This thought has
nothing to do with this trip, and yet has everything to do with this trip,
‘cause were I not on this trip, enjoying the cerebral openness that being on
this particular trip entails, this thought might never have occurred to me. Thanks again for “nothing to do.”
Title this: “If I
Were…”
To which the ultimate payoff – removing all suspense from
this enterprise – is “Well you’re not, so don’t even think about it.”
Okay, “Fade In”:
We were browsing an antique emporium near our cabin, of which
there are many antique emporia (Latin neuter plural), which in the past have
offered purchasable delights, such as the bargain-priced Navaho rug with only a
tiny amount of deer pee on it which we dry-cleaned away and it now enhanced our
cabin’s living room floor, and a wood-carved “Twenty Mule Team Borax”
promotional display, featuring a scaled-down covered wagon and twenty harnessed,
miniature hand-carved mules, which I scrupulously counted, to ensure
authenticity.
No one could pass that
up, could they?
Anyway, amongst the endless array of “Who would buy any of
this stuff?” I noticed a bronze sculpture of a galloping, lariat-throwing
cowboy on a horse, in the exalted style of Frederic Remington, selling for
twelve hundred dollars, which, were it “an actual
Remington”, would cost millions.
With minor reservations, I ultimately passed on this wannabe
Remington. But the random encounter got
me to thinking.
This may not be an entirely popular perspective, but I have
considered it before and, for me, it continues to hold defendable water. Besides, when have I ever shied away from a
controversy? Except virtually always.
Simply Put (In Mine ‘Umble Opinion):
Classic works of art should be readily available to everyone. People who buy acknowledged masterpieces for
their “Private Collections”? Simply put
again: I would never do that myself.
If I were they, I would donate that original Rothko or
Matisse or sculptured Remington to a local museum. An acknowledging plaque? Again, not for me. But, you know, that’s better than
nothing. At least, the acclaimed “Work
of Genius” is out there, for all to appreciate.
The thing is, however – that “thing” being the decision to
privately own a Picasso – I am unequivocally not them. Leaving them writing a humungous check while I’m thinking, “Definitely, no sir.” (Had I the appropriate funding, which I
don’t.)
I mean, where does such extravagant behavior end?
“I bought the Washington Monument; you wanna see it?” (Imaging the current president selling off
national landmarks to subsidize tax cuts for the wealthy, a smaller “reach”
than ever in our extended history.
“It’ll look beautiful in your vestibule.
Believe me.”)
You display it for company.
You admire the “Look what I bought” as you casually pass by. You then ultimately forget about it, its
attention relegated to the dutiful attentions of the housekeeper, instructed to
dust it. And that’s it. The excitement inevitably wears off, leaving
a “Trophy Painting”, a “Trophy Spouse”, minus the “pre-nup.”
But that’s me and that’s them. And, veteran imaginer that I am, I cannot imagine
being them.
It turns out, as events subsequently unfold, I discover, I
can no longer imaginably be myself.
Let me helpfully explain.
We decide on an outing to the Shipshewana Flea Market, home
of a giant weekly auction, although not scheduled on the day we have selected for
our visit. Shipshewana is part of an
Indiana Amish community. You drive by
people sitting in horse-drawn buggies, not
some cockamamie “Tourist Attraction”, they actually live that way, their healthy horses clip-clopping by the side of
the road without being physically encouraged, seemingly knowing that the sooner
they get home, the sooner they can stop pulling the buggy.
Besides its vaunted Flea Market, Shipshewana offers
authentic, Amish-cuisine restaurants, featuring meals including a mountain of
wide noodles, mounds of buttery mashed potatoes, slathered in glutinous gravy. I have no idea how those Amish remain
alive. Living longer, in fact, that most
of us. Their typical diet should arguably kill them. But it doesn’t. Maybe because they toil actively in the
fields, and, meaning no disrespect, “pray off” the inevitable plaque.
Anyway, we arrive, after an eighty-or-so-mile drive, we eat
the healthiest lunch we can find on the menu, and we proceed to check out the
Flea Market.
And it’s terrible.
Even fleas
wouldn’t shop at this Flea Market.
(Sorry, I am still a little rusty with the comedy.) You know the lame prizes they award at local
carnivals? All better than the schlock foisted
at this Flea Market.
CARNIVAL PRIZE
BUYER: “Who’d throw a ball into
a milk can for that?”
It’s just, you know, rows and rows of plastic heads-of-a-chicken
stapled to a stick.
The official Flea Market map designates an area dedicated
exclusively to “Crafts.” Unable to
decipher the map, we receive directions at the “Information” kiosk, and we set
off to look for the “Crafts”, which, who knows, might possibly be great.
We had seen some remarkable Amish rocking chairs at an
antique store, coming “this close” to buying one, until we remembered that we
did not need any more chairs, our diminutive
cabin having a surfeit of chairs as it was.
I considered unloading a couple of the extras at this Flea
Market, deciding probably not.
FLEA MARKET
PURCHASER: “Sorry, too
nice. Make the rusty rooster weathervane
here look shoddy.”
We walk down aisle after aisle, unable to discover the “Crafts”
area. We ask further assistance, heading
away in an alternate direction. Still,
no “Crafts” area. Finally, we make a
decision. It is a debilitatingly muggy
day. We are exhausted from our
search. We had driven a substantial
distance to get there. And we are
frustrated, being unable to locate the “Crafts” area.
Taking these myriad considerations into account, we collectively
throw up our hands and trudge back to the car.
Which, as previously mentioned, got me thinking.
When we were younger, we would have definitely located that
“Crafts” area. Our surrender today stemmed from… it’s a considerable
list… energy depleting confusion, accumulated fatigue, insufficient
determination and an accepting willingness to wimp out.
In short, we were older.
And being older, we were demonstrably no longer ourselves. Except we were. Just not our former “ourselves.” We were now
the older “ourselves.” And we palpably experienced
the difference.
“This is not us,” we bristlingly bemoaned. Yet, accommodating the update, it unmistakably
was.
I felt like two distinctively different people – the “me”
that would have successfully tacked down the “Crafts” area, and the “me” that
found it possible to give up.
Who was that first
person? And where exactly did they go?
I used to believe “Walk a mile in their shoes” was a valuable
strategy for identifying with others. It
now occurs to me that that may not actually be possible.
How can I ever connect with other people when I can’t even
connect with earlier versions of myself?
… is what I thought driving back from Shipshewana, having
gone there to see crafts and returned home, unable to find them.
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