.a footlocker full of history.

 A few weeks ago, while at my Grandfather's old home, I went up into the attic to clear it out what had been left up there for so many years.  It was while I was up there that I realized many of the things that should see the light of day more often are usually stored up there for safe keeping, like a footlocker that belonged to my Great-Grandmother Sylvia.  My Uncle had gone up there with me and was the one who pulled it out and opened it up.  I was busy sorting through other things when I heard him say, "Oh. . . wow. . . "  In this old piece of luggage, its metal hardware covered in rust, was a collection of old photos and letters, some of them dating back to the early 1800s.  We sat there on the dusty floorboards of a tiny attic gazing through some of these photos, trying to decipher who these faces were that stared back at us.  We recognized Grandma Sylvia easily.  She had a distinct look and from what we could tell, many of the photos were of her side of the family.  But then, we also came across a photo of two little boys sitting in an old wagon hitched to a goat.  The oldest boy's face looked familiar.  We turned the photo over and noticed the words "Bill and George," Bill being my Great-Grandfather.  Half of the photos had inscription on them, and the other half did not.  Some of them had black paper backing on it, as if they had been torn out of an old photo album.  And so, a new journey begins.

Well I was very honored that the family allowed me to have not only the footlocker, but a suitcase also filled with more family history, as well as old family albums.  My plan is to scan many of the photos to share with the family, but also, I really want to delve more into the history of this side of my family tree.  There was something so . . . I can't even find the right words . . . neat, interesting, intriguing about the people in these photos.  Their attire gradually changing over the years.  Grandma Sylvia was a character.  I still remember her from when I was a kid.  When I wanted a snack, I'm thinking candy, she'd come back with a plate full of celery sticks, peanut butter and raisins running down the center of them.  "Now this is what we had for snacks when I was a little girl."  My first response of course was Yuck!  And now, it's one of my favorites.  She loved Peanuts, Linus and Snoopy being her favorites, and Winnie-the-Pooh.  Her parents opened up one of the first theaters in the state of Iowa.  Her brother Lewis fought in General MacArthur's Army in WWII.  It was pretty neat finding a younger photo of her and her brother sitting against a backdrop of what looks like an earlier model airplane.  This would be my favorite, along with the "goat wagon" photo.  

What I found so comforting and amazing was the sheer amount of photographs that we found.  It was very obvious to me that the folks in my family loved to make photographs.  This has truly inspired me.  The main reason why I wanted to become a photographer in the first place rested right here in this box.  Photographs.  The evidence of time gone by.  My only heartbreak and regret was that the only person I knew who could definitively tell me about the faces in these photos had also been swept away with the tide of time.  Visit your attics, my friends.  Pull out those old photos.  And if you can, find out their history before it too quickly fades away.  

. be the storyteller.

I have learned a valuable lesson over the course of the last week or so.  Several lessons, actually.  But the one that stands out in my mind the most is this: when we no longer have stories to tell, we are not really living.  It is the stories of our lives that truly make up who we are.  I don't know about you, but I'm hoping my life makes for a good read.  I think back to the stories my GrandDad shared with me. . . over and over.   Ha! He knew they were pretty interesting and had even started to write his own memoir.  The title he was going to give it was Stories from the Sea Chest.  While he was in the hospital, I happened to find that sea chest in the spare room of his home.  When I opened it, I had expected to find typewriter paper bundled up with tales from his time in Egypt or Kure Island.  Instead I found an old pair of binoculars, and a lot of other odds and ends.  It was the binoculars that I thought were so interesting.  A glass piece was missing, but otherwise, it was still very much intact.  What did he see through these?  Where did he get it?  I'm sure if he were still here, sitting there in his worn, yet comfy green chair, he'd start his conversation with, "Oh, I haven't seen those in years.  It reminds me of the time when . . . "

Let's open up that heavy old door to that room filled with all our memories.  Pull out an old volume, the one coated with a thick layer of dust.  Open it up.  Do you remember any of these stories?  Do you have pictures?  I LOVE the ones with pictures!  What were your favorites?  I'd love for you to tell me about them.  Have I ever told you about the time I took a Greyhound bus from Nashville to Los Angeles and back?  If you ask, I will.  What new adventures would you like to embark on?  Tell me about those too.  Sit with me awhile friend, I have time.

Here is a video that I want to share with you.  This was filmed by Grant Howard and Kip Kubin, the two wonderful souls who gave my Grandpa the chance to be a music video "star."  You two are angels. 

.better than a hallelujah.

Back in Wilmington.  I want to thank all my wonderful friends for all your love.  It has been a long week.  I am exhausted, and yet my soul is refreshed and blessed.  My sweet Grandpa Bill Evans, a wonderful family man, a genuine friend, a brilliant artist and blacksmith, bid farewell to this old, tired world around seven o'clock on Saturday morning.  He went peacefully.  The song "Better Than a Hallelujah" was the last song he listened to before his spirit was lifted to the clouds.  This song has special significance to us because he was involved in the actual music video for Amy Grant.  So, if you would, please stay a moment to watch the following two videos.  Again, thank you friends for all your love and support these last few weeks.  They mean the world to me.  

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

.Character :: Bill Evans.

To many, the man they know in this photo is Bill Evans.  A blacksmith and storyteller, a gentle heart and fiesty soul.  Well, for me, personally I prefer to call him Grandpa.  If there is any character I have the pleasure of knowing, it is truly him.  Not many people my age can say that they remember sitting on top of an anvil, in an old blacksmith shop, everything covered in metal dust, with a forge dating back from the 1800s still in use, watching their grandfather working on a cast iron pot that a client brought in for repair.  "What's wrong with it Grandpa?  It looks fine."  Carefully inspecting the antique kettle, never taking his eyes off of it, he answers, "There's a hairline fracture running down the side of it, and I'm trying to figure out how to seal it without having to apply too much heat to it."  Of course, being the 9 year old that I was at the time, you tend to ask more questions.  "Why?"  Eyes still roaming over the pot, he patiently answers, "Because it's nearly 200 years old."  Oh.  It was at this moment that I truly realized just how unique my Grandfather was.  If there is any man who could rattle off chemistry equations and tell you about his time in Kwajalein in the same coversation, it would be him.  

In the late 1950s, equipped with an engineering degree and a background in welding, my grandfather took on a dredging job that required his family to move from Nashville, Tennessee to the South Pacific.  It would be there, in the Hawaiian Islands that he, his artist wife Chris, and their three young children (the eldest being my father) would call home for over 30 years.  Venturing away from the life as an engineer, my Grandfather later opened up his own blacksmith shop in Honolulu, Olde Harbour Forge.  He worked primarily as an ornamental blacksmith, specializing in hammered bronze and copper.   He had clients ranging anywhere from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel to the Doris Duke estate.  When you stepped into his shop, as one journalist from the Honolulu Advertiser once noted, it was like stepping into Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem, The Village Blacksmith.  Many years later, back in Nashville, in a much smaller shop, not quite as nostalgic as the original, I watch my Grandfather work on a new sculpture, this one consisting of several angels made of hammered copper.  With my camera in tow, I lean against the same anvil I had once sat upon over 20 years earlier, watching him solder several pieces together.  Later he walks over to a table where several almost-completed figures lay side by side, awaiting their final assembly.  "And this one here," he says, picking one of them up, "I've styled her hair to look like your Tutu's."  I lean forward and notice that sure enough, the gleaming angelic figure he cradled in his hands resembled my Grandmother.  "I love it Grandpa."  He looks upon it for a moment, smiles, and then gently lays it back on the table.  All of a sudden a little voice pipes up, "I wanna see Grandpa!  I wanna see Tutu!"  My little three year old, who's accompanied me on our trip to see her Great-Grandpa, lifts her arms up to be carried.  As I pick her up, she too leans forward and gives her approval, "Ooh, pretty."  The following photos are some of the images I captured that day, last Spring.  

 

*added on 3/5/11:  

  Hello friends.  I wanted to share with you that the wonderful man in this post, my Grandfather Bill Evans, passed away two weeks ago today, on February 19th, 2011 around seven o'clock in the morning.  He went peacefully, his final breath leaving his body as the song Better Than a Hallelujah finished playing on the CD player. During his final days, he was surrounded by loved ones who adored him.  He was an amazing craftsman.  A fantastic storyteller.  A loving family man.  A loyal friend.  A kind stranger.  He will forever be the perfect example of a true gentleman.  And I will miss him terribly. . . ~Kathy

.carefree in the sun.

41::365

A: Mama, we go swing today?
K: Honey, it's too cold outside.
A: Mama? We go park? We go SWING?!
K: We'll see.
A: Mama? I go swing.
K: You are?
A: Yea. You come too Mama?
K: Yea, I think I'll come too.

That was the short, condensed version of the conversations that Lil' Miss A. and I had throughout the day. The sun was out and it looked so inviting outside. That was until you actually stepped out. A nice, frigid gust of wind blowing against your pale, sun deprived face. BRRR!! But that didn't stop A. from hauling butt to the vehicle. Her favorite thing to do in all the world is to ride the swing (and the carousel, although she hasn't really asked to do that in a while). Her sweet pleas were just breaking my heart, so I caved in. Besides, I really could've used some good ol' Solar-Vitamin D myself! Once we got to the park, straight to the swings she went. I slid her into a seat, then began to send my kid flying up into the air. Push Mama, push! she cried. A smile so big spread across her rosy cheeked face. And there she was, swinging away, head leaned back, in complete and total bliss.

.it's a beautiful day.

35::365
My little sis is now the new Mrs. C! Congratulations sweet heart! I love you butt-munch!

.19::30.

Some people have known since they came out of their mother's womb that they would grow up to become photographers. For me, as much as I have always been fascinated by the art, I had never truly considered it until I made a trip out to Arizona for a mini family reunion almost seven years ago. For years, I had told my aunt that when my youngest cousin, Chelsea, who is half Navajo, was to have her kinaaldá ceremony, I wanted to be there for it. Unfortunately, the stars did not align themselves for me at that time therefore, I was not able to make it. So it was on this trip, several months later, that I made a point that I was going to make a series of photos of Chels as if she had been pulled out of a different era. These are a few of the shots taken that day.

It was probably one of the most memorable experiences in my life. The family all packed into several large pickup trucks, 4 wheeling it deep into the gorgeous Monument Valley. It is such a beautiful and sacred place. Then to have Chels transform in front of me and go from being this spunky teenager into this beautiful, young Navajo woman really took my breath away. We'd jump out of the truck and walk up and down sand dunes, take some shots with the amazing rock formations in the background, and jump right back into the truck to the next spot. It was as if we had this whole place to ourselves. It was so amazing. And fun!

When I got back to Nashville, I got the film developed and was so proud of what I had captured that day. Moreso, I was glad to hear how excited Chels was when she saw the pictures. It was in those moments out there, with the wind in my hair and sand in my shoes, that I realized photography was truly my passion. These photos are reminders to me to continue to pursue that passion. And to give my cousin a call. ;o)

.17::30.lee hall

Lee Hall. That was his name. He poses here with two sisters whose names I do not know. They were three out of eleven children, born and raised here in middle Tennessee. Lee was my Great Grandfather. He died of a massive stroke in the early 30s, in the midst of the Great Depression. That is all I know of him.

When I sifted through some of the old photos that my Grandmother had collected in an old Hawaiian Hosts chocolate box, it was this one that really stood out for me. Perhaps it was because it was the only photo that was mounted onto a mat. Maybe it was also because it was only one of very, very few photos I have ever seen of my Grandmother's side of the family. As I pointed my camera to capture the image above, I noticed something. Their faces. The eyes of these two sisters seemed dull compared to his. Even now, as I write this, I realize that there is so much more that wants to be said from this photo. So much more that I want to know. What was he like? Was he a quiet man? Did he like to tell stories? I can almost hear a man speak with that ol' southern drawl. Was he a loving man? Did he like to dance? There are so many questions that I want to ask. My Grandmother was only five when he passed away. I wonder, if she were still here, what she would have told me about what she remembered of her father.

Time is priceless. Life is so fragile and, so precious. I realize tonight that in order for me to have any of my questions answered, I need to make a point, make the time to visit the only family members still alive who may be able to know. When I spoke to my Grandfather last night, he informed me that my Grandmother's closest cousin, who is in her 90s, is suffering from dementia in a nursing home. This is a woman who had so much spunk that when she was pulled over by the State Trooper for driving too slow on the interstate, she told him to shove off! Another relative, also close to my Grandmother, recently suffered from a series of minor strokes, but fortunately she is recuperating and, is going through rehab. Thank goodness. It's been too long since I've seen either of them. It's time that I change that.

The key to unlocking the doors to the past may simply be a conversation with a wonderfully aged soul still living in the present. Life is so fragile and, precious. Time is so priceless.

.thanks, mom.

When I think about all the reasons why I love photography, I think about those childhood memories of my Mom taking constant pictures of my younger sister and I, making us pose in front of some landmark before allowing us to roam. Ha! At the time, especially if we weren't in the mood, it was hard to appreciate what she was doing. "Oh crap, Mom's bringing out the camera again! Hide!" But after the film was developed, we would all huddle on the couch, passing photos back and forth to each other, laughing our butts off as we remember the fun we had that day. Those pictures, especially of happier times spent with our friends and family, are worth more to me than all the riches in the world. We wouldn't have had any of them had it not been for my Mom and that camera of hers.

Lastnight, I stopped by her place after taking some photos of my very pregnant best friend and her husband. I wanted to show my Mom the pictures I took of my daughter and the mess that she made of the living room floor. During this excursion to my blog and flickr site, my Mom became enamored with my photos, going through each and every page. "It's like flipping through a huge album. Wow, YOU took these? I'm impressed." I couldn't help but feel like that little girl who just came home from school with an art project she just finished. There was a feeling of pride mixed with humility. My mother approved, and even though I didn't ask for it, I was grateful. So Mom, if you're reading this, thank you.

.a magical moment.

Have you ever had one of those days, when it seems like nothing is going right, you are so stressed out, and if anyone makes just one smart ass comment you'll snap? Ha ha! However, by the end of the day, something small yet significant happens, fading everything else into an irrelevant blur. That was my day. I won't even bother going through the details of the "irrelevant blur," but I will tell you that my little 2 year old has FINALLY started using the potty!! I had intentions of photographing the occasion, but decided that you probably didn't need to see that. Ha! So, instead, how about a pretty picture of geese and goslings in a pond being led by a duck? Hope little magical moments find their way to you this week!

**Update: So. . . we're kinda sorta back to square one with the potty training, which I guess is normal right?! Did I fail to mention that I attempted to cut her bangs yesterday? Well, what should have been a simple cut ended up turning into a nightmare. Needless to say, she is now sporting what could pass as a mullet. And I cried.

.sunshine by the shore.

After over a week of wet and dreary days, some of us couldn't wait to get out and play!

.chris h evans :: artist.

If you were to ask me who I admire most in life, who inspires me, who do I call my "hero," my answer would be my Tutu. I already know what you're thinking. 'What is a tutu? Isn't it a ballet skirt?' Ha! Yes, yes it is. But it is also the hawaiian word for grandparent. In my case, I am speaking of my grandmother, Christine Hall Evans, who was better known in the Hawai'i art community as Chris H. Evans.

Eighty-two years ago today, she was born in a little place called Watertown, Tennessee. The oldest of three, she was born a child of the Great Depression. Times were hard. Families suffered. She found adventure and solace in books. A frequent visitor to the town's local library, she always had her "nose in a book," escaping to worlds far away and to a time and place much different than her own. Her dream was to one day become an artist. After graduating from high school, like most girls her age, she began working in Watertown's hosiery factory. Having only worked there for two weeks, she quit determined to live out her dream. Despite some discouragement from family members, she made her way to Nashville, enrolling at the Watkins School of Art and Design, and later becoming one of Nashville's top fashion artists at that time. Soon, she would find herself married, a mother of three and living the life of an artist in the South Pacific.

Although she worked with several different art mediums, she is probably most well known for her soft pastel portraits of the Hawaiian people.

One of her most favorite Hawaiian subjects was that of Princess Ka'iulani, the heir to Hawai'i's Royal Crown, following in the footsteps of her aunt, Queen Lili'uokalani. The above painting portrays Princess Ka'iulani as an adolescent.

My Tutu's talents seemed endless. She balanced life as a wife and mother beside art and craft fairs. She made porcelain dolls (the kind that don't scare me!) and handmade every outfit. She taught me how to sew, knit and crochet. She encouraged my sister and I to create. I'm sure part of it was to simply keep us occupied so she could work on a commisioned piece IN peace! Ha! Everything from art, to antiquing, to cooking, to the love of reading I can truly say I owe to my Tutu.

Words fail me as I try to shed more light on who this amazing woman was, and is to me, and to our family. To share it all would fill up an entire book, which is something I still hope to do one day. This soft spoken lady from Tennessee, who traveled across the Pacific and made her home in the hearts of the many who knew her, lost her life to a stroke 10 years ago last January, three days before my 21st birthday. I still can't believe that it's been that long ago. More and more, as the days go by, especially now that I am a mother, I see her spirit live on in me, in my daughter. I can see her in my sister, my aunt, and even in my brilliant uncle! The desire to learn, to love, to create, to dream thrives in us, her family. For all the beauty and strength that you are, Tutu, I thank you. I love you deeply and God knows, I miss you terribly. Happy Birthday.

.we heart daddy.

A truly rich man
is one whose children
run into his arms
when his hands are empty.
~anonymous

Happy Father's Day to all you groovy Daddies out there!

.cake for breakfast.

It was about 8:30 this morning when she woke up.  The first thing she says when she looks at me is, "Mama. . . aykeem."  I, in turn, say "You want ice cream?"  She smiles.  A big, sweet, dimply smile and answers, "Aykeem. . . mmm. . . cake!!"  This was her first breakfast request since turning the fabulous age of two.  Two.  Already.  For a few moments, I couldn't help but to just simply stare at her.  I would sit there on the bed, sheets still tossed about, gazing into the beautiful face of my not-so-baby girl, her eyes beaming with delight for she knows, today, Mommy will give in.  Okay, so having a slice of the ladybug adorned cake (the ladybug in honor of her favorite book, Ladybug Girl) may not have been the best breakfast of choice, but we'll overlook that, just this once.

The days leading up to her birthday were rather stressful.  Our original plans were to head out to Savannah, Georgia, see the coast, and enjoy some Antebellum architecture.  However, with it having been Memorial Day weekend, we decided at the last minute that traveling was probably not too hot of an idea.  Instead, I had to whip up a birthday party real quick!  As I went down the lists of things to do, purchase, and yada yada, I suddenly found myself wondering where the time had gone.  Two years.  So much had happened in that time:  I said 'goodbye' to my job as a store manager for a craft retailer, a company I had been with since I was 20 in preparation for becoming a stay-at-home Mom, and to pursue a more "artistic" lifestyle; moved into a house from a 2 bedroom apartment a month before she was born; then, our beautiful baby arrives; just a few months later, her Daddy loses his job; I go back into retail management to help make ends meet; we move back to Nashville to be closer to family.  And here we are.  Two years, since she took her first breath.  The little baby is now a little toddler.  Let's just say, the floodgates burst wide open!  Time truly does fly by, especially when you don't want it to.

The little gathering of family and close friends made for a wonderful time!  When you ask her how old she is, she holds out two fingers, one resting on top the other, and quickly says, "Two!"  More and more, those tiny miracle moments pop up on a daily basis.  Little things like feathers that tickle your heart when they happen.  Sweet bubbles in time that too quickly escape us.  These are the moments to bask in.  This is the time to love being Mommy.  

~Journaling on May 25, 2009.

.time flies when you don't want it to.

It just doesn't seem like it has been that long since my little girl was born, and then again, at times I feel as if it was ages ago.  This sweet, little being, cradled ever so gently in the embrace of her Daddy, so tiny, so fragile. . . 

. . . it's amazing how much she has already grown!  I hear her now, playing "house" in her bedroom, preparing a dish for her well mannered companions:  a very much loved cloth doll named Mele, to the multiple-armed friend, Olie the Octopus.  You can already see the personality, and boy does she have personality!  A lot of spunk, a lot of questions, many boxes of Cheerios, many messes on the floor, smiles to melt your heart, tantrums to drive you crazy, a million kisses, a ton of joy. . . children are the best (and most trying) part of life, my life.  This is the time I know I must savor with this wee munchakin of mine for I see her, transforming from baby to little girl right before my very eyes.  [deep sigh]  Anyone got a Kleenex?

It will be gone before you know it.

The fingerprints on the wall appear higher and higher.

Then suddenly they disappear.

~Dorothy Evslin