I am a freelance photographer and writer which means that if I don' hustle work I won't be able to make the payments on my 2009 Mustang convertible. My bread and butter are covering events for a monthly publication called “Out And About.” The magazine is a very social and lifestyle magazine, in the old days it would have been considered to contain a fair amount of high fashion.
I also cover features for some of the outlying county weekly newspapers. Much of the writing is done at my home where I have established writing space in the corner of my garage.
At home now, I settle in at my slightly warped round work table, sip some sweet tea, collect my notebooks, and iPad then started to go to work on my handwritten notes from the latest event which was a fundraising dinner at the Railway Museum.
I start the organizing chore but pause long enough to rub my repaired left collar bone with the three screws ans metal plate that are telling me that rain was on the way soon.
Feeling restless after about twenty minutes of work, I decide to spend a little more time rummaging through the contents of my dead granddaddy's stash box. Feeling like an intruder, I start out with some folded, faded, and creased papers I had noticed earlier. At least they weren’t moldy, which meant somebody had the good sense to keep them dry.
The first paper that I unfolded appeared to be a telegram from one of Elmer's editors letting him know that he was needed in the Cave Counties to follow up on rumors about a town with the name of Rocky Hill burning down. I dug down a little further and uncovered an old Kodak camera, a photo of a woman in a Bar, and a piece of a corset. “Well, I wonder what all that old devil was up to,” I said to no one in particular.