Gary is an enigma. He shows up at the gallery most weekends and we sit at the picnic table and chat. He’s bought a piece of art from everyone, with the exception of an apron from BB, over the past few weeks—a special order t-shirt from Ria with the frog with horns and leaves for wings and swirly hypnotic eyes, a whimsical lamb in shades of red from Lee, and a collage called Release with tarot cards embedded from me.
He’s young to be a vet—in his thirties. He suffers from severe PTSD from serving in Bahrain. There’s some military number assigned to it that he’s said before. I don’t remember it. He left with money enough to buy his own house in Amador County. He was hoping for some peace, but unfortunately has a neighbor that keeps stalking him. He’s thinking he might pick up and move to the coast.
When he sits at the table he’ll share something he’s written recently—some general thoughts or a poem. When other people arrive to the gallery he’ll disappear in an instant. Like he evaporated. I’ll look over and he’ll be gone. No goodbye, just gone. And then maybe he’ll be back. Maybe not.
He reminds me of Shadow when I first got her. Loving it one-on-one when I was petting her, but then darting away at any minor sound and hiding where it’s impossible to find her.
He’s decided he wants to act.
“It helps me be around people.” he says.
He’s been in the last two plays at Volcano Theatre Company—Catch Me If You Can, where he played a deli owner who gets shot at the end of Act II and Too Many Cooks, where he played a warehouse worker who gets shot at the end of Act I. I met him during Too Many Cooks and we hung out backstage. He asks me about acting professionally and I’m encouraging him to try it out. We talk about all the different types of acting jobs available, from summer stock to voice overs to standardized patient gigs. He’s not moving to LA or New York. He’s only been in two plays so far, but he’s pretty good.
“You wanna see my stick?” he asks one morning at the gallery.
“What?” I say.
“I make walking sticks. I just found a good one and I need to sand it.”
“Sure!”
And he walks back to his car and pulls out this beautiful gnarled piece of madrone.
“There’s a place in here where I think I’ll put a stone or something.” he points to a burl at the top of stick. It’s whorled and knotted and perfect for some kind of polished rock.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
“Do you want to go on a hike sometime?” he asks.
And plans are made to hike Silver Lake the next week. We’ll meet at the gallery and head out.
Gary arrived with the finished walking stick and handed it to me.
“That’s yours,” he says and he pulls out another one for him. We didn’t need the sticks for this easy hike. This offer felt like an invitation to future hikes where a walking stick might be necessary.
The last time I went to Silver Lake it was with a different friend—someone I call my Visitor. We found a beautiful stroll along a river to a waterfall. We walked along the white rocks covered in lichen and dotted with juniper trees and wondered at the quiet. There was no one but us in the world. I thought I might be able to find the spot again.
No luck.
Gary and I drove around for nearly an hour around Plasse Resort trying to find a trailhead until we parked and approached a man on a horse to ask for directions. He indicated a six-mile loop that would get us to Granite Lake and we set off.
We talked about our experiences of moving to Amador, his work as a geologist, plans for the future—general life stuff. I remembered how easy it is to open up when you’re just walking side by side.
We continued to find trails without directions, sections of trails that just ended, and finally landed in a place with spectacular views along and above Silver Lake. We’d been hiking for a couple of hours when we saw a trailhead to Granite Lake and decided to call it good and head back. Granite Lake another time. A steeper hike that needs a walking stick in the future. And an actual map.
Such interesting people in your budding community. :) xoxo