Saturday, October 22, 2016

BC the hunter

the morning in the night

I woke alone this morning although at first, I didn't quite know it. It took a while for the memories of his leaving to reawaken. To recall the sounds of BC in the predawn hours walking around in the kitchen. For him, the house is just a stopover in the month of October; it is hunting season and he has 3 tags (and hopefully a freezer) to fill.

Slowly, I remembered the daftness of my soft sleep knocking against the deep thumps and bangs of him moving weighted bags over the floor below. The house creaking and the dogs rolling over. Then the final click of the front door shutting behind the hunter gone hunting. Followed by the growl of his truck starting in the driveway. 

He left behind a pot of dark 4 am coffee. Too dark to drink. But not enough beans to make a fresh one. Standing barefoot in the kitchen I realized that Beach was away too. It meant I didn't need to tip-toe to get some time or space to meself. In fact, time & space were all I had.  

So I fed the farm. Hay to an impatient horse, grain to squabbling chickens, and crackers to a rabbit that is too bold for his own good. I snapped a few pics of the farm slipping into winter's sleep. My breath like a ghost, white and whispy, fogging up the lens. I didn't stay out long. It was cold and wet; the dew was leaking. The sun breaking off the hazy. An old ship out at sea...  

I went for a long run out on the J-trail to get warm and to try to get out from under the soreness of a good, hard week. When I came back the power was off so I took a bath by candlelight. The bathroom door cracked just enough to see the front room. The wooden floor spilling towards the front wall.  

When the lights came back on I was dressed and ready for the faceless day before me. With no one to stop me I sat down to write....

but the only words I found were tangled up in the lean muscles of a man walking down a long softly lit hallway. Ginger and garlic and the tang of good beer. 

I am susceptible to silence.         

Sunday, October 16, 2016


 When you sleep-over on the farm you get the whole farm experience. 
Yep, even when wearing pink footie pajamas. 

Saturday, October 15, 2016

behind the scenes

This is the part of the farm that belongs to BC.  The Southwest corner, half hidden by the workshop, it is where he hoards recycled materials.  A boneyard for lumber.  So needless to say one might see instantly why it isn't a common backdrop for photos.  But this is where I found her tracking a rabbit.  Against all warnings barefoot among the thorns & stickers.  Wild morning hair- too glued to her new camera to even know I was there watching her. 

Part of my heart is sad at seeing this.  I believe it is the first real glimpse of the adult she will become. I see her following this passion for photography the rest of her life. 

It is inevitable that one day she will salute the judges for the last time. If we are among the lucky we will know when that day will be.  See gymnastics, no matter who you are, only lasts so long.


And although, her love of photography sits on the same precarious assumption that gymnastics does: that her sight will hold. The older she gets the smaller the fear that she will not make it on her own falls aside. 

She holds her future in her hands.  What a glorious picture it makes.