Ever Think About…

In the beginning the years moved slowly.  Seasons would change from spring to summer then to fall and the harvest and finally to winter for a much deserved rest.  We never thought much farther ahead than the next growing season.  As we got older those seasons sped up and turned to years.  Our families grew like the crops.  Those years turned into decades and time seemed to move even faster.  Our children started there own farms and families.  We no longer looked forward to what was growing in our fields, we looked forward to what was growing in our hearts.  Our growth had changed, what had provided for us, the fields, the crops and the machinery were still there.  Those things would always be there for us.  What those things provided for us was the foundations for our families and the ones we love.  Slowly, as the decades added up to become a lifetime we started to take pride in those years.  We told stories and shared our experiences with the little ones.  Maybe the time will slow down for us in the end, maybe not, but those foundations will still be there for those who come after us.

I have been working on a series of photos, currently it is a mix of both traditional and abstract photos of the bridges in the greater Tampa Bay area.  Recently I had my second outing to another bridge.  The subject is a fairly new bridge just outside of downtown Clearwater.  I arrived just before sunrise, there was just enough light that I could make my way down to the shore and then to the underside of the bridge.  Thanks to the placement of the bridge these photos are mostly abstract, without a boat there was no good way to get a broadside photo.

As I walked down the sandy area I start to notice some foot prints thankfully leading in the opposite direction that I was going.  I started to think of all the nefarious things that live under bridges. I am talking about trolls, ogres and politicians here people.  This has turned into serious business now.  I was going armed with only my camera and my whits, and that’s not much.

I finally got under the bridge, snapping photos here and there.  I get what I think are some good photos, curves, angles and such.  I even find some interesting graffiti, remnants of the before mentioned trolls and politicians.  The sun comes up and I get some shots with parts of the bridge in silhouette.  I am starting to feel good about this little trip.

As I am standing there I hear voices right behind me.  I jump and turn around.  No one is there thankfully.   My heart is racing now.  The voices were coming from walkers on the bridge fifty feet above me.  Then I started to think that this might not have been a great idea and decide its time to head back.  I had what I came looking for and as an added bonus I am taking a heart condition back with me.  I took one more look and start heading back.

I made my way back down the rocks and to where the water meets the sand.  Following my footsteps back, snapping some final photos as I go.  Remember that heart condition? Well as I got a little closer to my truck it got a lot worse.  It looks like a police cruiser is sitting right behind my truck.  I am going to jail! Or at least that’s what I kept thinking as I walked closer, I mean I must have been trespassing right?? Well there were no signs, so now I don’t know.  My heart is racing, how was I going to explain what I was doing?  Step by step I walk closer, I was trying to come up with stories of why and what I was doing.  The police officer looks up as I walk by and just nods as I walk by.   So much worry for nothing.

Marisa’s fingers feel like fire, the pain radiates up her hands.  Years of rolling the tobacco have taken their toll, her fingers curl and are stained brown from the leaves.   Bent because of the pain, the arthritis that creeps from the joints in her fingers.  It will be over soon, today’s shift that is.  Her hands have begun to ache also from the rolling, nearly ten hours today.   This is what she knows.  Hour after hour, day after day, she rolls the tobacco filler into the binder leaves.  Back and forth, rolling the tobacco into the long familiar shapes.  She trims off the excess and slides each cigar into a mold.  She starts again until the mold is filled, then starts a new mold.  This is what she does.  This is what she has done for countless years.  This is what she will do until god willing it is all over.

The sky was a deep blue, clear and they had the wind at thier backs.  They were hitting slightly into the sun on that mild November afternoon.  One at a time they all stepped up to the tee.  Swing after swing their golf balls flew down the fairway towards the green.  Even on the long par three they all easily landed on the fairway.  All just feet away from the pin.  Each walked up to their ball, judged the putt then sank the shot.  These gentlemen were not amateurs.  They knew the game, they knew what they needed to do.  They had all called the shot with style and perfection.

I made my way around the streets of downtown.  Cars honk as the lights turn green, someone is spending too much time tuning the radio or talking on the phone.  The wind is calm today and the sun is out.  It is actually very warm at this point in the morning.  People are moving, important places to go.  I try to get out of the way as I snap photos here and there.  I get a slight reprieve as I wait at a crosswalk, the others eager to get where ever they are going.  The light changes and as I cross the road, I can smell the mixture of gas and exhaust coming from the cars.  Who just by chance are also very eager to get where ever they are going.  Too bad for them I am not in a hurry to be anywhere.  I take my time crossing, I can feel them looking at me, looking at the light, waiting for the change.

I must have timed it just perfect, as I step back up onto the sidewalk the light changes and everyone is back on their way.  Back across the street I can see a new group of people gathering to cross again.  I turn around and just happen to look up.  The building I see is not new, it is not covered in glass and metal.  It is old.  I don’t even  see the real colors, the browns and dark red woods on the ground floor.  I see shades of black and white, the grays that contrast with each other perfectly.  I don’t see the bright red sign that sits on top of it announcing that it is a hotel.  I see a photograph.  I lean against a light pole to steady myself, move my camera up and click.