The Prophetic Voice

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UPDATE:  Not long after I published this post I learned that there had been another murder reported that was discovered this morning.  Dan will be starting from Day-0 again.

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In his sermon preparation as a Baptist minister, my dad took the pragmatist’s approach to help explain the faith that he professed, and he applied every tool available to him to teach the Biblical texts that formed the bases for these sermons.  It was as much a mental exercise as a spiritual one to hear him preach.  His explanation of what a prophet is came from his pulpit long before the advent of Wikipedia and other resources that are now at our fingertips anytime curiosity strikes.  He said that a prophet is not so much one who predicts the future as one who delivers a message for God, one who in essence is a mouthpiece for a divine communication, one who speaks the truth to those around him.  In the vernacular of my youth, one who tells it like it is.

As I spoke with The Billboard Guy this morning and watched the endless stream of supporters and well-wishers brave the summer morning heat to bring him cool drinks, I knew that I was in the presence of a modern-day prophet, and we talked about his prophetic role in St. Louis.  Like Jeremiah or John the Baptist before him, doing something outrageous like taking up residence atop a billboard in a vacant lot in midtown was nothing short of inspired.  It was Dan’s way of bringing awareness to the senseless killings in St. Louis the only way he knew to do it.  The owner of a billboard company in St. Louis, Dan was – like most St. Louisans – heartsick over the daily stories of murder on our streets.  Strangely, as Dan pointed out to me, as of this morning, the last period of 7 consecutive days when St. Louis witnessed no murders was a year ago, in the week immediately following Michael Brown’s August 2014 death.  At that time, the attention of the world turned to St. Louis for several months, focused on the property destruction and tragic violence that marred expressions of outrage and sadness.

But, Dan, like so many St. Louisans, was focused on the less glamorous headlines that were being overlooked by world media.  The rate of gun violence in St. Louis was setting new records for murders in our streets. According to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 2014 homicides were at their highest since 2008, up 30%, and that rate continued to rise through the early months of 2015.  In May alone, 22 homicides were reported, and the murder rate was nearly doubled from the previous year.  Time and again, neighbors watched their loved ones gunned down and cried for help and an end to the violence.  There was no “Day 1, Day 2, Day 3” count in the national news for these murders of ordinary citizens by ordinary citizens. Children were killed, elders, young people in the prime of their lives.  So many were African Americans killed by African Americans – it gave a whole new meaning to the yard signs dotting the lawns throughout St. Louis, “Black Lives Matter.”

And so, Dan, The Billboard Guy, first held an on-line contest where he solicited original art in these categories: Community Unity, Racial Understanding and Healing; Anti-Bullying; Put Down the Pistol/Ceasefire/Anti-Violence.

The response was overwhelming and Dan had a hard time narrowing down the three winners.  But, he did, and these pieces of art will now become fixtures on billboards in high-crime neighborhoods.  The top 100 entries (of 350) can be seen online:

 contest.drawcast.com

One of Dan’s ongoing projects is to erect more such billboards with positive messages. While I visited with Dan, two people talked to him about underwriting the cost of billboards that will bear the names of their lost loved ones, victims of the street violence in St. Louis.

But, today, happy news was being celebrated by Dan, by me, and by countless numbers of passersby:  St. Louis passed a 7th consecutive day without a murder in our streets, and so Dan will officially come down from the top of his billboard.  Almost every person who stopped or slowed down, waved, or walked up for a hug — an off-duty police officer with his little boy in the front seat of his car, a neighborhood woman who has brought Dan breakfast every day for nearly a month, a young woman whose fiance will be remembered as 2014 St. Louis murder victim #117, a church member waiting for services to start across the street — almost all were African American.  But, skin color, racial heritage, economic status, religion are of very little consequence when a much larger commonality binds us all together:  life.

Dan used his prophetic voice.  He caught the imagination and interest of St. Louisans – even if the national media failed to pick up on this.  He has not been without his detractors.  One woman chased him on foot, calling him a “white devil”, and that altercation resulted in Dan having a broken foot!  Even so, for every negative encounter, Dan has ten positive ones to recount.  Dan told me that he had actually witnessed opposing gang members meet and shake hands at his billboard.  This morning, everyone who came by thanked him, crediting his determination and deep heart of love for raising awareness in our community.  His prophetic voice was heard and they believe that Dan’s efforts had something to do with the current cessation in violence.

I had to confess to Dan my skepticism that he would ever come down from that billboard had more to do with my disbelief in human nature than belief in his ability to help effect change.  Without even realizing it, I had lost my belief in the goodness of human nature and allowed myself to become so hardened against violence that I could not imagine anything prevailing over the dark forces that muster and motivate inhumane actions.  But, I stood there and cried tears of joy along with him and others, and when I admitted that I was his latest “convert” in the belief of the fundamental goodness of human beings, Dan jumped up in the air, waved a triumphant fist heavenward, and said, “Yes!  Thank you! That’s what I love to hear!”

Thank you, Dan – your voice is just what we all needed to hear!

View Dan’s web site:

http://adunitystl.com/

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A privileged life

Peony in May

Peony in May

Growing up as I did in what might seem like the unlikeliest of circumstances for privilege — a baby boomer, living in the household of a self-described “poor country preacher” in the foothills of northwest Arkansas — I consider myself to have lived a very privileged life.  Early on, my parents taught me to appreciate whatever is of greatest intrinsic value, highest merit, for that is what is the longest-lasting.  Seeing this quality in the lives of many of my neighbors, I can credit those formative years of my childhood for instilling in me whatever goodness there may be found.  For, hard at work, even without my knowledge, there was a legion of men and women surrounding me and my entire family, laboring behind the scenes at laying brick by brick the solid foundation of character from stone hewn by their own hands, carried from the vast supplies of untapped resources in each of their lives.  They brought the best of what they had:  truth and fidelity, hospitality and selflessness, forgiveness and acceptance, these were the materials they brought to help build my life.  And, above it all, motivating every word or action, was overarching love as infinite as the wisdom that guided their lives, as vast as the sky. Not enough good things can said about these people who lived their lives quietly, doing good things privately without recognition or reward.  Only now that I have achieved the age that many of them were when I first knew them, and many of them still are in my memory, am I coming to understand the depth and breadth of their influence on my life, and the sweet and very subtle ways that they left their mark on me.

One such person, to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude, carried out her functions in life without fanfare or advertisement.  You would see her on the sidelines, in the corners of a room, always wearing a look of sweetness and content on her face.  By the time I knew her, she had lived a lifetime of service to her husband and to her community, and she continued to do so until she died.  Only once did I hear any details about her life, and it came in the form of a sermon illustration that my dad told.  As he told it, the story took up permanent residence in my mind and heart. It is a story about real heroes that is rarely shared, ordinary people who go about their lives doing extraordinary things.  It has helped me to notice the elderly, the quiet, the unpopular.  Again, I am privileged because my dad took the time to get to know everyone in his congregation — not just those in positions of power or authority.  It gave me a different perspective, one that has enriched my life over and over.

In her youth, Ella was beautiful and Norman was under her spell.  Her thick, long, blonde hair and large blue eyes were as captivating as her smile and her charming ways.  Before they were to be married, Ella contracted an illness that could have been fatal.  However, after months of confinement, she did at last recover.  But the ravages of the disease took away her beautiful hair, and so she hid herself from everyone – especially Norman.  When the news of Ella’s recovery finally reached Norman, not even wild horses could have kept him from going to her.  From behind the locked door, she could hear him thundering up the stairs to her bedroom.  She would not open the door, but hid in disgrace.  But, love conquers all, and so she heard the door smashing as Norman kicked it in.  He rushed to her and gathered her into his arms, assuring her that she was as beautiful as she had ever been.  And so, they lived happily ever after.  In her old age, we all knew her to be fittingly crowned with a head of snow-white hair.  I am sure that the normal vicissitudes of life brought Norman and Ella their share of pain and sorrow.  But, she was known to have said that in all their married life, they never argued once.  Ella was happy to be a homemaker and to look after her husband, keeping the house neat and clean, perfecting the art of home cooking, tending to the gardens.  She babysat children in her home from time to time, and without ever knowing it, she was a role model for women in her community.

I never knew her as Ella, but as Mrs. Maxey, the old, blue-eyed, white-haired woman who lived down the street.  May never comes around on my calendar that I don’t think of her.   For, May was the month school was over for the summer, and soon after that, our church hosted the annual Vacation Bible School.  As was true of most of the women in the church, my mother was always up to her elbows in the planning and execution of the week-long half-days, teaching some of the classes, baking cookies for the refreshments, and getting her four children dressed and to the church on time each morning, in addition to all of the other housework that occupied her time.  It was one of the busiest weeks of her life, and Mrs. Maxey took this very much to heart.  Our entire family knew that once during that week of hurried busy-ness, Mrs. Maxey was going to prepare supper for us.  It would be delivered hot in dishes ready to serve, and we always looked forward to it.  We could be sure that there would be new potatoes and fresh, tender green beans from her garden; the first scallions – hot and already cleaned and ready to dip into salt and bite into; and a peach cobbler made from the fruit she had canned last summer.  From these meals I learned why my mother’s cooking was so good:  it was seasoned with love, and so was Mrs. Maxey’s.  And, it was my annual privilege to walk down the street to her house to return the dishes.  She always greeted me with that broad smile, never asked me if we liked the food, never expected a compliment, just smiled warmly and invited me in while she put the dishes in the kitchen.

Those meals and her smile belong to another place and time that I still carry with me in memory.  And although I can only return there in my vivid thoughts and recollections, I do know how privileged I am for the experience of them.  And, I have the tangible evidence of Mrs. Maxey in the form of her cookie recipe.  This one is a real keeper!  Soft pillows of sweet cookie that shouldn’t be frosted because they are so good with just a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of cold milk.  Every year I make these cookies at least once, and I love to share them.  I think that Mrs. Maxey would like that.

Mrs. Maxey Cookies

Mrs. Maxey cookies

Mrs. Maxey cookies

Ingredients:

3 cups sifted flour

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup melted butter

1 egg

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

enough buttermilk to make a soft dough

Method:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Mix butter and sugar together.  Add egg.  Add dry ingredients alternately with buttermilk.  Dough should be rather stiff.  Work in more flour till dough is stiff enough to handle. Roll out on flat surface to about 1/2 inch.  Bake on greased cookie sheet until just brown.  I like to cut the dough into non-uniform squares, but you can cut into any shape, any size.  Leave space between the cut-outs on the cookie sheet because they will puff up a little while baking.

Christmas Past/Present/Future

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Missouri Botanical Garden Glow, December 2013

Missouri Botanical Garden Glow, December 2013

The ghosts of Christmas Past are haunting me this year. I am happily surrounded by memories so vivid and so real that it hardly seems possible they could be returning from decades ago. Such is the wonder of the human mind! What Proustian cookie crumb nudged my sensate faculties to revive with such accuracy these visitors from my past?

I’m visited by the night we walked through our Miami neighborhood, dressed in shorts, admiring the lights displayed on houses and trees flanked by privacy fences created by 6-foot tall, live poinsettia plants. The year the company car broke down while we were visiting relatives out in West Hampton on Long Island, stranding us there until the New Year. The snowstorm we drove through on the Pennsylvania Turnpike while traveling home for a family Christmas. The snow was so heavy on the highway that vehicles were moving slowly enough for car-weary travelers to get out and walk along beside. There was the Christmas when the flu gave me a dangerously close brush with my own mortality. The first Christmas without one of my children at home. The Christmas I spent visiting a friend in jail. A spectacular Christmas with my daughter in France, when we first heard the Toccata from Widor’s 5th Organ Symphony performed after the Christmas Eve midnight mass at the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon. The last Christmas I shared with someone I loved before he was soon after murdered. The lavish, childhood Christmas when my mother made dozens of stuffed animals to surprise and delight her four children. The Christmas my toddler joined forces with her cousin and painted my sister-in-law’s white boots with red lipstick. The first Christmas my grandmother baked a birthday cake for Jesus, and we all sang Happy Birthday to Him. Each of my children’s first Christmases. I remember Christmases at each of the jobs I have worked at over the years – how we celebrated with co-workers. There were so many magical moments. And then all those happy Christmases that I took my kids to see “The Nutcracker,” all those years of hearing “Messiah” performed under different conductors, different soloists, and especially the year a symphony conductor and I wrote each other wonderful letters in response to one of those performances. The cantatas and school performances I sang in and the ones I heard my children perform in. The annual ritual of hearing my dad’s voice give pure delight to the reading of the Nativity story from the Gospel of Saint Luke. And, how eagerly four children waited until all the prayers had been said, all of the preliminary remarks made, before we could finally satisfy our overwhelming curiosity about the enticingly wrapped packages beneath the Christmas tree.

And, oh, the trees! Going on the yearly hunt for a tree – first, in the forests of Northwest Arkansas, then in the tree lots of St. Louis, year after year, hunting for the best tree/the best deal. The ornaments, the bells, the balls, stabbing my finger with the large needle while threading popcorn strings. The glue and the glitter, the tinsel, the angel hair, big lights, tiny lights, colored lights, clear lights, steady, blinking, broken, burned-out, tangled, getting them all up on the tree. One grandmother’s ceramic Christmas tree, the other grandmother’s white, music box angel. All of my Christmas music boxes playing at once.  The candles,the colors the carolers, the hugs, the smiles, the smells, the Christmas cookies and baking, baking, baking until just recently when gluten and sugar have become four-letter words.

I greet these happy spectres with open arms! They are my children this year, they are me, and I love them with all the strength of my heart, so much so that I have brought them to life and they dance before my eyes as real as today is real. I open each memory like the Christmas present it is: hidden in its own shiny paper and brightly-colored ribbon until I unwrap it and turn it over in my mind and relive every precious moment of it. Because each moment is precious, is only here for the blink of an eye, and that is why I love these Christmas memories the way I do. They put me in the moment, once again, and help me to remember not to miss even what might seem to be the most insignificant moments as they speed by into the past. Grab them, love them, know them well – so that they may be recalled and relived and loved and enjoyed over and over again.

The Wish Tree

On Saturday, June 29, 2013, it was my joy to be present for the ribbon-cutting ceremony and grand opening of the new wing of the Saint Louis Art Museum in Forest Park. A monument to creativity, industry, beauty, and, yes, art – the picture-perfect day was as beautiful as could befit such an auspicious occasion. We made our way from the Grand Basin up Art Hill–covered in a thick carpet of emerald green grass, in the brilliant sunshine of an early summer day.  I stood in rapt enjoyment along with hundreds of others while the Governor of Missouri, the Mayor of St. Louis, and others filed out in front of the new building.  We heard the National Anthem sung, and listened to the words of congratulation and thanks expressed by the dignitaries on the dais.  Then, in the company of my son and granddaughter, I leisurely explored the exhibition halls of the new wing, equally impressed with the space and the works of art contained within them.

Happily, we made our way that day from one pleasurable moment to the next.  One of the most memorable for me was the opportunity to participate in Yoko Ono’s Wish Tree project: an outdoor patio installation of three live trees upon which to hang hand-written wishes. Begun in 1996, according to the official web site, to date, over a million wishes have been collected worldwide, and are all being housed at the site of the IMAGINE PEACE TOWER in Reykjavik, Iceland.

The dreamer in me wasted no time in fulfilling my wish to join the ranks of lovers of peace in this shared activity. Later, when a heavy rainstorm broke through the clouds, I wondered if all of our wishes, left fluttering on the limbs and branches of those trees, were going to be lost in the storm. To my delight, the next day when I visited the exhibit again, I found everything just as I had seen it the day before – except there were even more wishes hung upon the trees.

The Wish Tree

The walls were made of air and wind, and clouds
The ceiling formed, like shreds of muslin shroudsWish Tree
That fluttered overhead and pulled and strained
Until they knit together grey and rained
Like hot teardrops baptizing every note
Making holy the wish each person wrote
With carefully chosen words, when satisfied,
Onto the trees were hung with string and tied.
Then, fluttering in the breeze and moistened by the rain,
I saw my note and wished it once again:

For every heart – love
For every soul – beauty
For every mind – truth
For every person – equality
For every dreamer – peace
For every captive – freedom
For every society – insight
For every child – a home
For every poet – a hearer
For every artist – a beholder

For every judgment – mercy
For every aspiration – fulfillment
For every difference – tolerance
For every loss – compassion
For every pain – healing
For every sorrow – relief
For every conflict – resolution
For every neglect – a commitment
For every joy – a smile
For every tear – a hug.

‘Tis The Season

     It is the Saturday after Thanksgiving and we are well into the Christmas Season.  It started especially early this year because even though there are exceptions, the full-blown commercial Christmas Season typically doesn’t start until Thanksgiving.  And, since the first day of November was on a Thursday, Thanksgiving fell on the 22nd of November, a full week earlier than it will occur next year.  Last year (2011), Thanksgiving came on the 24th of November, and the year before, it was on the 25th.  So, even though it is only by a few days, I know I’m not crazy thinking that it started earlier than usual.

It goes without saying that Christmas seems to start earlier every year, regardless of the date it occupies on the calendar.  And, as with “celebrity death watch” and other cultural waiting games, we begin around Labor Day watching for the first Christmas ad or commercial, the first appearance of Christmas merchandising at the drugstore, the first sound of Christmas music on the airwaves.  I saw Christmas paraphernalia in stores prior to Halloween this year; heard 24-hour Christmas music on the radio the day before Thanksgiving; and, don’t watch enough television to qualify as a reputable monitor for early signs of Christmas advertising in that venue.

Ostensibly, the economy, and by extension everyone who hopes to benefit from a stronger one, depends upon the commercial success of Christmas.  So, although I gave up Christmas shopping years ago, I do not begrudge a positive collective bottom line, if in fact that is going to make a difference in people’s lives.  Can’t say that I am completely convinced of this.  But, I am convinced that people need Christmas in their lives.  Desperately, deeply, people need the comfort and assurance that their ideal of Christmas inspires.  People need to exchange the vitriol of a harsh election year for warm handshakes, sincere hugs, and hearty Christmas greetings that transcend political and religious differences and convey only peace on earth and good will toward everyone.  People need to look at the person in traffic and see a smiling face rather than one wearing road rage.  People need to see lights and colors and shiny things and evidence of plenty and abundance even if it is for just a few weeks out of the year.  And, people need to share with each other – favorite holiday memories, plates of decorated cookies, brightly wrapped gifts – and to give and receive exclamations of thank-you.

This afternoon as I strolled with a friend across the grassy western bank of the Missouri River at historic St. Charles, Missouri, we talked about the annual Christmas traditions that were taking place up and down the cobblestone Main Street ahead of us.  There, as every year, costumed Father Christmases held forth with eager crowds gathered around to learn about the era represented by each; a fife and drum corps marched in precision step, playing carols; horse drawn carriages gaily festooned in holiday gear ferried happy travelers; quartets of Victorian dressed carolers stood singing on street corners to the delight of hundreds of shoppers; and, numerous other traditional and literary characters associated with Christmases from many countries and many periods in history performed street theatre in full character, spreading their infectious joy. The streets were crowded with groups and individuals taking part in this annual shopping experience. Yes, as we both agreed, for better or for worse, Christmas is more and more commercialized.  But, I can honestly say in all that huge crowd of people that I did not see one angry face, I did not hear one harsh word.  It reminded me of the lyrics to Jerry Herman’s “We Need A Little Christmas” from his Broadway musical “Mame”:

Haul out the holly;
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again.
Fill up the stocking,
I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now.
For we need a little Christmas
Right this very minute,
Candles in the window,
Carols at the spinet.
Yes, we need a little Christmas
Right this very minute.
It hasn’t snowed a single flurry,
But Santa, dear, we’re in a hurry;
So climb down the chimney;
Put up the brightest string of lights I’ve ever seen.
Slice up the fruitcake;
It’s time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.
For I’ve grown a little leaner,
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older . . .

Maybe something in the American soul has been so bruised and beaten down that it needs to be revived with the annual total immersion into all the joy and hope we can cram into the days leading up to Christmas.  Maybe that is why we allow the Christmas season to start earlier every year.  Maybe we need it for more than just a Black Friday kick-started positive bottom line.  Maybe there’s another way to live in that same joy and hope that does not depend upon the illusion of prosperity created by the frenzy of holiday shopping.  Maybe we can find a way to truly make the pursuit of peace and good will toward everyone last all year and let Christmas really return – not a day earlier or later – to its place on the calendar.

It’s Raining Again

Out in the middle of the Mississippi River at St. Louis, on one of the supports of the historic Eads Bridge, there is a marker that simply indicates zero (0). This is the arbitrarily designated water level that serves as the benchmark for water stages on the St. Louis riverfront. Flood stage is 30 feet and The Great Flood of ’93 (1993) marked the highest water level since 1927, nearly 50 feet over flood stage.

Almost directly across from that pier supporting the Eads Bridge, rising from the old cobblestone levee below the national park that is home to the St. Louis Gateway Arch, the Lewis and Clark statue serves as my own, personal marker for water levels at St. Louis. “The Captains Return” by sculptor Harry Weber was dedicated in 2006, and since that time, it seems to me that at least part of that statue has always been under water. One of the captains stands with his hat in his hand, arm fully extended over his head. And, when the water is at 32 feet, the hat is not visible. At this stage it is not even possible to drive on the street that runs along the top of the levee above the statue, but from other vantage points, one can still see and marvel at the surging water that is the Mississippi River.

The Mississippi River has always held great fascination for me – no doubt set firmly in my imagination from an early age by the appearance of this legendary body of water in so much of American history and fiction. She attracts me to her in my thoughts and I often reflect on the twists of fate that have resulted in the good fortune of me living in such close proximity to her. But, my pilgrimages to take in her beauty are usually precipitated by the surges brought about by the annual flooding, when melting snows and spring rains from the north flow southward and swell her banks on their way to the Gulf of Mexico.  The River is an attraction all her own.  But with the Arch and the statue and the bridges and casinos and other amusements and businesses and historic sites that accompany her as she makes her way past St. Louis, this major body of water can be easily overshadowed by all that is there simply because she is.  She is great, and so is everything built around her, so that everything seems to be competing for attention.  Only when she swells and subsides, when she is changing, threatening, does she command our full respect.  Then, we have to admit that what we have here is not a tourist attraction but a force of nature, our close brush with an element of life on our planet that we can neither live without nor control.

This summer, I have watched her at her lowest ebb. The great drought that parched corn and soybean fields all over the Midwest, that fueled fires, dried up gardens, and brought barge traffic on the water to a halt has kept the Mississippi River at record lows, down to -2 feet. Accustomed as I am to seeing the River so much higher, it was quite a new experience to make regular visits this summer to the levee to experience the water at these historic low stages and to find her no less mighty, no less enchanting for her diminished flow. Walking the 30 or so feet from the base of the Lewis and Clark statue to the foot of the cobblestone paved banks at the water’s edge, standing there and seeing the silt of the riverbed that I do not recall ever seeing at this point, I had to fight away the nightmarish daydream of a sudden surge that would restore the River to what I would consider a normal stage and sweep me along in one swift, dreadful undercurrent.

But, nothing like that happened. Even at 20 or 25 feet, it is easy to snap a photo of the Lewis & Clark statue and fully comprehend that water stage. But, this summer I discovered that it is virtually impossible to capture in a single frame a picture of this low-water event that so easily illustrates the water level. It is not nearly as dramatic in a photograph to see a statue on a levee with a river running alongside as it is to see only parts of a statue visible above a swelled river.

The drought has been long and the water level low, but, thanks to another force of nature – Hurricane Isaac – it’s raining again; and, as it is with the cycle of natural things, before long the River will again rise up to the feet of the captains and eventually overtop the hat held permanently in place over their heads. And, as important as it is to me now, after awhile, I will not be among the enchanted souls making the pilgrimage to her shores, but others will come, and others will go. She will ebb and flow. Droughts will come and then it will be raining again.

Greetings!!

“Ordinary Time Volume 1” has had 3 publishings in less than one year!  Thank you to everyone who has loved the book, shared the book, and encouraged me to continue sharing my personal enjoyments.  In June, Aramark will be stocking some of my blank notecards, featuring my photographs in the line of greeting cards I like to call Pixcells.  For years, these cards have generated considerable funds for area non-profits, and I’m happy to bring them to a wider audience.  Like “Ordinary Time,” all of the photographs are local and unedited, taken with natural light.  If you are interested in ordering cards or copies of “Ordinary Time,” just send me a message.  I think you might like to send your greetings on a Pixcell card.

The hostas (above) is one of a framed trio that netted $150 at the recent Trovare di Spada (http://trovaredispada.com/) Fence-a-Thon for breast cancer services at the SLU Cancer Center.  It was great to be a part of such a fantastic, one-of-a-kind event!!

Many new images are making their way to the pages of “Ordinary Time Volume 2,” which will be rolling off of the NJC (http://www.njcprint.com/) presses this fall.  In the meantime, some will be premiered as Pixcell greeting cards.

More later . . .