David Rose
By David Malcolm Rose
Before I moved to Hot Springs, I lived for many years in another Arkansas city. It was my belief then, and still is now, that I had it in me to be an artist. Artists require cheap space and personal freedom, and I found both in a ‘marginal’ neighborhood of that city. The only downside was that my house would periodically get robbed.
I didn’t have much, but that did not dampen the enthusiasm of the reivers. On one raid they took my toaster oven, the front glass of which was scorched, my coffee percolator, minus the cord, and half a tube of toothpaste. Why they passed up a serviceable thrift store clock radio remains a mystery.
I had two black and white televisions, both discards. One of them was fine in almost every respect if you could overlook the fact that it had a blown picture tube. The other held a fine picture but had no sound. They were stacked on a side table with a set of rabbit ears on top. By setting them both on the same channel and wrapping the rabbit ears with tin foil, I could bring in three stations with relative clarity.
Another band of brigands, or it may have been the same ones, broke in and liberated my dual TVs. They took both sets and the rabbit ears. They left the tinfoil.
All this time, the house was littered with my art. Charcoal sketches, pencil drawings, pottery, and even a few oils were scattered everywhere. The robbers, who saw value in used toiletries and misused appliances, saw no value in my work. My feelings were hurt. I made a vow that if ever I caught one of these bandits, I would force them up against a wall and tell them that whatever else they were planning to steal, they would also be taking a watercolor sketch or at least a raku jam jar.
David Rose, of Hot Springs, is an author and artist.
{More of David’s musings can be found at thespringsmagazine.com/category/arts/david-rose.}
