Uncle Antonio

Posted on October 24, 2005 by Gene

The news travelled quickly through my family: our uncle Antonio has died. He was either 94 or 96, depending on who you ask.
By virtue of age, he was probably the patriarch of the Flores family, my relatives in El Paso. But it was his art that we all admired.
The small house that he shared with our aunt Maria was a little time capsule. Even in the 1990s, it hadn’t been updated in any way — my mother couldn’t show them vacation videos because they had an ancient TV with a knob that couldn’t accept a coaxial cable or RCA input. Their old dial telephone was still wired directly into the wall where it had been installed decades ago. The original kitchen appliances were enough for Maria to make a supply of food that far outlasted her, wrapped carefully in white paper and archived in the refrigerator for Antonio’s meals into the 21st century and beyond.
No, the house itself — aside from the toothpaste-green color — was unremarkable. It was Antonio who made it a landmark.
Upon driving up the street, the house appeared to have two Sajuaro cactus in the front yard. It was only when you reached the house that you discovered that they were sculptures of a type. The tops of the cactus were made from the bottoms of 2-liter Coke bottles.
The neat line of bright flowers along the house were painted metal, created from old beer cans.
The backyard… well, it defies description. Concrete pathways, painted with flowers and kaledescopic designs, dotted with marbles, wind their way through trees — again, with more embedded marbles and painted designs. An exercise bike knocked together from bits of 2x4s. A wishing well where the devil stares back at you thanks to clever reflections. A patio gazebo stocked with dozens of sunglasses around the inside, just in case you forgot yours. A concrete birthday cake on the table, with painted frosting. A plexiglass box protects the cake from a hundred plastic ants making their way up the table leg and across the top. Small wooden coffins open to reveal fish bones. Strung across the living room, ropes of Christmas tree balls, there year-round.
Antonio seemingly spoke only three words of English: “Fine, thank you.”
That’s okay. He spoke the same language we kids did, as we scrambled around the whimsical backyard chasing lizards.