It was here I found my first piece of china. A few weeks ago while dining with a comely young woman in Quartzsite, I made the decision to replace my plastique. Raised on Meissen's onion pattern and Rosenthal, my aesthetic is now post-moderne. I figger'd ah'd know hit when I seed it. And so it was....exclusively for Cabela's.
And a couple of silver-plated spoons. I prefer silver or plated, but what with the mental and sight deteriorations, I have to keep an eye out (blind in one eye...that's a pun) for replacements. She charged a buck each.
You noticed on the card the shop is owned by two. And on the 14th -- of this month -- I think it was Kay Harris who waited patiently as I perused the collection. I've had the relentless ponders about going back for the (authentic) wicker picnic basket, the collection of 1950s plastic farm animals and a pair of tiny, beautifully variegated, earrings on the bottom shelf of the jewelry display case. That magnificent, collectible, totally-post-moderne plate was a mere $6.00.
Wending topward (go left at the big fork), I passed a few well-used campspots, but no beckoning nymphs. And it was meant to be...I attained the pinnacle at the ovarial moment. And as the sun's crepuscular rays illumned the valley, the distant mountains flaunted their regal purples. I pulled forth the martini shaker and settled in."It" being naught more than a wide spot in the road I nodded to Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Godot) and pushed my hair behind my ears as I bobbed my head to Sir McCartney's emotive inquiry. Fortunately, no one came by. It's that kind of place.
Without a camera (see previous post), I have only memories, which, these days, are on fast-fade. It's narrow, winding, dirt and suitable, I guess, for trailers as long as you don't want to turn around. A fine place to piddle.
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