Jars

Growing up, every summer we would travel to a far away land, known as Colorado, to visit my grandparents on their 60 acre farm. It was an incredible place. The fields seemed endless and the various sheds and buildings stood as reminders of farming days that had since ceased. It wasn't a lifeless place, far from it, since all the trappings of what a farm is remained. Even though they were silent as if waiting for the farming to resume. As long as we were careful and didn't play with anything dangerous, we were free to experience all that the retired farm could offer. Except there was one small shed we weren't allowed to enter. It was the cellar shed in which all of grandma's canning supplies were kept.

 

 

      For years she meticulously stored in glistening jars most of the food her family would need for the winter. She had inherited some Ball and bought a few Masons. Each jar had important work to do. None of them could be spared for idle play or worse to careless accidents. No, each one meant a provision for life.That was nothing with which to be careless. This was insight from generations of mothers.

 

     Two years ago my grandparents decided to move to Wyoming to live with my mother. It took several months to clean and pack up the farm. My grandparents had lived there since they were in their teens, so there was much to do. Then the day came for us to make a trip down to thier place and claim anything we wanted before it was packed up, given away or hauled off. Many times over that extended weekend we all found ourselves suspended in time through thought as we ran our fingers over a this or a that. It was a long process. But the last thing we needed to do was speed it up. Then after several years, it was time to move out the Masons and the Balls. They were going to my sister since she was the family's canner. It should have been a matter of placeing same sized jars in boxes and taking them to the car. But it wasn't. Things were changing. The past was being displaced and made to float around like a feather caught in a gust. It is now up to my sister to do something with that past. Perhaps they will stay in a cupboard for many years, undisturbed, until her daughter can sweep up the years and breath newness into the jars by using them. Then again, maybe they will all come crashing down in one massive calamity as my sister is canning this year's peaches. It is hard to say. Then again, it is easy to forget that glass jars cannot hold the stuff of life. And yet . . .

Things You Should See

 

I had the opportunity to cross off one line on my bucket list last week. Through the month of May the Longmont Museum has an exhibit of works by Dorthea Lange and Maynard Dixon. In this collection is the famous photograph titled Migrant Mother. This is the piece that served as one of the most influential for the FSA. You can find more info and downloadable photographs of Florence Owens Thompson at  http://www.loc.gov/rr/print/list/128_migm.html

Seeing this photograph, and honestly anything by Lange, should be on any photographer's bucket list.

 

 

I have always thought that this mother of seven was much older than myself and that fact somehow allowed me the luxury of distancing myself from her. After all, this happened in a land far away and in a time long LONG ago, right? She is a model, without a name and completely void. What happens to her doesn't really matter since in a moment you will walk away from the image and one way or another things will resolve in ways we all assume are beneficial.
But then I read her age as it was printed below the photograph. It turns out I am only a scant year younger than she was at the time the photograph was taken. My life is very different from hers, that is true, and yet, as I looked closely at her face and traced my eyes along the slight crease in the photograph the inescapable truth hit me. This is real. Florence is not a model. She was a person that bore the consequences of her actions, both good and bad. Her name was Florence Owens Thompson. A camera pointed in her direction has about as much meaning to her as the year's Paris fashions. There's no agenda here for Florence. She is deep in thought about a tomorrow she can't resolve. We are not of the same age and yet learning that in the moment in which all of that was taking place for her and all of this was taking place for me, we were the same age. I couldn't help but think that she is not an "other" and neither is her suffering. Given a certain set of circumstances, that are easier to assemble than we want to admit, this is a portrait of me. It makes so many aggravations about my life more easily seen for what they are, petty.

Perspective is Key

Sometimes a simple carefree accident from one can feel like a highly polished obtrusion for another.

 

Happy Belated Thanksgiving!

Hope you all enjoyed the day!

 

 

 

Oh! To Be Free!

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . KICK!

Little boys and elephants have much in common. They love spending time with 'their people'. And they have an overwhelming urge to roam as far and as fast as their feet will take them. But despite their best efforts, they often crash chaotically wherever they go.

I suppose the world would be a much more orderly place if they were easy to contain.

 

But then I wonder, why would you want to?

 

 

 

Double points for anyone who can tell me in which book "1...2...3...KICK!" appears.

 

Let's See What's Caught?

To Market ©2012

 

 

Oh!

In case

some of you

hadn't noticed

the TNT Market

is now open to the

worldwide public.

Just a few things out

and ready to buy now

that you might find

very interesting.

I'll let you know

when I put out

something new

just for you.

 All of that to

say, feel free

to stop by

 and take a

look at the

fresh catch

of the month.

The web can be confusing.

It is actually quite easy to find.

Go to www.tntimages.us/store.html

Thanks!

Market

 



 

 



The Picture of Hard Work

 

 

A few weeks ago I baked a delicous lemon chicken. It was the sort of meal that makes one feel like a bonafide foodie with complete bragging rights. Framing the shot to perfection on my kitchen counter seemed a fitting salute to a wonderful creation.

 

Moments later I set the table for one and began to do a bit of work. That's when I saw another sight. The pristine moment before any plate is touched in its vacuous simplicity is good in its own right. However, do we ever stop to notice the beauty of the moments of creation or when we enjoy the product of our labor? These are usually messy, cluttered and chaotic, but they have a particular glory in an unsung magic through things so common that they are almost always missed.

*Photo on the screen of my laptop by Shelley Bridgers