The giants of Jal — lasting legacy in 400 foot sculpture

By Jerry Phillips

It’s a desolate, barren landscape – one of chalky, alkaline soil, mesquite, prickly-pear cactus, wind, and sun – lots of sun. Engulfed on all sides by a semi-arid desert is the dusty little town of Jal, New Mexico, population 2,156. The natives there may raise an eyebrow, laugh, or frown if you mispronounce the name of their town, and they will definitely correct you. It isn’t “Jall”, nor “Jail”. Some visitors to New Mexico, thinking that all “Js” are pronounced as a Spanish “J”, will say “Hall”. That’s wrong, too. It rhymes with “gal.”

Brian’s vision came into sharp focus after reading a magazine article about a monumental metal sculpture which had been erected in the small town of Hominy, Oklahoma. The Hominy sculpture, created by that town’s local artist, Cha Tullis, consisted of a Native American hunting party – fifteen braves on horseback placed atop a hill overlooking the town. What made these figures unique was that they were a colossal twenty feet tall and were drawing 200,000 visitors to the little Oklahoma town each year.

Brian, in the meantime, began working on the sculpture – designing the figures and working out their placement relative to one another. Next came the enlargement of the figures, hours spent working with rolls of brown paper, masking tape, and an x-acto knife, creating templates of the twenty foot tall cowboys which would later be used to trace the work onto the seven sheets of quarter-inch steel used for the project – each 10 x 40 foot sheet of steel weighing 4,084 pounds. The steel was delivered to the sculpture site on September 9th, 1999, approximately nine months from the initial idea’s conception.

By November 27th, all seventeen figures had been cut from the rectangular metal sheets. During this “cutting” phase of the project, Brian had an unusual visitor at the site. Each day a curious roadrunner, the New Mexico state bird, came to watch the work progress from various vantage points in the area. Pictures of the roadrunner, along with photos showing the progression of the project from start to finish, may be found at the reunion website .

Fourteen months after its conception and more than five months before its dedication, the Jal Cowboy Sculpture is already drawing crowds to this little corner of New Mexico nestled against the vast expanses of west Texas.

My review on Goodreads:

Old people think differently than young people, as it should be. I once heard of a survey asking 1,000 old people (90 years old or older) what they would do if they could go back and start over. Most of them mentioned not sweating the little things, eating more fried chicken, indulging in life and, most importantly, leaving behind a legacy. I suppose none of us wants to be forgotten once we’ve been rejoined with the earth. And I suppose McCarthy was no different than the rest of us in that idea, by expressing the love for a child in a world that is lost. A good story is often salted by our personal views.

If you’re a parent, a teacher, an aunt, an uncle, or even a storyteller, you understand how difficult it is to let your children go out into the world on their own. You teach them, you advise them, you invest your time, heart and treasure in them and you want nothing but love and genuine happiness for them as they make their way through the ruins. You hope that once you’re gone they’ll remember what you’ve taught them and remember the importance of living a good and rewarding life. It’s more than just surviving. It’s more than just making it through the day and trying not to worry about tomorrow. It’s about carrying the fire of humanity and doing what is right and doing what it is you are meant to do. Living with purpose. And when we are self-serving, we are left with nothing.

I loved his writing style and appreciate that he is yielding to his God given gift. Writing. This story was beautiful and tragic and carried a message of hope for the future of our children. That we will not be forgotten and that they will always try to do what is right. And they will come to understand that although we as parents were not perfect and didn’t always know the right path to take, we always loved them and always wanted nothing but their happiness. We don’t want our children to see the ugliness of the world but it’s there and they will see it.

I didn’t think this story was all that depressing. It was bleak and dark. But the only word that I had for it after closing the book was: beautiful.

I hope that you will give this one another chance if you couldn’t before. Once I was sixteen or twenty pages deep, I was invested in the lives of father and son. It didn’t matter the source of the world’s devastation and it didn’t matter that I never knew the name of father and son. It could have been anyone of us and that makes the story all that more intimate to the reader.

Thank you, Patty for suggesting my first McCarthy read. There will be many more to follow. I have found a new favorite author.

The sky was… gone. The street in front of my house was covered in a swirling mass of water. Ice balls littered the lawn. I closed windows and checked the view from every angle of the house. Mom’s 20-foot pine trees were swaying back and forth, the tops nearly touching the ground. It was awesome! But only lasted about twenty minutes. Loud like a train. Louder! The hail on my front porch was the size of avocado pits. People who lived southeast of town lost garage doors, carport roofs, sheds and most all the windows on the south side of their homes. A metal storage building blew into the baseball field by the elementary school. (Later, the police blocked off the area because looters were carrying off the lumber… and there was asbestos involved.)

Our city tests the warning siren at noon on Mondays. The tornado warning did NOT sound. Just before we got hit, the communications tower behind the police station (that should have triggered the warning siren) was folded over. I think, later, the Hobbs police department sent over a communications van for us to use. (Because this is Jal, and we need help, and we never know what we’re doing. boo hoo.) On the Accuweather page, I looked for comments on the story. ‘Sixwat’ wrote: “The police tower fell… apparently there’s no backup system… oh, that’s right… this is Jal and no one is smart enough to know you should have a backup system.”

Mom’s backyard was buried in tree limbs, but that’s it; no broken windows, only a few shingles missing. Nobody, that I know of, was hurt. A 6′ by 10′ sheet of roofing was in my front yard, but it wasn’t mine. The house across the street lost roofing, their anteanna was bent and a brick wall crumpled into a pile in their carport (The same carport I stood under while watching the car fire).

Course, once it was over, everybody got out and drove around. It wasn’t like the disaster scene of Wikita, in Twister, but we all had a mess of tree limbs and tin roofing to clean up. Bulldozers drove out to Highway 18. An ambulance drove out of town, but no siren and they weren’t in that much of a hurry. Three different power companies sent workers over. Oh – and one of the police blazers lost a couple of windows. Haha.

I slept on the porch that night with sofa cushions and a blanket and had my own aftermath-of-the-storm picnic. All the street lights were out. Things are different in the dark. Quieter. The stars are brighter. An eerie calm settled on the town – except for the house down the street. About three in the morning, two guys were drinking and talking on their front porch, just loud enough to keep me awake, but just soft enough to where I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I gathered up my stuff and went back inside.

The house has grown quiet. It has doubled in size and I wonder if all parents feel this empty when their children are grown. My beautiful little ones have gone out into the world to make it their own – and how could I have not seen this coming? Before, I thought living alone would make the walls close in. Now I ramble around like an Alzheimer patient in a vacant gymnasium. I close all the doors. I open the windows. I close them again.

The spare room door stays shut (It’s energy-efficient, I tell myself). When I have to go in there, I turn my head from the Science Award plaque and Mother’s Day candle holders while dragging the vacuum cleaner out. I stop and look anyhow. It’s been a long stretch between holidays. I end up staring into graduation pictures, framed only yesterday and consider rewashing bedding that no one has slept in, or dusting the bookshelf that no one has looked over, then mentally note the number of days or weeks before I’ll see them again…

It’s a time of weekend bliss when the house is filled up. Everything is smaller again. Bags are unpacked. Pillows are fluffed. There aren’t enough chairs. Hugs are renewed and time will stand still for one happy, brief moment. Smells of rib-sticking comfort food fill the family kitchen and uproars of laughter bounce off of picture-framed walls. I savor the closeness and take snapshots in my mind to save up for later, for it will be over too soon. It’s always over too soon and there are hugs and kisses goodbye and I’ll watch them drive away. The lights will dim and evaporate into the night and lingering phantoms of laughter will drift into the steady ticking of the seashell clock on the living room wall. I’ll close the front door and lock it up tight and pay heed to the quiet hum of the refrigerator motor, and the steady plop from the bathtub spigot will echo louder than before. I’ll stare into the mirror and wonder why I never thought…

Have I placed such importance on family I have no peace without it? Have I forgotten about myself?  Or, even more horrifying – Am I becoming my mother? (God forbid!) I’m thinking too much… what is it I must change? What must I not?

Again I push away these scrambling thoughts, impossible to answer, improbable to sort, and sink into homework and literature and download more music, more Clapton on the MP3. I unplug the phone. I start up the treadmill. I walk an extra mile, write an extra hour, and turn my back from the sink that will hold only one cup, one plate and one fork on the days when my children are gone. I lay in bed in the dark, wide awake and I pray and listen to cars and trucks pass by from my small bedroom window. The sun begins to rise and though my mind is still questioning, wondering, analyzing, shouting –

Physical exhaustion will drape lovingly, mercifully around my shoulders until I am able to dream again.

I met my first love when I was nine.
 

It was the 1965 Fender Stratocaster dad kept in the living room. The body was a three-tone sunburst with mint green guard. The nut filed down to lower the action – a comfortable play for quick turn-around blues. My chin dropped in its presence. The Strat shone like the sword of King Arthur near the sunlit window, my untouchable Excalibur.

Girls don’t play guitar, dad said. Girls don’t throw rocks at boys and girls don’t play with Tonka Trucks. (Might as well tell a kid she can’t pick her nose.) I couldn’t help it, I had to embrace it.  The one day I straightened the tuning keys (oblivious to the impractical screw up – and so it would look nicer for dad) he put it back in the case and slid it under his bed. There it stayed, until the weekends.

Then it happened. I was old enough to join elementary band.

Fifth grade band was my reason for breathing. Students and parents gathered in the gym for the display. (If you didn’t join, you went to study hall.) I liked the trumpet. It was too beautiful. It was also too much for dad’s wallet. Mom gave me the look. I settled for the snare drum.

Dad said, “Why bother? She can’t even carry the case.”

Mom filled out the form. “Aye, como chingas Samuel!“

Everyday I brought my practice pad home and everyday I was told to shut the hell up.

I was pretty good. No, I was damned good. Finding a place where I fit in was a freak of nature. We held two concerts a year from fifth grade through the twelve. (What is that, sixteen total?) My parents went to one. I got better every year, and it didn’t stop at drums.

Tenth grade offered a guitar class. I borrowed a twenty-dollar special from my cousin, Dana. The action was high, and the strings were old, but my callouses understood my passion. The next year, I picked up some piano after school on my own. It was easy, once I knew where the notes were on the keyboard. Of course, dad found out. After that, Dana had to pick me up after first bell. Girls don’t play the drums; they grow up and have babies and clean house. I asked mom for sack lunches, and practiced during lunch.

Weekends were torture. I’d look over my language arts book, watching dad polish and restring while his Salem burned in the ashtray. I was jealous of a Fender.

It was twelfth grade when All-State tryouts came around. Mr. Valverde was insistent and said I would ace it. I finally gave in, after weeks of worry, wondering how I’d ever get that permission slip signed. I lost sleep over it.

The sheet music was a scribble of thirty-second notes for xylophone (treble clef and bass) which meant - for someone who would rather play by ear than by sheet music –  a week of lunch periods transcribing. My heart said, “YES!” but my mind said, “You’re dumber than I thought.” I practiced anyway.

Self-doubt set in. Maybe dad was right. Maybe I was wasting my time. I could never be as good as dad. I could never march with the Pride Band of NMSU. I worried about failing in front of my classmates in Las Cruces. I worried about disapointing Mr. Valverde. I knew dad wouldn’t care, but the whispers, they never ceased. Dad was my personal censor gifted in discouragement and doubt. I pictured him dancing around me, blowing ashtray dust in my face, laughing at my silly adolescent need for acceptance. I made the trip anyway.

The soundproof room was cold, not because of the air conditioning, but because of the monstrous xylophone parked before a row of wrinkled-faced judges. They chewed on their pencils and whispered to each other. I played two measures (that’s about 3 seconds) and froze.

I think I’m just beginning to understand why.

                                                                 ~~~

Censorship will haunt your heart’s desires, if you let it, but what if it’s something you were meant to do? What if everyone had a talent. I love my dad, but I hate what he did. He broke my heart lots of times, but he couldn’t break my love for music.  

I bought my first Strat in 98.

by Joe Hayes

This is a story that the old ones have been telling to children for hundreds of years. It is a sad tale, but it lives strong in the memories of the people, and there are many who swear that it is true.

Long years ago in a humble little village there lived a fine looking girl named Maria Some say she was the most beautiful girl in the world! And because she was so beautiful, Maria thought she was better than everyone else.

As Maria grew older, her beauty increased. And her pride in her beauty grew too. When she was a young woman, she would not even look at the young men from her village. They weren’t good enough for her! “When I marry,” Maria would say, “I will marry the most handsome man in the world.”

And then one day, into Maria’s village rode a man who seemed to be just the one she had been talking about. He was a dashing young ranchero, the son of a wealthy rancher from the southern plains. He could ride like a Comanche! In fact, if he owned a horse, and it grew tame, he would give it away and go rope a wild horse from the plains. He thought it wasn’t manly to ride a horse if it wasn’t half wild.

He was handsome! And he could play the guitar and sing beautifully. Maria made up her mind-that was, the man for her! She knew just the tricks to win his attention.

If the ranchero spoke when they met on the pathway, she would turn her head away. When he came to her house in the evening to play his guitar and serenade her, she wouldn’t even come to the window. She refused all his costly gifts. The young man fell for her tricks. “That haughty girl, Maria, Maria! ” he said to himself. “I know I can win her heart. I swear I’ll marry that girl.”

And so everything turned out as Maria planned. Before long, she and the ranchero became engaged and soon they were married. At first, things were fine. They had two children and they seemed to be a happy family together. But after a few years, the ranchero went back to the wild life of the prairies. He would leave town and be gone for months at a time. And when he returned home, it was only to visit his children. He seemed to care nothing for the beautiful Maria. He even talked of setting Maria aside and marrying a woman of his own wealthy class.

As proud as Maria was, of course she became very angry with the ranchero. She also began to feel anger toward her children, because he paid attention to them, but just ignored her.

One evening, as Maria was strolling with her two children on the shady pathway near the river, the ranchero came by in a carriage. An elegant lady sat on the seat beside him. He stopped and spoke to his children, but he didn’t even look at Maria. He whipped the horses on up the street.

When she saw that, a terrible rage filled Maria, and it all turned against her children. And although it is sad to tell, the story says that in her anger Maria seized her two children and threw them into the river! But as they disappeared down the stream, she realized what she had done! She ran down the bank of the river, reaching out her arms to them. But they were long gone.

The next morning, a traveler brought word to the villagers that a beautiful woman lay dead on the bank of the river. That is where they found Maria, and they laid her to rest where she had fallen.

But the first night Maria was in the grave, the villagers heard the sound of crying down by the river. It was not the howling of the wind, it was La Llorona crying. “Where are my children?” And they saw a woman walking up and down the bank of the river, dressed in a long white robe, the way they had dressed Maria for burial. On many a dark night they saw her walk the river bank and cry for her children. And so they no longer spoke of her as Maria. They called her La Llorona, the weeping woman. And by that name she is known to this day. Children are warned not to go out in the dark, for, La Llorona might snatch them and never return them.

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