For me, one of the bright spots of this year has been Thursday Doors, a challenge by blogger Norm Frampton that encourages photographers (and those of us who point and click) to share entrances, arches, doors, and even sometimes windows from around the world, both the grand and the not so grand. Sometimes those entrances have a backstory and sometimes they’re just whatever catches the eye.
My favorite doors from this year were actually garage doors. I found them in a neighborhood of San Francisco known for its extremely diverse culture: The Mission District. Before the 1970s this area was heavily hispanic and not on any tourist’s map. Then artists and hipsters, attracted by the low rents, began to move in. They convinced home owners, restaurants and shop keepers to let them brighten otherwise dark and suspicious alleyways with their artwork.
Many of the murals (like the above) have political messages. Others are whimsical.
A few had cultural overtones. I don’t know what Che is doing in the above mural but there he is.
Because the Mission District is named after 1776 Mission Dolores, it’s not uncommon to see religious murals. Some are inexplicable.
To see other Mission doors click on any of these links
Finally, this door caught my eye down in San Diego.
What do you do with pictures of people you’ve never met but who were special to someone you loved? It’s a icky, sticky, wicket to those of us who inherit our grandparent’s photos and memorabilia and guess what folks? As the eldest grandchild on my mother’s side of the family all those boxes and albums are in my possession and my siblings and cousins couldn’t be happier!
Hello people I don’t know. You seem fine and dandy and I do love your photos but I can only guess at who you are. Or were. Or are.
So what will I do with all these pictures of folks I don’t know? Invite them to some ghostly Thanksgiving seance so they can tell me their stories? What would you do?
And now – the truth about what really happened to Beauregard
I tried to think of a funny Thanksgiving story to tell but the only thing that came to mind was the year my father decided to confess at the dinner table. I believe his aunt Katherine was in attendance as well as his cousin Jim and recently widowed sister Helen Betty. And of course, his adult children. The table was set to perfection. The entrees ready to go. Everything … but the scalloped potatoes. They’d been delayed by Dad’s two inept and half-drunk divorcee daughters and we were in Deep Shit. The air was icy; the perfect dinner ruined and so Dad in some half baked attempt to save his daughters from eternal damnation rose and admitted he’d lied. On a recent hunting trip, Beauregard, his wife’s favorite basset hound, hadn’t been hit by a car and killed.
Dad had mistaken the dog for an elk and shot him dead. We tried not to laugh, we really did. Poor Dad. The things parents go through for their children.
Happy Thanksgiving – and please remember to turn on the oven before you start drinking the wine.
Lawrence Standerwick Jameson, World War I. He fought in France and returned home … never to travel oversees again. Both of his sons also served in the military although neither directly saw combat.
Robert Bruce McKee, Jr. World War II, Air Force. Fortunately for his mother, the war ended before he was deployed. However Dad had been raring to go.
I’m sure both men would have volunteered despite warts or bone spurs or any number of ailments.