It's been in the family for three generations – since 1903. At that time there was nothing but empty prairie covered by waving seas of golden grass. My grandparents began the journey from New Orleans in 1902 when my grandmother was in her 5 month of pregnancy with my mother. My mother’s premature birth brought her to this world inside a wooden prairie schooner somewhere in west Arkansas. As my mother’s life began, my grandmother’s life ended with complications at birth and no doctor to tend to her. My grandfather knew that the wooden cross he marked the grave with would deteriorate sooner than a proper granite headstone. So two years later he went back to that windswept hillside with a hand chiseled, sturdy marker that now includes his name as well as his sweethearts.
OK, all of this is fiction. I was actually going to a business meeting in Oklahoma, saw this barn, rolled down the window going 55 miles an hour, and snapped the photo. I just wanted to illustrate the point I made in the last blog post. It’s story time. What story would you have written/drawn/illustrated/composed/choreographed?
I took this on a cold winter morning at Beaver Creek State Park. The original photo included more than the reflection so I cropped it and turned it upside down to get the "painterly" effect.