Last night I met a guy named Irv who is a beer can artist. Irv wouldn’t call himself an artist. He calls himself an 89-year-old man.
What is that age when we start introducing ourselves with a number. Under the age of 5, but over the age of what? I’m 51, and I never introduce myself as a 51-year-old. Listening to Irv talk, I wonder at what age it became noteworthy.
Irv, the 89er, is selling a boat. I met Irv on his 37 acres to see his old boat. My husband is currently obsessively shopping for a boat and I went along to see what we are getting ourselves into.
When I explained to my husband how I would renovate the old boat, he lost interest in Irv’s old boat. Wandering through the acres back to our car, Irv took us on a path that led to his beer can art garden.
Oh, please, I am a sucker for the strangest yard art. A Caterpillar replica bulldozer made out of beer cans? Are you kidding? The best part is that all the beer cans were painted yellow, as in Caterpillar yellow.
In all my 51 years, I’ve never seen anything like it.
Forget the boat.
Honey, I want the beer can art.
My husband is hurrying to the car like he has a sudden emergency.
My fondness for folk art knows no limits.
He actually can’t stand this sort of artwork.
“Irv, how long does it take to make one of pieces?”
Irv explains, “Not so long as it takes to drink all that beer!”
I’m ready to make an offer on the beer can art garden, but it’s not for sale and I know Irv is going to ask for a fortune.
My husband honks the horn.
Anything to leave, he can’t get out of Irv’s driveway fast enough.
I take some photos of the beer can art sculptures knowing these will be my only keepsake.
Irv tells me these aren’t original ideas. He saw a beer can tractor in California and copied it.
He winks at me. I know what the wink means.
He gets that he lost my husband back when he was showing us his polished rocks that he polishes for 40 days and nights. Irv has garbage cans full of polished rocks.
The wink was to let me know, I just go home and build myself something out of beer cans.
The only problem is that I don’t drink beer.
Sarri Gilman is a freelance writer living on Whidbey Island and director of Leadership Snohomish County. Her column on living with meaning and purpose runs every other Tuesday in The Herald. You can email her at features@heraldnet.com.
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