It’s a day to go to Roger Allen’s pottery studio for the first time since he moved on. To walk among his tools in the silence of the still room in back. To gaze at the StarKeepers up front and realize this is all of them; there will never be any more. To see his soul, embodied in a wheel and a chair and a reminder on the door to never take this art thing too seriously.
A day to walk around the Chicken Farm in constant amazement of all the hidden surprises you’ve never noticed. To marvel at how a visionary could have created such an art oasis in conservative West Texas. A day to wish you had signed up for his art class at Central High.
A day to buy Mo a shirt to wear on clay days. What better mojo could you ask for? A day to remember that your dad, not an art collector at all, had a Roger Allen collection displayed proudly in his living room. Because. Roger.
A day to remember the last time Roger came over to talk with Rick, carrying with him the ponytail that had fallen victim to chemo. To remember that after everything, his body was frail, but his spirit was still strong.
A day to celebrate art. To celebrate life. A day to celebrate, because you know that’s what he would want. Here’s to life, the prophet Clyne once said. Here’s to life. Which, as it turns out, is a chicken farm.
And here’s to you, Roger. I know the stars will keep you.