“What?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t figure out what to make of you. Must be your Amishness, I guess.”
I stopped cutting and looked at him, not sure if he’d meant it as a compliment or an insult. Either way, I decided to seize the moment. “Hey, can I give you a tip, one that comes out of that Amishness?”
Brady shrugged, moved back to the table, and picked up his spoon. “What is it?”
“That kid was looking at you like you were some kind of superhero.”
Another shrug. Brady took a bite of cereal and looked my way, waiting for me to continue.
“Just always remember that if you act a certain way, and someone like Chris sees you, then he’s going to act that way too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s sort of a known thing where I come from. The younger boys are always watching the older boys, trying to be just like them. For someone like Chris, you’re a living, breathing example—in every little thing you do. It all makes an impression, more than you can imagine.”
Brady scowled. “Why are you telling me this? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
I set the knife in the sink, rinsed my hands, and carried the bowl of cantaloupe slices over to the table.
“I know that. I just want you to be aware. Younger eyes are watching. The bigger and more important you get in the world of sports, the heavier that responsibility will become.”
He laughed. “Great. Now you sound like Coach.”
“Well, how about that?” I replied, snagging a slice of the juicy orange melon for myself. “Guess I’m not the only one around here with Amishness.”
That day, while Brady was at school, I laid out the pea rock in between the gardens, took a long bike ride, and returned the books to the library. Brady was still in a contemplative mood when he got home from football practice. I made a point of listening intently to whatever he had to say the rest of the evening, which wasn’t a lot, and I prayed for wisdom to know how to talk to my father when he returned.
On Wednesday morning I filled the containers with the soil Brady helped me haul home. Then, just before I left to get Lark, she texted that I should bring flip-flops because we were going to the beach. I had none, but I grabbed a pair of men’s sandals I had seen in the garage, assuming they were either my father’s or Brady’s, and headed out, arriving at her house a few minutes before nine. Once again we followed the rule of the two C’s and went to a coffee shop first, settling down at a table with our hot beverages before beginning our next lesson.
She started things out with a “Ta-da!” as she pulled my newly cleaned and lubricated Leica camera from her bag with a flourish. She seemed very excited by what she had done, though I couldn’t see much difference. It still looked like an old banged up piece of junk to me, but what did I know?
She launched into our next lesson, starting with the difference between digital photography, which was what we had done last time, and film photography, which was what we’d be doing today.
“The word ‘photography’ is Greek in origin,” Lark said as I sipped my coffee. “It means ‘painting with light.’ That’s what you’re doing when you’re taking a picture. You’re using light like a box of crayons, and the film is your canvas.”
She showed me how to load a roll of film into the Leica and then explained the difference between an SLR camera and a point-and-shoot. From there she went into much detail about F-stops and film speed and light meters, most of which I was able to understand. In fact, I was amazed at how scientific the art of photography was. I had never considered that the rules of God’s created world were the backbone of every picture that a film camera took.
After about twenty minutes of teaching time, Lark pulled out a small album of her own photos and used them to show me some of the principles she’d been talking about. As I flipped through the pages, I couldn’t believe how perfectly composed the pictures were, with just the right amount of light and focus. Some were photos of animals and landscapes, some of people, and some of buildings or parts of structures, such as a curve in the length of a wrought iron fence. Each one did what she said a photo should: It drew me in. It was odd being so enchanted by frozen bits of time like that. Each was a real moment, but one that had long since passed. It seemed photography only ever made you think of the past. Was that its purpose? To let you have a hold on what was?
If so, was that one reason why my mother had been so interested in it?