That was my first reprimand at my first paying job as a 15 year old in Lynchburg, Virginia. I believe it was in summer at McDonald’s near the public library. The manager had placed me at a register and was watching me from the lobby. I had learned the manual well of the various phrases from “Welcome to McDonald’s. How may I help you?” to “Would you like some fries with that?” and so on. I was a bit perplexed by the smile comment but I gave it go on the next orders throughout the day. It was midweek and during a block of time when mostly older folk would come in and buy a cup of coffee or tea. And what happened near the end of my shift? Well, as I took a silver-haired lady’s two dollars and gave her some change back, she took my hand, patted it and said, “My dear, you have a lovely smile. You have a good day.” And I said, “You too, ma’am. See you tomorrow.” What brings to mind this memory of making people feel welcome? There’s been an interesting series of articles in the New York Times about people, especially seniors, sitting too long in the fast food restaurant. As with any story, there are many ways to dissect the issues but I think this morning’s article about “lessons learned” from the recent clash presents some good food for thought, not about how a business should be run but more about how over time people operate in the world: The Urban Home Away From Home.
Yesterday, in a coffee-stained manilla folder, I found an old personal essay. I almost posted it on this blog but I remained indecisive about the imagery with which to pair the words. Embedded in the text was a reference to red dust and that was the image I most wanted — little pyramids of red — but the dust in the story is red Virginia clay not dark Massachusetts soil. I tried photographing mounds of smoky paprika but the imagery just didn’t work.
I then tried photographing blue sea glass. In the text there are many references to that color. There is even a blue glass in the essay but it is a drinking glass and has nothing to do with the sea. So, no.
The essay is about family and that universal topic of death and the revelations made soon after and then long after the passing of loved ones. I considered uploading this portrait of Steve. He is part of my family now. Maybe I could make him a bridge between past and present? In the end, I decide that wouldn’t work either. He is not mentioned in the essay at all as it currently exists. The key subjects of the text, my parents, passed away before meeting him. He often tells me that he wishes that fact were not so.
As the day grew long, I began to wonder about the appropriateness of posting the text at all with or without complementary images. An unfinished essay, without direction, perhaps something written years ago just to help me let go? Not a sad piece, just reflective, but would anyone want to read such stuff? I kept staring at the words. Not every passage worked but some did seem like diamonds in the rough. Maybe. In the end I decided to post the ice picture, little B-612 (by the way no ice on the windows today), and to commit to continue working on the essay. I will keep it out in the light and we’ll see what emerges this year.
Here I am in 1996 standing by a creek in Missoula, Montana. At the time I worked with a Boston-based nonprofit conducting sustainability-themed workshops for universities. For a number of years, I was able to travel around the country interacting with people of all ages and cultures. I was able to view landscapes like this that I’d read about but wasn’t sure I’d ever see in person. Few photographs did I take but I loved to tell stories of the places I’d visited with family and friends, in letters and by phone. In 2014, I hope to do more writing and storytelling about people and places and be more strategic with my photography. Meanwhile, as the year wraps up, here is a link to one of the most moving sets of images on the web — The New York Times 2013 Year in Pictures — and a page of wonderfully orchestrated New York Times Op-Docs.
“Of course, my dear.” As he presented his hands to me – resting them on a book, waving them in the air, etc – he described the work he’d done with those hands over the years. Keith is his name and he was subbing for a security guard at a local church. We’d only known each other for less than an hour though when he first saw me his first words were, “Have we met before?” While I’m horrible with names I’m pretty good with faces and his aged face did not look familiar. But he did feel awfully comfortable to be around. And so after hearing him speak for a few minutes with his beautifully accented voice I said, “Sir, when were you born?” The people around me may have been appalled I asked that question, but he looked at me and laughed. “1933, my dear.” Then he took out his I.D. card with his birth date to prove it.
For the short while that we were together he described growing up in Barbados, then moving to England as a young man where he worked for Rover and his various adventures as a stellar mechanic. He described his first wife and her untimely death that left him with three young children under the age of 10. He made a decision to focus on the children and not remarry until they were grown. And when they were grown he did remarry. There was no question asked that did not produce beautiful, sometimes heartwrenching, stories of family, friends and work. I finally said, “Sir, you should record these stories.” He chuckled and said, “I’ve lived these experiences. Why do I need to record them?”
Growing up in Virginia, my parents made clear quite often that “times are tight.” Many a fellow classmate wore more expensive clothes but mine were just as clean and it didn’t matter that they were purchased via layaway. And my brothers and I still share stories of how well my mother could stretch a can of Campbells soup. But it wasn’t until I was accepted into college, completing financial aid forms and trying to figure out how my family’s income fit on various grids … that’s when one day I looked across the table at my parents and said, “Did you know we’re classified as poor?” That I did not feel poor despite my family having little money says a lot about my parents and the neighborhood in which I walked.
It is a very different neighborhood in which the little girl Dasani lives. It is a Brooklyn neighborhood in transition. Thanks to the New York Times series, Invisible Child, readers can journey with her through that changing world. You the reader can walk with her, run, kick, and dance. You can even hear her voice and those of the people around her because it is a multimedia presentation with short videos at the end of each of the five parts. It is a series provoking a lot of conversation, dialogue, debate … and hopefully, most importantly, some good actions. It can sometimes be tough to read and to watch but I hope people do.
Today I made my annual donation to one of the nonprofits I support, WalkBoston. As a card carrying pedestrian (and dreamer), believe me, I need help crossing the road. I made the donation in memory of my Aunt Thelma who used to describe her walks to me. Following is a blog post I wrote about her two years ago, about how she influenced who I am today, including how I can choose to give myself to others. This bright, beautiful day is her birthday so it seems like a good time to give back, and give thanks for her having been in the world. At the end of the post is a youtube video of Dives and Lazarus by composer Ralph Vaughn Williams. It was music Steve had shared with me, and music I remember replaying until I could collect the words to write about a lovely woman who in her own unique way helped me learn to walk in this world. Please enjoy the words and the music, and have a good day.
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Memories
My mother taught me to cook, to plant flowers, and to tell stories. From her I learned to love books and to love writing. She passed away before I ever wrote and had published my first story. During her life, I never traveled abroad. She never knew me with a camera in my hand. She never met Steve or any other fellow in my life. But her sister, my Aunt Thelma did.
In Aunt Thelma’s bedroom dresser are the postcards I sent to her from my travels all over the world. On her bookshelves are the magazines and other clippings of my work. And, last year, after I returned from my travels with Steve in Japan, she made me create a photo book for her. “I need tangibles I can hold in my hand,” she said when I pointed out the pictures were viewable online. “And include a picture of that fellow you’re seeing. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him any other way.” They never did meet, but she read about him, and they spoke on the phone once. I sat next to her on her couch as she laughed with him on my cell phone. I remember him asking her what he should call her. She laughed and said, “Well, why you don’t call me what everyone calls me. Aunt Thelma.” After she hung up, she asked me if he was a good man. I said yes. And then we went on to talk about my brothers and their families.
Growing up in Virginia, my mother made it clear early in my life if I was ever in trouble I could call my Aunt Thelma who was living in New York. When my mother died, Aunt Thelma traveled to Virginia and was there with me and my brothers, along with the rest of the family. When my father died unexpectedly a year and half later, she couldn’t make it, but I will always remember standing in a hospital waiting room on the phone with her crying and her saying over and over, “You go ahead and cry. It’s alright to cry.”
In bad times but mostly good, I called her, especially after I got a cell phone. I could call her randomly as I returned home from work. She’d laugh at my stories and in the end, wind up telling me to be careful as I crossed the street. She always ended her calls with, “I love you, Cynthia.”
My Aunt Thelma passed away this weekend. I will miss her. I am thankful that she was in my life. I learned a lot. In NY this weekend, as the family gathered, I held one of my young cousins in my arms. She was crying. “I’m sorry,” she said as she tried to wipe her face. I said, “Why are you apologizing? For crying? Don’t ever apologize for crying. It’s alright to cry. Do you know who taught me that?” When she shook her head, I said, “Aunt Thelma.”
Okay, I have to admit, not only the mallards paused to let me snap a photo. As I watched the swans’ feathers rustling in the winds whipping through St. Stephen’s Green, I thought of the Greek myth Leda and the Swan. Only later as I walked through the National Library of Ireland’s exhibit on William Butler Yeats did I learn that Yeats had published a highly regarded sonnet on the subject in 1924.
Words taken from Wordless: Writer’s Block and Grief, a beautiful essay out today by writer Lorraine Berry in Talking Writing Magazine. As the title suggests, it is about a writer dealing with grief. It is a moving piece that I hope you have a chance to read. It was startling to read of black birds in the first paragraph of her essay. Birds of that dark shade have been on my mind of late though none did I see on a recent walk through the Fells. A friend faraway, who is dealing with grief, had mentioned as part of a larger conversation of seeing blackbirds outside of his house. And though I was not close enough to hug him as he might have liked, we did spend a while talking about the wings of the bird and how they glistened iridescent in the sun. Mostly on my walk through the Fells, I saw leaves. 😉
Hands, hands, hands. I was surprised in preparing this post to discover that I have written about hands quite a bit over the years. Two posts that moved me most were from four years ago, Hands I and Hands II. Hands stood out again during a recent visit to the Boston Public Library, visiting yet again the room with the Abbey Murals. I’ve photographed the murals often but this time I tried to focus on the hands.
For those new to the murals, in the 1890s Edwin Austin Abbey began a series of 15 wall paintings depicting The Quest and Achievement of the Holy Grail (based on a version of the legend by Henry James). They were installed in 1895.
On the BPL website, you can read a description of the 15 panels and the story they depict. Given how many shy maidens must have their hands kissed by Sir Galahad …
… and how many babes, swords and various vessels must be borne aloft and so on …
… well, it’s clear why Abbey paid so much attention to the hands of his legendary figures.
I can be a bit slow. It took me well over a year to visit and then participate in Cowbird. A friend had suggested I check out the site as a new creative outlet. I’m glad she did. It is a community of storytellers. I’ve posted a few stories — really a collection of simple words, rather stream of conscious, like diamonds in the rough or perhaps just gravel, but words I do not wish to lose. I am honored to have had one such collection featured today: plums. If you haven’t already, please check out the site. A source of lovely words and images.
Words + Images 