Covered Bridge on Doe River
Today I begin a journey back in time so as to bore you to no end. This first part is something I do not particularly want to delve into, but I feel I must if I am to ever have true sense of self. I was born on August 3, 1944 to an unwed mother. My name on my birth certificate was Kenneth Wayne Phillips as that was my mother's maiden name. In that day, being single and pregnant and living in the rural hills was a no-no by most community standards and mores; I and my mom were forever stigmatized by unforgiving people. For some reason, I never called my mother by any other name than her nickname of "Dot". I suppose I was never encouraged to do otherwise. Same with the man whom I've known as my dad all my life; "John". I called my grandmother "Mom" and my granddad "Pap" because that is what the other family members whom lived in the small farm house called them. I was probably just less than three years old when John swore in court in front of a judge that I was his son; I remember being present in that big, dark, and foreboding courtroom facing a man in a black robe whom I could barely see over the shiny woodwork. When I was born, John was off fighting a war in Europe but he was awol (away without leave) from training in Georgia when I iwas conceived. My mom always swore that John was my father, but I don't think John was quite as sure as she. My parents had some god-awful verbal fights when I was growing up, and they usually turned violent with John physically abusing my mom. Several times I overheard him accusing her of being with someone else when my little egg was fertilized. I know whom the other man was, but I never met him as he had moved away from the community by the time I became aware of him; I've seen his photograph and now have it in my possession. John and I were never close; the only times when I was little that he took me for an ice cream was after their fights and separations when he was trying to get back in good with Dot. That amounted to twice when I was a small, although it seems they were apart as much as they were together. I feared him. Neither he nor I had respect for each other until after I was grown, married, and had children of my own. He whipped me on the butt with his open hand only once when I was little, and was never abusive in any way toward me; just indifferent, and I suppose that hurt more than anything. As for whom I am, all I can say is that my nor my children's features favor John or anyone in his family. In fact, most of his family including my grandmother treated me as an outsider. Two exceptions were John's younger brothers Vernon and Buford; I was treated like family by them. Whom do I look like? I favor the folks on my mother's sides of the family as do my kids and grandkids. If there is anyone on my dad's side whom we do resemble, it may be Vernon, but just slightly. I still have an aunt whom may know one way or another if John is my father, but the hell of it is, I don't have the courage to ask. Or maybe I really don't want to know.
----
I watched the Lady Vols play Saturday, and as soon as the game was over, I grabbed the Pentax and long lens and went to the porch for some sun and a photo which I knew was going to happen. Before going out, I blew the dust off the camera and out of the memory card slot; I didn't want anything to interfere with what was coming. I sat on the porch shirtless in the warm sun, tanning my nipples and awaiting the three Marine Corps FA-18 jet fighters I knew would fly directly over my house at low altitude. It was race weekend in Bristol, and the planes were bound to come during pre-race activities. As usual, the first time by was a sneak attack and I missed my opportunity, but for the second pass they made as they circled and headed east toward their base, I was ready. Wide open sky and a triangle of beautiful jets was approaching as I lifted the pre-set camera to my eye; all I had to do was frame them and click the shutter. I pushed the shutter about five times and nothing happened! The jets zoomed overhead as I was celebrating the ancestry of all things Pentax. Then I saw it; a little message on the screen saying "Memory card error". I had not fully set the card in its slot and the dslr has no buffer for such emergencies, so I missed the shot. Next race will be different!
If you ever learn anything from me about photography, I hope it is this iconic do and do not: Never make a photo of me, and always take a test photo before you are ready to do serious shooting.
----
It is rainy and chilly here on this wash day; not much to do but sit in and ponder the beauty of the tip of my nose. Have a good Monday!
Today I begin a journey back in time so as to bore you to no end. This first part is something I do not particularly want to delve into, but I feel I must if I am to ever have true sense of self. I was born on August 3, 1944 to an unwed mother. My name on my birth certificate was Kenneth Wayne Phillips as that was my mother's maiden name. In that day, being single and pregnant and living in the rural hills was a no-no by most community standards and mores; I and my mom were forever stigmatized by unforgiving people. For some reason, I never called my mother by any other name than her nickname of "Dot". I suppose I was never encouraged to do otherwise. Same with the man whom I've known as my dad all my life; "John". I called my grandmother "Mom" and my granddad "Pap" because that is what the other family members whom lived in the small farm house called them. I was probably just less than three years old when John swore in court in front of a judge that I was his son; I remember being present in that big, dark, and foreboding courtroom facing a man in a black robe whom I could barely see over the shiny woodwork. When I was born, John was off fighting a war in Europe but he was awol (away without leave) from training in Georgia when I iwas conceived. My mom always swore that John was my father, but I don't think John was quite as sure as she. My parents had some god-awful verbal fights when I was growing up, and they usually turned violent with John physically abusing my mom. Several times I overheard him accusing her of being with someone else when my little egg was fertilized. I know whom the other man was, but I never met him as he had moved away from the community by the time I became aware of him; I've seen his photograph and now have it in my possession. John and I were never close; the only times when I was little that he took me for an ice cream was after their fights and separations when he was trying to get back in good with Dot. That amounted to twice when I was a small, although it seems they were apart as much as they were together. I feared him. Neither he nor I had respect for each other until after I was grown, married, and had children of my own. He whipped me on the butt with his open hand only once when I was little, and was never abusive in any way toward me; just indifferent, and I suppose that hurt more than anything. As for whom I am, all I can say is that my nor my children's features favor John or anyone in his family. In fact, most of his family including my grandmother treated me as an outsider. Two exceptions were John's younger brothers Vernon and Buford; I was treated like family by them. Whom do I look like? I favor the folks on my mother's sides of the family as do my kids and grandkids. If there is anyone on my dad's side whom we do resemble, it may be Vernon, but just slightly. I still have an aunt whom may know one way or another if John is my father, but the hell of it is, I don't have the courage to ask. Or maybe I really don't want to know.
----
I watched the Lady Vols play Saturday, and as soon as the game was over, I grabbed the Pentax and long lens and went to the porch for some sun and a photo which I knew was going to happen. Before going out, I blew the dust off the camera and out of the memory card slot; I didn't want anything to interfere with what was coming. I sat on the porch shirtless in the warm sun, tanning my nipples and awaiting the three Marine Corps FA-18 jet fighters I knew would fly directly over my house at low altitude. It was race weekend in Bristol, and the planes were bound to come during pre-race activities. As usual, the first time by was a sneak attack and I missed my opportunity, but for the second pass they made as they circled and headed east toward their base, I was ready. Wide open sky and a triangle of beautiful jets was approaching as I lifted the pre-set camera to my eye; all I had to do was frame them and click the shutter. I pushed the shutter about five times and nothing happened! The jets zoomed overhead as I was celebrating the ancestry of all things Pentax. Then I saw it; a little message on the screen saying "Memory card error". I had not fully set the card in its slot and the dslr has no buffer for such emergencies, so I missed the shot. Next race will be different!
If you ever learn anything from me about photography, I hope it is this iconic do and do not: Never make a photo of me, and always take a test photo before you are ready to do serious shooting.
----
It is rainy and chilly here on this wash day; not much to do but sit in and ponder the beauty of the tip of my nose. Have a good Monday!
4 comments:
It's dramatic analysis, my friend. I'm moved. A word 'indifferent' is also known in Polish (however it is Latin borrowing). I understand well that such relationship hurt you so much. I only hope that John loved his grandkids; and I hope he really loved Dot.
As a married woman I was waiting for the birth of my daughter almost five years; Asia calls me by the nickname too. It is her own word: 'Jelon'. Polish is inflected language, so if she is speaking directly to me she is saying: 'Jelonie'. As you know it is also my nickname on Flickr. I just added '1971', because it was v. good year of life.
Ken ... your nose is very nicely shaped. ;-))
Oh, I enlarged the photo eventually. Covered bridge! Thanks, Ken. :-)
Well I think you should ask. I may answer many other questions you have. I know it can't be an easy thing to wonder about.
I suppose you are right, Mark. I may be the heir to a million bucks somewhere.
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