At The Flea Market.

1.08.2011

My brother Cha, Mason, myself, and Mom came out to the flea market property where my Popo and Granny live. Its the first time I have been here since he passed. We have gone through albums to share and remember amongst brothers. Everything smells country. Nothing like Corpus, everything there is hard and concrete, graffiti and gasoline. Here, even with an overload of chihuahua puppies, like grass and dew and tired earth. There is a lot of things to remember here. Every seat in the “big building” has been sat on and used by my Popo. He never stood still, and when he did, others moved quickly. He ran a huge flea market for years, and had multiple people working for him, or as he said so often, with him. There wasn't an element of 'big business' or selfishness in his work. He gave himself to so many jobs and endeavors, nobody could predict his next move, except my granny Darla, who knew mostly everything he would do.

Cowboy hats and years of cigarettes and talk of old whiskey. The days when a guy could go get into a fight and it was expected to pick each other up after. The days when he would go skip school to visit my granny in junior high and pretend to be a student aid. Those times that he interrupted other dates she would have, and I would see the faded but deeper than bone tattoos on his arms that simply said “Darla” and “Thomas” that would permanently stain my idea of permanence in this sick world that has little of it left. Darla told me this afternoon that she loves red roses the best, and I am glad, because they will flood the border of my Johnny Cash tattoo as a memorial to them both. “Give my love to Rose” by Cash keeps running through my mind. The story of death and commitment and hope for futures of ones self and family. That kind of lyric needs to be around us all right now.

We saw pictures of my Mamaw and Papaw, and I realized I don't remember her face. I remember Papaw's. I worry that I will forget Popo's face. His voice, never, which Cha and I agree on. The ability to make us smile, even without his presence around in flesh, surely not. When any old man mentions a “knuckle sandwich” I will remember. Or the phrase “Hey boy” so often used to those of us able to drink, smoke, and own businesses, but still are kids to the old. These are things that will stay with me...and my forearm piece.

Faron Young.

Jim Reeves.

Merle Haggard.

Willie Nelson.

Linda Ronstadt.

Kitty Wells.

Bob Wills.

Bar stools, with a personal best record of whiskey and beers. Tears in beers. Air-conditioning stories. Going from steak and horse ranches to pork and beans, but happiness always. Knowing when Corpus was no more than fields and collache roads. When the Buford/Staples areas of town were the rich sides of town and carriages would take people places.

Cha and I talked about how so much stuff will be left behind. People won't know in the future what a real, raw, hand built Flea Market looks like. Not with these air-conditioned malls and Dollar Store/Tree/General/etc. I am 26, and feel like there is so muc hthat will just keep changing rather than there being enough consistency that when I have grandchildren and I pass on, will they remember solid things, or just rhetoric?

New goal for 2011. Make solid what is currently not.

AMEN.