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REVEREND RICK

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  It had been many things, the small building on the corner of Mill St. For a while though, Reverend Rick spoke sermons here to a small flock. Workers with memories of better times and paychecks. Now just social security, food banks or worse. The giant empty factory building still casting a dark shadow. They felt unworthy of going to the big Baptist church up on Railroad Street. No one ask Reverend Rick how he came to this small place. He was thankful for that, not wanting to share the wandering years and drink. Somehow he just appeared one day, putting a simple cross above the door and giving sermons. He used the small offerings to fix the place as best he could. The market next door giving him food and a room in back to sleep. Then one day the Reverend was gone. Only the cross remained. Overtime the building again fell in disrepair. Rumors had it that an Asian man planned a bar there. Sometimes neighbors walking by claimed they could still hear Reverend Rick sharing the lords mess
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THE MONTAGE (a lost art)

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  My wandering days in Portland, Oregon always seemed to lead to the Eastside. It’s low profile warehouses  and edge loved by my camera. Wandering often ended or started just down from SE Grand Avenue, under the Morrison Bridge. There, the colorful Montage restaurant held court. True to its name, it served everything from alligator to oysters somehow combining those small parts into a French and Cajon delight. For those who could find it, the Montage became a favorite over 27 years. Some complained of its loudness, the noise from the bridge, the waiters shouting out orders (a tradition) and the rowdy late night diners. It was loud, but I always got lost in the wonder of how all the pieces of the place came together to delight. I remember how the chef would form tin foil into fish, frogs, and alligator as part of the meal presentations. A covid loss, The Montage unfortunately closed in 2020, only survived by a food cart of the same name. Ironically, I now live on a street named Grand in
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PAVEMENT NOTES

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  We chase the pavement leaving notes behind. Ones never fully understood or destination known. But, they are the marks of our lives. “ Should I give up or should I just keep chasing the pavement, even if it leads nowhere…”  - Adele
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A GREAT FALLS BLESSING

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  Great Falls had it heydays many years ago. It looks like it had been put to sleep. Its downtown is a row of empty worn storefronts, a legacy shared by many small places here when the textile industry died. It was the closing of Republic Textile Mill here that seemed to freeze the town in time, breathless of life, waiting for fortune to find it again. I had visited here many times with my camera capturing the faded colors and patina of the place. You never find many people wandering here, streets seem always empty. The quiet giving you time to photograph. Early one morning, to my surprise, I saw the doors to one of the store fronts, Browning T shirts open. I had photographed the building many times, never thinking the business was still there. Holding the door open was a small table with a vase.  Mr. Browning greeted me, “Pretty isn’t she.” He said seeing me eyeing the vase. “$2 since you are my first customer.” He handed it to me, as I thought about how my Kathleen would love it espe
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MISSED CONNECTIONS

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  People pass each other every day without connecting. I used to routinely seek out new connections both in business and on the personal side. The business ones represented new opportunities. The personal ones were equally rewarding. They were chances to learn about people and ideas. It was like catching small sound bites of their worlds and experiences. They made me feel more human and open to new things. Well before the pandemic, I found myself losing this art of making connections with new people. The smartphone, pace of life, and divisions in the country led me to be less welling to start the casual conversation. This only increased with the pandemic. While I didn’t pull up the covers in bleak depression, I did feel more isolated. Talking with friends, I have learned that I am not alone in this feeling. In fact, a recent study found that people now prefer a machine instead of interacting with people. Good if we are in a hurry and we are all in a hurry it seems. However, talking wit
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SHIPPING BOX ART

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  They come to us folded and perfect, protecting our goods. It’s not always been that way. Before the corrugated box was invented in 1871, shipping was a haphazard affair. The only protection a tarp or clumsy wooden box. One that could not be easily reproduced. Shipping boxes were invented by accident when a printer dropped a ruler into his press and discovered it left creases that could be folded on the poster board he printed. Today, we expect a lot from these boxes. Too often though, we ignore and take them for granted. If you really look though, there is certain art about them. They have traveled many miles and wear the marks from doing so. Marks that give them patina and an abstract appeal. If you don’t believe boxes have an art to themselves, a recent study of toys and young children might give you pause. It seems that young children will open a box containing a toy, but quickly tire of the toy. Once they do, they start playing with the box it came in. This phenomena happens so o
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TWO KNOCKS - A collection of short Stories

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  "Two Knocks" by David Young - a collection of short stories about second chances, second acts, changed minds and the final two knocks is available on both Apple Book Store and Amazon's Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09BLF19TP
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