Ashley

Like any proud father, I took pictures of my daughter.  She is now a quarter of a century old, but the picture was taken when she was 2 years old.  We were in the back yard near the cement fence under a growth of tree that cast a cool shade.  The air was crisp that morning, but not cold.  Ashley was exploring.

I know why I like this picture more than many others I have taken.  I think it is very special. 

What do you suppose attracted her attention?

The Deer

On a fine autumn day, I was walking with my wife around some Indian mounds left by the Cahokia Indians in southern Illinois when we spotted deer running about between the mounds.  As we rounded one of the mounds, we came across a herd of 2 bucks and about a dozen does, and they moved fairly quickly to get away from us.

One of the does just sat where she was without getting up or moving.  We didn’t leave the path, but I had the impression that this doe was different, possibly sick.  We reported what we saw to the park ranger, but we never found out whether this was a brave doe, a stupid doe, or a sick doe.

We fear for the worst, and we hope for the best.

The Sunrise

Not every sunrise is beautiful, but every sunrise means a new day.  We can speak of our lives in decades, years, months or days, but a sunrise marks each of our limited number of days.

I took this photograph in late autumn as the trees were going bare and the days were getting shorter.  The sun was still bright and warm, and I have come to appreciate the value of my days in the sun.

I can’t say how many more sunrises I shall see, but I will remember as many as I can. 

This is one that is worth remembering.  So are all the rest.

The Cemetery

By the highway on my way to work, I pass a small cemetery for the Cook Family.  A cement wall encloses it, but the grave markers are in some disrepair.

Every day I am reminded of my own mortality, and the mortality of all of us.  We care for our dead with the best intentions, but we will eventually fail.  Memories fade, generations pass, and the dead belong to eternity.

When we think of ancestors, we seldom consider that we have ancestors that would seem very strange to us.  Some walked on two legs, some four, and some crawled or swam or just oozed.  The common thread, aside from genetics, is a desire to survive and reproduce.  It is strange to me to think that I have no genetic descendants. 

I have no part to play in the future of humanity.

The Loft

In a time of great stress, I accepted a job in Southern Illinois, far, far away from my birthplace and home in Texas.  The Hospital was across the Mississippi River from St. Louis and, after searching for an apartment in Southern Illinois unsuccessfully, we looked at loft apartments in downtown St. Louis.  Only one building was open on the Sunday we were looking; a building that was 104 years old on Washington Avenue in the Loft District.

Thus began a chapter of our lives that was novel and even exciting.  We were in the heart of a major metropolitan city, and we reveled in that novelty.  Many fine restaurants were a short walk from our building, and there was frequent and interesting entertainment available. 

It was like an extended vacation, but even there life could be isolated.  There was no grass and very few scrawny trees; going out didn’t always feel safe; Sandy could not drive (or would not drive) on the city streets.  There were fairly large numbers of homeless people.  We lived close to a homeless shelter and the YMCA, and we gave money to many, but I always worried that desperation might lead to crime.

There was crime – all around us.  It wasn’t from the homeless, though, but from partiers, and youths with no respect for others, and people who carried guns on their person and a chip on their shoulders.  As the violence crept ever closer until there was a shooting in our building, we felt a need to move, and we made plans to move to a rural area of Southern Illinois.

In the middle of our experience living in St. Louis though, I snapped a photograph with a new camera (one of the first taken with that new camera) of my wife sipping soup that she had made in that loft apartment.  The old bare brick walls were part of the charm of that somewhat drafty place, and we were comfortable.  Family portraits, soft furniture and more gadgets than you could shake a stick at made this our home.

And even though we are now in a safer place (we hope), we miss that loft apartment.  Not enough to go back to St. Louis, but enough to look on the experience as eye opening, fun and memorable.