“Long before he had a name for it, he was enraptured by the blues. One of his earliest memories was sitting in a corner of the kitchen building highways and tunnels for his Matchbox cars with the remnants of old metal blinds and empty paper towel rolls, while his mother sang “Stormy Monday Blues” or “Shoo Shoo Baby” at the ironing board or the stove.
The summer he was eleven, he had pneumonia and stayed with his grandparents so his mother could go to work without worrying about him. It was there he found his great-grandfather’s collection of 1940s Decca and Bluebird Records. His grandparents didn’t have to tell him to handle the records with care. Their old Admiral console was his altar and the records were his missals. He had found his religion.”
I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.