Sooner or later even my Dad recognized that, come spring, the yard needed some attention and the hedge some trimming. After the inexpert botanical butchering was complete and a chaos of slaughtered plants lie piled on the sidewalk, it would fall to me and my brother to load all the debris into the bed of the old orange and white Studebaker. Then Dad would fire up the relatively newer Ford LTD station wagon (featuring less than convincing wood panel decals) and butt it against the front of the Studebaker so the jumper cables would reach. Somehow, between the three of us, all the buttons and pedals of both vehicles would finally be manipulated in concert to resuscitate the old pickup and bring it roaring to life amidst oily smoke and un-muffled mechanical despair. The fact that the gas gauge had always been broken only seemed to add a certain element of excitement to the adventure as Dad and his two little co-pilots would begin what could very well be a one way trip out to the old St.
a photographer's take on ART, SCIENCE & THEOLOGY in the Pacific Northwest