Insane Earthlings

I loved watching my dad switch into photographer mode. He knew a great shot the instant he saw it. We could be anywhere when he might suddenly spot a scene that called out to him that it needed to be photographed. He would stomp on the brakes and cause lenses and film canisters to come rolling out from under the seat of the car. His camera was always close by. He might use his shirt to give the lens a quick dusting. In an instant, he would change from Dad to Spot News Tom. He would approach the subject with confidence. He somehow conveyed, without words, that he was supposed to be doing exactly what he was doing; taking pictures of a random stranger. He might snap a few quick shots before the subject stopped doing whatever it was that my father saw a great feature picture in.   Then he would put out his hand, smiling all the way, and say, “How ya’ doin’? Tom Franklin, The Charlotte Observer.” I loved that part. He said it with real authority, but in a warm voice. ...

As a photographer, Dad preferred to shoot using natural light. This required setting the aperture wide open, slowing the shutter speed way down, and keeping a steady hand. It’s kind of how he lived his life: Eyes wide open and observing. Taking it all in at a leisurely pace. Using natural light was not the easiest way to take a picture, but the result was always more beautiful, more real, more life-like than an image made using a flash.   Dad understood that his job was that of a craftsman. He instinctively knew that capturing moments of real lives was important, not because of any high-brow ideas about art, but because EACH -   MOMENT -of - our –LIVES- Matter. I can’t count the number of times that someone has told me that my father took the best picture that had ever been made of them. Some days, people would call our house just to tell Dad how much they enjoyed one of his photographs in the paper that day. Dad would downplay his talent. He...

It’s the 6 th day of March and I’m feeling as gray as the sky outside my window. I’m sitting in my office and it’s hard to keep pretending like this is any other day. Especially with the rain tapping on the glass pane. Tapping and tapping a refrain of dreariness that won’t let me forget that my mother died two years ago today. One year ago, I gathered with my family at the columbarium where my mother’s ashes are resting in a nook that has her name engraved on its covering. We took comfort in the company of each other on that day, acknowledging that this was not an ordinary day. Ashes to ashes is the cycle of this temporal existence. And so, as all things pass, so too must this day. This day will pass. This day will die and take its gloominess with it. I welcome the birth of tomorrow, because it will not be remarkable in any way. The sun may rise to more gray skies, but it will rise.   I will let myself mourn the loss of my mother today. But tomorrow I ...