Re-Meeting Nakki

Twenty-seven or so years ago, Nakki Goranin was an artist-in-residence with the Vermont Arts Council ... A woman of great passion, admitted obsession, and inspiring energy ... She took on a group of teenage photograpy students from Mt. Abe's "gifted & talented" program -- a group that included myself, Bill, Craig, and Miles ... It was there at her side that my fascination with photography really took root.

Then decades passed ... Literally ...

Recently, I reconnected with her on LinkedIn, then exchanged emails, meant to attend her showing on Pine Street, and then saw a County Courier article about a book signing in Johnson ... Indeed, author and artist Nakki Goranin would be speaking and signing copies of "American Photobooth" ...

So I went.

Ryan's Books in Johnson, VT is a charming nook nestled in an old brick bank (I believe, as it had a vault amongst the shelves) ... Nakki looked not a day older as I entered the shop. She was seated at a table amidst stacks of her book -- a position befitting a woman whose work is praised by none less than the curators of the Smithsonian, who has been written about by John Updike, and who has studied photography, anthropology, and education ...

It was great fun to reconnect -- as she hasn't changed much over the years, but I now have grey in the goatee and daughters older than I was when I was her student (pictured in their on photobooth image at right). We had a chance to chat, we smiled at a memorable photoshoot incident that best remains undocumented given uncertainty regarding the statutes of limitations on inadertently tresspassing, she kindly signed my copy of her book, and then I settled in with others (a retired editor of Vermont Life, a local professional photographer, a friend of Nakki's, a curious afficiando, a German woman who used to accompany her father as he refilled photobooth processing chemicals, etc) as the event unfolded.

Nakki spoke informally and ardently -- about photobooths, about those who made them, about those who had their picture taken in them, about the process of writing the book, about the evolution of photography ... Her knowledge and passion and eloquence and simple sincerity were immediately familiar -- clearly, this was "my" Nakki from so long ago. I stayed as long as my anti-social hobbit tendencies would allow and then bolted, book in hand, back to my world -- all the better for having mustered the nerve to re-meet Nakki Goranin.

Life's Lemonade Obligation

After a trying day in the real world, I buckled myself into the little-blue-car's leopard-skinned helm and wandered off.

Not a mile into my escape, a bright-yellow, hand-printed street-side sign caught my eye ... "Lemonade: Small=25 cents, Large=50 cents" ... There, tucked in the grassy shade of the local bed & breakfast's lawn on the other side of the street, sat a little entrepreneur at a neatly adorned table, smiling brightly at the passing cars.

So I drove passed.

And turned around.

Yep, I'm not much for the tyranny of obligations in life, but I do believe one should always stop at lemonade stands. There's a simple sugary joyful blend of optimism and opportunism at these impromptu places. Yep, the drinks are rarely good, the portions are often small, and the prices are typically high (on a per ounce basis) -- but that analysis is faaaaar from the point. Each little stand is an oasis, nurturing work ethic and hope for the future in their youngest forms -- so, when I go by, I try to go buy ...

I pulled up and hopped out, five quarters in my hand. She popped to her feet -- just a bit of a thing, couldn't have been more than a fourth grader -- and greeted me with smiling anticipation, "Can I help you?"

"I'll take two larges," I said, returning the smile.

"They're 50 cents each," she confirmed with a hopeful look as she pulled two empty cups from the stack that was apparently the larges.

"That'll be great," I said.

She poured my first one and we both observed her pitcher was running low. "Oh, I'm almost out," she said.

I agreed with a nod and said "I hope that's a sign that business has been good ..."

And she beamed. "I have fourteen dollars and eighty five cents," she announced absolutely triumphantly as she poured my second glass.

"Well, here's five quarters," I said. "Four for the lemonade and one for you as a tip. You have a nice day."

She thanked me and I was off, changing course for GrammaB's house to share the story -- and the lemonade -- with a kindred anti-social hobbit. As I pulled around, the little lemonade dealer gave me a smile and a wave that was worth far more than $1.25 ...

And suddenly, the whole tone of the afternoon had changed ... and that, my friends, is the whole point of taking a moment for life's lemonade obligation.

Almost Heaven ...

As I leave the field that gentle evening, after the players and families had left and leaving only a coaching friend behind, I ask myself, "Is this Heaven"? I smile and chuckle as one of the other voices in my head answers, "No, it's Fairfield" to complete the literary reference for my own amusement ...

Well, if it wasn't Heaven, it was certainly on the same street. I figure if you ask Mr. TomTom on the windshield for a course from my couch or the lawnmower to Heaven, the preferred path will bring you right by the field, just this side of Heaven itself.

There I'd been, at a field in East Fairfield, tucked behind a school down a dirt driveway along a bubbling brook that eats foul balls ... They're out of cell phone range out there, but there is a pretty decent port-a-potty ... They've got aged homemade bleachers and room for fans who prefer chairs and a chest high fence for farmer fathers and photographers to lean on from off abit if the chatter amongst the rest gets to be just a bit tooo much ...

Weather's perfect, which is a pleasure and a surprise, as it's often unexpectedly and inexplicably nippy out there in the hills this time of year ... The grass grows a bit long there and the basepaths haven't been weeded in a while and it's a bit lumpy, but it's playable and the dandelions look nice ... Yep, you know, when Jesus spoke of preparing a place for us at His Father's house, this may well have been what He had in mind for the back yard ...

When I arrived that evening, worn from a week of restructuring the livelyhood of others in a well-intentioned albeit uncertain effort to make things work a bit better, I was greeted by smiles. The first two come from moms my age, whose daughters one of my daughters coaches, though not tonight ... Chatter ensues and the grip of the real world loosens.

"I'm getting my camera to take some pictures," I announce outloud to myself and the Moms head off to claim their seats as the bleachers are filling ... I fetch my gear, letting the clammy hand of reality slip away from the back of my neck. I'm home now somhow and, camera in hand, the world can't reach me.

For the next ninety minutes, I watch kids who are not my own play a game they love under the hopeful supportive eyes of those who love them ...

The stands and sidelines fill with older sisters and little brothers, mamas and papas (regular folks, not the singing group from the 60s), a few friends and neighbors, and even a gramma and grampa or two wobble in ... though in truth, I did abandon GrammaB as the need to be alone on the way was a bit too strong that evening for companionship in the little blue car. There are no sides to the crowd -- we all chatter and laugh, as even if we don't all quite know everyone as well as some, as we're all kindred spirits here somehow ... Well, that, and because they haven't hayed the field down firstbase line for a while ... But moreso because everybody's respectful and positive and its easier to intermix and intermingle amongst each other ...

Yep, sportsmanship runs deep this close to Heaven. I'm rooting for both sides as I know kids on each and know how hard they work and how much they love the game. I'm not alone in that -- not only in the crowd, but you can see it a bit on the faces on the field in the grins of recognition as off-the-field acquaintences catch each others' eyes, ala Katelyn, Nikki, Shila, and Whitney of years gone by.

These kids honor the game with their play ... We are treated to mixed pitches thrown for strikes by both pitchers, doubles over outfielders heads, a great backup by a rightfielder, straight steals and delayed steals, rbi bunts that roll fair, a single turned into an out at first by a rightfielder, diving attempts by a banged up catcher, and even a pair of fabulous foul balls -- albeit along with the requisite errors, wiffs, naps and brain cramps that makes all this human ... Even when the ump himself erred (the run scoring fair ball was actually untouched amidst the crash of infielders before it spun foul), the coaches and fans recognized he was doing his best in the spirit of it all (and actually did a very nice job) ...

Eventually, the action ends, one side wins, and the teams shake hands ... and then comes a magical moment. Free to head to the cars to rush to the next, the players pause. And chatter. First with those who came out to support them -- and then, with those they played. "You did great" is a gift given repeatly, wrapped in good intentions and given sincerely among the little rivals ... I flash back to sidelines in Colchester with the Buckless family and in Swanton with the Grenons and in Poultney with Randy and Stacey -- and I know these nex-gen players and families are on the right path.

I smile as I watch it unfold ... This is how it's meant to happen and these folks get it even if they don't know it yet and it's a joy to watch. I think of Everet and his lawn chair and all the last ten years have brought, how proud I am of my own girls for what they're giving these girls like they've been given, how thankful I am that Brad and Everett and Dick and Rhett and Kevin and Joanie and Ralph and Liza helped open all this to me ... and I smile, though I cry this morning as I retell it, hoping from their place at His place, my friend Everett and my Dad Lloyd can see this field ...

And that evening, as I walk back along the dirt road toward the little blue car wedged behind the the school's dumpster, I wonder ... "Is this Heaven?" and I smile. It's darn close.
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