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.
Great memories of Antonio. I know – I have the same ones – I remember when my generation of cousins all ran through and made it to the same kitchen, filled with 5 to 10 parakeets in cages chirping away while we ate Maria’s flour tortillas hot off the stove.
Being of the older generation I remember Tio Antonio in his early 40’s. Some of the original “art Work” was displayed in the only other house he and Tia ever owned on Cypress St.
Then there were the Christmas holidays. No regular everyday decorated tree had he–but one with hand made little wooden toys and packages of candy (especially life savers)and at the end of the holiday there we would all be Manny,Al Jr.
Susie,Richard and Landis (Eva was too old for such frivolity Maura & Charlie not having arrived yet) and down would come the tree with us being the benefactors of all the goodies on display.
Down in the basement I have still a small wooden truck painted black with the name of KIRK in gold letters–a gift to my youngest from his great uncle. And of course a wooden step stool painted in the most outrageous shades of orange and pink. Good memories in a happy and close family.
How I wish that everyone could have shared the good times with all of the older generation as those memories keep me warm now in the autumn of my time.