The Charity of Night....Part 3

There is, as singer-songwriter Bruce Cockburn put it in song, a "Charity of Night". As if after all the misgivings, loud alarms, and abrasions we might incur in a given day, the night shares a forgiveness; a letting go, a respite from the cares of the day, and of course, eventually sleep.

As a young boy, there was a different sort of charity I was after. I learned it from my older brother Alan; bestowed with an uncanny ability to get something for nothing, a character that still resides in him to this day, although not gainfully.
Alan was always after the freebie; the search for the little loophole. Like the time he devised a way to get free Hot Rod posters from Pontiac that sold them at a promotional price of something like $3.00. Three dollars that a young teenager didn't always have. Alan filled out the order form and put it in the envelope. He addressed it and sealed it, then tore it open again, crumpled it a little bit and dropped it in the mailbox as is. He figured some kind lady at the redemption company would look at that torn envelope and fear the worst; that this poor young man had put his hard-earned money in there, and somewhere along the way, it was lost. Sure enough, Alan got the posters he hadn't paid for. (they were awesome, by the way)

Alan also devised a way to get in free to the local high school football games; in order to save himself a dollar or two. At some point he had acquired a large roll of white numbered tickets like you'd see at a raffle. As people were beginning to enter the gates at the football field, Alan would lurk inconspicuously near the ticket booth to catch a glance at what color the entrance ticket was that night. He'd come the couple blocks home, and with a little food coloring, he'd devise the correct color of ticket and return to the game. No one was ever the wiser.

I will tell you how we made pocket money "cleaning up" after the game in another post.

The moon tonight was full. The crisp sky air clear of anything but a scattering of stars. The landscape was transformed from a night-scape that is usually grays and blacks, to a beautiful blue-toned world with distinct shadows and bright highlights in the meadow, and twinkling water in the creek under watchful, silent, overhanging trees. The llamas followed us curiously along the fenceline, more interested in my four-legged friend than me. As we walked through an open space on the road I looked down into a field on my left. I could see my shadow briefly passing under a perfect cross made by the moonlight playing on a telephone pole across the road. There is a charity of night; a cleansing, a renewal, a glorious but calming time before the business of another day.

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Wondering Why I Like the Night, Part Two

I would like to say that photography was always my dream job, and that as a young boy I was driven to seek work as a photojournalist for the San Francisco Chronicle, or the then-fledgling (and mind you, anti-capitalist) Rolling Stone. But instead, my first job, although with a newspaper, was of somewhat lower aspirations. I was a paperboy for the smallest daily paper in the county; The Times Green Sheet. It was six days a week I got up before the crack of dawn, and sadly, after years of that routine, I can't tell you which day I actually had off.

My morning routine: I'd first walk to the front door to check the porch to see that my 80-plus papers had indeed arrived at some point in the middle of the night. A quick glance in the dim light at the girth of the two twine-tied stacks would tell me how hard my job would be that day. A light day I could get all the folded papers into my front and back "saddle bag"; a heavy canvas set of pouches worn on the shoulders. A bigger paper meant I may have to make two trips, coming back to the porch for a refill, two streets at a time.

Once I had a visual, I'd go back to the kitchen for a bowl of cold cereal dowsed with a couple spoonfuls of white sugar, and a glass of orange juice. If there was leftover Chocolate-Sundae Pudding in the oven, a good sugar rush was in order. I'd then throw on some clothes and head to the front porch for folding, the morning light just beginning to come over the roof of the house and filter through the mulberry trees.

If it was a summer day, the cool porch felt good, and I'd sit and fold each paper, a cat or two lounging nearby. Small papers could be held together with the right inserted fold. Bigger issues required a rubber band from the quart-size bag I'd buy from Mrs. Huntsman, my "agent".

On colder winter days when the concrete front porch was inhospitable, I'd haul the bundles of papers into the living room and set up shop in front of the T.V. set. Wherever I was, I had to be quiet; the rest of the family would still be asleep.

Getting the saddlebag over my shoulders was not always an easy endeavor. I was but a lad of around 90 lbs. soaking wet. Often, it seemed like a bag full of papers weighed more than me. With a big Wednesday, or giant Sunday double issue, there was only one way to get the bag onto my small shoulders. That was to carefully prop it on the porch with the papers standing upright, and then lay down on the ground and slide my body under the shoulder sections, popping my head up through the hole. A little wiggling and onto my knees I would be able to stand up and wobble to my trusty chrome sting-ray coaster-brake bike. Once on my bike I was ready to roll. You know, I honestly don't know if a photograph actually exists of me prepared like this for my route. I hope that your imagination does it's job.

On the streets I was in familiar territory. I knew the houses where the pretty girls lived. I knew the houses whose owners never paid (it was voluntary back then) and I delivered the paper anyway. I knew the house where a dog would bark when the paper landed on the porch; those got a soft touch. I knew the house where a dog might be lurking in the bushes; those were approached with caution. I still remember the morning that dog came bounding out and gripped my front tire in it's unrelenting jaws. I was so afraid he would pop my tire that I was in tears before the owner came out to free me. I knew the house where the family always tipped me, and at Christmas would even give me a little gift. Their paper was always perfectly placed on the doormat, headline up, fold-end toward the door so that I could almost picture the man of the house picking it up and smiling each day; his beautiful wife waiting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and lightly tossled hair, their two sweet kids asleep; the clothes they would wear to school that day already laid out on the beds. That was one of the first families I ever thought "there's something wonderfully unique about them..."

After years of doing the same route; 52 weeks a year, 6 days a week, I could probably ride it now and recall all the houses. By the time the sun was full in the sky, I was rounding the last corner with my own house just a few doors away...but wait, I haven't told you the scary part.

About every two weeks, usually on a Sunday, the monster would show up. It was always before dawn, and thankfully I could hear it coming before I saw it, or it saw me. The lights were the first tip-off as their orange flash was reflected on a wall of the Safeway store. My feet would pedal faster. Soon the sound would inevitably get louder; a whirring, swishing sound like hard brushes against a harder immovable surface. No matter how fast I rode, how low I stayed on my sting-ray, or how quickly I would toss the papers, my ink-stained hands still making sure none strayed into a hedge or bushes, I knew the monster would eventually round a corner, it's orange lights would sweep my trembling frame and it's emotionless eyes would direct their full gaze on my fearful face. It never did devour me, but the regular visits of the city street-sweeper made a quiet Sunday morning a lot more exciting.

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Note: the photo at the top of this post is of my oldest brother Bob, and oldest sister Barb making a "photo-op delivery" to our own front porch. Not sure who the tall blonde is, maybe our cousin Jan?

Do Dogs Get Nine Lives Too?

(...continued from previous post)

Funny, I just remembered that movie my kids loved so much; "All Dogs Go to Heaven". In Lucky's case, she did come out of the grave.

When I got back to the hole in the ground to find her she was staring up at me. She almost seemed a little embarrassed. I don't think she would have deliberately jumped in there; I have to believe that she was running along as she has many times before (oh, there's an old joke about that happening to a drunk...but another time) and the ground suddenly went out from under her feet. I now recall hearing an unrecognizable thud of some kind when I was walking away and Lucky's sudden drop may have explained it.

Thankfully she didn't appear to be hurt, but I felt that haste was in order anyway. (was I worried someone would come along that I had to explain this too?....some grave-robber or Johnny Depp? ) Next to the open grave was a ragged piece of plywood slightly narrower than the opening itself. (a template?) I put down my flashlight and maneuvered the plywood to line up with the grave and then slid it about half way over it. I let the end drop down slowly till it touched the ground below, shining the light again to make sure Lucky was on the right side, then I hopped down in behind her. Yeah, you KNEW I was going to end up in that hole somehow! I gave her a little push on the behind and she scrambled up the slippery plywood ramp and out again and I promptly did the same. Returning the plywood to it's original place we were on our way, pretty sure that if there were any spirits lingering last night, they had a good laugh.

Lucky has not made any requests to go out on a walk tonight.

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A Beautiful Oregon Day at Front Street Photo

Yes I have so much Front Street Photo work to do today and I am doing my best to stay focused, but the day with it's freah air and warm sun is calling me outside. The yard is beginning to green up again and if you look close you can see little spring buds here and there. I know that if I go outside, Oregon photography will not be my main focus. Instead, I will probably pick up a shovel or a saw and start prepping our yard for spring.
If you've never come for a visit, I hope you will plan on doing so soon. Whether it is for senior portraits, or family photography, Front Street Photo is such a little garden of Eden for us. We even have an apple tree!
Back later when I have more exciting news to share, and in the mean time, keep watching for our new updated website at www.frontstreetphoto.com