Women Build

When I was a little girl I once said that when I grew up, I was going to be a carpenter like my father.   My dad had apprenticed as a cabinet maker in Switzerland in the 1950's.  After he married my mother, they moved to Chicago to begin a new life together, and since there weren't many opportunities for cabinet makers, he became a carpenter - a profession he continued for the rest of his life.

My sisters and I grew up around the sound of hammers and circular saws.  We knew the difference between slotted flat and phillips screwdrivers. We played with wooden folding rulers.  Chunky, flat carpenters pencils were normal in our house. We knew what a plumb line was and our father's old chicken house-turned-carpenter's shop was a treasure trove of sawdust piles, saw horses, stacks of discarded wood pieces and drill bits of every size.

When Habitat for Humanity was looking for  photographers to spend some time taking photos of their recent home building project, I jumped at the chance for several reasons.
This was a unique project because it was called a "women's build" where much of the work was completed by women. Having been the oldest of three girls to grow up as carpenter's daughters, I knew that this work could most certainly be done by capable women and I was thrilled to be able to capture their progress.   It had been a long time since I'd been around a building site and it felt good to wander in and out of the skeletal wood framing, picking my way around two-by-fours, ladders and tool boxes on the unfinished floor.   I was fortunate to meet the young woman whose home they were building.  Although she didn't have carpentry skills to offer, she was there to lend a hand, carry tools, deliver fresh cut wood sections where they were needed and sweep up as she watched her future home rise up around her.  

I drive by the site every now and then to check on the progress and I look forward to one day soon seeing a finished home. And I still love the smell of sawdust.

The Bicycle Project

My first bicycle photo was taken on a sunny fall day purely by accident.  We were spending a girl's day together. My mother, sisters, daughters, nieces and I had traveled up Highway 31 in search of gift shops, farmers markets and antique stores.  We had stopped at a quaint little shop in what may have been Lapaz or Lakeville or another of the small towns along that way.  I was drawn to the back of the store where an open door led out to a garden full of outdoor statues, ironwork and yard ornaments scattered among autumn's leaves and vegetation.  Leaning against the back fence was this wonderful old bike, half buried in grasses with an old metal watering can hanging from one of its handle bars, faded white seat covered in leaves and rusty carrying rack over the rear wheel.  I imagined someone riding into the garden from errands, having hopped off to lean the bike against the fence for a momentary rest never to return.

Six years later and everywhere I travel, I notice bicycles.  My Bicycle Project was born.   I am intrigued by them and the places where I find them. I have photographed them on the sandy beach of Lake Michigan, in a bar in Seattle and on a cobblestoned street in a tiny Black Forest town in Germany. I have photographed them being used for decoration, for the necessity of travel and for the joy of the ride.  A bicycle leaning against a wall signifies life, a person has been here, is nearby and will probably return.  For many of us our childhood includes bicycle adventures and we pass the ability to ride down to our children.  Bicycles never go out of style.

Sunrise over Chicago

When the alarm clock went off at 3:30 in the morning to rouse us out of bed in the dark, the temptation to roll over and curl back under the covers was very enticing.   The plan was to be downtown Chicago in Grant Park by 5:30 am to participate in the annual Bike The Drive event where they close down famous Lake Shore Drive to automobiles and open it instead to 20,000 people on bicycles.

We pedaled onto Lake Shore Drive at about 5:40 am - ten minutes late of our goal - but in plenty of time to witness the sun rising over Navy Pier and that fantastic lake which fills me with awe time and time again.  This particular morning was certainly no exception.    On any other day of the week, we would be, along with countless others, speeding past this sight in our car - maybe we'd catch a glimpse of the sight and say, "Oh, the sun is coming up" but more important attention would be paid to the traffic and to the maneuvering of our own vehicle along that shoreline strip of pavement.   This time, however, we could stop, wonder, photograph and enjoy the sight.

The old saying, "Red sky at morning, sailor take warning" held true and this was our only view of the sun that day.  By the time we made our ride up to the northern-most stop of the trip, the sky had clouded over and by the time we returned back south to Grant Park, we were damp from the rain.   In spite of the turn in the weather, or maybe because of it, we felt fortunate and blessed for the experience of that sunrise.

Fog and Sound

The sound of the lake was amazing that afternoon when the fog hung over the lake like a shroud.   Maybe it was heightened because the lake was hidden behind a curtain.  The continuous swish in and out as the waves met the sand on the beach could be heard loud and clear and strong while I was still climbing down the dunes to the shoreline.  Long before I could see the waves, I could hear them. There was no other sound; no wind or calling gull; just wave after wave after wave washing in with simple white caps, reminding me that although the lake couldn't be seen, its power was still there.

Walking pink

Two weeks ago my daughters, my granddaughter

and I walked in the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer walk in Indianapolis on a team to honor and support a young woman very dear to our hearts.  My husband dropped me off on the campus of IUPUI at seven o'clock on a chilly but sunny April morning.  With camera in hand, I walked a block to Military Park where the event was being held, arriving just in time for the start of the Pink Parade.  Since I was so much earlier than the others I was meeting, I wandered over to watch.  

The Pink Parade is a march of survivors, beginning with the newest one year or less, and going all the way up to 50 and 60 year survivors.  Our dear friend began her battle seven months ago so I knew she would be one of the first in the parade.  It was difficult to keep my camera focused through the tears that welled up when I spotted Renae walking in that parade of survivors.   Accompanied by her husband, she looked strong, confident and beautiful and at that moment, my heart broke and swelled with pride all at the same time.  There are no words to describe the battle these women face every day, the strength they exhibit and the examples they set before us.  I am looking forward to seeing Renae in that parade again for many years to come, and marches like this will help make it possible.

Downtown LaPorte photowalk

"I'll take it," I said to the woman in the downtown LaPorte antique store.  She had just taken a vintage pearl necklace out of the showcase for me.   The price was right and it was a unique piece.  So I stepped up to the counter, set down my camera on the glass top and began to reach for my purse.  As soon as she spotted my camera, she struck up a conversation about it, and I knew from having previously been in the store that she was a kindred photographer spirit.  It was evident to her keen eye that it was a gorgeous Indiana Saturday morning, I was armed with my camera and I was headed out for a photo walk. My husband was downstairs sorting through an entire basement of vinyl and knowing he was probably going to be there a while, I turned for the stairs to let him know I was heading out.  My new photographer kindred spirit friend, however, shooed me out the front door with assurances that when my husband emerged from the bowels of the antique store, precious vinyl treasures in hand, she would let him know where I was.

Indiana towns have a character all their own and LaPorte is no exception.  If all those wonderful old facades and brick walls could talk, what stories they would tell.  I strolled up one street and down another, around blocks and through alleyways, gazing into dusty storefront windows and admiring the sturdy small-town Indiana architecture.  I wandered and explored and photographed for several hours that day. My phone buzzed with the text that simply said, "Where are you?" while I was a block down the street and I took a few last photos as I made my way back to the antique store where my photo walk had begun.  It had been a fantastic morning.

Glimpses of Spring

Brown leaves, wispy dried grasses and brown patches of last year's mulch are left uncovered after snow has melted into late March and early April days.  Suddenly you see it - that splash of color there in the midst of the drab and lifeless.  Crocus' defy the chilly temperatures of early spring mornings and frosty spring nights.  They open their petals in spite of that last feeble attempt by winter to hold on.  It is the first glimpse of a beauty lying just beneath the surface waiting, waiting.  Soon color will be all around us but for now, that special spot of purple and yellow in my front yard is enough.