The Waffle House waitress set down my "All-Star Special" on the crowded table for four, my mom and dad seated across the table and Linsey by my side. I took out my fancy digital camera, the one I use for work, and snapped three photos of my waffle. Then I took out my father’s old film camera and snapped one more.
My mom watched with interest.
"You sure are taking a lot of photos these days," she said, her thick East Tennessee accent drawling her consonants and vowels. I nodded and smiled. My mom was right. I am taking an increasing number of photos. According to my Lightroom catalog, I've snapped at least 34,000 pictures in 2022. Some of those photos are for work, but most are for me. I love simple photographs of life, that which appear mundane. I find joy in the ordinary.
You see a gate crossing.
I see two of my favorite people, my wife and my dad, returning from an afternoon fishing smallmouth bass on an Ozark stream. I can smell the honeysuckle growing on the fenceline and feel the warm humid air. A stark difference from the high desert of Oregon I now call home. My dad and I have crossed many gates together exactly like the one pictured here, armed with smiles on our faces and fishing poles in our hands. He doesn't move with the agility he once did, but neither do I.
You see a fish.
I see an Ozark Smallmouth Bass, The first fish I ever caught and a fish that changed the course of my life: a fish full of tenacity and fight, lying in the clear waters of the creek it calls home. I've caught thousands of fish just like this one. Each time I return to these waters, the beauty of these fish and the ecosystem they inhabit reminds me of a well-spent youth, and the mighty tug they exert when they strike sparks the same joy it did when I was a boy. When I see this fish resting in the water like this, I feel I grew up right.
You see a dog on a porch.
I see Shiner lying on the back porch of a country home at the feet of his owner and childhood friend, Jake Gibbs. I hear Jake answer, "Yes, if you have time to stay," when I jokingly asked if he had donuts and coffee for me, even though I only gave him a 30-minute notice of my uninvited arrival. If we’re lucky, we sit and chat on his back porch once a year. We pick right up like we speak every day. This photograph reminds me that childhood friends are different. They’ve been there all along, even when I wasn’t.
You see someone riding a bike.
I see my wife doing what she loves and the morning Arkansas sun cutting through the thick air. When I’d lumbered down this road as a boy, I recall a peacock strutting its stuff on a farmhouse lawn and a road runner working hard to stay ahead of my Huffy. What I see the most is simple beauty on a dirt road I once took for granted. The average traveler wouldn’t see much. But this is my dirt road with my memories.
You see a lady on a porch.
I see my mom stepping out of the kitchen and onto the porch she and my dad have swept my entire life. I see the flowers she prunes every morning and the window to my old bedroom. Behind this door, I feel the warmth of a home where everyone was welcome as long as they minded their P’s & Q’s. She'll wear Atwood's overalls with style, but don't you dare come to her dinner table with a ball cap on your head.
My mom is right. I do take a lot of photos. In fact, I took over 1,000 pictures on just this trip alone. And what I've learned is I don't see the photographs. I see the memories. The peacock no longer struts, my friends are growing old, the creeks have changed their course, and soon enough, my dad will cross his last fence, and my mom will cook her last meal. But I’ll still remember these moments captured by my camera.
Vividly.
Post-Script: You get a little better at photography when you take 34,000 photos in the first six months of the year. With a simple goal to organize my thoughts and improve my writing, I need to hit the publish button far more often here.
A writer writes.
Yes, this "p.s." is a public pep talk to myself.