I sit and sip my coffee, a treat as I usually don’t drink more than 2 cups of coffee a day. My camera is close and I am looking for an opportunity. I am a sniper in my nest and I willing to shoot anything that attracts me, hits my artistic bone.
I glance up and there is a shiny, almost brand new looking 1958 Ford Fairlane, and it is a beauty, my mother and father would approve. I am carried back in time to when my parents were young and I was a little child. My Parents had a 1958 Buick that they had good times with, until they found out that I was coming to be with them. They traded straight across for an old house in the town that I was born in.
When I take pictures, I am always drawn to something, a story, an artistic twist, a poem, always something. This fleeting memory has me with a smile upon my face and some warm emotions embracing me at least for a few moments. Be it sketching or photography, the act of capturing an image sooths my soul, eases my stormy conscience, and makes me smile.
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