I've made hundreds of images over the years of old abandoned homesteads, houses and barns. I am intrigued, not just by the buildings, but by the lives of the people who may have lived and worked in them.  I often imagine a story, a scenario of what might have been inside these crumbling walls, giving breath once again to the people who called it home. These are my stories, brief glimpses into the past.

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He knew the drink was gonna kill him. Just couldn’t find anything about the notion that made any difference.

If the Walls Could Talk series Vol 2 #21

Twelve years old when he said he aimed to marry her. Nineteen when he kept his promise.

If the Walls Could Talk series Vol 2 # 22   

Don’t matter the change in his pocket. A man ain’t worth no more’n his word.

If the Walls Could Talk series Vol 2 # 23

Russian thistle the only thing that grows. Collect it to make hay for starving cattle. Pickle it to eat ourselves. Banks of drifting soil pile up against anything solid, filters into any place air can reach. Our home. Our lungs. They call it the dust bowl. We call it misery.

If the Walls Could Talk series Vol 2 # 24  

To be continued...