In Praise of Art-chitecture
My wife and I recently completed a two-week trip through parts of Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico visiting places where petroglyphs and pictographs were in abundance. This art provided clues about the ancient peoples who inhabited these parts of the southwest and also created a number of mysteries. For me, the important thing is that art has been a crucial means of expression for a very long time. Whether it’s fine or commercial, our world is richer with art in it. I like it that some practitioners have brought art out of the salons and galleries into places where we gather and live.
In the mid 19th and early 20th centuries, art was present in nearly all phases of construction from the steel beams that support the building’s facades right down to the hinges on the doors. I love walking through old towns to see how much of this art remains. It’s refreshing to see folks doing what they can to maintain a connection to their past as they embrace the future.
The Blessing of Having Great Parents
When my next birthday arrives in October, I will have reached the maximum Interstate speed limit in most of the country. While I focus on my next orbit around the sun, I still check the rear view mirror to see where I’ve been. At this age there’s a lot of territory behind me. I’ve managed to negotiate the trip so far with a minimum amount of damage and sometimes I’m in awe of how I’ve been able to get so far. I’ve had a lot of help and influencers along the way. Teachers, coaches, bosses, professors, best friends, spouses, and children all provided important direction and course adjustments along the way. The best route advice, which I regularly ignored in my earlier years, came from my parents, John and Helen.
In some ways they were an unlikely couple. He was an only child and nearly 14 years older than she was. Dad liked motorcycles, fast cars, and could operate nearly any piece of equipment that had a seat and levers. After finishing his hitch with the Seabees in the Pacific Theater during WWII, Dad came home to help his father run their small construction business. Mom was the youngest girl in a family of eight with five brothers and two sisters. Raised on a farm, she grew up in a crowded house, where two of her brothers brought their new wives back to the family home. My grandmother gave up her room to one of the couples and slept on the window seat. Coal oil lamps provided light until 1941 and though an indoor bathroom was added some years later, the outhouse was still in use until the late 50’s. Independent, strong-willed, hard working, and intelligent, Mom was a liberated woman at least two decades before that description was in vogue.
She was sitting on the porch with a girlfriend in Petersburg, Indiana one afternoon when a good-looking guy in a roadster cruised by. Her response was to give a loud wolf whistle. His response was to turn his car around and find out who whistled at him. That’s how the great relationship and true partnership started.
They discovered they had a lot in common. Neither was afraid of hard work. Honesty and trust were the foundation blocks of the relationship. Your word was your bond and the expectation was that you would always give your best effort. They loved to laugh and never tired of being in each other’s company. Mom would tell me the only thing they argued about was who loved the other more. I can vouch for that. Growing up, I rarely saw them argue or heard a cross word.
Dad wasn’t one of the great romantics. He and Mom lived together and were planning to get married, but he couldn’t break away from work long enough to get that done. On February 21, 1948 a major snowstorm hit southwestern Indiana. Dad’s comment was, “Well, I can’t work in this. Let’s go get married.” So, they picked up two of their friends and headed to Henderson, Kentucky in order to avoid the three-day waiting period in Indiana. The 50-mile trip took more than two hours and they were married in the parsonage of the Methodist Church.
When Dad expanded his business into coal mining, Mom managed the office, kept the books, and was the parts runner. Construction and mining have largely been male dominated industries for decades, but that didn’t deter Mom. There was work to be done, money to be made, and she was not about to be the silent partner in the business. Dad knew exactly what Mom could do. Though his pet name for her was “Little Woman,” he had immense respect for her business sense and authority.
When I was around 10, Dad hired some men to do some general labor on a project around our trailer that was going to take a few days. One of the fellows smoked a pipe. As Mom watched him on his first day on the job, she noticed he was spending more time filling his pipe, tamping the tobacco, lighting the pipe and smoking it than he was working. She promptly told him that he was done and that she would write him a check for a half-day’s work. The man was taken aback by her direct approach and said, “Ma’am, your husband hired me and if anyone is going to fire me, it will be him.” Mom pointed to where Dad was standing and told the man, “He’s right over there. You go tell him what I said.” The man sauntered over to Dad and relayed Mom’s message. Dad gazed in her direction, looked the man in the eye and said, “Buddy, if the Little Woman fired you, there ain’t a damned thing I can do for you. I suggest you get your check and go.” This was typical of their support for each other.
Occasionally Dad would try to pressure Mom into doing something. Even though his proposition was presented in a number of what he felt were very attractive ways, Mom could sniff out a sales pitch a mile away…and she wasn’t buying. Dad liked guns a lot and was a crack shot. He wanted Mom to like shooting as much as he did. With his coaching, she became a very good shot, but told him she just didn’t enjoy it and that her mind would not be changed. Somehow, Dad felt there was still possibility in her reply and promptly bought her a new gun for their anniversary. Her response was to buy him a new washer and dryer. Lesson learned.
While there was plenty of love and laughter in our home, life wasn’t particularly easy. Money was usually tight depending on what was going on in the coal and construction industries. My folks did their best to keep that information from me, but frequent meals of bologna and crackers made me a bit suspicious. Our livelihood depended on Dad’s business, so that’s where their attention was focused. It was always a six and sometimes a seven-day endeavor. There wasn’t a lot of time for us to play catch or shoot baskets in the back yard. As a teenager, I couldn’t understand that Dad’s absence at my games was due to the responsibility he felt about keeping the business going for our well being and that of his employees. All I saw were my friend’s dads in the stands. I just couldn’t broach the subject with him.
Then there was the issue of their constant unity on all things concerning me. It was if they shared a brain. Distance did nothing to diminish their ability to be in sync. There were just no opportunities to play them against each other. At that stage of my life, I viewed that as a bad thing for me. It took me a while to see what a wonderful gift I had been given.
I also got a lot more direction and discipline than I wanted. As a teenager, having parents who were closely involved in my life and wanted to ensure I stayed on the right path was not what I really wanted. The expectations and consequences were always clear. Ignorance was no excuse. Mom handled most of the discipline and it was rare for me to get a punishment or penalty I didn’t deserve. While I always wanted to stay in Mom’s good graces, the most painful thing for me was disappointing Dad. He just seemed to be able to look into my soul and see what was really going on in there. After my second semester at college, I was embarrassed to show him my grades. He looked at them and then up at me and said, “Is that the best you can do?” I didn’t have to answer. He knew what I was capable of. I wished he would have screamed or thrown something. That would have been easier to take.
The longer I live, the smarter my parents get. I’d like to share the basic lessons they kept coaching me on that are the underpinnings of my life and continue to guide my course as I move through an increasingly complex world.
· Always do your best.
· Do the right thing.
· All people deserve respect.
· Be a person of strong character.
· Your word is your bond.
· Finish what you start.
· Principles are constant.
· Ethics are not situational.
· Find a good partner in life and show them appreciation daily.
· Always wear clean underwear. (You heard this a lot if you were raised in the 50’s and 60’s.)
Thanks, Dad and Mom. I love you.
Signs - Part 7
Seen in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to working for Hotels.com, it appears that Captain Obvious owns a sign company as well. This might be a great location if a sequel to "The Birds" ever gets made.
Signs - Part 6
If you're ever staggering through downtown Nashville, Tennessee in the early morning and can't find your way back to the hotel, Piranha's might just be the place for you to put your digestive tract in total revolt. What could be better for you than a donut resting atop a bacon cheeseburger lovingly placed on a small mountain of overcooked fries served with a shot? Good times!
Signs - Part 5
I spotted this in Fort Myers Beach, Florida. Evidently, someone on the city planning commission is not a romantic.
Little Stories
Paper Boy Inks Major League Deal; Customers Relieved
The Pencil
I started my professional career teaching 5th and 6th grade science, health, and physical education. It was a time when there were only two styles of notebooks: spiral bound and three-ring. If you wanted information on something, you went to the encyclopedia. Class work and homework were completed using a state of the art #2 pencil or a BIC pen if you got the teacher’s permission and were very neat.
The bane of my existence was the stubby pencil. For some reason, kids clung tightly to those that were ground down to a condition where little but graphite, brass cap, and a hint of an eraser remained. Most would not make the appetizer list on a termite menu. While regulators in the old west took on horse and cattle thieves, I made it my appointed duty to rid the upper elementary school of stubby pencils…and I was good at it. Students knew if they brought one into my classroom, it could be swapped for one of the new pencils kept in my center drawer as long as the old one went in the wastebasket. I was doing my part to protect the community from the inherent dangers of the potential stubby pencil epidemic. It’s hard to say how many cases of carpal tunnel syndrome my crusade prevented, but it had to be in the tens. Stubby pencils would not be the last windmill I jousted, just one of the more meaningful.
My first mission trip was to San Jose Succotz, Belize, a small town near the border with Guatemala. Part of our work was to paint the interiors and exteriors of three elementary school classrooms constructed by previous mission teams. Our first day on the property was the day after school had adjourned. Teachers were moving books into storage and preparing their rooms for the summer hiatus. A number of students had returned to help their teachers put away teaching materials and clean the rooms.
The facilities at the school were basic, if not meager, by our standards. There was no electricity in the classrooms and the open windows had no screens, only heavy wooden shutters. The walls were cement block and the floors rough-finished concrete. The wood-framed blackboard at the front of the room was the only visible teaching aid. The boys in the photo were cleaning the floor by sprinkling water from a plastic bowl then sweeping it with a broom that should have been retired long ago. This process was being repeated in each of the classrooms. It was easy to see how much the students cared for their teachers and school.
The principal had provided us with all the supplies needed to paint the interior and exterior of each room. Interiors were to be covered in a light gold and the exterior with a combination of garnet on the bottom third of the wall and the light gold on the top two thirds. We found a level, measuring tape, and a string to aid in the placement of the line, but we didn’t have anything to mark it with. The classrooms being painted were not in use yet and there were no school supplies in them, so I went looking for a pencil in the room where the boys were working.
The teacher looked up from her desk as I walked through the door. When I explained what I needed, she opened the center drawer, ran her hand under some papers for a few seconds, and presented me with the sorriest looking stubby pencil I had seen in years. The eraser was gone and the point was going to need some immediate work from my pocketknife. The stubby was all I had and it would have to make do. As I thanked her and headed toward the door she called to me. “Sir, please take care of that pencil and return it to me when you’re done. I need it to start school next session.”
It had never occurred to me that all the stubby pencils I threw away during my teaching career would have value for someone else. My abundance had made me blind to the needs of others. That pencil did not leave my sight until I returned it.
Upon returning home, I shared the story with anyone who would listen. With the help of my friends, several thousand dollars were raised for school supplies and I know the teachers and students in San Jose Succotz put it to good use. Small pencil, big life lesson.
Signs - Part 4
This has got to be one of the best signs I’ve ever seen displayed in a business. As usual, I’ve got questions.
· After paying for something, who wants their packages broken?
· Who would ask to have this done instead of doing it themselves?
· Is there a fee for this service or is it just something offered to sell more packages?
· Are different levels of breakage offered? Would you like that dropped, thrown, stomped, hammered, or crushed?
· If you’re not satisfied with quality of the work, can you get your package rebroken?
· Outside of being pleasant and having an appetite for destruction what skills are needed for this job?
·
Will Heaven Be Like Atlanta?
As I was driving on a country road in South Carolina this sign caught my eye. Of course, the name triggered a bunch of random thoughts. My first reflection took me to back to the early 1960’s growing up in the Midwest where it was fairly common to see barn roofs painted with “See Rock City” and billboards with the message “Where Will YOU Be In Eternity?” I know where I want to be and it will require a lot of grace to pass the entrance exam. Still, I am hopeful and that brings me to the next question. Will Heaven be like Atlanta?
Since no first-hand reports exist on what Heaven is like, opinions differ on many details. That Heaven is immense is pretty much agreed upon. Looking for a way to describe Heaven, I keep visualizing it as a large metropolitan area that just goes on endlessly in every direction. You’re probably wondering how I came to choose ATL as the most Heaven-like and I’m happy to share my deeply complex and scientific process with you. Just so you know, I’ve been fortunate to have visited the ten largest metropolitan areas in the U.S. and feel eminently qualified to make the choice.
I used Olympic scoring to make the first cut, which meant the high and the low were immediately tossed. Goodbye(1.)New York and (10.)Boston. (2.) Los Angeles, (4.) Dallas, (5.) Houston, and (6.) Washington D.C. were eliminated in the second round because I just can’t bring myself to put Heaven and L.A. or D.C. in the same sentence and folks from Texas already think they’re in Heaven. Next out were (7.) Philadelphia and (8.) Miami. Philly may be known as the “city of brotherly love,” but that wasn’t my experience. Miami has much to recommend it, but having so many tourists just passing through didn’t jibe with my vision of Heaven. That leaves (3.) Chicago and (8.) Atlanta. It was a tough choice. Both have great airports, so they can handle a great influx of people that you would expect to be arriving in Heaven at all hours. For me, food, entertainment, and things to see are just about equal. In the end it came down to climate and I like ATL’s better.
My only concern about “Hotlanta” is this. There are at least 71 street names in Atlanta containing “Peachtree.” I find getting around the city to be taxing. What if Heaven uses a similar approach to naming? Just think of the possibilities; streets, neighborhoods, buildings, and other gathering places all with Eternity in the name. If that’s the case, I’m hoping to get a large helping of clarity along with the grace I’ll need to get through Heaven’s gate.
I believe God has a sense of humor, though I can’t find any scripture to support my position. So, I’m asking that if this is not received well, please add it to the long list of other things for which I need to be forgiven.
Chance Favors the Prepared Mind
Over 150 years ago during a lecture, Louis Pasteur commented, “In the fields of observation, chance favors only the prepared mind.” By this he meant that sudden flashes of insight don’t just happen— they are the products of preparation. I can’t find any evidence that Mr. Pasteur took time away from his experiments to pursue photography, but the point he was conveying applies to photographers as well as chemists.
I’ve witnessed enough sunsets to know this is especially true if you want to capture consistently great images. This shot was taken on July 4 in Bokeelia, Florida. As the sun was going down, there were too many clouds to get the dynamic shot of the fireball going into the water that I wanted. I was briefly tempted to get into the car and head toward the closest fireworks show, but decided to stay around and see if the afterglow would produce something interesting. This decision was based on significant prior experience of leaving a scene too early, seeing a burning sky in my rearview mirror, and making a mad dash back to where I was in a futile attempt to capture the scene.
So, following a lackluster sunset, I hung around to see what might develop and was rewarded with this shot, which was made possible by experience, preparation, and my trusty iPhone 6. Thank you Mr. Pasteur.
I'm inspired by...this guy
My wife loves walking on the beach and she’s willing to get up early with me to do it. Since we’re only 20 minutes away, we’re able to catch sunrises with regularity. For me, there is something both soothing and energizing about first light on the beach. I want to get there before the throngs of people with their supply wagons, tents, and the diminutive sand construction engineers that invariably accompany them. Fortunately, they’re like vampires in reverse, only coming out when the sun is up, so when we typically step onto the sand there are just a few paddleboarders, a couple of surf casters, the occasional dog walker and us. It’s just a great way to start the day.
As we get toward the end of the boardwalk on this morning, I notice a couple of young men putting something on the sand at equal intervals like they are making a pathway to the water. Getting closer, I can see they are placing roses in a V-shape leading toward a small table placed near the water’s edge. On the table is a Scrabble board and vase with a long-stemmed red rose. The Scrabble tiles spell WILL YOU MARRY ME. In a few minutes this question will be answered.
All of this inspires me for several reasons. First, guys catch a lot of flak for not being romantic enough. Today, this fellow is on the right track. Second, he appears to have a partner who is willing to get up in the dark and accompany him somewhere. That means the relationship has the potential for fun and adventure. Third, he has some great friends who were willing to get up even earlier to put all the details in place. For me, that means he must be a great friend, as well.
The horizon is starting to brighten and I’ve already witnessed romance, the possibility of a willing partner, and strong friendships. How can I not be inspired? We head off down the beach and are treated to a fantastic sunrise. By the time our walk is finished, rose petals on the sand are the only evidence of what’s happened. I hope she said, “Yes!”
There Are No Chance Encounters
I’m walking down a side street in a small Georgia town looking for interesting architectural details on the old buildings. It’s a little before 11 A.M. on a Thursday and the temperature and humidity are both close to 95. Though I’m dressed comfortably in shorts and a polo shirt, the heat has me looking for a shady spot. Just ahead of me, standing by himself, in the shade between two buildings, is a black man in a white suit, white shirt, white tie, and matching shoes. At that moment, I know I want a picture of him. What I don’t know is this encounter is going to be more than I bargained for.
There are at least two different perspectives photographing people on the street and at events. One is to take the photo discreetly without the subject knowing, if possible. The other is to approach the subject and ask for their permission. I’ll not present the merits/demerits of each style, but just say that I’m in the “ask for permission” camp. Though I’m fairly outgoing, it’s pretty rare for me to walk up to a stranger and start a conversation. Having a couple of cameras around my neck seems to make me more gregarious and less threatening to others at the same time.
As I get to where the man is standing, I compliment him on his suit and introduce myself. He tells me his name is Marcus and asks, “What are you taking pictures of?” “Buildings, architectural details, and people, I say. Would it be OK if I took your photo?” Without pausing Marcus says, “Sure.” As I get into position for the shot, I ask him if he would remove his sunglasses. “My eyes are pretty red. I’ve been crying a lot. My girlfriend’s funeral is in about an hour,” he says as his voice trails off.
I move the camera away from my eye, walk over to him, and offer my condolences. Though I cannot put myself in Marcus’ shoes, I let him know I have walked on the same trail, having lost my wife in late 2013. This seems to put him more at ease as he starts to open up. Marcus is hurting, angry, and feeling that he contributed to her death. Marcus tells me that he and his girlfriend, Jolene, had been living together and he got into some trouble, which resulted in jail time. Jolene had a drinking problem and was unemployed, so with no money coming in, they were evicted from their apartment. She went back home to live with her parents while Marcus was incarcerated, became ill, and was hospitalized. He tells me that Jolene was treated poorly in the hospital due to her alcohol issues. “She deserved better than she got. It wasn’t right. I don’t think this would have happened if I’d not been in jail. I feel like I caused this,” he said.
Neither of us speaks for a while, then Marcus says, “You can take that picture now.” I step back a few feet, squeeze off a few frames, and show him the results on the camera’s LCD. He nods his approval and says, “Would you do me a favor and take a picture of me beside Jolene’s casket?” “I’d be honored to, Marcus. My only concern is that I’m not exactly dressed for a funeral,” I reply. “It’s O.K. If anyone says anything, I’ll tell them you’re with me,” he says matter-of-factly.
We make our way down the street to the small storefront church where the service is to be held. Marcus leads the way and I follow him through the front door, past some early arrivals, and into the sanctuary filled with folding chairs. I’m sure the two of us are quite a picture. He in that all white outfit and me dressed like I was going to a barbecue. Yet, we do not create a ripple in the calmness of the church. Jolene’s white casket is in front of the altar, a lamp clipped to the open lid. I position Marcus toward the open end of the casket and compose a shot that I think he will like. Once again, I show him the shot on the back of the camera and he nods his approval. He touches my elbow, looks me in the eye and says, “Would you please take one more. I want to kiss her goodbye.” This time it’s me who nods affirmatively and I get in position as Marcus moves back to the casket. He looks back at me to ensure I’m ready and tenderly kisses Jolene on the forehead. I’m praying that these will be good memories for Marcus as I depress the shutter.
He walks to where I am, we quickly check the images, make our way to the back of the church, and slip out the door onto the sidewalk. I get Marcus’ address so I can send him some prints. He thanks me for taking the photos and I let him know that I felt blessed to be able to help him in this time of need. We smile and shake hands. He stops to speak with a friend before going back inside the church and I continue down the street to find a place for lunch.
From the time I introduced myself to Marcus to the time we parted couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes, but it is something I will always remember. I firmly believe we are at our best when we are helping others. We just have to be ready to act when the situation presents itself. I have to continually overcome the voice that tells me, “Don’t get involved. Keep going. You don’t know that person.” I don’t know what impact our interaction had on Marcus, but I know the good it did for me.
Note: The names of Marcus and Jolene have been changed to conceal their identities.
The Best Camera Is The One You Have With You
I'm not sure why, but photography, more than any other artistic or athletic pursuit, seems to cultivate the impression that the equipment you have will drastically improve the quality of your performance. I don't believe anyone really expects to score like Steph Curry just because they're wearing his shoes no more than they expect to play golf like Jordan Spieth if they're using the same clubs he plays with, but it's not unusual to hear something like, "That's a great picture. You must have a really good camera." Imagine saying something similar to your doctor after a successful surgery. "I can't even see where you removed my gall bladder. You must have some really great surgical instruments!" Try this one on your significant other after a memorable meal. "That was delicious! You must have an expensive stove." Please let me know how that goes.
I'm a firm believer that the best camera is the one you have with you. Lots of folks are creating extraordinary images and videos with their cell phones. My iPhone 6 has an excellent imaging system and I don't hesitate to use it when I'm not packing my "big" cameras. Great pictures are waiting to be made. I encourage you to keep looking and shoot with what you have.
This image was made with my phone while my wife and I were having lunch at a small restaurant. We were sitting near the window and I noticed her shadow on the opposite wall put a "ghost diner" at the table across from us.
Write Your Own Caption - Part 1
My wife would be quick to tell you that most of the time I seek the most direct route to get from Point A to Point B. I tell her it is a holdover from my days delivering pizzas in college, but I think it's probably deeper seated than that. The exception to my directness is when I'm out looking for things to photograph. I am prone to meander. As I was looking around the backstreets of New Harmony, Indiana, which does not take long, I came across this grouping. I didn't see a "For Sale" sign or anything else explaining the statuary, so I'll leave it to you to come up with a caption for the photo. My friends, Rachel and Jeff contributed the first two and the third is mine. Please add yours to the list.
- Meet the Woodens
- No nativity scene, my a**!
- Not everyone with a chainsaw is an artist
Vanishing Trades
Spalding’s Shoe Repair and Saddlery operates out of one of several large, old buildings in downtown Griffin, Georgia. In earlier times, a stable stood in the space behind Spalding’s and folks would tie up their horses there while shopping. When four wheels replaced four legs as the primary means of transportation in Griffin, the area now occupied by the shoe repair was added on to the building as a new car showroom.
For the past 30 years, Susie McKenzie has worked under the decorative tin ceiling of the building greeting customers, repairing shoes, fixing saddles, and selling all manner of leather goods that fill most of building’s tile floor and available wall space. Working with leather might not be in Susie’s blood, but it definitely runs in her family. Her father and grandfather were in the same line of work.
Like the building, the machines used to make the leather repairs have some age on them. They are solid, but not solid-state, and come from a time when the term “planned obsolescence” did not exist. They are elegant in their simplicity and appear to have years of service left in them. Standing in front of a large American flag hung over the hallway to the back of the store, Susie comments that fewer folks get their shoes repaired these days and that younger people don’t seem to have much interest in learning a trade that requires some skill and a willingness to get dirty. The question in Susie’s mind is, “Will anyone carry on this business after I’m gone?”
Based just on the changes I’ve seen in the footwear industry, it seems fairly safe to say that the need for shoe repair is dwindling. I’m glad Susie and others are keeping the profession alive, though. There are at least three pairs of shoes in my closet still going strong and as comfortable as ever after new heels and soles. Buying quality stuff and taking good care of it still makes sense to me.
I'm inspired by...Todd Henry
I am committed to lifelong learning and since I don’t know how long my life will be, I use every day to gather more information about things that interest me. There is so much data coming from so many sources, I find it easy to get lost in the sea of knowledge. At best, I can get distracted from my real work by all this and, at worst, I get paralyzed and depressed because I can’t read/see/absorb/apply all the stuff I want to. There are also boatloads of talented people trying to get their voices heard (work seen) above the din of all the other creative people trying to do the same. I plan to share information about work that moves me and hope it will have meaning for you. If it does, please support the artists and share their information with your network.
Todd Henry's first book was Accidental Creative: How to Be Brilliant at a Moment's Notice, which examined the creative process and provides strategies to maximize your creativity while maintaining healthy work habits. It was targeted at people who need to be creative in their chosen professions. In his second book, Die Empty, Todd helps individuals and companies stop deferring their most important work and it provides a process and principles for tapping into your passion. I found this book to focus on a more general audience and it was filled with actionable information. I have yet to read his latest offering, Louder Than Words: Harness the Power of Your Inner Voice, but it’s on my to-do list and has received very good reviews.
All of Todd’s books are available on Amazon and you can go to his website, accidentalcreative.com to subscribe to his newsletter and podcasts.
Omar
Omar is originally from Jamaica and exudes this very positive vibe. A musician, he sings and plays island music, but listens to just about anything that interests him. For several years he traveled with a circus in the U.S. and was responsible for the care of the horses, goats, and wolves. Of all the jobs he’s held, Omar said that was his favorite. He knew the animals depended on him and he was energized, not burdened, by that responsibility. Omar noted that even cleaning the stalls was enjoyable because he knew the animals appreciated it and they deserved the best he could provide. Not many folks would view that work assignment such a manner. Maybe that’s why the owner of the circus kept giving him more responsibility and asked him back each season.
Though he loved the job, life on the road was pretty demanding and it was hard to be away from home for months at a time, so he left the circus and has been working odd jobs until he can find something permanent. One of Mom’s neighbors suggested that Omar would be a good person to help her with the projects she can no longer perform around the house. At 89, Mom lives independently and still drives. She’s had her fair share of bad experiences with handymen, so I’m always a bit on edge when I get a call saying she’s found a new one.
Omar has been a blessing in Mom’s life and, when we first met, he was quick to add that she has been a blessing in his. They help each other. There is kindness and support in their interactions. Omar has been without a car recently and one of his jobs, which is several miles from home, starts at 4:00 P.M. To help him avoid afternoon traffic, Mom drives to Omar’s home, opens the hatch on her Prius to stow his bike, and takes him to work. I don’t have a solution to the growing racial tension in the U.S., but for an elderly white lady from the Midwest and a man of color from Jamaica, respect, trust, a willingness to help, and a desire to see the other person prosper, appear to be the cornerstones for great relations.
A new auto dealership is about to open near where he lives and Omar went to their job fair to apply for employment. He happened to get an interview with one of the owners, who asked, “What kind of a position are you looking for?” Omar answered, “Washing and detailing.” When the owner told him that not many applicants are looking to do that work, Omar commented, “I want to learn all about the business and I think that will be a good place to start.” I hope the folks at the dealership are smart enough to hire him.
Fields of Peace - Revisited
During the 1960’s I lived in Loogootee, Indiana, a small town in southwestern Indiana known mostly for its successful basketball program. Loogootee sits at the southeast corner of a sizeable Amish community. The Amish value rural life, manual labor, and humility, interpreting these elements as how God intends them to live. Amish communities put a heavy emphasis on church, family, and community relationships. They believe large families are a blessing from God. The Amish did their best to maintain a degree of separation from the “modern” communities, but I never saw them as standoffish or anti-social.
In 1970, photographer George Tice published Fields of Peace, a book of his photographs taken over several years in the Amish community around Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The late Millen Brand’s text that accompanies the photos provides a written portrait of these people that is equal to Tice’s images.
Since leaving rural Indiana in the late 1970’s, I had only passed through Amish country a few times. On each occasion, it seemed that the modern world was pushing hard against their cultural walls and I often wondered how much it was adulterating the Amish way of life. When I returned to Indiana in early June, I arrived during haying season and told my cousin, Larry, I would love to get into the Amish settlement and watch the farmers working with their horses, rakes, and balers. He provided a better option. Larry took me to the farm of Elmer Wagler, a farmer and master cabinetmaker he knows from projects they had worked on together for a local manufacturer of high-end watercraft.
As we pulled into the drive at Elmer’s farm, one of the first things I noticed was the neatness of the property. There was a large, well-tended garden on the left and a hitching rail near the aluminum-sided white house. Coming out of the field with his eldest son, Brandon, Elmer looked to be in his late 30’s and was as trim as you would expect someone to be who does a lot of manual labor. He and his wife have seven children ranging in age from 16 to just under 2. Our arrival drew a lot of interest from several of the children and we were soon surrounded by six of the nine family members.
A lot of Amish do not like having their pictures taken and I am very sensitive to that. As much as I wanted the photos of them working, I would never have done that without their permission. Larry explained to Elmer what I hoped to do and he not only agreed to take the horses and equipment back into the field, but said I could take pictures of him working and photos of the family. I felt particularly blessed. Once I got my cameras out of Larry’s truck, I sensed the kids were equally curious and apprehensive. I took a few shots and showed them the results on the camera’s LCD and that seemed to put them at ease. While Elmer and Brandon, hitched the horses to the hay rake, I got a few shots of Elmer’s youngest daughter and one of his middle sons
Just watching Elmer and Brandon work together with the horses was a pleasure. Brandon is a bright young man whose work experience with his father has enabled him to anticipate what should be done next. Just about the time Elmer asked him to do something, Brandon either had it completed or had the project underway. Elmer looked at Larry and me, smiled, and said, “He’s turning into pretty good help.” Once in the field, Elmer led the two horses around the perimeter of the field raking the thick grass into a row. Each of the horses has a different personality and Elmer worked with them accordingly. His hand was steady and never forceful, but the horses knew who held the reins. After a few passes, he turned the job over to Brandon and did a bit of coaching from a spot in the field. His voice was calm and he was quick to let the boy know when he got the desired result. It was obvious that he has been investing in Brandon’s development for a long time and has started to get substantial returns on his efforts.
While Brandon worked the team and hay rake, Elmer and I discussed parenting. I asked him how the Amish community deals with all of the outside influences on their children and he shared that it is very challenging. Elmer said that he and his wife work to ensure that Brandon spends time with other young people in the community who appear to have their lives headed in a positive direction. Elmer looked directly at me and said, “If I meet your friends, I will know what kind of a person you are.” I nod in agreement. In my book, Elmer is a wise man.
By the time we left the field, we had spent nearly four hours with the Wagler family and it had been more than I could have hoped for. I got some great images, but more importantly I saw a close family interacting with each other, young people embracing their responsibilities, and adults who understood the importance of faith and community. With so much violence and cruelty in our “modern world,” it was uplifting to step into a place of peace, if only for a few hours.
George Tice’s Fields of Peace has been re-released with 30 new photographs and it’s available on Amazon. I would highly recommend it to anyone who loves photography and/or wants to learn more about the Amish.
Truth in Advertising
I have a history of being duped by advertising and I’m on a mission to put an end to it. Based on how often it has happened in my life, it appears that I’m powerless against the forces of a well-conceived ad campaign. Maybe it’s hereditary.
From age five until I was almost thirteen I lived in a mansion. Not just any mansion, but an “Imperial Mansion,” which just happened to be manufactured by the Spartan Aircraft Company and measured 43 feet long and 8 feet wide. The advertising brochure proclaimed, “Spartan homes are designed for luxurious year-round living.” That was good to know since we planned to be in it during all four seasons. By mobile home standards of the day, Spartan was one of the best. They used the same standards to build their trailers as they did their planes. Sturdy and well designed definitely. Luxurious might be a stretch. Our quarters were a bit cramped at times. Those times were when all three of us were in the trailer together. I might have been ten or eleven when it dawned on me that “mansion” was not associated with living in a mobile home. This is when I became concerned that a fancy brochure and a slick-talking salesman might have taken in my folks. This is also where my advertising addiction got started.
After a bad experience with my first car, my folks decided I was worthy of something a bit nicer and more dependable. I had my heart set on a ‘65 Mercury Comet Cyclone. The ad said it was the “Whirlwind heir to Comet’s high performance spirit of Daytona." It was black, with white bucket seats, four-speed, and Ford’s high performance 289 engine. Yowzah! My Dad clearly saw all the liabilities of a hot car and me. He thought that a ’65 Ford Fairlane with a smaller engine was a much better match. The ad for the Fairlane proclaimed, “Fresh, Fine…and Fashionable.” I thought they should have added another “F” word: Farmer. It looked like something my grandfather would drive to town. No whirlwind performance for me…yet.
After graduating college, landing a couple of jobs, and buying sensible cars, I was ready for something sporty. The ad for the 1975 Volkswagen Scirocco had me after the first commercial. “Scirocco. A hot new car from Volkswagen. As fast and powerful as the desert wind it's named after." Dad wasn’t around to keep me from buying this little speedster, though I wish he had been. Absolutely the worst vehicle I ever owned. The only similarity that car shared with the desert wind it was named after is that they both blew. Duped again!
From there it’s been a downward spiral of ad-driven purchasing misadventures. Taken in by Crest’s “Look ma, no cavities” campaign, I switched from Colgate and promptly had three cavities at my next check-up. I never drank enough beer to get on one side of the “Tastes Great / Less Filling” debate over Miller Lite, so I was seen as being wishy-washy. Being a part of the “Pepsi Generation” sounded appealing, but I never figured out who they were, so I don’t drink Pepsi to this day. I think all my relationship problems with women are due to Clairol’s “Does she…or doesn’t she” campaign for their hair color products. I became obsessed about real color versus dyed and some (all) women found that to be off-putting. To my embarrassment, I found that Burger King’s “Have it your way” slogan only covered food products. Campbell’s soup is “Mmmm…good” but not for all three meals for thirty days in a row. I bought Nike gear so I could “Just do it,” which I discovered to mean that my mediocre athletic performance would cost a lot more, but I would look better doing it.
Now, restaurants are getting into the act. A few years back, you could go into most eateries and find a two to four page menu. Whether it’s fast food, family restaurant chain, or upscale dining establishment, you will find more choices and longer descriptions of their offerings. Menus are larger and have more pages than ever before. Here’s one item from a popular restaurant’s menu:
Smothered Smoked Chicken Burrito - House-smoked chicken, 3-cheese blend, house-made pico de gallo, smoky pasilla-honey chile sauce & citrus-chile rice wrapped in a warm flour tortilla. Smothered with sour cream sauce & melted cheese. Topped with pasilla-honey chile sauce & chopped cilantro. Served with black beans.
Multiply that many words times the typical 40 - 50 menu items and you have a book. If I had wanted to read "Crime and Punishment," I would have gone to the library. The crime is that someone believes the flowery entree description will make you think you’re having an outstanding dining experience instead of having a chicken burrito with pico de gallo and black beans. The punishment is that you'll pay 50% more for it here than at a decent Mexican place because you have to cover the cost of hiring that many writers and putting more pages in the menu.
Despite the sales brochure that said “Imperial Mansion” and the sign that said “Trailer Resort,” I was no more than 11 when I figured out I lived in a mobile home sitting on concrete blocks inside a trailer park. Why do marketing people insist on overstating or obfuscating what products really are? Ad agencies, do everyone a favor. Use fewer words and more transparency. Provide an accurate, unadorned, description of the product you’re marketing. We’ll all be better off.