Scrjbbles: J's random writings

Home is more than the physical elements that shelter us.  To me, home is living with the essence of loved ones. The love, encouragement, and unflagging moral support from a certain loved one gave me the firmest foundation for building my home — regardless of the type of residence, its occupants, and location.     

I didn’t know it then, but my photography dreams began when I was a 6-year-old girl. My family of nine lived in a house within a historic preservation district of Oklahoma City.  There, my parents gifted me a circa 1966, tan, mid-century modern styled View-Master viewer along with a few reels of 3-D images.  These three discs of mini transparencies highlighted scenes across America. In my family’s big house, lying on my twin bed with the View-Master pointed at the ceiling light, I spent countless hours touring the USA — hoping that one day I could have a home in one such wondrous place.

The scenes that struck me the most were the vivid landscapes of autumn foliage in New England.  My 6-year-old self had no idea where to find this place called New England, but I knew I had to go there someday to see the colorful trees with my own eyes.  My dream began to bloom. I wanted to make my own photos of those hillsides covered with fall hues of blazing orange, sundrenched yellow, and bursts of crimson that shone through the plastic lenses of my trusty View-Master.

Never underestimate the power of a determined little girl with a dream to get a camera of her very own to take pictures of lush landscapes.     

At age 12 I nabbed the family camera during a vacation and dubbed it “mine” on every subsequent trip. I bought my first camera when I was a 17-year-old highschooler and editor of the yearbook.  I studied photojournalism in college, where I paid my own way — via my meager savings from jobs during high school, a small scholarship covering tuition for my freshman year at a state college, and paltry paychecks from working part-time at a custom photography lab for four years until graduation. My diploma was accompanied by an ever-growing passion for photography and credit card debt from buying cameras, film, photo paper, darkroom chemicals, and gear.

I was determined, at 22, to craft my adult life in a location rich with beautiful landscapes, nearby museums (plural!) and a vibrant arts culture.  I set my sights on Boston.  Then I convinced my kind and pragmatic mother to loan me just enough money to secure a six-month apartment and co-sign on the dotted line of the lease agreement.

In January, on the heels of my 23rd birthday, I moved to Boston.  Though I didn’t know a single person in all of Massachusetts, which I had since learned many years ago, was indeed located in that place called New England!

That snowy winter I carried with me the love, moral, and financial support of my family and longtime friends from back home. Thus, I began living my dream.

The apartment I leased was dinky — and I loved it! My apartment was located on public transit routes so I could commute to the Art Institute of Boston, where I registered for photography classes. For at least six months, I was ensured of having my own apartment in this vibrant city with many fabulous museums and gorgeous regional landscapes.  Beyond the half-year lease, I’d just have to figure out how to navigate and survive by my wits in a major city with a shockingly high cost of living.  

So, I did.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches anyone?  Anyone?

On the first day of my first art photography class, I sat next to a middle-aged woman with short wavy brown hair flecked with some grey strands. She had a prominent chin, deep-set eyes, and wore wire rimmed eyeglasses. She extended her hand and began to introduced herself. Her voice had a heavy accent that sounded strange to my Oklahoma ears, which were mostly familiar with only the nuances of southern drawls. I had no clue about the accent coming from this lady’s mouth. The closest comparison I could make was the speaking style that actors used in classic black & white movies I’d watched on TV. Though I couldn’t place it at the time, I later learned the woman’s accent resembled Boston Brahmin.

I shook her hand, introduced myself and said, “It’s very nice to meet you.  Did you say your name is Barney?”

“No,” she replied in her firm voice, “My name is Marnie.”  Though she pronounced it ‘Maaah-Neee.’  Her expression showed a little bewilderment and a hint of amusement at my misunderstanding her name. I was off to a shaky start (oops) and apologized for the name mix-up.

My new classmate, Marnie, became my first friend in Boston.  A couple weeks later she invited me to have dinner in her home, a lovely condo with the thickest solid oak doors I had ever seen, very tall ceilings, and amazing woodwork in a century-old structure that was once a small hospital atop the highest hill in Brookline, Massachusetts.  During dinner, Marnie shared that she liked to sew, draw, craft various things, create handbound books containing her words and images, and that she loved playing the cello.  When she was a girl, her mother and grandmother took her to concerts of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in venerable Symphony Hall, where she had the pleasure of going backstage after several performances to meet the legendary conductor, Arthur Fiedler. She graduated from Radcliffe College, married, raised four children, and was happily divorced.  

Our backgrounds were clearly very different. Yet as I got to know Marnie, I could tell she was extremely intelligent, photographically and technically innovative — almost like being a photo scientist. She was one of the very most interesting, kind, and endearing people I’d ever met.

Marnie and I often took weekend photo excursions to fulfill our class assignments. We walked Boston’s streets, drove to North Shore coastlines, and stopped at random spots along backroads to shoot pictures.  We packed our photo gear into my car, hit the road, and looked for photo opportunities. It was fun, simple, and thrilling!  I was actually living my photography dream from childhood.

I spent weekday mornings in photo classrooms and the school’s darkroom in Kenmore Square. Afternoons, I worked in a large commercial photography lab across from Fenway Park. 

During my excursions with Marnie, I eyed the beautiful historic New England houses along the journeys.  I spied with envy the gorgeous Victorians in Newton, relished the Bauhaus beauties in Lincoln, and yearned for the mouth-watering mansions on Marblehead Neck.  I lusted after the cute cottages and bungalows that dotted Cape Ann.  But lusting for any of the houses was all I could do, since they were priced stratospherically beyond my budget at the time — and for all future budgets that I could foresee. 

I enjoyed having my own little home in the precious apartment, but my funds were mighty thin by the six-month mark. I searched for and rented a room in a house with several housemates.  I’d been exposed to enough of the Boston environs to determine that I could survive with housemates in a far- removed suburb, despite the sky-high cost of living. I also came to accept that owning a home around Boston was a dream I could probably never afford by myself. Harumph.        

Over time my friendship with Marnie grew deeper. She graciously accepted my invitations to simple dinners that I cooked for her in each of my subsequent shared apartments. Neither my living spaces nor my meals were fancy.  Rather, I focused on serving affordable food in the pragmatic places where I could tolerate multiple housemates and pay my rent on time every month.   

During the next decade and a half Marnie and I swapped stories about our respective childhoods, families, and life experiences.  We talked about photography, of course, plus art, philosophy, human nature, and an array of topics we found fascinating.  I could talk with Marnie about almost everything, and she reciprocated in kind.  Even though Marnie was about 30 years older than me, with life experiences vastly different than mine, somehow, our conversations always nurtured both of us. I learned from Marnie. She learned from me.  We grew with each other.  We found common ground, solace, and joy in our friendship. We often laughed so hard and long that our faces hurt.  And oh my gosh!  Marnie slayed me every time she exclaimed with her increasingly irreverent and still heavy Brahmin accent, “HOLY FOCK! Can you believe that he nearly shat himself?!’’ Emphasis on the “fock!”

Marnie vigorously approached creativity and photography.  She experimented widely. With each creative foray she invested in the necessary cameras, gear, and darkroom tools.

One time Marnie loaned me her expensive medium-format camera along with three new lenses, a sturdy new camera bag, plus other equipment to shoot a project for class.  I was very touched by her generous loan and excited to try the medium-format camera to capture images with higher resolutions than my inexpensive baseline 35mm camera could render.  

After I shot photos for the project, I went to return the lot of Marnie’s gear.  When I showed up, lugging all the stuff, she said, ”Why don’t you just hang onto these a bit longer? I bet you could use them on your next photo shoot too.“  The return it/just hang onto it scenario repeated at least half a dozen times.  Finally, Marnie told me that she was loaning the photo gear to me, she stated, “as a LONG-TERM LOAN.”  She then asked if I would be so kind as to stop pestering her by trying to return it after every single shoot.     

I loved visiting Marnie in her home. While there, I helped her with tasks too big for her to do solo or assist her in lifting items that her senior-citizen frame couldn’t handle anymore. As she progressed in years, Marnie gracefully managed some pretty scary health issues, mostly with her strong chin held high. When her health declined to the point she could no longer safely drive her car, I took pleasure in driving into the city to pick her up, take us to various locations on the North Shore, like the nature preserve on Plum Island, which became one of her favorite places.  After a day of great photo exploration, I’d drive her home.

In a way, Marnie felt more like a family member than just a friend.  I boosted her spirits when she was feeling frail, occasionally grumpy, or a little lonely.  Every time we visited, she showed me more of her art.  Watching Marnie create amazing images with her innovative handmade pinhole cameras — made with anything from a coffee pot to a 30-gallon trash can — always inspired me to delve deeper into my creative photographic pursuits.  I aspired to have at least half the fervor and talent Marnie always showed in everything she did, whether in art or in life.   

I was always pleased when Marnie shared stories of her childhood, family experiences, and health challenges that she told me in confidence. Naturally, I shared my personal stories too. Relative to mine, Marnie’s life came with more hardships than I could have fathomed. Still, at the end of each conversation, both of us were glad for the stronger bond of our friendship from having swapped our heartfelt stories.

Marnie always listened.  She listened to me warmly and attentively, usually as she stroked her chin, which was sometimes home to the old-lady whiskers she never seemed to care about. For 18 years Marnie’s perpetually generous spirit, wisdom, kindness, and the creative ways she showed her love to me – sometimes overtly and sometimes slyly – always made me feel ever more at home in Boston alongside my dear friend.  

At 72 Marnie died, unexpectedly, from complications following knee surgery.  I was not only shocked, but also heartbroken, having lost my cherished, inspiring friend so suddenly.

I never got to return Marnie’s long-term loan photo gear, which I suspect was her plan from the outset. In that respect, she got her mischievous wish of giving me a present that I never anticipated and would not have accepted otherwise.  Today, I still treasure Marnie’s camera, for it reminds me of her generous and cunning spirit.   

After her passing, I thought of Marnie every day. Memories of her laughter, creativity, playfulness, unique photographs, and yes, even her quirky accent, always brought a smile to my face.

Six months after her death I still felt the tender emotional cycles of grief. I was sad for the loss of her, but also grateful that we had been such close friends. There was not a single day when I didn’t miss her, our visits, our talks, our laughter, and most of all, her wisdom.  Her tenacity to explore photography outside the lines and her keen ability to use photography for self-expression inspired me to continue cutting my own creative trail. 

A couple of months later, I received a letter in the mail that bore the return address of a legal firm in Boston. Its arrival puzzled me.  I wondered why a bunch of lawyers would send me a letter.  I certainly hadn’t done anything wrong.  It made zero sense to me.

I opened the letter and noticed the letterhead. I recognized Marnie’s maiden name among the string of partners’ surnames in the firm’s title.  I proceeded to read the letter slowly, as I still wasn’t sure what to expect. As I read, saw Marnie’s name in the second paragraph, then learned the letter was written by her brother, a partner at the firm, who served as the executor of her estate. 

I kept reading. I gasped in shock.  Then I wept.  Tears came swiftly, running down my cheeks.

Her brother informed me that Marnie had included me in her estate.  Enclosed was a check made out to me.  What?! It was beyond my comprehension. I wondered what Marnie had done.  Why would she do this? Why didn’t see tell me?  All I knew for sure was that I was not prepared for this surprise in the mail.  She was still astounding me — even after death.  

Then, suddenly, in my mind I heard Marnie’s voice say, “HOLY FOCK!  Can you believe it?!”

I cracked up. Laughed out loud, in fact.  Going from confusion and tears to laughter — it was a very emotional day, thanks to my ever impish dearly departed friend.  

As was her way, Marnie was generous, even from the great beyond. She stunned me to the core of my being with her gift of $25,000 – taxes already paid.

It took me a while to wrap my head around what Marnie’s intention would have been.  I believe she would have wanted me to use this small fortune (to me) wisely. Probably to see it as an investment in myself and my art. I gathered her wish was that I use the gift to fuel my creativity, in whatever form I would find appropriate.  

So, I did.

In one fell swoop, Marnie helped me realize a dream that I had once convinced myself I could never reach.  With her gift, plus my years of savings, I could finally make a down payment on a house — an actual house of my own! It would have to be located FAR north of Boston for me to afford it.  Imagine!  I might be able to buy a New England home like some of the basic ones I’d been eyeing for more than two decades!

I still can’t believe it.  But, at 45-years-old, I became a Massachusetts homeowner — because of Marnie’s foresight.

The first thing I did in MY house was designate a room named for Marnie. This room became my first-ever personal space dedicated to photography and creativity.  On the wall, I hung a beautiful candid photo I had taken of Marnie during one of our many outings.  I named the room and captioned the photo, “Studio Marnie” to honor my friend and her memory — still so very large in my heart.   

Years later I sold that house, but I still have Studio Marnie — now in its third iteration — at my current lovely house. In Studio Marnie 3.0 I launched my own LLC photography business.  I know that Marnie would be pleased to see my dedicated home office, complete with her portrait hanging above my desk, where I fulfilled my dream of one day owning a small photo business.    

What makes this place my home is not the lumber and the nails or the roof over my head.  It is knowing that wherever I live, for the rest of my life, Marnie’s spirit will always be present where I dwell.  Her gifts continue to be the foundation on which I grow and thrive in a home that is full of love, friendship, family, creativity, and happy memories — as well as my beautiful photographs.     

Thank you Marnie. I miss you.  I love you still.  I’ll be with you again someday, when we take to exploring the heavens with our cameras.