A Man I Call "Sir"; Part 1

Kirk and I returned last night from his third, and my fifth trip, to Texas this year.  The 21 hours of driving leaves a lot of time for wonderful conversation and pondering for me and for my sweetheart.  So much has transpired this year and I still struggle to put the journey into words. Fortunately, I have somewhat of a cyber-journal here and hope that my words and feelings can be had for good some day by someone who comes across them.

About 42 years ago I met a most amazing man.  His name is Roger Peter Carly. He is the son of Dan and Josephine Carly and the big brother to my father, Dan Carly Jr. I met him at the kitchen table of his parents home, the home I now have the blessed privilege of living in. He is a handsome man with piercing blue eyes...an often talked about family trait.  He was accompanied by his wife; a sweet voiced, Southern belle named Polly.  He referred to me as "Sweetheart". We were immediately connected, he and I.

Over the years we have had countless conversations, on the phone, in person and by email. I have shared ideas, secrets, mistakes, successes and trials with him.  We have laughed, cried and joked with each other.  He has made me laugh, taught me how to be patient, exhibited amazing abilities with animals (especially beagles;)), guns and the English language. He wore his cowboy hat like only a true Texan could.  

This will take some time.....but please, bear with me as I tell you about a man I call Uncle Roger and "Sir".

Roger and Polly Carly live in Marfa, Texas, a small town, in a very large state, about 30 miles North of the border of Mexico.  It boasts a little more that 2000 residents, a plethora of museums, authentic Mexican food and the mysterious Marfa lights. Located on an inconspicuous corner in this cozy town is a 3 story, centenarian home shielded from the desert sun by more than a dozen towering trees.  You will find all manner of vegetation, some indigenous, some transplants protected and prodded to grow by the mistress, covering every inch of the grounds.  Walk anywhere on the property and you will be greeted by four barking beagles, loyal only to their master, announcing your arrival.

Next to the detached garage of their home is a place known throughout the Unites States as "The Gun Shop". Hours are 9-Noon and 3 -6 PM. Business is not conducted from Noon to 3....ever. This protected time is reserved for lunch and an afternoon nap. Visitors and phone calls are only accepted during an absolute emergency. No exceptions. Call or stop by during this time and it will be the ONLY time you will make this mistake.

The Gun Shop is not a large place by any means. It measures roughly 6 feet wide by 20 feet long and is filled with tools, machinery, dust, gun pieces and parts.  The smell of oils, solvents and sweat make your nose tickle a bit but it becomes a pleasantly anticipated smell that makes you feel safe. The cement floor has the usual small cracks of age and a pathway down the center made shiny by the footsteps of a man at work.  Screwdrivers, hammers and files cover the walls in chaotic organization known only to the master of the shop.  There are various posters alerting visitors to the federal laws of purchasing firearms and gun safety. There are old license plates, one in particular is from Pennsylvania with the year 1937. The year and state that Uncle Roger was born.