The Light On The Lake

I love the way that this light looks up against the last light of the day. I made this photo the day after my father passed while out walking around the lake house property that he owned. Today would have been his 82nd birthday. It is hard to believe that he has been gone almost two years now. He was such a big part of my life for my entire life that it really hurt and still does that he is gone. I don’t know that I will ever lose that feeling. There will be a time though when we will meet again.

A Photo He Would Have Liked

I don’t think that anyone was as supportive of my photography as my father was. From day one he was the one that would leave a comment somewhere on every post. He might still have the most comments on this blog nearly two years after his passing. I would post a photo and wonder what he would say about it. I really think that he would have liked this one.

Pluck

My father gave me a copy of this Irish poem when I was young. He had a copy that he kept in his wallet at all times. He made me a copy that I carried for years. After his death I found the original copy of it that must have been cut from a magazine. It was worn in half from originally being in his wallet. My grandmother had written on the back of it. It is something that I think of often when things seem tough. I always knew this poem as being called Pluck by an unknown author. I have found out that it is actually called “How Did You Die?” by Edmund Vance Cooke. I thought today would be a good day to share it with you.

 

Pluck

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble’s a ton or a trouble’s an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it;

And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that count

But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well what’s that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there — that’s disgrace.

The higher you’re thrown, why, the higher you bounce.

Be proud of your blackened eye.

It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts

It’s how did you fight and why?

And though you be done to the death — what then?

If you battled the best you could,

If you played your part in the world like men,

Why, the critic would call it good.

Death comes with a crawl or comes with a bounce.

And whether he’s slow or spry,

It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,

But only how did you die?