I mentioned a few posts ago that I was helping clean out my step-father’s house, my old house growing up fifty years ago. Whew, that time did fly.
It didn’t take long to realize there would be no buried treasure there, no hidden or big surprises. Last Saturday, as we battled an old work bench in the garage piled with tools and boxes, my brother, sister and I decided to hire an estate sale specialist to finish the work—for a percentage of the sales they’ll haul the trash away and clean up the house when they’ve finished. How can you beat a deal like that?
With the pressure of sorting and disposing gone, I looked around for anything with photographic potential. On top of an old refrigerator, half-obscured by a stack of wooden wreaths, I found a Griffin Shinemaster (it may have belonged to my grandfather, although I’m unsure). When I opened the lid an assortment of brushes and bottles of pastes and oils were waiting, as though practiced hands would again put them to work polishng a pair of Florsheims to a high gloss.
When I set the box outside in open shade today, and considered it through a viewfinder, I found it not only timeless, but priceless as well—and for this photographer, that’s real treasure.