When Words Become Unclear, I Shall Focus on Photographs

My dad wasn't a man of many words. He traveled, working around the country, as I grew up, but I do remember special moments. We shared a love of music and a love of photography. My father was an accomplished pianist and before I was born he used to play professionally on the original piano bar scene, the old steakhouses where you could take your girl out to dinner and gather round the piano after to sing Nat King Cole, The Andrews

Sisters, Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra, anything from the 30's, 40's, 50's, and 60's. That girl at dinner was my mom. She closed out the nights with my dad by the piano and of course, she sang better than he did. Mom was shy, but she loved dad's piano playing and he was always the life of the party. My father loved to drink good scotch, play piano, tell stories, and make people laugh. And he loved to take photographs.

Dad died in September of 2014 of advanced dementia. I helped care for him at home. Along with my mother and my brother, I watched the man, the father, the pianist, and the photographer I had known slip away from me. Eventually, sadly, we put dad in a nursing home for his own safety,

but thankfully, he was only there a short while. When he died, I couldn't bring myself to write. I thought about how he would never get to see me publish my first big novel or read the dedication page. His piano sat dark and silent; I couldn't bring myself to play it. And since I couldn't write, I took solace in my other passion, my photos. I found comfort in the familiar weight in my hands and lost myself behind the lens of the camera dad bought me.

I remember the day I came home as a freshman in college at Cardinal Stritch University and announced I'd signed up for photography. I'd taken photography in high school and a class in the sixth grade, but this was something special. I started out with a camera on loan from the photo department. I had no idea while I was going to class and spending time in the darkroom, dad was on the hunt for the perfect camera at Mike Crivello's. One day, I came home from classes to a camera sitting on the kitchen table - no note, nobody around, but I knew dad had something to do with this because mom never allowed dad to purchase big items without her approval, since he had a history of going hog wild when shopping for anything he was passionate about in life.

I still have my faithful Nikon FG. My roadside companion traveled 1500 miles with me, my cat, and my bearded dragon from Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Albuquerque, New Mexico the summer of 2006. We trekked all over The Land of Enchantment, my FG and me, before moving to Dallas, Texas on New Year's Eve of 2007. By then, my new husband and his son, Noah, knew any place allowing a camera, would find me behind one.

On a museum trip, Noah asked, "Why do you take so many pictures?"

I answered, "Because I'm a photographer." 

Noah looked at me and grew quiet for a moment. Then he said, "But you're not famous and in any really big museums, so you can't be a photographer."

Around ten at the time, I knew he didn't understand, but I tried to explain it the best I could. I said, "Noah, you don't have to be famous to be a photographer. You're a photographer because it's what you love. It's what you do. I'm a photographer."

It's the same thing with being a writer. I'm not a writer because I'm famous, though, if honest, I'm hoping I get a good contract for my first novel, as soon I finish it. I'm a writer because I write. But I couldn't be a writer after dad died in 2014. Words failed me for the first time in my life; I wasn't even confident of the eulogy I wrote for dad's memorial service. I couldn't blog, I couldn't create, I stopped sending out submissions. Everything went silent. "When words become unclear, I shall focus on photographs," Ansel Adams said. And that's what I did. I focused on my photographs and healed my heart.

These days, I mostly use a digital Canon, but I'll never sell my Nikon FG. It's a gift from my dad's heart. I miss being able to share my photographs and my writing with my father. I hear his voice in my head, saying, "That's really neat, Skeet." And because of the precious gift he gave me, I found a way to grieve and found my way back to my writing. I've been given a second chance. And I'm going to make it count. The first novel I publish will be dedicated to my mom and my dad. Somewhere, I know he'll be reading that first page, even if he's not physically with me. And I'll always have my camera to help focus my thoughts, when words fail me.

R.I.P. Dad February 3, 1933 - September 16, 2014