Shadow of a Mountain

Jim Anderson Photo

...in my youthful imagination, his life and the life of the mountain became as one...whose influence holds me captive still today...His life is a part of my heritage...a part of my two son's heritage...and is a part of the mountain's heritage. He, after all, was not just a frail old man, but a man with a story and a history connected by a mountain...
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In the 1950’s and early 1960’s, I was fortunate to grow up in the Mayberry-like community of Wister, Oklahoma just a few miles down the road from Poteau. The memories of those years spent in that southeastern Oklahoma community instilled within me a sense of personal values that still resonates with me today.

That part of the state carries with it a unique flavor of terrain where broad wooded valleys are accented with prairie fields and pine covered hills. The most dominant of those hills is Cavanal…a 2000 foot escarpment that spreads its broad shoulders across the western edge of the county. According to local legend, it is known as the world’s highest hill being listed as 1999 feet high…one foot short of being actually classified as a true mountain.  Whether it actually is the highest hill in the world is open for conjecture, but the legend of that mountain carries with it a sense of identity and home.

It is within the shadow of that mountain, where my family planted roots…four generations on both sides were born, lived, and many are now buried within sight of its peak. It is where I first began to dream visions of grand adventures sparked by stories of fox dens and bear dens across its flanks my grandfather told me about.  Stories about his youth chronicled with faded photographs from the turn of an old Victorian century toward the promise of new 20^th century.  There were stories of French and Spanish explorers along with Native Indian cultures that owned that land long before it was settled...and stories of strange and wonderful things that happened on the mountain. The word 'Cavanal' is derived from the french word for 'Cave' and indeed legend has it that Indians in the area would report rumbling noises from inside some of the caves found on its flanks.

Robert Star Bridgman - my great-grandfather
Circa 1910

Robert Lee Bridgman was his name…everyone called him ’Bob’. His father Robert Star Bridgman, my great-grandfather, established one of the first proprietorships in Poteau having moved his family there around 1895 using a borrowed wagon. As a youth Robert Star stood witness to the Civil War…just young enough to have stayed out of it, and over the years established and ran several businesses including a cotton gin, hardware store, and a newspaper…eventually evolving into a furniture and home décor business that still operates to this day…well over 100 years later…still owned and operated by family members. My grandfather followed his footsteps and continued in the family business tradition for many years.

A dapper and youthful Bob on the right
circa 1915

I remember my grandfather mostly as a frail and gentle older man…during WWI he ended up in France and was injured by poison gas that wrecked his lungs causing him great distress for the rest of life. Pictures of his youth before those war years show a strong and vibrant young man…rather dapper in appearance.

Robert (Bob) on left with friends
Circa 1915

I can only once remember him ever raising his voice in anger…seems I knocked a picture off the wall because I did not listen to him when he told me to settle down…my grandmother was more mad at him for raising his voice than at me.

He often would place us grandkids inside a large cardboard box…close it up…then spin us around, shaking the box every which way…to our great delight…and I was fascinated when he removed his teeth and placed them in a glass of water…he could almost make his chin touch his nose after doing so. I still remember watching him sit in his back room listening to a small Philco radio that seemed to take 5 or 10 minutes to warm up enough so it would work.  If not the radio, then he would open the news paper and read through it finishing the crossword puzzle before putting it down.  He would often walk the half mile or so to town instead of drive, until that became too difficult. He was not highly educated, but had a great intellect and even served as a local representative for the Democratic party during Roosevelt's run for office. His politics were simple...do what was right for the country, for the people, and for your family...and apply christian values to all three.

Goldie...on the left, was severely burned and
died shortly after this picture was taken
 Circa 1905

But…what I remember most about him was his integrity…an integrity that was strengthened by his Christian values.  Quiet and gentle by nature, he possessed a strong sense of self…slow to anger…always thoughtful…always ready to help. Yet he carried with him a longing to remember and forget a tragic day when he was just a small boy..a day when his little sister Goldie died in a fire. I never really knew much about what happened back then, but you could still see the event lingering in his eyes if you looked closely enough.  Although he was right handed, his hand writing carried a strong slant backward...from what I understand this often indicates that something profound must have happened in his past...Maybe it was Goldie...

There were times when a family would come into his place of business…the kids needing shoes and something to wear to school. Often, they would have little resources to pay for such things, but my grandfather and grandmother would make sure those kids had what they needed…the dad had a new pair of overalls and work boots, and mom a new calico dress.

They would place the bill in the books as an IOU…and tell them to not worry about it for now. More often than not, a week or two later on a Sunday afternoon after church, my grandmother would hear some knocking at the backdoor…that same family would be standing there holding a sack of tomatoes or some corn on the cob, maybe a basket of eggs…and hand them to her as payment for the clothes.  The next day…paid in full…would be written in the ledger.

That life style of generosity was returned to them in the same measure some years later. After a devastating flood, that all but wiped out Wister, their place of business was all but ruined.  With no insurance to deal with it, recovery would be long and difficult. A few days later as we were helping to clean up, some mail actually arrived…in the stack was a bill from one of their long time suppliers in Fort Smith. The look on my grandmother’s face told the whole story. Realizing they had no funds to pay for that bill and the newly purchased stock was mud caked and ruined, she opened the bill…across the face was written…paid in full. Their supplier recognized the situation and in a level of generosity not often seen today, wrote off their bill as a gesture of good will.

Robert (Bob)
Enter backdoor of his home
circa 1940

It was stories such as these…some I witnessed…many more I heard about… that formed in my mind who I was as part of this family. My grandfather’s stories about his boyhood playing on the heights of Cavanal Mountain still linger in my memories. In my youthful imagination, his life and the life of the mountain became as one, and although I long ago moved away from that environment…its influence holds me captive still today. I am often haunted by melancholy desires to return to the days of my youth…to the heights of that mountain…and revisit again the simplicity that was life in those days. I often wish I could travel back in time and visit my grandfather during his youth...to see for myself the formative years that so influenced his life...that with direct connections through time influenced mine as well.

As my grandfather grew older…his damaged lungs took a terrible toll on his health and his once sharp and insightful mind faded into confusion.  Often he would suffer through difficult nights unable to breathe, gasping for air. I remember my grandmother late one evening as she knelt beside her bed for her nightly prayers…asking God to not allow my grandfather to die suffering from the lack of breath.  She was afraid she would not be able to cope with watching that happen to him, and she did not want to see him suffer that way. In his final days…her prayer was answered…his kidneys failed…and the doctor said he would not feel a thing and would quietly go off to sleep.  He breathed his last breath in the early winter of 1973…with the comfort of family surrounding him.

When I think of my grandfather, I think of home...when I think of home...the memory of his life fills those thoughts...and as those memories play out in my mind,  I think of that mountain…it was a mountain made of earth and stone with a history and a life as large as its broad shoulders. It's almost like the strength of that mountain carried my grandfather through the years...yet, as frail as he was…I've grown to understand that it was the man…made of integrity and honor…who was the larger of the two.

Keith

First Light...Last Light...make big first and lasting impressions

My favorite times to photograph happens just before sunup and right at sundown...that last few moments between twilight and daylight...daytime and evening.  The first light of day generates some of the best moments because there can often be so many kinds of conditions that exist at that time...morning haze, fog, clear skies, clean air, subtle and bold textures in the sky.  The window of opportunity normally only lasts for a few minutes and in that few minutes so many things can happen.  Blink, and you can miss the best moment.

One time a few years back I had arrived before sunrise at one of my favorite locations on the Tallgrass Prairie in Oklahoma.  There was a thick layer of low lying clouds that obscured the horizon and the sunrise appeared like it was going to be a non-event.  I made the trek into the prairie through the tall grasses to a rocky outcropping.  By the time I arrived my pant legs and boots were soaked thru by the heavy dew.  The sky was all but grayed out and I really didn't think the morning shoot would materialize.  

Just at sunup time, I began to notice some indistinct glowing in the obscuring cloudy cover where the sun should be appearing.  Instinctively I lowered my tripod  and framed some coneflowers to line up with where the sun might appear.  Within  a minute or so, the sun burned thru the cover and set the hazy fog aglow and the disc of the sun popped thru...I fired off a couple quick shots...made a quick adjustment and fired off one more, then just as quickly, the sun faded and the moment was gone.  My morning shoot was pretty well over in that few seconds of opportunity.  If I had not been there, I would have missed capturing one of my favorite prairie moments.

First light doesn't always mean the actual first light of day.  In this particular case, first light was that moment when the light first appeared in high enough quality that I could use it photographically.  It is that transitional light that often becomes the first usable light.  First usable light provides a unique blend of spontaneity and power that flows thru time...and your capture if it is that single best moment of that timeline.

The same applies to the last light of the day.  Many of the same situations exist during that time.  Many years ago when I was stationed in Oregon, I made a trip over to Crater Lake National Park.  I spent the whole day there...the only camera I had at the time was one of those 110 pocket cameras...and yes, the pictures I took were predictably not very good.  Late that evening as I was driving out, I encountered one of the most amazing sunsets I've ever seen.  The sky was lit up with every color imaginable, and the sharp ridges of the surrounding mountains and valleys were filled with blue light accented by reds and oranges...but alas, I had used up my allotment of film and simply watched in awe not being able to capture a truly magical moment.  (Shortly after that day I purchased my first SLR 35mm camera) .  But during that sunset, there came one moment in its timeline when the brilliance of what was there exploded...yet like an explosion, it lasted but a few brief seconds and was gone.

Last light of the day often is not associated directly with a sunset...but how the light of the sunset affects the things behind and around you.  As amazing as they are...sunsets are often very cliche-ish as just about every combination of them that can be imaged has already been photographed thousands of times.  Many times, I will turn around and look the other way to see what the light of the sunset is doing around me.  That warm glow will often fill the landscape with vibrant amazing light that adds character and subtle beauty to ordinary things.  It's just a matter of planning and anticipation.

To make big first and lasting impressions with your photography, use all the magic that is at your disposal during those magical times of the day called first and last light.

Keith

"...you know what i'm say'n"

There are times when people cross our paths and affect us way more than a simple chance meeting would otherwise dictate.  Oddly enough, some of the most profound impacts are caused by the least likely of individuals. A little over a year ago one such person came into our lives that dramatically changed our perspective on homelessness and addiction. His story evolved through a special friendship that warmed our hearts and challenged our emotions far greater than what either I or my wife Kris fully understood at the beginning.  His was a life of hardship that found hope yet a life that was tormented by the demons of addiction.

One Saturday morning on the downtown square in Bowling Green, KY, I met Greg, a large middle aged African American man about 6’4” and pushing 250+ lbs with massive hands and rough exterior to match his rough demeanor.  I was there to monitor a photography class field trip.  Having arrived early, few people were there except for a couple of individuals sitting on the park benches.

While I waited for the student photographers to arrive I spent some time taking some test photo’s of the park area when after a few minutes I heard someone yell…”hey you…you with the camera…come here!”

I looked up and saw that Greg, who I had never met until that moment, was calling to me…”come here…I need to talk to you…”

Greg was a large intimidating man, and I was a bit uncertain about approaching him, but something inside of me said…” it’s okay…go talk to him”.

As uncertain as I was, I approached Greg with a smile and a handshake, his massive hands all but crushing my office softened hands, asking him how I could help him.  His first question was very direct and caught me off guard, “You ever take pictures of homeless people?”

“Well…as a matter of fact I have,” I responded with a rather uncertain flavor as to why he would ask such a thing.

“You ought to take my picture…I’m homeless…you know what I’m say’n…there’s a lot of us homeless folks down here and nobody even pays us no mind…you know what I’m say’n…somebody ought to tell our story…we need some help…you know what I’m say’n.”

 That was the beginning of our friendship that developed over the next several months.  My wife oddly enough was searching for just such an opportunity, but did not want to do it for the wrong reasons.  She spent months praying about it asking God for guidance in her desire to interact with the homeless population in our community.  Unknown by me, she had asked God for a sign…something definite…something concrete that affirmed not only her desire, but her obedience to do what she felt she was being called to do.  When I told her about meeting Greg, it was like one of those God moments where all the uncertainty vanished, and her calling was affirmed with power and strength.  When she told me about her prayer…wow…what can I say, it was truly an amazing revelation.

Over the next few weeks she and Greg, who was sleeping in a storage shed at the time, sat on the park bench downtown while I or another person watched from afar,  and talked about his life…he even brought other homeless people to the park so she could speak to them. Occasionally I’d run into Greg myself and have a talk with him.  Through each interview a picture began to develop…a pattern of abuse, addiction, abandonment, and bad choices, all leading to the plight they were in.  Each story was different but followed a similar pattern…Greg described it best…”Chaos…utter chaos”.

Greg spoke of all the hurt in his life…about losing his daughter to drugs a few years previous, about his addictions and the consequences it produced.  Most of all he wanted to help others by telling his story.  You could see the searching in his eyes, the pain, the sense of despair and longing to reconnect with the world.  His past held him down, yet he wanted to use those experiences not only so others might benefit, but that others, like ourselves, would understand the other side of life we so often neglect and shy away from.  Our preconceived ideas about homelessness were shattered by his story.  Our hearts broke when he spoke about his own brokenness.

After a number of interviews with him, Kris began to share with Greg about the love of Christ, about a love that transcends any that we as mere men can comprehend.  She spoke about forgiveness and told Greg that none of us are worthy of such love, yet in God’s eyes, it matters not about our past, only our understanding of what our future can be when he enters into our lives.  She spoke of how Christ, came into this world to accept our penalty…to die for us so that we could live, and how he defeated Satan’s desires by doing so and rising again.  She spoke of letting go of the old life, and asking Christ to enter into our hearts to transform who we are…it’s a matter of faith…and that it is a free gift offered to all people.

On that day, Greg sat silent for a long time on that park bench, head bowed.  Kris said nothing and allowed the Holy Spirit to work on his heart. After several minutes, he raised his head, tears streaming down his broad face and said he wanted that…he wanted to know that it was real. He wanted that peace but didn’t know how.  Kris said, “I know how…” and prayed with him the sinner’s prayer that he repeated in his deep staccato voice.

A peace fell over this rough man’s face…this man who had lived in chaos all of his life, who had fought cancer and addictions, and who had suffered tragedy and pain countless times. Giant tears streamed down his face, a strong giant of a man who in the presence of my meek and tender wife, broke down all conventions and let his life change.  The Holy Spirit worked a miracle that day…there are still amazing miracles in this world. 

A few days later he asked us about getting baptized, and so Kris spoke with our pastor about doing so and he was delighted.  August 28, 2011 was the day and he was as nervous as a mouse…he said, “whatever possessed you two to think I’d want to stand up front of 600 or 700 people and do this…” We laughed and reassured him it would be fine.

When he stepped into the baptismal he towered over our pastor, who is no small person himself standing over six feet tall and played college level football.  You could see the power in Greg’s face as he began to comprehend what was about to happen.  After a brief few words from Pastor Jason, Greg knelt and was placed under the water…then his feet came up and he lost his balance almost pulling Pastor Jason in with him…but, he managed to right himself with Jason’s help…and when he stood up, something happened that I’ve never seen happen before.  Almost the entire congregation stood and cheered.  The noise was the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in a church building much less during a baptism.  It was truly an amazing moment and Greg seemed all but overwhelmed by the power of that moment.

In time with the help of others, we were able to get him out of that storage building and into a small apartment.  For several months he continued to go to church, began volunteering at Hope House, a job he loved, and spent time at the park where we’d run into him and have some great visits. And…in time…Satan began his attacks. 

Forty something years of abuse still held deep in his life, and he struggled with the addictions that held him captive. These were struggles that most of us simply cannot comprehend for he was pierced deeply with their sharp hooks and the effort required to remove them often proved more painful than the affects of the addiction itself.  Several times he lamented about how he hated what he had become, that we didn’t understand the grip that it had.  He was right…we didn't understand...even though we intellectually understood what he was talking about we had no idea the power of those addictions and the pull it had on his life.  In spite of his conversion, in spite of his changed life, slowly, those things that had held him captive for so long began to reattach their sharp hooks to his life.

Several times he begged us to help him…we tried, but society simply has little tolerance for someone with Greg’s background, and opportunities that should have existed for him to receive the counseling that he needed simply did not materialize.  Kris and I are not trained to deal with those things, but we tried to help him…we tried…but just didn’t know enough about how to get him that help.  Over the next several months his life began to spiral downward again, and there were times he would call us in tears because of what was happening.  He stopped going to church…stopped volunteering at Hope House.  We tried to maintain contact with him, tried to encourage him...but he cut us off from his life and we were forced to back away.  Several times we tried to reconnect, I spent one evening watching an NBA playoff game with him…others tried to help too…but he remained distant.

Most of the summer passed without much of a word from Greg, then he made contact again...that lead to us inviting him back to church and he accepted...he seemed genuinely relieved at having done so.  That Sunday morning we called to re-affirm our pickup time...no answer.  We drove over there anyway and found Greg recovering from a multi-day binge.  He was in no shape to walk down the stairs much less go anywhere.  We were disappointed...he seemed ashamed...asked us to pray for him again...and we did, then left him.

That afternoon, Kris received a call from Greg…he was sounding different…not at all like the Greg we had come to know. He made no sense in his ramblings…he asked us to pray for him again…we did…he called several times…and seemed disconnected with reality.  We decided to give him some space realizing that his old demon alcohol was again attacking him and in that state of mind most anything we would do or say would fall on deaf ears and even worse, a broken heart.

Two days passed when Kris received a troubling phone call from one of our other homeless friends…she said Greg had died.  We scrambled to confirm what we had heard and after contacting a friend of mine who had connections with the local hospital…we discovered the rumors were true.

I can’t tell you just how we both felt…maybe you can imagine, maybe not, but our insides wrenched with every kind of emotion…It seemed all too unreal, it couldn't possibly be true...yet it was very real.  Our friend, our special friend was gone...August 20, 2012...three days before his first spiritual birthday, God called him home.  

Kris felt drawn to return to his apartment…she discovered the door was open and she stepped in.  On his small lamp table was our picture, several devotional books we and others had given to him, the picture of his daughter, and his first communion cup.  On the floor was a binder with an Alcoholics Anonymous label across the front.  She opened it and read through some of the pages.  Inside page after page of testaments, from others who he had encountered along his struggles, that carried voices from the past.  They had come to know Greg the way we had.  They saw in him the same goodness we knew was there…a goodness that had been straggled because of addiction.  Kris left everything where it was and returned home.  Both of us seemed to stare into the void not wanting to believe what had happened...questioning what we did or could have done to have prevented this.

Greg had received medical help as EMT's administered to him early on that Monday morning...he was taken to the ER...then sent to a local addiction help service...who from the best I can gather basically sent him home later that morning...I don't know all the facts...where he died...alone.

…..I tell this story only because I can see more clearly now how God brought Greg into our lives.  In spite of his condition, we saw a change in him…we experienced the joy in his heart when he first turned his life over to Christ.  We saw him struggle, bounce back…struggle again.  He opened our eyes to another world that we only knew superficially…a world that is ugly, a world that traps people in a bondage that most of us can never really comprehend.  Through him we saw how life choices can have far reaching affects on others…how the absence of a strong father figure in someone’s life can lead to confusion of what it means to be a man of honor and courage…how abuse from an early age can alter a child’s vision of who they are…what their vision of truth is…a truth that is too often distorted and drowned in a bottle or fogged over by drugs.

Even though Greg found hope in Christ and that hope can conquer all things...the addiction he had was so strong, that without help he struggled to turn away from the things that ultimately destroyed his life.  Kris and I have great confidence that Greg's conversion was genuine...we saw the tears flowing down his face...experienced the joy in his eyes...that sense of peace that he showed even for those few short months...we cling to the understanding that God's timing is perfect and in spite of Greg's troubled past, God saw something in him that he knew would benefit others.  We feel honored to have been a part of that plan and know that he no longer is tormented by that addiction...that only peace and unrelenting joy is his where he resides now.

Homelessness is not pretty…simply handing out a meal or two once or twice a year, although a nice and warm gesture, often serves more to make the person doing it feel good than it actually helps those in need.  Getting involved in this kind of ministry is not about feeling good…Stepping in to help requires a commitment that often leads to pain and sorrow…sorrow that can stab straight to your core. 

I could care less about politics and even less about politicians whose praise of such things are used to buy votes or gain an artificial advantage in the polls.  If our politicians really cared, they would walk a mile or two or ten in the worn out shoes of a homeless person, feel the cold of a biting winter night…or feel the fear and anguish of someone addicted to alcohol and no where to turn…to give their hearts to a cause where the return is no real reward at all. To follow this kind of call is to follow what Christ spoke of….a life unfettered by personal gain or economics or any of the valueless things we are bombarded with daily from our society.  Most of all, it means to give of yourself from your heart at the risk of having that heart broken.

Homeless people are real people with lives of feeling...with histories of value...with fears and pain and trials that most of us cannot comprehend.  They often give up on themselves because society gives up on them.

Greg was my friend who died largely because our society shunned such people as himself. I’m not ashamed to say so…

”...do you know what I’m say’n?”

Keith