SENSORY PERCEPTION

Somewhere between the Pawnee and Fort Collins I stopped the Bronco. I took off the ill fitting soft top that had replaced the one blown off a year before and poured the last of the coffee from my almost new Stanley thermos. Still, forty years later, it remains my primary hot java carrier.

I sped down the deserted highway, bathed in sunlight, a smile etched on my face. Excitement over my realization, pictures I had taken, and the mystical landscape that I had witnessed coursed through me. I screeched to a halt in front of the dilapidated house on Magnolia that I shared with three roommates. I stowed the Leica safely in the glove compartment, locked it and dashed into the house. I planned to check if the lab was free and take a quick shower. There was a cute little blonde in the photography class and on the off chance that I would run into her, thought a tad of cleanup might be warranted.

I bounced out of the house not a half hour later. I settled myself in the bronco and reached over to unlock the glove compartment and extract the old leather case that my father’s camera called home. The storage area was empty! I sat for a few moments in numbed disbelief. Panic welled up. I scrambled over to the passenger side, searched the floor, under the seat, beneath the door, under the vehicle. Nothing.

Still on my knees from my search under the bronco, I raised my head and my eye caught an aberration in the under layer of the dash below the glove compartment. Somebody had reached in with a knife, ripped open the heavy fabric which formed the bottom of the dash and taken the camera. I was shocked and furious. Thieves are at the very top of my list of “can’t stands”. Terror over the fact that my father’s camera had been stolen combined with a terrible sense of loss over the precious film that I was sure had captured the mystical moments of that morning. I walked slowly back up the walk to the house and sat on the front steps thinking. An hour or two passed. I was still numb but I was determined, and my anger grew. I was going to find and retrieve that camera and with it my pictures.

I cannot quite tell you what impelled me, but I went out to the bronco and began to drive. A few minutes later I found myself on North Loomis Street. This was a neighborhood that I had rarely visited. I drove slowly down the street. It was midday. Most students were still on campus. Fort Collins was a tiny town then compared to the bustling metropolitan area that it has now become. On the front stoop of an old dilapidated blue house sat three young men, slightly older than me. I drove slowly by them. I stared fixedly, and they returned my gaze. There was something in the connection of our looks. A disturbance in energies. One was tapping his foot. It struck me as nervous. The other was clenching his hands together.

“Odd behavior” I thought…

To be continued . . .

Read the Complete Photo SeriesSomewhere between the Pawnee and Fort Collins I stopped the Bronco. I took off the ill fitting soft top that had replaced the one blown off a year before and poured the last of the coffee from my almost new Stanley thermos. Still, forty years later, it remains my primary hot java carrier.

I sped down the deserted highway, bathed in sunlight, a smile etched on my face. Excitement over my realization, pictures I had taken, and the mystical landscape that I had witnessed coursed through me. I screeched to a halt in front of the dilapidated house on Magnolia that I shared with three roommates. I stowed the Leica safely in the glove compartment, locked it and dashed into the house. I planned to check if the lab was free and take a quick shower. There was a cute little blonde in the photography class and on the off chance that I would run into her, thought a tad of cleanup might be warranted.

I bounced out of the house not a half hour later. I settled myself in the bronco and reached over to unlock the glove compartment and extract the old leather case that my father’s camera called home. The storage area was empty! I sat for a few moments in numbed disbelief. Panic welled up. I scrambled over to the passenger side, searched the floor, under the seat, beneath the door, under the vehicle. Nothing.

Still on my knees from my search under the bronco, I raised my head and my eye caught an aberration in the under layer of the dash below the glove compartment. Somebody had reached in with a knife, ripped open the heavy fabric which formed the bottom of the dash and taken the camera. I was shocked and furious. Thieves are at the very top of my list of “can’t stands”. Terror over the fact that my father’s camera had been stolen combined with a terrible sense of loss over the precious film that I was sure had captured the mystical moments of that morning. I walked slowly back up the walk to the house and sat on the front steps thinking. An hour or two passed. I was still numb but I was determined, and my anger grew. I was going to find and retrieve that camera and with it my pictures.

I cannot quite tell you what impelled me, but I went out to the bronco and began to drive. A few minutes later I found myself on North Loomis Street. This was a neighborhood that I had rarely visited. I drove slowly down the street. It was midday. Most students were still on campus. Fort Collins was a tiny town then compared to the bustling metropolitan area that it has now become. On the front stoop of an old dilapidated blue house sat three young men, slightly older than me. I drove slowly by them. I stared fixedly, and they returned my gaze. There was something in the connection of our looks. A disturbance in energies. One was tapping his foot. It struck me as nervous. The other was clenching his hands together.

“Odd behavior” I thought…

To be continued . . .

Read the Complete Photo Series