SUN SPOTS:..."Morning In The Sticks," A Sort Of Love Story...

 

By EDUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ

RIO GRANDE CITY, Texas |...You've been to a lonely outpost of the sort you see in the photograph above, some dusty, isolated little dot on a map between medium-sized towns out west. Not a fast-food joint for miles. No nifty, 24-hour Holiday Inn, no competing gas stations, no choice in restaurants.

It forces me to stop, to stop and check things out, talk to the locals, ask them about their lifestyle, their needs and wants and dreams. The rough unadorned lands, are a harsh taskmaster, is what they will tell you.

It's there and it's free, allowing for endless back-breaking work, for goofing-off and for a moment of true peace. No fast-charging 18-wheeler to break the afternoon tranquility, perhaps a high-flying, Paris-bound jetliner throwing a neat white line across a light-blue sky, the contrail looking like some low-leg, life-affirming capillary way up there.

You tell me you once had a shot at moving out, moving away to the big city. But the soldier never came home. You waited and then it was simply too late.

You invite me in for a cup of coffee and let loose a raging river of words that tell your story. I drink from my cup slowly, taking in every sentence, every scene being painted.

The young soldier was killed in South Vietnam.

Not much information about how, but confirmation that he died bravely, or as bravely as one can take an unseen bullet. Then you show me a stack of faded, old photographs of when you and the soldier were kids, playing in the hillsides and the ravines, chasing coyotes after annoying the chickens, laughing ahead of what you believe will be a great life. You pull out a much-newer, framed photo of your wedding day and tell me this one is a good man, still providing.

I inhale deeply.

She's the bravest woman I've ever known. At the front door, she graciously thanks me for stopping by and talking. From the aging porch, she waves goodbye, does it with true, all-out sincerity.

It's four-five miles down the road before I can breathe easy...

-30-

[EDITOR'S NOTE: This short story is from a collection stacked at my feet alongside my working desk. Perhaps I'll tell myself I'm finished with it one of these days and float it all to some publisher. Sometimes, I like most of my stories and at others I tell myself I've yet to find perfection, which is my goal. You'd have to be me to understand that one...]