Gallery Night

Success is in the eyes of the beholder. Ashby and Allison Fine Arts Galleries opened in June 2003. Their first gallery night in Alpine, Texas needed a method of counting visitors for future planning.

The solution, a battery operated electric eye to count the number of visitors who passed through the portal of the gallery. The device was installed at a height of the average waist of a person. Several tests were conducted to determine if the count being recorded was correct. Everything worked to a tee. A simple division by two would account for one customer coming and going. On Friday at 10 am the device was reset to zero. A piece of masking tape was put over the numbers. We decided not to check it until Sunday morning, after the activities of the weekend.

As the weekend progressed we were glad the device was taking care of the counting, business was hopping. We could hear the click as people came and went. Saturday we closed at midnight and headed home exhausted.

The next morning we drove to the gallery. Our first order of business was detaching the tape on the counter. On checking we were surprised, 8,371 visitors passed through our door, we knew this was not possible. The division by 2 meant 4,185 ½ people had been there. We were disappointed; the count could not be accurate, as it was high. We expected between three and five hundred visitors.

We moved to the porch to guesstimate the number of visitors. Stepping through the door we heard the faint click of the counter. As we were drinking our coffee we heard the faint clicking sound again. We looked at the door and both laughed. There was Picatso, our gallery cat, pawing the electric eye. Click, click, click, the mystery was solved.

Killer for Hire

I’m a contract killer. My lifestyle is different from others. I work at night. I have very sensitive hearing and eyesight, especially in the dark. My reflexes are the best in the business. I’m very fast, my muscles are strong and my grip is deadly. My specialty is not leaving any evidence. I don’t relax until my victim or victims are dead.

My contact takes care of everything for me. I’m driven to the site to do my job. I wait as preparations are done for me. I scope the area, looking for ways the victim or victims could possibly escape. I make a mental note of how to handle situations that could be embarrassing.

I verify arrangements for food, drink and the necessary place has been taken care of. My equipment is a gun metal chair with a soft cushion. It is placed by a window where a street light cast a beam of light across the floor or by a door with a back light casting the beam.

Everyone departs. I’m alone waiting on darkness, setting on my comfortable cushion, sometimes for hours, sometimes more than one night. I’m patient and have been known to fall asleep on the job.

I’m always in the shadows and the lighted area is what I consider the dead zone. My victim sets foot into the zone. I jump, race toward the victim. I have the victim in a death grasp before he reaches the outer edge of the beam.

Tonight is different, it has been very busy and none have escaped. I have laid out each of the dead in the light beam as the morning sun warms the area and the bodies.

I hear the key turn in the lock, in walks my contact and the contractor. I hear much pleasure as they count seven dead. I fall to sleep as I hear the rewarding exclamation, “Picatso, the best dang cat I know”.

First Funeral

I don’t like funerals. Here’s a story of my first one.

September 18, 1947, Fairview Church of the Brethren, Court Manor, 5 miles south of New Market, Virginia. Weather was sunny with no rain and warm.

We lived in a farmhouse on the Court Manor plantation. Everyone was busy getting dressed. I just stood around and waited. Finally someone gathered me up, washed my face and hands and dressed me in my best clothes.

I really didn’t know what was happening, I just waited. I know my Dad was very sad. I heard him crying during the night. I had sneaked into his room during the night and slept on the floor at the foot of his bed.

We all loaded into the car and drove to the church. I remember sitting on the front pew and listening to people talk. A big wooden box called a casket was in the center of the pulpit area.

All the talk stopped and everyone was invited up to view the person in the casket. I didn’t go up, but some family member picked me up and took me up to the casket. They told me to look at my mother. I didn’t want to. I looked toward the back of the church. They kept turning around for me to look and I kept looking up or away from the casket.

My dad told her to put me down and he took me by the hand and we walked out of the church. We stood under a tree and people came up to my dad and said they were sorry. I kept hold of his hand.

Some men came out of the church carrying the casket and walked around the corner to the grave yard. The casket was closed. Dad followed behind the casket with me in tow. The rest of our family, Big Bob, Junior, Ash and Netz followed along behind us.

We stood at the grave, a large hole in the ground. Everyone was sad and crying. I didn’t cry because I didn’t understand what was going on.

Someone was talking and praying and then we the family went up and someone was handing us roses. One was put into my hand.

A little later the casket was lower into the ground and more words were spoken. Dad was crying then and I remember saying to him, “Don’t cry, Daddy, you still have me”.

We went back to the house and my life continued with lots of different things happening. I was six years old and had to start school, it was really a tough day.

August 1, 1977. I was visiting my dad, he had terminal cancer. We were setting on his porch step watching traffic go by on Interstate 81. His home was west of interstate 81 opposite the entrance to Endless Caverns.

We were just sitting there talking. He started telling me about his garden which was in front of us. He said that it would never be a garden again. At the time I wasn’t concerned but he was right. Every time I have driven by his home there has never been a garden.

He told me he really like living in his old house, he could sit on the porch and look out over Court Manor and think of my Mom. He could see the Church where she was buried and lately was thinking a lot about her.

He told me that he’d be buried next to her and that she was really a great wife and mother. He said I had made him proud and knew she was proud of me too.

We then talked about his Mother and Dad and that he was about the same age as his dad when he had died. We talked about little things after that, most not worth mentioning.

I stood up and told him I had to leave and drive back to Washington, DC to catch a flight to Miami. He stood up and hugged me. My Dad hadn’t given me a hug since I was a child. It brought tears to my eyes.

He then looked at me and said, “You are a good son and this will be the last time you see me”. I then ask if he thought he’d be in heaven and he said, “I made my decision years ago and we’ll all meet again”.

Driving back to DC was a long tearful hour. I did wonder about him and our conversation. No one had ever told me they wouldn’t see me again. Two days later on Tuesday I received the call, my Dad had passed. I was very fortunate to have a great Dad.