Waiting.

Love you guys.

xo,

A

Right now, flowers are blooming, trees are budding and birds are singing.

Days are sunny and long.  Nights are warm(ish).

The world is emerging from the shelter of winter.

There is the easy answer of, well, it’s easier for grandmothers to travel to visit the grandchildren than for a whole family of 4 or 5 or 6 to pack up and travel the miles.  And then for a while we lived in Florida, so of course it’s easier to fly 1 than 4 or 5 or 6.  And for a long time, the easy answer was a good answer.  It still is.  But the reality is that it’s not a complete answer.

And I can’t share a complete answer here, it’s not my place and it’s not completely my story to tell.  And that’s okay.  But I can tell my part that matters for this post.

Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave.  Not just leave the house, but to leave the state.  I wanted out.  The house felt small and heavy to me.  Cramped, with stuff, people (okay, only four of us), and emotions.  Volatile emotions.

Once college came, I was out of there.  I visited for breaks, sometimes, but I.was.out.of.there.

And for a while, especially after moving to the West Coast (Notice how far that is from Pennsylvania?) and setting up my own life, I didn’t even visit.  Don’t get me wrong, I saw my mom, but I didn’t go home.  I spent years of physical time and probably even more years of emotional time trying to rewrite myself and my history.  To make it something it wasn’t.  To forget it.  I became who I wanted to be but at the expense of forsaking who I was, where my roots were.  Perhaps this isn’t making any sense.  And I suspect to some, it isn’t.  But I also suspect that there are a few people reading this who are nodding their heads.

I didn’t embrace myself.  I ignored her.  I created a new self.  And boy was she perfect, if I don’t say so myself.  I did a really.good.job.  (You know that cracks in the end, right?  That’s another blog post.)

So, until recently, my kids didn’t get to see where I grew up.  They never saw my high school, my roads, my places, my childhood bedroom, the railroad tracks I walked daily.

But that changed with our recent visit.

And it was good.

I loved watching my girls climb the same tree I grew up trying to climb.  I loved watching all of them coloring chalk on the same sidewalk where I walked to go to prom, where I walked to speak at high school graduation, where I snuck out of the house (how ’bout that for sneaking – using the front walk!), where I sat with friends and talked the time away, planning our escape from this town.

I loved watching their eyes as they looked around my childhood home, absorbing the height of the ceilings (8 ft and lower than what they’re used to), the number and size of the rooms (few and small), the one level (“Ok, mom, where’s the upstairs?”  I shake my head.  ”Where’s the stairs to the playroom downstairs?”  I shake my head. “Wow, this is small.”), the one bathroom.  Yes, the one bathroom.  It was almost enough for them to demand I drive them home immediately.  Almost.

We had a great visit.  They loved seeing Gramma.  They loved seeing the horse and buggies on the roads.  What they originally thought was a novelty, they were quick to realize is everyday.  There  is horse and buggy parking at the local Walmart.  I kid you not.

And at 43, I realize it’s not too late in life for some life-lessons.

Embrace, don’t forsake.

I love this song.  And it completely captures me in this space.

xo

A

At the end of March, on Friday March 30th to be exact, I sat confidently outside Gate 25 at the Reagan National Airport awaiting the boarding of my flight to Albany, NY.  It was around 1pm, and I was dutifully two hours early for my flight.  My boarding pass that I had just printed said Gate 25, and it was Gate 25 where I planted myself.  And I watched people come and go.  And I played upon my phone.  And I got myself some lunch.  And I spilled my soda.  And I sat.

And then I heard an announcement:  ”This is the final boarding call for Flight XXXX to Albany NY.  If you are a ticketed passenger, please report to Gate 42.”

Oh my, I thought, that’s me.  Better go.

And then I realized.  I’m at Gate 25.  Which is in Terminal 2.  Gate 42 is in Terminal 3.  A long long long LONG way away.  Through additional security too.

But I tried.  I ran and ran.  I talked my way to the front of the security line.  I got through security as quickly as I could.  But at Gate 42, there was no denying.  My plane had left.

So, I got in a really really really REALLY long line and waited.  The man behind the counter peered at me over his spectacles and said, “The next flight to Albany is at 10pm.  I’ve ticketed you for that flight.  You’ll need to go to Gate 26 in Terminal 2 and wait.  Please don’t miss this one.”

Noted.

So, I packed up my gear AGAIN and traversed the expanse between Terminal 3 and Terminal 2, went through security AGAIN, and found myself a nice resting place for five hours.  FIVE LONG HOURS.

And as I’m sitting there, and it’s approaching 8pm, it dawns on me that I seem to recall that one of the servicemembers whom I photographed last year for OperationLove was returning to the States today.  Quickly, I called his wife on her cell and she confirmed, yes, he’s returning TONIGHT, to Reagan National at 9:30PM!  I’m so excited I can barely stand it.  I can photograph the reunion!!  How fortuitous!  There was a reason I missed my flight that didn’t involve the other plane going down in flames while I continue to live!  Yay!  She tells me his flight number and airline, and I tell her, I’ll find you.

I checked his flight.  On Time.  I checked his gate.  Gate 19.  Whew.  That HAS to be close to Gate 26.  Right?  RIGHT???

No.

Gate 19 is in TERMINAL 1.  The one terminal I haven’t yet visited on this long LONG day.

I look across through the window and peer at the numbers on the open gates and see that Gate 19 is directly across from me.  I can see when his plane arrives.  But he is there, and I am here.  In Terminal 2, at Gate 26.  Boarding at 9:30pm.  What time is his arrival?  Of course.  9:30pm.

Well, this story is getting long LONG, and I’m sure you just want to know how this all ends.  Let me just say it involved two fast LONG runs between Terminal 2 and Terminal 1 with a camera bag, a rolley-bag, and a purse, one very out-of-breath photographer boarding her flight at the VERY last minute while still in her socks having gone through security for the FIFTH time that day.  And yes, a happy ending.  Both for this family, and for my landing in Albany.

I love you guys.  I don’t do this for just anyone, you know.

xo

A

P.S.  All images shot on my Fuji X100 as that was the only camera I had with me, and when I left my house at noon that day, I had no idea I’d be doing an OpLove session at 9:30pm or that I would STILL be at the airport.  All in all, it was a great day.

Martin lost his wife (and my friend) Amy last year after her years-long and hard-fought battle with cancer.  Martin is parenting their four children (ages 5-16) alone, and though I write “alone,” what I really mean is it takes a village – family and friends help tremendously, but at the end of the day, Martin is the sole parent.  If there is something he needs help with (e.g. photographing all the baby teeth before they fall out), no matter what, I would help and so would anyone who knows him or his children.  His life now is keeping his head above water.  Not unlike so many of us, he goes to work, runs kids around, sleeps, wakes-up, goes to work, runs kids around, sleeps, wakes-up, goes to work.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  It seems as if none of us has any time these days.

The thing is, because of Amy’s story, we know what Martin’s carrying, what he’s dealing with, inasmuch as we can “know” what it feels like to lose a spouse and the mother of your children.

What if we all just assumed that everyone is carrying something?  We can’t always see it, but know that everyone has something.  What if we all just spoke a little softer, acted a little more compassionately, and recognized that everyone has something.  Their something.  What if?

“Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Oh, and Cate?  She’s adorable.

And together,

Martin and those four beautiful children,

with the help of their family and community of friends,

they’re doing ok.

Together.

A

What is your life SAYING?  What is your STORY?  Do you choose VIRTUE?

You have to look for the Virtue in all things.  But it’s there.

If you look hard enough.

Sometimes blending in with all those other choices, all that information being tossed at us, in unexpected packaging, right there in front of you.  Virtue.

Choose wisely.

A

P.S.  As an aside, the Virtue Feed and Grain in Old Town Alexandria is quite good.  Recommend.  :)

P.P.S.  Leica M6, 35 Summicron, Kodak BW400 CN.

P.P.P.S.  Top photograph, right side, on the bartender’s shirt.  Virtue.

And it made me think of words like renewal and rebirth.  And I looked at my snow frost images.  And they looked kind of dark and not at all like today.  So, hey, it’s my blog and we have had a change of plans.  Let’s go with renewal and rebirth.

And what better way to think about those words than through the waters of renewal at baptism.

This was the baptism of my third nephew, celebrated in the church in NYC where my grandfather spent his Sundays as a youth over 80 years ago.  All images were taken on my Hasselblad 500cm with Delta 3200.

Amen to new beginnings.

The end.

A

{ I’m laughing a little inside with that juxtaposition.  Hehe. }

Over the past two months I’ve been testing new new-to-me Leica lenses for my new new-to-me M6.  I’ve tried a 1969 35 Summicron, a new Voigtlander 35 ASPH something or other, and finally, the keeper, my Leica 35 Summicron-M (version IV, if you care or know about this stuff).  What happens during this testing phase though (two months worth) is I take a lot of boring photos while just trying out different things with the lenses.  And most of my tests occur around my home or with my kids or with my dog.  Work with what you have, right?

And now, the funnier thing (at least to me) is now I get all this film back from the lab and over 3/4s of it was taken on lenses I no longer own.  Ha.

So far I haven’t shown any of those images, well, because like I said, they’re rather boring.

But, today, as I slosh through torrents of rain (it’s that kind of dreary day), I went through some of those images taken-on-lenses-I-no-longer-own and found some from our “depths of winter,” as it seems this was the worst of it, so I decided I would share them with you.  I’m trying to blog more, you know?

A winter of….

Trees without leaves.

And dead hydrangeas.  (Was I supposed to cut those back?  Anyone know?  Quick.  Gardening tip needed.)

Lord help us, what next?

Actually, tomorrow I’ll share some snow.  Some might call it “frost,” but whatever.

A

This is my little guy a couple years ago.  I used to find him balanced up on the windowsill in the mornings.  Sitting there in his pjs, with his blankie, just sitting there watching.  Dreaming.  Thinking.  Pausing.  He fit exactly on that windowsill, his little bottom the perfect size for that space.  And it was one of his favorites.

But then that little boy grew and grew.  He grew until he could no longer balance on that windowsill.  But he still loved that space.  So, we built towers there, played cars and trucks, did puzzles.  All kinds of quiet activities.

And then somehow, as is likely to happen in a home with many children, toys weren’t put away one day.  It must have been a cold day, that day over a year ago now.  I must have been in the  middle of switching clothes for the season or “cleaning” (out) the toyroom.  I had one of those big tubs in the nearby hall.  ”Someone” took it for his own, a perfect bin for holding all his animals.  And then his sisters’ animals too (they’re getting “too old” for them now, you know).  And the perfect place to put that bin was found.  It’s not the windowsill, but it’s the next best thing.

And for the past year, he has had, of his own choice, quiet time there in that cut-out, next to the bay window, right under the windowsill, in the bin.

Yes, in the bin.  He climbs in and plays with his animals.  He acts out scenes and uses his imagination.  I love to eavesdrop.  Though I have to be careful not to get too close and to interrupt his play.

And the joke has been, “You know buddy, someday you’re not going to fit in there.”

And now it’s not a joke.  And it makes me sad to watch as that time draws ever closer.

I wonder though, what will come?

And I look forward to watching how that windowsill measures time next.

A

It was just me with my grandparents.  There are few occasions in my life where it has just been me and my grandparents.  The first time was probably around the age of 3 or 4 (or maybe it was 5), when my mom, post-divorce, flew to Hawaii with a girlfriend to “take some time,” to dance and to laugh.  I headed to New York to spend that time with my grandparents.

Later, I was in my mid-twenties, in my first career and having just passed the bar exam in the State of Washington.  My grandparents flew out to Seattle to visit.  We explored Seattle, Vancouver and Victoria Island.  I have some great memories and some great photographs from that time.  I remember they travelled with a liquor suitcase.  Yep, you got that right.  A suitcase whose only job is to carry the alcohol, the tumblers and the gear required to mix up a drink, anytime, anywhere, wherever they may be.  It was such a  ’50s thing that they carried in the ’90s.  Very kitschy.  That case now sits in my basement, carrying this memory along with it.  My grandparents no longer drink.  And, they no longer travel.

Unless it’s via ambulance from their assisted-living home/apartment to the hospital, which is the occasion that on December 31, 2011 brought me to visit them.

It’s an odd mix, the two of them.  She deteriorates mentally, yet thrives physically; him, just the opposite.  So though on any entry to their apartment, I’m not sure if my grandmother will recognize me, I can hold a very fluid and fast-moving conversation with my grandfather while he lays with tubes on the hospital bed in ICU trying to thrive with one kidney, cancer and congestive heart failure.  An odd mix and one never anticipated even ten years ago as they lived on their own in Maine, as they had for close to 15 years at that point while family went about their own lives in Virginia, Pennsylvania and New York.

It is here that I left and then arrived.

And it is here where I first witnessed the winter season of life, where life ends, amongst those unknown to you until you’re no longer capable of taking care of yourself, where life is structured only by meals and pill times, 8am, 12noon, 5pm and 7pm (pills), where caregivers give care, and where family, if they live close enough, visits.  Everything else in-between is empty space.  What once filled those spaces, whatever that may be, has been replaced.  Maybe by TV turned up to extreme decibels, maybe by staring straight into nowhere for those in-between hours.  There are no weekends.  Every day is the same day.  Every meal is dished with the same conversations, repeated over and over again.

And it is here that I think, I am quite sure I do not ever want to get here, I do not want to get this kind of old, this kind of living.  Because this kind of living feels an awful lot like dying.

A

(All images taken on my Leica M6 with my 35 Summicron; filmstock Kodak BW400CN.)