My Father and Natural Light

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 would say that he was just in the right place at the right time. Or he might joke that he just took so many pictures that some were bound to come out right. Just like his photos, there was nothing artificial about Dad.

Technically speaking, Dad captured the light from the sun that reflects off all things and people to record an image. But there is ANOTHER kind of natural light that resides in all of us. My father possessed that light in abundance. It was so bright that you could even hear it in his voice over the telephone.  In person, it was an even brighter and an engaging light. A light that put you immediately at ease. His bright spirit could lift your mood, as fast as clicking a camera.

In the book of Matthew, Jesus says, “YOU are the light of the world. Do not light your candle and hide it, but place it on a stand where all can see it. Let your light shine so that others may see your good works.” This!.... yes, this is how my father lived his life. He enthusiastically shone a natural and bright light upon everyone in his orbit….. day in….day out.

And he had a knack for bringing out that kind of natural light in others. I believe this is why Dad was able to capture so many great images of people. And people were definitely his favorite subject. He could shoot a great landscape or compose a picture with the best of them. But what made him special as a photographer and as a human was his ability to put people at ease.

The real light and energy that makes a great picture comes from the people in the photo. When we are self-conscious, we stifle our own natural light. We tense up and hold that energy in. Dad put his subjects at ease by using his affable demeanor and making them forget the camera was there for just a moment. All the while encouraging and saying… just one more… oooonnnne more. It was always just oooonnnne more. But you can bet he knew the exact “snap of the button” that caught you at your best. That’s when he’d say, “alright, alright..I’m done”

 Dad made each person’s day a little brighter. He showed us how to always be the best version of ourselves.

Remembering Mom on a Rainy Day

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 will do what Mom would have done. I will show up. Mom showed up for every single day she had on this earth. She squeezed every bit of happiness she could out of each minute she was granted. She would want nothing less for any of us.

Today I miss my Mom’s voice, her hugs, and her relentless nature. I can feel the energy she left in her wake carrying me into the dawn that is the life ahead of me. I remain the beneficiary of her relentless nature that never allows me give up or lose hope. Tomorrow I will remember that I can still hear her words inside my head. I still know her voice and what she would be telling me. She would say, “It’s a new day out, go and enjoy it.”

Guns and Children

I knew where Dad kept the pistol. I was seven years old. His old reporter’s desk in the basement had some secrets. You know those old desks where the typewriter was hidden upside-down under a flip-up top. Simply fold back the top and as it disappeared down the back of the desk, a typewriter emerged from the front. It was like magic. The desk also had a secret writing tablet made of sturdy wood that could be pulled out to have your notes ready to type up the latest news story. Dad used to pull out that tablet so I could sit on it and watch him type. The desk had another secret. If you pulled one of the drawers way out, there was a hidden compartment at the very back. I knew what was kept in that compartment. It was a Smith and Wesson .22 caliber pistol. A revolver. It wasn’t ever loaded that I know of, but I would often take my grade school friends down to the basement and show it to them.

We were not gun people. My father never hunted or showed any interest in shooting a gun. He was a photographer, so he shot cameras. However, just like most families I knew in our growing southern town, we had a .22 rifle that hung over the mantle. We also had and old musket that was broken beyond repair. They were mostly conversation pieces. The .22 rifle was from the year we moved to Signal Mountain, Tennessee and lived like hillbillies. I was only one year old, so I have no memory of this period. But the rifle served as a reminder for the rest of the family of their carefree days of shooting soda bottles off a fence post. It sounded wholesome and healthy. A fun family activity. A way to bond in a manly sort of way that I missed out on.

I knew another secret. In the German beer stein, also on the mantle was one .22 caliber bullet. I knew it was for the rifle. One bullet in case my father ever had to defend his family. That’s all he seemed to need. And I admit, it made me feel more secure knowing that my father had that small little arsenal. Fortunately, it never occurred to me that the same bullet might also fit in the pistol. I certainly had a few friends who would have wanted to try it out had we known. There are photos that my brothers and I staged. There is the one where at age ten or so, I am pretending to play an organ with my brothers as bandmates around me. The pistol was prominently placed on the top of the organ. We were tough rockers with guns. One of my brothers loved to make films with his Super 8 camera. In one scene, Eleven-year-old me is wielding the pistol, aiming at my brother and some other kids recruited to be in the film. I fake fire the gun. They fall to the ground. The camera zooms in for close-ups of the vampire blood carnage I had just reaped.

When I was twelve, we moved to a large lake in a mostly rural part of the county. This is when I met “gun families.” All family members had multiple guns. They had large glass gun cases full of rifles, shotguns, and artillery. I was fascinated. To them, it was normal. I learned about dove season, deer stands, and duck blinds. Some friends regularly hunted squirrels and ate them. These were good people. They were some of the best neighbors you could have. They gardened and shared their bounty. They pitched in when a pier or deck needed repair. None of these avid gun owners had an automatic or semi-automatic weapon. They had tons of guns, but felt no need to own military assault rifles. I believe that they would have found the idea of hunting with an assault rifle ridiculous. They actually wanted the animal to have some sporting chance. I loved these neighbors. I spent countless hours hanging around at their homes watching TV, lounging around, playing pool and basketball, swimming, and water skiing. Never once did anyone suggest that we get out a gun and go shooting. They were not enamored with their guns. The guns were just tools for a sport, like a golf club or tennis racquet.

I’m writing this, because it seems like something changed since my growing-up-years. One bullet won’t cut it for gun enthusiasts. In fact, it seems that they only feel safe while surrounded by military size stockpiles of ammo. Gun lovers today laugh at .22 caliber guns. Hunting with shotguns or rifles are not good enough. Apparently, they are not able to protect their families with those civilian style guns. They must have military style assault weapons. They seem to only find security by having the capability to kill dozens of people in less than a minute. So, what has changed? Are burglars and rapists now storming households by the dozens?  Do we expect that our own military is going to raid and pillage our homes? I’m really trying to understand. And I’m sorry, but I need a better answer than it’s my right.

I believe that the change started with Columbine. After the massacre at Columbine high school, there was a loud outcry for gun control. And certainly, it made sense to question our gun laws after a tragedy like that. Unfortunately, this scared the people who had made a nice living manufacturing and selling guns. They could see that this circumstance could take us down a road that could make it more difficult for them to continue turning the kind of profits that they had become accustomed to. So, they developed a strategy that has been wildly successful. They told people that the government was going to come for their guns. It would be like the fascist governments we had witnessed across Europe and Russia. They would take our guns and impose authoritarian rule. They raised a lot of money this way. They used that money to back politicians who would then feel beholden to them. They were so effective that as the blood baths grew worse and worse, it only made people fear losing their guns more. So, they bought more powerful weapons. They pictured themselves in stand-offs with government agents.

Our government did its part by playing into those fears. The pro-gun lobby used the 1993 raid on the Branch Davidians commune to fortify their arguments. And I will say that what our federal agencies did in that case was a travesty. And it became fodder for the storyline that the gun industry was pitching. This campaign was so successful that even the horrific events at Sandy Hook elementary did not lead to meaningful dialogue, let alone action. Kindergartners and teachers were slaughtered and yet nothing was done. Thoughts and prayers are made of nothingness when seen through the eyes of a parent who senselessly loses a child.

What happens now as we have witnessed yet another lunatic on a rampage with a legally attained AR-15 assault rifle? 17 dead people. 17 funerals. On one hand I am heartened by the brave and outspoken survivors who are pledging “Never Again.” On the other hand, I am sickened by the profiteers of the gun lobby digging in with the same old excuses and arguments. I am angry that these talking heads and politicians are attacking the kids who survived this horror. They are calling their stories fake and saying that they are paid actors. They might as well be holocaust deniers. I can only conclude that these people have lost touch with their souls. That their hearts are made of stone. And that their god is the almighty dollar.

They worship the dollar as our children die. They kneel before the towering banks praying that the voices of our children will be silenced.

But I have a good feeling about these kids. They have their priorities straight. They have passionate hearts. They have beautifully compassionate souls. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that they are never silenced.

Never Again.