Taking a break from baling hay
Four of the five-man crew baling hay on the Cooper Road farm take a break after filling another wagon. My Final Photo for June 5, 2013.
Taking a break from baling hay
Four of the five-man crew baling hay on the Cooper Road farm take a break after filling another wagon. My Final Photo for June 5, 2013.
Honeycombs and rough sawn boards
Honeycomb at the Cooper Road Farm – My Final Photo for May 9, 2013
There were many choices for today’s My Final Photo. From abortion protests and free hugs at Otterbein to new spring growth of an ever expanding carpet of poison ivy. Out of it all I chose the simplicity of a piece of honeycomb left for natural recycling at the hives at the Cooper Road farm.
Bee hives at Cooper Road Farm
Hay bales and barn at Cooper Road Farm
No photos of my sister! Put the camera away!
Baby crying in stroller at farmers market – My Final Photo for May 8, 2013
Wednesday beginning in spring means the Uptown Westerville Farmers Market where I spend several hours each week talking with farmers and their customers. Usually I come away with photos of the latest crops or someone inspecting fruits and vegetables or carrying their selections to their cars.
Today was different from the summer when I photographed the hands of farmers with their produce.
I heard the low volume cries of a baby in the stroller next to me at the last booth in the market. It was a cry just loud enough to be heard but not of such a volume that the baby sounded in distress.
The lower section of the stroller held an older child who was too involved eating the recently purchased cookie to care about her sibling crying just over her head in the second compartment. I couldn’t see the crier because the sun shield was folded over her.
Her mom, taking a break from deciding which breads to buy, folded down the shield to make sure everything was OK. It was, except the baby began to cry louder once she saw mom. Mom, recognizing the increased volume and intensity as a feined attempt at physical distress, went back to her shopping.
The tears, the expression, and her reaction when the baby saw mom intrigued me.
I got two frames before the oldest child, a sister holding a cookie and standing beside the stroller looked at me like the grenade boy by Diane Arbus, reached over and closed the shield. She then looked at me, tilted her as if to say “Go away! This is my sister and you’re not going to be taking pictures of her crying!”
She turned and walked away shoulders held high and the cookie slowly moving toward her grinning mouth.
The photo is ordinary but the story elevates it to My Final Photo for May 8, 2013.
No photos of my sister! Put the camera away!
Baby crying in stroller at farmers market – My Final Photo for May 8, 2013
Wednesday beginning in spring means the Uptown Westerville Farmers Market where I spend several hours each week talking with farmers and their customers. Usually I come away with photos of the latest crops or someone inspecting fruits and vegetables or carrying their selections to their cars.
Today was different from the summer when I photographed the hands of farmers with their produce.
I heard the low volume cries of a baby in the stroller next to me at the last booth in the market. It was a cry just loud enough to be heard but not of such a volume that the baby sounded in distress.
The lower section of the stroller held an older child who was too involved eating the recently purchased cookie to care about her sibling crying just over her head in the second compartment. I couldn’t see the crier because the sun shield was folded over her.
Her mom, taking a break from deciding which breads to buy, folded down the shield to make sure everything was OK. It was, except the baby began to cry louder once she saw mom. Mom, recognizing the increased volume and intensity as a feined attempt at physical distress, went back to her shopping.
The tears, the expression, and her reaction when the baby saw mom intrigued me.
I got two frames before the oldest child, a sister holding a cookie and standing beside the stroller looked at me like the grenade boy by Diane Arbus, reached over and closed the shield. She then looked at me, tilted her as if to say “Go away! This is my sister and you’re not going to be taking pictures of her crying!”
She turned and walked away shoulders held high and the cookie slowly moving toward her grinning mouth.
The photo is ordinary but the story elevates it to My Final Photo for May 8, 2013.