This native Texan experienced a fun visit to Fort Worth, Texas on the last couple of days in May, 2011. The arts community members of Fort Worth distinguish themselves as conscientious custodians of art treasures: The Kimbell’s paintings and drawings and their ornate frames, the palette of hues on walls and color-enhancing electric light sources, their sculptures on perfect mounts or inside preserving plexiglass boxes; installations at The Museum of Modern Art; the magnificent Philip Johnson Water Park, and more, including the Bass Performance Hall in Sundance Square, these beautiful forms inspire the lives of folks in Fort Worth and tourists from elsewhere. Our beloved Kimbell Art Museum, a heavy, comforting structure, intriguing and plain, lures patrons and visitors, and rewards substantively, even to the way a lunch is served and, as well, the way a wine experience lingers at The Modern Cafe, where you look out at two silver metal trees in the distance named “Conjoined.”
The Kimbell Museum’s architect, Louis Kahn, designed brilliantly back in his heyday. He knew how to bring a prolific array of drawn art that brought renderings to a built work. The majestic Kimbell is in process of enlarging over the next couple of years. Many more artworks now stored will come out for display in the additional structures, one of the docents said. Not surprisingly, I look forward to visiting the museum then. Each time I go, I am rewarded with a heightening of all my senses, and I find it hard to leave. On this particular May 2011 visit, a small exhibition featured Picasso, the Spaniard, and Braque, the Frenchman, collaborators and reviewers of each other’s development in cubism. The two joined up in experimentation for two or three years, 1910–1912. The exhibit’s iPads we opted to use in the gallery enhanced the figuring out of the untraditional earth-toned paintings. Without being allowed to photograph the paintings, I can only post a shot of the two men, Braque white-haired on the left, with Picasso, in their later years. Picasso was born in 1881 and died in 1973. For purposes of communicating coherently selections in patnotes.com, I refer readers to my “Beulah’s Buggy Ride” original story, an older post. Picasso’s years of living are close enough to my grandmother Beulah’s years to make me smile and take extra note. She was born in 1884 and died in 1979.
BEULAH’S BUGGY RIDE, An Original Story by Patricia
Two goals structured this story: 1) A character must tell a joke, and 2) A character must cry. I heard about this story structure on National Public Radio (NPR), who sponsor an ongoing writing competition, and I found that it helped me get started and finish quickly. I entered this story in the contest, but received no further comment after the filing was acknowledged. I like the idea of the story, because it creates a feeling of closeness to my late grandmother. Also, I became interested in using a voice from olden times. I studied an old photo of my grandfather wearing a panama hat and ascot driving a mule-drawn buggy, and I took him out of the scene and put my grandmother and her sister in the buggy as the characters, one joking, one crying.
BEULAH’S BUGGY RIDE
The big sky of Texas drew their gazes upward, Beulah the younger sister and Rebecca a few years older. Riding alone in the open buggy was not an ordinary, day-to-day thing. Anxiety grew every time the wheels bumbled into and out of dried rivulets of mud. “This mule and buggy can cross along here, even after a norther?” Beulah half stated, half asked Rebecca, beside her driving. Beulah swung her right hand, shoulder level, toward the dried mud of the higher ground, the cattle-crossing of south-central Texas. Rebecca muttered something vague, “We’ll jus’ see . . . we’re in a dry spell. Sister, I’m not telling you anything– every fall so far has been different. How many now, five?”
“Yes, but I remember . . . last April was wet. Look yonder at that cloud! It’s black.”
“Let’s get to the house and load that library table and cover it good. I’ve seen Will tie down that waterproof tarp. We can do it. The rain may come before we get to your place.”
“Hee-aw, mule!” Rebecca slapped the reins at the young animal. He lurched, anxious about the whip in his peripheral vision. The sisters hoped feebly for good luck with the mule, who once bit Clarence during plowing. But at least their husbands, Clarence and Will, had enough faith in the mule to let the girls put him in the trap and use the buggy. The dark sky threatened. The girls had a good hour and a half of work ahead of them after getting the sturdy oak table through Rebecca’s front door. The lovely piece with so many practical uses had been promised to Beulah for a long time. Today was the day to hand it over. The buggy had become available. The sisters continued to chat about their home counties, Parker and Hill, the cattle-crossing, and their growing mission church. Bumbling along over the rutted terrain, Beulah began to giggle a little. “You know we’re Welsh girls.”
“And marmalade is made in Wales, right?”
“Ever heard of egg marmalade?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, I’m gonna’ tell you a joke about egg marmalade. There was a hen with three little chicks, good little chicks. They called their mother ‘Marma.’ One day they couldn’t find their mother. Then the brightest of the three little chicks figured it out– she had gone to lay an egg. The little chick, tiny beak turning to the left, and then to the right, posed a question to siblings, ‘Have you heard about the egg Marma laid?’” Now both girls were giggling, and Rebecca clucked and slapped the reins hard to the mule’s haunches.
He bolted! Beulah fell back against the library table, which wedged her against the buggy seat. She got a hard knock on the head. Rebecca, who saw legs and feet flying, screamed and turned, scaring the young mule, who scattered the wagon, sending it sideways. The mule strained against his twisted trappings but, for the moment, stayed put. He bayed, and the buggy wheels spun. The black magic in the big cloud began to crack and boom across the sky. “Ooh-hoo,” Rebecca bawled, and the rain began to fall. “We’ll be here till our husbands come this way for prayer meeting! They’ll see us!”
“Or we can try to set this wagon.”
“In this rain?”
“I think it’ll set right well,” Beulah sang out, “And I know that mule; he’ll be all right.” “He bites!”
C’mon, I’m taking the reins, you push! Freed up from her wedged state, Beulah wiped the rain from her face with her sleeve and started around to the baying mule. “Look, that black sky is breaking up,” Beulah, rubbing her sore right arm, waved it skyward.
While the mule pulled, Rebecca pushed for all she was worth. They did set that wagon upright indeed, and climbed in. As they wobbled home, Beulah said, “Sister, is that ornery table any the worse for the fall?”
“No, but I’m comin’ out of this buggy ride with a little egg marmalade on my face!
“Now don’t you worry, Sister . . . we’ve got us a glory theme going!”