“It takes three generations to make a musician,” cellist Yo-Yo Ma’s father Ma Xiao-Jun would say. “The first to leave poverty, the second to go to school, and the third to master an instrument.”

Pressure from relatives to succeed in life is often subconscious, but it exists. Why should it not?

My grandfather owned a farm now turned subdivision. Another grandfather went from running a service station to owning a farm in New Hampshire that eventually went bankrupt. The third worked in the mills after fighting in World War II.

Yesterday I presented my master’s project to a committee of professors in order to defend the year of work I’ve spent on it. I passed. I will soon have a Master’s degree in photography.

Whether I will ever become a “master” of photography is questionable, but I’m now keenly aware of those from the past who have carried me on their tired shoulders and allowed me the opportunity and time to pursuit my dreams.

It may also take three generations to make a photographer.

“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.” Hamlet

What would Shakespeare write of the little spoken truths lightly whispered in our popular media in regards to our government’s increasing use of drones? The lack of in-depth discussion and contemplation amongst the paying public attests a relaxing in the collective conscience.
There have been shouts in the streets about the cowardice behind a man wrapped in bombs taking his life with innocent others. Am I innocent? Innocence hints at unknowing. It suggests a lack of guilt in one’s conscience.

First Murderer: How dost thou feel thyself now?
Second Murderer: Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.
First Murderer: Remember our reward, when the deed’s done.
Second Murderer: Zounds, he dies; I had forgot the reward.
First Murderer: Where is thy conscience now?
Second Murderer: In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.
First Murderer: So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.
Second Murderer: Let it go; there’s few or none will entertain it.
First Murderer: How if it come to thee again?
Second Murderer: I’ll not meddle with it, it is a dangerous thing, it makes a man a coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis a blushing shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold, that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well, endeavors to trust to himself, and live without it.
The Life and Death of King Richard III – William Shakespeare

The treaty read “as far as a man can go in a day in a half.”

Years after it was written and signed, The Propriety of Pennsylvania thought they would reinterpret this wording.

The Delaware tribe figured the day and a half would equal roughly a 30 mile walk, and so they signed over land west and north of the Delaware river from Philadelphia.

So the government of the time got to cutting the straightest path from the northwestern most curve in the Delaware river as far west as they thought necessary for their ploy. Next they found a fit chap who was known for his endurance. He left at midnight, ran 36 hours straight and then collapsed after 150 miles. This was the new western boundary, and the treaty was known in jest from then on as the “Walking Treaty.”

- Read in the introduction of That Dark and Bloody River by Allan W. Eckert

Catchy sound bites about Main Street verses Wall Street are subtly, but neatly, wrapped in manipulative rhetoric. After driving through a number of main streets across the country, I’ve come to the understanding that they’re not dying, they’re dead.
The revitalization of our cities, towns and villages would take a change of mindsets and habits no politician could accomplish.
Our consideration for space and place has dissolved into a hapless disregard for all things sacred. The natural world, community, craftsmanship, and basic use of the human body are all lined up for future exhibition at the Smithsonian.
But there is hope. There is an alternative. I’ve seen it in places like Burlington, Vt., and Charlottesville, Va. The downtown areas are alive. People are walking through the streets, eating at cafes, and enjoying life and the company of their neighbors. People come from around the country to go to towns like this, not for all the box stores their own comfortable towns have, but because of something unique. The towns are truly alive.
Who loses when a downtown becomes vibrant again?

This burned toast sat on the sidewalk like a spent cigarette. No window nearby to toss it from. No reason to toss it from a window.
When I was young I can remember the smell of burned bread. I then recall the scraping sound of a butter knife sliding down toast coming from the kitchen. My grandfather, who happened to be blind, would either forget his bread in the toaster or prefer it well done.
There are few memories of my grandfather. He died when I was just old enough to cry and young enough for time to have erased years. It’s amazing how a burned piece of toast on the sidewalk can bring someone back.