I stand here at the crossroads. A backroads photographer can be certain about places like that. I drool at the sight of rust and peeled paint. Anything worn or rustic. The aged patina gestures, “Stride inside, to the seduction zone” - to Wabi Sabi and precious artifacts.
It’s “The Sphinx,” a hand written two-page essay for Miss Abbott my 2nd grade teacher, in blue ink and not assigned.
It’s a collection of short poems (“My Uncle is in the Navy, and he likes to eat gravy,”) pencil scratched in a hand-made booklet, Circa 1950.
It’s a Kodak Brownie box camera that snapped those Family albums, parents, grand parents, uncles, cousins and even the milk cow.
It’s a small black wind-up clock from a WW II aircraft cockpit that ticks no longer but relives that treacherous landing in Iceland.
It’s an electric steam locomotive, American Flyer, that chugged about the holiday tree responding gleefully to my deft commands.
It’s a rusty Civil War bayonet exchanged from a friend for a 50’s Little Richard album.
It’s a plumb bob from my first job as a surveyor’s assistant cutting brush, dragging chain, being responsible for distances and alignment.
It’s a wrench from Father’s shop etched with his initials.
It’s a high school scholar-athlete trophy, disputed by the city boys.
It’s a cast iron stamping gizmo used by Grand Father, a country judge, to emboss signatures on legal documents.
It’s an ancient kerosene-fueled blow torch that thawed frozen kitchen pipes way back, right after the War.
It’s clothes and uniforms that should never leave the rack.
It’s endless shelves of books. Music, art, history. Science and technical reports, journals and course notes.
It’s that time for me. The inevitable downsize. Such things will have to go. How strong my will, I do not know.
Here at the Crossroads.
© d100616-018 Hardware Inside
Lansing, North Carolina
Wednesday 16 June 2010