“Yesterday a dream away…a snapshot from another day…a shoebox filled with memories…of Polaroid’s and black and whites…of birthdays past and first prom nights…a lifetime filled with smiles and tears…with children’s laughter…passing years…a snapshot from another day…as close as now…a dream away…“ When I first came across this abandoned homestead I could not help but wonder what untold stories it held within. An elegant lady in an earlier day, dressed in a crisp coat of white, adorned with tasteful hints of spindles and trim. Surely a source of wide smiles and pride, a favorite gathering place for family events, where memories were made and milestones came and too quickly went…a child’s first steps, first tooth, and first bike. Summer potlucks out back, cousins laughing and playing, dad’s well-used old truck parked in the shed. I have to admit to being left melancholy by a find like this, knowing that this empty shell once called home now sits abandoned filled with a family’s stories, some perhaps left untold. I glance at this house and have thoughts of the many times that I have sat on the couch with other family members in mom and dad’s home, with the tattered box filled with favorite old photos and the stories that unfold…laughter and sadness, loved ones we miss…a moment in time held there in your hand, emotions relived, captured on film, saved in a place reserved in your heart. Snapshots of children, now parents themselves, memories visited from the box where they sit. A simple reminder that treasures don’t last, possessions held tightly, eventually must pass. A difficult life lesson which my loved ones and I are now living out, like so many other families dealing with loss and change and difficult decisions, prayers and requests for God’s tender love. Memories and snapshots stored deep inside turn out to be the real gold, the true source of belonging and happiness and pride, to value and hold on to as long as we can, as long as we share them and tell them and keep them alive. My hope is to leave here with no stories left untold, with loved ones left knowing that I loved them because they were...

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Rusted tin and weathered boards, simple scenes of barns and sheds, winding roads and fresh plowed fields all trigger pleasant thoughts of years gone by. My enjoyment of these unassuming rural surroundings stems from growing up in Willamina, Oregon, a small town nestled near the forest covered coast hills lining the Willamette Valley. My childhood memories bring back thoughts of a community of hard working people…loggers, farmers, mill workers and families bound together by an appreciation for simple pleasures…Friday night football games in the brisk chill of autumn, family reunions and potluck dinners, 4th of July fireworks at the high school field with carefully placed blankets staking claim on favorite vantage points as sparklers dance and darkness falls. Family drives on the rural roads in and around my hometown during my childhood led to my love of many of the local barns and homesteads. The familiar route to my grandparent’s house up Willamina Creek was filled with anticipation, rounding the sharp curve near the old Fendall School building, then passing grandma Dent’s farm with the big barn where memories of exploring the fields with my cousins still live, catching a quick view of Mendenhall’s barn and property across the creek where I first learned to ride on a long wooden sled while stacking hay bales emerging from the dusty, groaning innards of the baling machine towed by a tractor operated by my good friend, classmate, and hay boss…an employee/employer relationship that was the source of some of my favorite escapades as a teenager. Fate smiled on my friend at that young age, placing him in the seat of that tractor instead of perilously bouncing on the slats of the wooden sled eating dust and wrestling hay bales…it only seems predictable that some mischief would ensue.  Fast approaching my grandma and grandpa Blackwell’s farm, I can remember glancing out the side window’s of my parent’s station wagon looking at the bridge that led to the Fendall place. A couple of more bends and there it was…my grandparents home up on the hill near the huge black walnut tree. Memories of riding inner tubes down the steep hill next to their house comes to mind, a fire burning in a 55 gallon drum at the top of the hill to warm your hands before the next trip down…grandma’s homemade chili, laughter and good times shared with family and friends waiting for us at the house. Simple pleasures, simpler times, rusted tin and weathered wood…childhood dreams still live within…just close your eyes…remember...

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The gentle pull of gravel roads, dust rolling up in the rear view mirror with the welcome sound of crunching rock announcing my departure from the daily rush and noise and mindless push to get from A to B and back again before the car behind me…a welcome detour…peaceful and still. I have learned to gladly trade the few minutes saved on the pavement for the soothing sights and sounds and slower pace of the gravel roads that twist and turn through the rural landscape that lies between my home and my workplace. I have enjoyed the discovery of weathered barns and rusted tin, old farm trucks and rolling hills that quietly wait along the side of winding gravel roads for those who dare to leave their familiar blacktop trails in exchange for a rural route, a glimpse of then, a simpler time. I have enjoyed capturing images of this rural Northwest landscape and sharing it with others. I am pleased to invite you to come along with me for the ride and explore the back roads and beauty that can be found here just off the pavement, around the next bend…my hope is that the gentle pull of these dusty NW gravel roads will bring you back again. Thank you for stopping...

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