While working through more than 1,500 images taken Friday night with my two cameras at the Virginia High School League’s Class 2 state basketball championship quarterfinal math in Riner, I had to stop and wonder how many image files I now have on multiple hard drives of my computer. Fifty years ago, when I used
More than half a century in and around American politics — hardly an epitaph as one heads into his last years of life. I’ve lived through assassination of one American president and attempts on two others, a resignation of yet another president in disgrace, impeachment of still another, primarily for dallying with an intern in
My father died in 1949 at age 29 — nine months after my birth — in an industrial accident at his job at U.S. Phosphorus in Tampa, Florida. His brothers died before age 30. My grandmother buried all of her sons and a daughter before she died in 1994. At age 29 in 1977, I
Father’s Day is always bittersweet. My father died when I was nine months old, a victim of an industrial accident where he worked in Tampa, Florida. My only memories of my father came from a box of photos and stories told by my mother. My father existed as an ideal created by a young widow
One of the tasks (and pleasures) of opening a photo studio is going back through 40 years of shooting to find images that might be worthy of hanging in the gallery or offering for sale.
It also means discovering part of your past, as in this photo of a barn on the family farm shot when I was still a student at Floyd County High School. The setting sun cast an errie glow on the structure, which was filled with hay after a summer season.