There’s No Place Like Home
Traveling the roads of my youth and searching madly for the ghost of times forgotten, I stumbled upon this old garden shack. I paused for a moment and asked myself, “what is it about dilapidated farm buildings scattered across the mid-west that draws me in?”
I spent a good amount of my childhood bouncing across the farmlands of Ohio, swinging from the rope in the haylofts from side to side and building impenetrable forts out of the bales which kept the pirates at bay in the limitless boundaries of my imagination. I remember my Uncle Jerry coming inside from working on the tractor and telling me we had to wash up before supper. The memory of my uncles hands in the wash basin, all cracked and callous and his fingernails packed with grease and honest sweat is etched right into my mind. Picture perfect. Watching the dirty gobs of lather splat off of his thick wrists into the sink and they would swirl and swirl and morph into the kind of tornado that looked like generations of hard work and farming and the very backbone of this nation.
To him, he was just washing his hands, but to me, it was instilling within me my perception of nostalgia. That old family farm is just a bunch of run down houses now. All of the shacks but one have collapsed. My family farmed that land for generations, but I have all these memories. I can still smell the musty old books and photographs that my grandmother used to let me look through. That’s where my love for photography, and art in general was born.
That’s what draws me in, nostalgia. Imagining the people who once used this old garden shack that seems to lean with the trees today. Wondering if they were like my family and if some little boys mind was being shaped by the experiences that can only be found on a farm. Enjoy the photo. I hope it captured the mood for you like it did for me.