My family nickname was Eagle Eye. I could find the tiniest golden earring back in a sea of shag carpeting and when instructed to, “keep your eyes peeled,” I could call a good diner from its sign at 60 miles an hour from the backseat window in those pre-GPS travel days.
Maybe it was because my father was an eye doctor, but our family life was rich with visual language. Some of my favorite memories of him are our aimless summer Sunday drives. In retrospect I realize these outings were designed to get us out of my mother’s hair, but I don’t think knowing that at the time would have dampened my enthusiasm a bit. We’d usually head out towards the countryside without a specific destination or purpose. His answer to where we were going, “let’s see what we can see.” Some days we’d stop at a county fair, other times a nursery or an antique store – and treats – treats were always on the program.
So many years later, I can almost hear those words in his voice speak to me from a chamber deep within my memory. Most often these days it happens when I attempt to reconcile a complex composition in my viewfinder. Sometimes, as in the case with the compelling lines and harmonious palette of this winter marina, I hear his whisper, “Is that all you’ve got, Eagle Eye? Let’s see if you can see something else.”
Keep your eyes wide open,