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The Story of Rowena

That hot day in August had not given relief with the sun setting. If anything, the air seemed even heavier, almost forbidding, as a group of high schoolers moved slowly down the small twisting dirt road. School was beginning next week and nothing would stop them from having one last adventure. The oldest of the group had overheard his parents speak of the property on which they were trespassing. “Used to be a speakeasy, a brothel... maybe worse”. “Been vacated for years… yes, nothing there but ghosts.” “Ghosts”. “Spanish Land grant to a Mexican family was what I’d heard. Then they were run off during the Texas Revolution by Santa Anna. Lucky they left with their lives was what I heard since they favored the Republic.” ALGO DIFERENTE… that was the name of it now... loosely translated...it meant “someplace different” or at least that was what they were told.

“There is a huge ballroom with mirrors everywhere.” “Yeah, and at night you can hear the ball gowns swishing over the terrazzo floors as ghostly waltz music plays.” The stories came faster and faster as the teens kept walking down that lonesome little road. It was still light, but it was fading fast since the sun had already gone past the horizon toward a new day. Rowena Leming was ahead of the group that evening in the early 1940’s. Always curious and eager to explore the architecture of the old Texas mansion, she had welcomed the adventure and just as they reached a bend in the road... she turned to tell the others to hurry up. They looked toward her and something behind her caught their attention. Their eyes grew huge in their faces... one girl brought her hand to her mouth with a sharp intake of breath... “OH MY!!” One boy grabbed a big rock and made ready to throw it... Rowena turned slowly... not understanding what she saw..

A T-Rex waving its ridiculous front legs at them grinned with a mouth full of razors. They were all destined to be invited to supper... the improbable dinosaur’s supper that is.

The goose bumps raised on my arms as I listened to my story teller describe a night in her youth that still gave her “the willies”. The dinosaur guarded the entrance to the property and in that light and their frame of mind... seemed pretty much up to the task. After they got over their initial shock, they realized that the “razors” were actually rocks... the whole sculpture was of the native stone of the area... and cactus had been integrated into the structure to give it bulk and even more fierceness.. as if that were necessary... The once brave troops were now not quite as bold. The mansion stood beyond the big lizard bigger than they had expected... darker than they expected... gloomy in the haze of sunset. The façade was very similar to that of The Alamo, but the structure sprawled off each side with terraces and big French doors that opened into... what? “I’ve seen enough... how bout you guys??” “OH yeah.. .and spooked into a quick sprint... they left”.

Ballrooms were huge octagonal shaped rooms... broken glass and mirror strewn over the floor... the rooms had the ability to make the biggest man seem insignificant and dwarfed with its history. Seemed to have been initially built at the time of the missions of San Antonio by the same architects and construction.

Years passed. Memories of the unusual estate haunted Rowena... forever she would remember the huge edifice in front of a full moon. The desire to return and go beyond those broken windows was so cactus sculptures and mesquites fragile and soft... yet so thorny and Native... prickly stuff... stuff of Texas and so every opportunity she had she would return... to sketch and draw one time... she met the current owner of the property, Doug Sanders, on one of those excursions. Conversations with him gave her the feeling that he did not wish to see the place torn down either. More sculptures around the swimming pool.

Most impressed with the stair cases that seemed to go no where... no room was left... feeling of a walk into a new dimension... or another world. Also the human quality was there... or places people would have met... talked danced... played... rested... loved

The Story of Joe

Little boys like to fish, but having lost my father at a young age, I had never gone. Never one to ignore potential and opportunity I got the chance to learn from an expert, but it nearly soured me on fly fishing.

I was fourteen years old when my mother and I were invited to go to Pagosa Springs, Colorado with Jack and Marie Watson, friends of ours that lived in Amarillo. Jack was an expert fly fisherman, and his wife and my mother thought the exposure would be good for me. At the crack of dawn.. about 4 am, we piled into Jack's jeep and followed an amazing assortment of twisting roads 'til we came to a stream. I thought surely this was the place, but then Jack kicked the jeep into 4-wheel drive and followed that stream as far as we could. We parked the jeep; got in the stream and wade fished to where water cascaded down over the edge of a tall cliff. It was scenery you just don't forget. A waterfall and whirlpools spilled over the lip of the first pool down to the second and third; stair-stepping down where the stream continued. This was Jack's "piece of Heaven". As I said, the scenery was spectacular and watching Jack work that stream with his fly rod stuck in my mind like glue. It was all going really well until I tried to tie on a fly to my own line. Jack's way of teaching was to allow me to watch and imitate... so... I used my mouth as I had seen him to affix that fly and next thing I knew.. it was in my lip. I did my best to try and quietly work it out, but the situation just worsened.

We had traveled at least forty minutes to get there. And Jack had only cast his line half a dozen times. He took one look at my feather bedecked upper lip and said a few words I couldn't quite make out.. but that was probably just as well. He didn't have anything with which to cut the wire and determined that it might be best to go to the local doctor...in the event that a tetanus shot was necessary. I had thought we had traveled a long time getting to our destination, but it was even worse on the return. My vocabulary was enhanced mightily that drive. We found the country doctor's office (which was at his home) but was greeted at the door by a closed sign. Never being the shy type.. Jack hollered through the door anyway and in a short time up walked the doctor and his son both in waders and holding their fishing poles.

Nothing much needed to be said.. my dilemma was purely obvious, but the problem was the lack of an appropriate tool by which to remedy the situation. It didn't seem like it would be too tough since the hook was small. The son raced off to their barn and return with the snips used to cut fencing wire. They were bigger than my head, but that didn't deter their futile and painful efforts to free me. Finally, Jack told everyone to just stay put and he headed to the neighborhood hardware store. Back he came five very long, painful minutes later with a more appropriately sized wire cutter. The next thing I knew, I was holding that fly in my hand. I was not asked to return to the stream with Jack that day or the rest of the trip as far as that goes.

Years later, living in the Woodlands, Texas north of Houston, I happened into Oshmans Sporting Goods store and found a Diawa fly rod on sale, bought it and taught myself how to cast and fly fish and later learned to tie my own flies. Sometimes it takes a while to redeem yourself.

I never could stand, even as a kid, to just sit and do nothing. Back then oranges and apples were shipped to the grocery in wooden pine crates. These crates caught the eyes of my brother and I one day when we had it in our head to build some World War I and II airplanes. The wood was soft and easy to work with even if the planes were not that easy to create, but I stuck with it 'til the finished product was to my liking. This was the beginning of my introduction to craftsmanship.

Later, in my adult years, after years of working in the oil and gas exploration business, I retired and moved to Canyon Lake. In a fishing store I saw a lamp designed as a fisherman’s lantern. This gave me the idea for my display lamps. The first one did not have any lights to illuminate the flies – that idea came later.

Joe's collectible fly displays and table lamps is a distinctive mixture of art with fishing that can be seen at Sattler Artisans’ Alley.