Street, outside the Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, England. Just a few days into the trip, I’d began to dig into the cobblestone, bespoken charm of my new surroundings. Everything felt so old, so surreal, so different and concurrently, so beautiful. A friend took this photograph as the sun was setting on a popular street — one I’d walk down many times, in and out of bookstores and coffee shops, the same street which I’d buy my first map of London. I loved England.
Film garage, San Francisco. After a month in the city, I hadn’t made too many connections. One night after work, a co-worker invited me out to a film. The show was put on in an old garage filled with film reels stacked floor to ceiling, wall to wall. A small space cleared away held several rows of chairs and the film was projected on a wall. We all sank into the hodgepodge of theatre seats, our convenience store snacks cradled in our laps. We looked at one another and laughed during the funny scenes, though no scene was really all too funny; it was just a funny experience, and we were all in enjoyment.
After the film we spoke a few words before making our way to eat the most glorious burritos at a small taqueria nearby. The ceiling was draped with hundreds of flags in green, white, yellow, red and blue and we sat at a wooden table absorbing each bite. It was the first time I’d found such company, and the onset of the rest of my summer.
Dad, Rice Lake. It is a rare occasion to see Dad sitting on the couch at the lake. Any time I visit he’s building something, or fixing something, grilling something, trimming, clipping, or mowing something. When we first moved in the lake place, my siblings and I sometimes wondered how we were to entertain ourselves without a watercraft (or at least one with a motor). Dad’s answer to this was always, “You can sit on the dock, or dig dandelions.” It’s been the ongoing joke for years, even though Dad’s since bought a jet-ski or two.
This is an image of how I always want to remember my Dad: Relaxing. Wearing his silly hat. Belly out. Probably in the midst of saying something slightly witty. At his cabin. (It’s just too bad you can’t see the sandals and socks…)
Bedroom, Minot, N.D. I’d just returned from Europe and was immensely sad about the end of my journey. At the time I was faced with finding a job, paying off the debt brought on by my trip, searching for a new place to live, and getting back into the groove of life while living with my parents. This particular Sunday I’d just returned from church with my family, and wanted to crawl back in bed to avoid the looming responsibilities. I’d realize by the end of the summer that the first few weeks of my return were actually the easiest, and that the days would only grow longer.
I landed a full-time job as a cashier in the hospital cafeteria, where I went about each day rising at 4 a.m., putting on my checkered blouse, apron and hairnet, and serving food to the patients, staff, and visitors that strolled through for a meal. Aside from the workers, many of the people I helped had no desire to be at the hospital; they were there because a loved one was unwell. Some days felt I had to walk on eggshells to keep the day in line. I’ll never forget eating the same lunch every afternoon on the skywalk over Burdick, and looking down at the cars driving under me. After work I’d run for miles in the park, and think about the days ahead of and behind me. It was a strangely poignant summer, but the years after would prove that everything happened for a reason…
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