I'm 78 years old with a long life and a lot of memories to fill my mind.  They lay out in front of me, from horizon to horizon, and every now and again I go for a stroll through that dusty memory lane.  Walking has been my meditation since I was a little Texas squirt, wandering through dry fields with my brother and father.  They were the first two heroes I ever met, the two men who would inspire my work for five decades.

After my father died, walking became a solitary endeavor.  I was just 13 and trying to make sense of the world around me.  So I'd swipe a bottle or a flask and set out in the direction of the horizon.  I'd wonder, in those early morning hours, just how far a man could go before he got to the end of the world.

A few years later, I sought the answer.  With a knapsack, a camera, a flask, and a few dollars, I walked into Mexico.  I had a vague thought of becoming a photo-journalist.  That, along with the childish dream of reaching the end of the world fueled a journey that would eventually encompass 5,000 miles, two continents and 11 countries.  I walked, hitchhiked, and bummed free rides on rickety buses.  Two years later, I arrived in Santiago, Chile, as far south as a man can walk before the ocean blocks his path.

In Santiago my life changed.  I fell in love.  Not with a lady - though there were many beautiful Chilean women to choose from.  No, I fell in love with my craft.  It was here in Santiago, where I learned to sculpt.  I talked my way for free into the School of Fine Arts, and began sculpting little characters inspired by the people I met in the streets and parks.  The school would fire my pieces, and I'd sell them door to door.