the eyes of all the subjects the thought that somehow life has passed them by. What is most scary is that they are so comparatively recent. I remember 1983 very well, and I was probably, at that time, only one pay cheque away from being on the opposite street corner to Richard Garber.

Today, I headed south on Beltline, for no good reason. I came across “Texas Iron Concepts”, a store specializing in decorative ironwork. I stopped by to look, but it was closed. As I pulled away, the owner came to the door, and called me in. He was just “hangin’ out”, and I was welcome to look around. I spent quite a while chatting with Roger, about his work, his store, and his previous life in the oilfields of Oklahoma. He learned that I like flea markets, and directed me to a Mexican market in South Dallas – “Hell, you’ll be the only white boy! D’ya speak Spanish?” When I said I didn’t, he told me: “Cuanto dinero? That’s all you need to know – it means “How much?”. But they know me, and I mostly just say “How much for this piece of crap?””

He was right – I was the only “white boy”. It was pretty safe, I think, though I was careful who I made eye contact with. I was also the only white boy at “Big Bruce’s Texas BBQ” an hour later, though the other faces this time were black. The two patrol cars parked in front reassured me (because they were there for lunch, and not investigating a crime!). Beef plate, potato salad, pinto beans and lemonade. Did I want the small (pint) or the large (quart) size drink? I pointed out that refills were free, so that there wouldn’t be much point in me paying extra for the large size. It seems that they get a lot of truckers, and they can’t be bothered fiddling about with refills. It may also be that they get quite a few people who can’t figure out the difference.

Like I said – contrasts.

Appaloosas

Appaloosas

Garland Mural

Dia de los Muertos

Dia de los Muertos

Shoes

Appaloosas are spotty … but attractively so. Named after the Palouse Indians of North West Idaho, they are the state animal, and are predominantly show horses. As you can guess, I found myself once again at the Will Rogers Memorial Center, at the Appaloosa Horse Club Show. I’m not sure what attracts me there so frequently – because it’s free, a love of horses, or that I have a thing about women in spurs. Probably we should not dwell too long on the topic. The picture shows riders exercising their horses prior to the show.

My day didn’t start there, however. First stop was my favourite coin shop in downtown Garland, to pick up the recently released Kansas State Quarter – I’m collecting 7 copies: one for me, and one for each of the children. As luck would have it, it was the First Saturday Trade Day in the square – that it to say, it was a craft/produce/bric-a-brac event that occurs on the first Saturday in every month. As well as the stalls, a variety of (mostly) country singers performed on a makeshift stage in the middle of the square. I’ve been going to Garland for almost a couple of years now, and have been watching it slowly transform itself from the more commonly seen effects of “downtown neglect” into an area with much more possibility. On a Saturday night, you can either pay to watch country artists at the Garland Opry, or hang out in the square to watch a variety of bluegrass pickup bands; there are coffee shops and craft shops; a couple of restaurants and a second-hand bookstore; a feed store that puts on a great fall display of hay and pumpkins – signs of vitality. The picture shows one of the inevitable murals (of which I’m now building an impressive collection!).

From there I headed towards Dallas, to the Bath House Cultural Center. I’d heard on an early Saturday morning Hispanic TV show (“La Vida”) that they had an exhibit devoted to Dia de los Muertos (the Mexican “Day of the Dead”, when they pay tribute to dead loved ones (it’s interesting how different cultures have such different attitudes to death, but that’s a subject for another time). The building itself was singularly unimpressive (although its history may not be), but the exhibit made up for it, ranging from a traditional shrine to a dead pet, to a more modern homage to one “Dr Diablo”. And not only that, but it’s right on the shore of White Rock Lake – in the picture you can see cormorants, egrets and cranes sunning themselves with the Dallas skyline in the distant background.

Later that day, back at the hotel, I glanced over to the spot on the floor where I keep my shoes, and it occurred to me that, on at least one level, they summed me up: the shoes that I wear for work (because the preferred attire is “business casual”, and I long ago discovered that it’s not worth fighting the system, and that there are plenty of ways of making a discreet personal statement without upsetting anybody); the sandals that I would always wear, given half a chance (because, hand-crafted in San Antonio, they are very comfortable, and also because I think I like to be in climates for which that footwear is most suitable); and the boots (Tony Lama’s – not the best, but certainly not the worst) that are much more comfortable than they look, and polar opposites to both the others.

I think perhaps we all have multiple personalities, in a sense – it seems as though I have at least three.

Val in San Antonio

We stayed at the RiverCenter Marriott in San Antonio. It’s right on the Paseo Del Rio, or River Walk. The River Walk is a man-made canal extension to the San Antonio River that hosts restaurants, art and craft stalls, and scenic waterfalls like this one. It may be touristy, but it’s fun.

The history of The Alamo might not be quite what is popularly portrayed, and it’s certainly now more of a tourist attraction than anything else, but there are storytellers and people in period costume, and we spent a very enjoyable couple of hours there.

The easiest way to “scout” the territory is to take a ride on a riverboat. The boat captains are a mine of information, and, if you do this first, you get a good idea of the geography and history, and where to go on foot.

The River Walk is truly a fascinating walk. The area was, apparently not too long ago, a safety hazard, due to crime and general gang activity. Despite the fact that San Antonio generally is one of the most unsafe cities in America for teenagers, the River Walk area has been successfully reclaimed. Val is standing by one of the many mosaics that embellish the canal path.

Along the “river” is a small island, known as “Marriage Island” – a popular site for weddings. Val is standing in front of the altar at which the ceremonies are performed.

The RiverCenter is really just a giant mall adjacent to the River Walk. At the point in the river where the boats turn, there is outdoor seating close to the coffee and ice cream stalls. A Peruvian band (with CDs for sale!) plays in the background.

Saturday night in October is pleasantly warm, and an ideal time to sit by the riverside, drink Margaritas, and eat Tex-Mex.

And it’s much better to have your own than to share, because they’re VERY good.

On the way back from San Antonio, we took the back roads through Texas Hill Country. Suddenly, we saw a sign to a flea market, and decided to investigate. Three huge barns full of … well, stuff. Val couldn’t resist this porcelain cornucopia. Getting it in the suitcase was somewhat more of a challenge!

We stopped for lunch at a diner in Fredericksburg (and we can tell you from experience that you just can’t beat a good diner for both food and service – the food in England is much better than it once was, but we still have a long way to go on service).North of Fredericksburg is Enchanted Rock – a huge dome of granite that is a popular site for campers and hikers. Val wanted to trek up to the top, but I didn’t feel up to it.

Still at Enchanted Rock (which I’m sure has a reason for being thus named – you can google it for yourselves), Val was fascinated by the Prickly Pear cactus that dominated the landscape.

Val in Dallas

At the Will Rogers Memorial Center, the American Miniature Horse Association were having their annual show. Val, of course, wanted one to take home. Fortunately, we didn’t have a suitcase big enough.

Val wasn’t in a cleaning mood, so this didn’t prove to be too much of a problem.

I worked with Sook on the American Airlines project a year ago. She and her husband, Sriram, are originally from Singapore. Their daughter, Anna, is now a year old, and we were invited to her birthday party.

While we were away, Jude, the Restaurant Manager at the hotel opposite, looked after Splash for us. One of her hobbies is making bead jewellery, so we took back some beads for her to say “thank you”. Val is standing in the bead “aisle” of a nearby Hobby Lobby!

The Farmers’ Market in Dallas features produce, crafts and furniture not only from the local area, but also imported from Mexico. There are so many varieties of hot peppers that we’d never heard of, dried and fresh beans, fresh crop pecans, pumpkin, white corn …

Val found a Texas longhorn cow skull rendered in tin, which is now mounted in our hallway. The stall owner wrapped it well for us after hearing that it had to travel to England in a suitcase.

In the parking lot of the Farmers’ Market, with the downtown Dallas skyline in the background.

What can I say? We went to the outlet mall on Route 75 at Allen, and I thought, since we were so close, we’d head north to Oklahoma. That would have been fine, except that I chose the “scenic” route back. Val, bless her, stayed awake and appeared interested for the whole time!

Labor Day

It’s been a long weekend here, with the Labor Day holiday, and temperatures still in the upper 90’s. Since Tim’s wedding is coming up, and I don’t plan to wear my morning suit for the evening’s celebrations, I thought the very least I could do is turn out in a clean pair of boots. So on Saturday I went to Leddy’s in Sundance Square in Fort Worth to have them professionally polished. Shoe-shine, as far as I’m aware, has disappeared in the UK, but is still alive in certain areas of the US. A good pair of boots costs enough that you’d want to keep them clean and in good repair.

Leddy's

Leddy’s is one of the oldest stores in Fort Worth, dating back to 1929. They specialize in Western apparel, and were the first store to offer “re-manufactured weather” – now, we call it “air-conditioning”. I sat, as you can see, in the window, and Todd commented on the attire (due to the heat) of the young ladies passing by – he added, flashing his ring-finger, that he “still had the appetite, but had to eat at home”. The boot I’m holding, by the way, is worth $3125, which is half of the $6250 that the pair would cost. These are hand-made Lucchese alligator boots – way out of my league, but he insisted I hold it up for the photograph. Lucchese are based in Fort Worth, and, if you want a pair of made-to-measure boots, you’ll have to wait about 9 months! These days, we’ve lost the idea that it’s worth paying more for something you can repair, because it’s cheaper to buy new, and discard the old.

After Leddy’s, I went to Starbucks for an “Iced tazo lemonade tea” – I don’t know what it is either, but it was refreshing.

Today, I headed for Wichita Falls, just because I haven’t been there before. By happenstance, I turned off the highway at Bowie, and found the older Rte 81 – still headed in the same direction (the old Chisholm Trail), but much less traveled. In Bowie, Krispy Chicken manages to survive against Sonic and McDonalds; and the Budget Motel against its newer rivals. But I don’t know for how long – like every other small town, its heart is being slowly ripped out. When I see buildings, especially businesses, falling prey to dereliction, I can’t help thinking that they were once new; that their gaudy signs once proclaimed a new era; that their owners once stood proudly outside. Slowly, those hopes and dreams have leached back into the earth from which they sprang. The way of all things, I suppose.

Driving up Rte 81 was liberating, in a way I can’t describe. It’s not surprising, if you’ve ever thought about it, that highways follow railroads – any divergence tends to be for one of two reasons: highways go up and over hills, while railroads try to go through or around them. So the highways are long and straight, through featureless, but not empty, landscapes. It feels different here, but I don’t know why – the “open road”, and all that the phrase embodies. So I drove, almost imperceptibly crossing the state line into Oklahoma, and back into Texas – through Byers, Waurika, Petrolia, Jolly and Henrietta.

The small towns each have their murals – it seems a point of pride. Many are nothing more than a church, a bank and a diner (not necessarily in that order), but a local artist will have adorned one, or more, of the buildings with a painting identifying their association with the Chisholm Trail, and with the “new frontier”.

Mural in Byers

Mural in Petrolia

I shouldn’t really dodge commenting on Katrina and New Orleans, but there isn’t much I can say that hasn’t been said already. A colleague at work made the (I think) original comment that “the fabric of society is soluble in water”. Eloquent, and sadly true.

Train journey

Earlier in the week, I had to travel up to London for the day. Normally, I would have driven to Heathrow, parked, and taken the Underground into the city centre, but, on Elliot’s advice, I took the train instead: the Tarka Line from Eggesford (a few hundred yards walk from the house) to Exeter St David’s, and the Great Western from there to Paddington.

It’s been years since I travelled on the train, but I’m glad I did. In a car, I am rarely a passenger, and usually have to concentrate on driving on our cramped English roads; now, I could concentrate on the view.

Tall stands of yellow rape, escaped from cultivation, blaze defiantly from odd corners of pasture. Narrow boats glide lazily along almost forgotten canals, waiting patiently at the locks in a surreal, parallel, slow-motion world. Rivers meander, a temporary refuge for elegant swans and their cygnets, flanked by majestic willows casually draped over the water, their long fingers barely touching the surface. Cattle – black and white Holstein, golden-red Limousin – graze unconcerned in green fields spattered with thistles. Youthful, exuberant poplars tower over older, wiser oaks; frivolous birch flutter their leaves precociously in the breeze; horse chestnut grow heavy with their fruit, the “conkers” that will provide amusement for schoolboys in the autumn. Noiseless distant tractors ply through the fields or along country roads, past old brick farmhouses with tall chimneys; fresh cut hay lays drying in the sun, and fields are full of baled hay, in black polyurethane, or in rounds, or in squares. Church spires peep over the tops of trees, belittling their squat Norman peers – you can almost hear their peal, carried on the wind.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.

Dairy farmers are going out of business, because it costs more to produce milk than we will pay them. Every now and then the train rattles through the cesspools of our towns and cities, with their graffiti and their supermarkets. Even the shiny new buildings are tomorrow’s urban decay. And the ebullient young man who has been talking to his “muvver” in “Redroof” (which may or may not be near Redruth, Cornwall) on his mobile phone in the “quiet” carriage of the train, announces loudly, on completion of his call: “Sorry to all the ‘quiet’ people. I paid for my ticket like everybody else, and if I want to talk on my mobile phone, I will.”

Lager brings out the best in everyone, doesn’t it?

“Every day it gets a little harder to believe in magic, and people” – Mindy Smith.

AQYHA

It’s 96ºF (38ºC) today, and so humid that your clothes stick to you everywhere (yes … everywhere). It’s overcast, and there’s the occasional rumble of thunder, but I think it’s all big girls’ blouses, because it’s been like that all day and we haven’t had a drop of rain.

The heat doesn’t bother me too much – if it did, I’d have to head over to the mall, and shuffle round shoulder-to-shoulder with the thousands of others that decided to do the same, and I couldn’t stand that. So instead I headed over to Fort Worth’s best-kept secret – a day of free entertainment at the Will Rogers Equestrian Center. First, I went to the flea market, in barn Number 1 (apparently reserved for the porcine community, though I’ve never seen anything but horses and cattle in the whole place). I really like this flea market, though I’m not sure why – it’s indoors, it’s big, but not too big, the people are friendly, and there’s always little nooks and crannies I haven’t noticed before.

Cowgirl

There’s almost always something going on in the Equestrian Center – this week it was the American Quarter Horse Youth Association (AQHYA) championships. I swear there are a thousand of these associations: the American Paint Horse Association, the National Reining Horse Association, the National Cutting Horse Association, the National Barrel Horse Association – need I go on? Of course, you can Google it for yourself. And every one has a youth chapter. Today I found out what a “snaffle bit” is. It seems I no longer have to explain how ignorant I am when I ask people these patently silly questions – I suppose, by now, I must exude a general aura of ignorance in this area. And talking of exuding: you know how people who smoke think they’re being very noble by going outside to smoke, but then come back inside completely oblivious to the fact that every item of their clothing (and probably every pore in their skin) exudes the smell of smoke? Well, I think that also happens to people (including me) who partake of watching indoor equestrian events – except that the aroma in this case is of a combination of cow and horse poop (or “divots” as those of us immersed in the cowboy lifestyle prefer to call them). Note also my careful, and quite deliberate, use of the word “cows”. We’re in Texas here, not Wisconsin, so the female of the species has only one role in life. So it’s hardly worth the bother of distinguishing between them: cows, calves, bulls – they’re all just “cows” to us cowboys (otherwise, I suppose, we might be “calfboys”, and that wouldn’t suit the image at all).

Although the event is completely free, you’d be wise to dress appropriately. As is the case in the rest of life, the ladies can wear anything and get away with it. You guys should at least spring for the boots, jeans and belt-buckle. You can wear your Justin boots, but everyone will know you bought them at WalMart. Better stick to Lucchese or Mercedes – after all, a good pair of boots will last a lifetime: it’s not worth skimping. And not just any jeans. If you turn up in your stone-washed, aesthetically-ripped designer jeans, you’ll be laughed out of the arena. And forget Levi’s. It’s Wranglers. Dark blue. The finishing touches would include spurs and a hat. I don’t bother with the spurs, mostly because I find them difficult to drive in. As for the hat, I’m tall enough as it is – with built up heels and a hat I’d be hunched over in the car, so I give that a miss, too. Otherwise, I fit in pretty well.

Roping

Today’s event was … well, I don’t know what it’s called, but a friendly cowboy explained that they had to run a pattern (a sort of convoluted figure-of-eight) in the arena, then bring the horse to a sudden, sliding stop; then spin the horse around three times (the judges are looking for a rear foot firmly planted, and a fast spin); then do the same on the other side of the arena (sounds a bit like country dancing, doesn’t it?); then a “cow” (alright, alright, it’s really a calf) is let into the arena, and – well, you’re probably not interested in the details, but they have to move it around according to some bizarre rules known only within AQHA circles.

These were all teenagers, and a lot of them – from just about every state. I’ve never owned a horse, but I think there’s a lot of responsibility goes along with the job. Watching these kids, that was very evident. I’m sure they let their hair down just like everyone else, but they were all well-dressed, polite and well-behaved – unlike the hooligans that were running around in the hotel last night (I soon put a stop to that!).

So I’m learning a lot about horses, which makes me a little sad that the only time I did take riding lessons (a birthday gift from Val), I never got past the “me-going-down-when-the-horse-was-coming-up” stage. But I know enough not to longe when I’m not supposed to.