An American Hero

There are those people in life that are born unto their destiny, that come into life to be something special.  They choose not their path, nor do they accept it willingly, it just is for them, despite their not even seeking it.  You cannot create these people; you cannot groom them for their destiny is contained within every cell of their being.  They cannot be drawn into a comic book or cast into a made for TV movie and yet they have little glory in their lives, for they choose not to seek out the glory and the recognition for they are not Super Heroes, they are true life heroes and what they accomplish in life as they walk along their path they do quietly with dignity and honor.

One such man has always been a hero to me, long before I realized his contributions to this country during World War II.   That man, amazingly good looking, with a smile that lit up every room he walked into, and every heart he touched, is my uncle, Curtis Diles; “Uncle Bud”, as I knew him growing up.  As a child I admired him, his laugh and the depth of love he showed his children and his family.  My mother’s brother was the man that I wanted as a father; he was a gentle giant in my mind.  Always there to ask how things were, to inquire about how things were at home.  I still feel his hand on my shoulder, that gentle reassuring little squeeze that let me know he was there.  But behind all of that there was something more to this man, something that I would not discover until many years later as I embarked on my journey to obtain a college degree.

As a History Minor I had a set course of studies, which included a semester or two studying the events of World War II.  It was through these semesters, a trip to the library and a grab for books that would support my thesis statement that I discovered something about my Uncle Bud; something that would confirm that the man I saw as a hero when I was little was in fact the truest form of the word.  For this man, this unassuming, gentle soul was in fact a hero.  He was the kind of hero that didn’t make broad statements, proclaim his victories or fly over tall buildings in a single leap, though he was a flyer of sorts it was a subtle flight and it was a dramatic decent that led him to heroism.

You see, my Uncle Bud was a member of the U.S. Army Air Corps after having been drafted in September 1943 at the age of eighteen, an age that we would now consider to be just a baby.  But in 1943 times were different, males became “men” earlier in life and they went off to war, they defended this country and their comrades.  They were fighters and they were patriots, but not all of them were heroes and though some gave their lives to defend our country, earning the status of “hero” in the process, others came home to teach us by example.  My Uncle Bud was one of those, an example and a boy that became a man, a hero and a father in very short order as a Nose Gunner in a B-24 Liberator. 

It was on a mission out of his home base in Southern Italy to bomb German Oil Fields, his 17^th of 35 total missions, which his B-24 would take a direct hit from the German Anti-Aircraft artillery, forcing its crew to parachute to safety.  The safety of terra firma, not the safety of families or even other U. S. troops, for they were escaping a plane that was surely going to crash, all for the uncertainty of what awaited them on the ground that they would eventually rest their weathered jump boots.  They had been warned about hostile forces in the area, and more particularly those that may be collaborating with the Germans.  With a plane that was doomed to crash there was little choice in the matter for the men aboard that plane, face certain death or hope to elude those that wished to place them into Prisoner of War Camps. 

So it was on September 8, 1943 my Uncle Bud was listed as “Missing In Action” by the military. Days later my grandparents would receive that dreaded Western Union telegram which read,

“The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your son Sergeant Curtis Diles Jr., has been reported missing in action since Eight September over Yugoslavia. If further details or other information are received you will be promptly notified.”

With this, my grandparents and his brothers and sisters and other family members waited for news, news that he was alive and safe. The oldest son, my grandfather’s namesake was missing and that was all there was to know for times were different then, not everyone had phones, there were not televisions in every home broadcasting the details of the war that raged in Europe, news came slowly in those days the heartache felt by the families as they waited was tantamount to having dental surgery without Novocain. And while his family waited for some encouraging news, to hear their son and brother was alive, this nineteen year-old kid had been rescued by an unlikely group of people.

It was the people that my Uncle Bud had been warned about, the “Serbs”, working under Gen. Draza Mihailovich and The Resistance that would rescue him and keep him from being captured by the Germans.  For nearly ten days he would be hidden and protected by this group of Resistance Fighters, they would feed him and provide him with a safe harbor to rest his head and sleep.  It would not be long before the unlikely rescuers would contact the United States and arrange for the extraction of the Americans, and that rescue will not include just my Uncle Bud, but hundreds of other Americans that they had saved.

The rescue would not be without risks however, for it required the Airmen that had been shot down to take a dangerous trek through a region that was rife with the enemy forces.  There would be no trains, plans or cars to provide these men with transportation to their rendezvous with extraction.  They would walk, not a mile or two, but nearly two-hundred treacherous miles, over mountains and through densely wooded areas in frigid temperatures; often times hiding from the enemy and sleeping in barn lofts along the way.  The thought of rescue and the hope of their being reunited with their families and other service members far outweighing the ever daunting risk of capture that they faced along the way.  Food would be scarce along the way and yet my Uncle Bud and the other Airmen maintained their strength to complete the journey to their rendezvous point.

It would be the Office of Strategic Services, (OSS), having been established just one year prior to my Uncle having been drafted and the precursor to the CIA; that would ultimately lift my Uncle Bud and others to safety.  Operation Halyard as it would be known, would ultimately result in the rescue of many Airmen, but it would not have happened had the Serbs and the OSS not worked together to build an airstrip for planes to land on and carry the men back to their base in Italy.  It would not have happened had the Resistance Fighters not drawn German Troops away from the American’s hiding places with their own gunfire.  Many things came into play to save my Uncle Bud, the help of the Resistance Forces, the charity of Serbian Families and his own tenacity and determination.

Ultimately, Uncle Bud would not go home to The States and spend time with his family like so many others that had been shot down and rescued before and after him.  He would receive The Purple Heart and he would continue to fly, as a nose gunner, on many more missions.  More importantly he would continue to live out his destiny of being a true American Hero and he would do it with grace, for this was not a choice he made, but what he was born to do, who he was destined to be.

His status as a Hero in my eyes was not based upon his military service, for that knowledge would come much later in my life.  He became a Hero to me as I watched him, sitting at my Grandmother’s kitchen table, drinking coffee and watching his wife with eyes that only twinkled with the ultimate “true love”.  He was a hero as I watched him with his children, the gentle but loving hand he had with them, the love that he had for his brothers and sisters.  It may have been that somewhere, deep inside of him, that there was a sense of gratitude that he was alive; that he survived not only being shot out of the air, but celebrated his rescue by a generous group of people; which in turn fostered his desire to show compassion to others as it was shown to him.  Regardless, he could jump tall buildings in a single bound in my eyes; rescue a little girl that was frightened of her own father and show her that there were good men in the world.

He became a Hero to many, including myself, after those days as a member of the Army Air Corps.  He was a Hero to my Grandmother that often called him to fix something after my Grandfather had passed away, to his wife, my Aunt Inez, which he gave a wonderful life and together raised amazing children.  To his Grandchildren who carry his genetic traits, the embodiments of his life and spirit and to my own Grandson that met him recently for the first time.  For it is that sometimes, when you want it the least, when you have no desire to seek it out, your soul and your spirit, your manifest destiny finds you and it guides you to do and be something very special.  Uncle Bud is one of those people an American Hero, a Legacy of Honor and Integrity to all those that know him and he will always have that place, that little corner in my heart where I can feel his hand on my shoulder, that gentle little squeeze that tells me he is there and I am safe.

Heart Of A Child

There was a familiarity as Anne walked into the room,  she had been here, at this place so many times in the past, the only thing different between this room and all the others was the colors on the wall and the child sitting at the small table.  She stood there and watched for a moment, observing the little one in front of her, searching the room for something, anything that she could use to connect with this baby.  She knew that each of these children was different, and yet somehow they were, sadly, all the same.  And so she watched as the child picked up one crayon after another, drawing on the large sheet of paper in front of her, the look of loneliness and isolation on the face of the child would be like all the others before her, and it would forever haunt Anne.

She knew this child, for the child had grown on her and in her for years, Anne guessed this one to be about six years old, younger than some of the others and yet wiser; more importantly, Anne knew she was emotionally bruised.  It was all about the intervention now, not changing the past but instead trying to heal it and bring brightness into the future, connecting with this little one would be the first step to ensuring that her little light would stay lit.  Connection would be the first step of a journey that Anne would attempt to walk with her, to serve as her guide and to be a protector in a system rife with negativity and controversy.

Anne took a step forward, not towards the child, but towards a chalk board on one side of the room.  Knowing that she wasn’t an artist herself, but that she had amused her own child with whimsical drawings of pretend animals her child had created in her imagination, Anne began to draw a Zebrapotamus on the chalk board, not paying any attention to the child behind her.  Her drawing became a quasi-jungle of Monktigers, Girrafapos and other crazy looking animals.  As she continued to fill in the chalk board Anne heard the chair the little one had been sitting in slide across the wood floor and she decided to put a big yellow sun into her drawing.  It was symbolic to her, it was the child’s first step away from the artwork she herself had been creating and Anne saw that as a possibility of a brighter future for this child.

Anne continue to draw on the board, not looking back but patiently waiting for the child to reach out to her, not speaking, but waiting for the little one to utter the first words in the room absent of any noise other than chalk hitting the board.  It took several moments of the child just standing there watching before she spoke;  moments that seemed like an eternity for Anne, for her heart was aching for this one, this little one that had suffered so much at the hands of an adult.  The first words from the child were curious and pensive; Anne heard them in her voice when she asked if she too could draw on the board.  With a lighthearted affirmation Anne said, “Sure, you can but first you have to tell me your name.”  The little girl looked up at Anne and said, “Sunny”, drawing it out as any good Southerner would.  Anne smiled at her and reached her chalk covered hand down to shake that of the little girl, “Well Sunny, I’m Anne and I am very happy to meet you.  Shall we finish this picture?”  And with that the little girl who had isolated herself at the table began to drawn on the chalk board.

The two blonde hair beauties stayed there drawing for a while, finally finishing their drawing of a whimsical land where animals could be whatever you wanted them to be and an imagination was all you needed to see them.  They both looked at the creation and smiled at each other, Anne because she knew that she had connected with Sunny and Sunny because she saw in Anne something that she had never known; safety.  Anne looked at the little one and asked if she was hungry, mentioning that she had herself forgotten lunch and was starving.  Sunny looked up at her and shook her head affirmatively.  “Hmmmm, I love peperoni pizza, do you?” Anne queried.  Again the little girl nodded, only this time her response had a more zealous affirmative reaction, with that Anne ordered up a pizza from her favorite local shop.

As they sat and ate the little girl began to open up, talking first about herself and the things that she liked, her drawings, and bonding with her new friend.  Anne reached over touching and tussling Sunny’s curly blonde locks and smiled at her.  Anne was reassured that the child had not pulled away or winced at the touch, it meant there was hope.   Anne’s smile always carried such a warm embrace because it came from the heart, it was genuine and honest and it served her well when dealing with children like Sunny, for her smile assured them that she was there to help them.  And it was through this smile, her patience and understanding, which was at the very core of Anne’s being, that Sunny had allowed Anne to get close enough to help her.  But Anne knew that getting close enough to help was on the first step in a long journey, that healing from abuse was a life-long process, one that began with a connection with another human on a purely innocent and safe level, but one that would require continual work on the part of the child as she grew into an adult.  Anne knew, for these children were a part of her, protecting them and keeping them safe would be forever a part of who she was and that she would be their light in the darkness, a place for them to call home.

 

“A child that walks in the darkness can only see the light through the purest of love and will only be shielded from the storm by the umbrella of a giving heart.”  (me 2012)

 

Thanks to Shane Alexander for the musical inspiration.

Invisible

He thought back, as he laid there in the darkness, to the decisions that he had made just a few days earlier.  It seemed natural to him, his thought process and the way that he dealt with turmoil.  He was after all part of a hardy breed, he grew up on tough streets, faced the neighborhood bullies and he never ran from anything.  He knew that running only caused you to get chased more often, but if you stood up and fought for yourself and what you believed in that you would eventually be victorious and stave off further attacks.

He thought this case would be no different, he would win out, beat the odds and yet he now felt invisible to the rest of the world.  He was cold; the dampness setting into the depths of his bones, and it was darker than he had ever remembered it being.  He wondered now, amidst all the darkness and devastation he felt, if he had made the wrong decision.  Forty years of standing up, of fighting and protecting not only himself but those that he loved, and now he was going back over those years, analyzing each decision he had ever made.  He was truly invisible now; there was no one to reach out to, no one to ask.  He had stood up for what he thought was right and now he laid there alone, cold and in the dark.

Sure, he had listened to the news, heard the stories and the warnings of the impending doom, but he had reasoned it out in his mind.  He just kept telling himself that they always say it is going to be worse than it is and that he had lived through the worst of things and done just fine.  He told himself that, at the worst, it would be like camping out, an outdoor adventure that he loved to partake in.  He reassured himself that he had lived through the turmoil of The Word Trade Center, that the entire city had, and they survived.  But now, camping wasn’t so much fun and he saw no joy in his current predicament, nor did he see any chance of rescue because he was powerless in many ways.

Having sent his family away before the storm, just in case, was the smartest part of his thought process over the last few days.  At least they were where it was warm, inland and out of the city.  But he was stuck there, no power and just a few blankets to keep him warm.  He had abandoned the first two floors of his home two days ago and he could still hear the water from the Hudson River rushing below him as he huddled up under his blankets.  He had some food, but not much and in his mad dash to escape the water that was closing in on him he hadn’t grabbed a can opener so he laid there thinking about what he could have eaten if he had planned better, if only he had reasoned out the possibilities and paid attention when the Governor had told them to get out of harm’s way. 

Now, without any power he had no way to stay warm or even contact the outside world, he felt lost and he worried about what his lack of communication was doing to his family.  His phone battery was gone, and even if it did work, he had never had any signal in the part of the house which he was now forced by water to occupy.  He knew that now he was isolated, like an island in the Pacific with no landing strip and he chuckled just a bit as he saw himself as the character in that Tom Hanks movie, “Castaway”.  For just a moment he wondered if there was a volley ball around him, or if there was something else that could become his “Wilson”.  He needed something that would sit there, quietly, while he explained his reasons for staying and simply agree with his decision; despite the dire warnings of officials that a super storm was approaching.  He couldn’t tell his family for he couldn’t contact them and even if he could they would still be angry because he didn’t leave with them.  So he just sat there, waiting and wondering what would come next as he listened to the water beneath and the wind around him.

He drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes being awakened by the wind or the house creaking inconsolably.  He wasn’t sure if the moaning coming from the walls, floors and foundation were emotions within him or the house giving into the pressure of external forces; if his home was tiring, just as he was, of weathering a storm neither of them should have been in.  But he knew that he couldn’t have removed his home from the path of the storm though he could have removed himself just as he knew that his being there wasn’t going to protect the old house.  But his time, after he has sent his family packing towards safety has been spent as wisely as one man could spend his time.  This had been his family’s home as a child, he grew up here and his own children were doing the same.  For him the house was more than just sticks, bricks and mortar, it was his history and his future; within its walls were memories that could never be replaced and that was what he truly guarded before he became invisible to the world outside his safety zone.

 He had wanted to make sure that his memories did not become invisible, that they were saved, for the future of his children and hopefully, if he was lucky, himself.  So for the hours between the time that his family had left and the storm began to drive itself ashore with reckless abandon, he had carried everything he could to the upper levels of the old house.   Some of the things he managed to save he had stacked neatly in one of the upper level rooms while the others were more haphazardly placed where ever there was room.  But the family photos, his parents, grandparents and distant relatives had given him over the years lay at the very highest point he could find in the house and they rested safely above him, provided that the roof held they would survive for his family, even if he did not.  His past would never be as invisible as he was at this moment in time.  He knew, if no one ever understood why he had stayed that he knew and someday, as his family looked through their past in pictures that they would also get it.  He felt a sense of relief in that, a calm that allowed him to once again close his eyes and snuggle into the warmth of his blankets, his stomach growling to lull him to sleep.

When he awoke the next time the wind had finally died down, though he could still hear water rushing outside, he scanned the ceiling above him, the walls the floor around him; the touched his blankets and himself to ensure he was dry, that the water had not reached him and the roof above him and held strong.  Satisfied that he in fact was through the worst of things he decided to venture out of the confines of his security zone.   He stood and stretched, hoping that by forcing oxygen into his lungs that he could wash away the sleepless night and the lack of the black coffee that had become a morning ritual for him, the sounds of his children scampering from their beds and ready to start the day.  It was quiet, too quiet and he felt more alone than he had ever felt, but still he needed to take this day, this moment to survey his situation. 

He moved first to the window that had been boarded up from the outside prior to the storm and tried to peer through the small crack, he laughed at himself, realizing that only a fly would be able to accomplish what he was trying to do, and at over six feet tall a fly he was not.  He couldn’t hear any rain or wind so he decided to knock the plywood off from the inside, he felt it would be safe to do so now and so he raised the window in its old frame; struggling against the moisture that had caused the wooden frame to swell.  Finally, when the window broke loose and upward he smelled the ocean, closer than it had been since he felt sand in between his toes earlier in the summer.  He knew, before he got the board off that the dream of ocean front property had come true, but not in the way he had imagined it for all those years.  Finally, with one hard a tenuous kick the plywood gave way, partially from having been soaked with moisture, but in his mind it had broken free solely on the basis of the strength he had shown it and the storm he had lived through.  He knew that this same strength would be required of him to move forward towards the window and look out into the world, into the light that now seemed to blind him with its brightness. 

He stood there for a moment, steading himself to face what lay outside the window, to see the new world that awaited him and isolated him on his island, to see the damage that the storm had done and just how invisible he was.  Taking one final look at what surrounded him in the room, the comfort of his home; he moved closer to the window and looked out.  He stood there for a moment, overwhelmed with emotion, and grateful for his existence, unable to understand the magnitude of his situation until that moment.  He could see smoke in the distance, unsure of where it was coming from but more than the smoke, more devastating was the water.  It seemed to surround everything as far as he can see and it filled his nostrils with the smell of the beach, salt water.  He could tell, by what he saw out the window that the lower floors of his home contained water and that the water inside would recede with the water outside, but only time would cure that issue.  There were no humans outside; it was quiet a weird sort of quiet, the sound one would expect to hear after a nuclear bomb had detonated.  He wondered how long it would take for the sounds to return, the buzz of the cars passing by, children playing stick ball in the street, the delivery trucks making their rounds.

He walked to the top of the stairs and peered down them, there it was, in all its salty, erosive glory, the ocean in his home.  A few more steps down the stairs he would walk, peering around the corner of the staircase, and then a few more to look into the living room.  It was wet, all of it but to him amazement it wasn’t that deep, just coming up to cover the first step of the stairway.  This was good, and it was bad, for he knew that the water being this high meant that his basement was completely flooded.  The furnace would be gone, along with the washer and dryer and there would be repairs to make, but he measured the damage not by what he lost, but by what he saved.  His memories, his past and the future legacy for his children and that moment it hit him, maybe he wasn’t as invisible as he had thought.

He began to run, up the stairs into the room that his teenage daughter occupied; he knew what he was looking for, but he didn’t know where it might be. But his gut told him he was right and he began to pull down boxes off the shelves, emptying them and dumping drawers to the floor, he was panicked that he might be wrong, and they he saw it.  It lay there in the night stand drawer, in all of its pink bedazzled glory, that old cell phone.  He held it in his hands for a moment as if by doing so he could charge the battery and ensure it had signal. He then went to his own room, grabbed his phone and exchanged the SIM that was in his daughter’s phone with his own and powered it up, hoping that his hunch was right.

The boot seemed to take forever but it came on and the battery was charged, as he suspected and a smile washed across his face for this was a sign that all would be right with the world.  He opened his contact list and realized that the population of his island had just grown; he was no longer invisible as he dialed his wife’s phone number.

 

“The darkness of the storm lasts for as long as we believe we hear the wind, to open your heart to the possibility of tomorrow and your belief in the sun you will be your own umbrella.”  (me 2012)

 

 

Thanks to Chris Pierce for the Musical Inspiration for this blog

http://chrispierce.com/

 

The Gift Of Love

She lay there silently, his head resting comfortably on her chest, her arms wrapped securely but gently around him. She watched his every breath, the gentle inhale and exhale of the life that coursed through him. It was mesmerizing to her and she was in awe, star struck and in love. It was a complete love, unbending and gentle. His very life completed her in a way that no other could. She knew, in her heart that every beat was now for him, every action that she would take from this moment in time forward would be about him, his life and his success.

She had waited for what seemed like a lifetime for him, for this kind of love. She waited through the seasons, listened to the fall winds as they rustled through the leaves knocking them to the ground; watched as the snow covered the ground and chilled her through to her bones; she saw the changes as spring came upon the land and the Daffodils popped up through the ground. And on that day, just before the spring turned to summer, just before the seasons of her life would again change he appeared, almost on cue and he encompassed her. His life wrapped around hers and hers wrapped around his, each shielding the other from all the negativity in the universe.

It wasn’t in the least bit oppressive, she thought at first it might be, that this type of love would overwhelm her; demand more than she was capable of giving. But the universe had aligned itself and in this moment she knew, knew that she had more to give than she had ever imagined, that this love was raw and pure and that it grew with each breath he took as she laid there with his head on her chest. She snuggled down into his warmth, content with her life and happy with her position. Knowing that she was changed, different and yet content with the newness of it all and that there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

She finally understood what so many had said to her over the years, she got it now and that fact amazed her. She hadn’t gotten it before, never understood how love could be innocent and pure, that it could make a difference and change a life, her life and his. But she knew now and she was overwhelmed by emotion. A small tear formed in her eye, a tear of happiness and joy, one that was unlike others that she had shed in her life, for this tear formed around a smile and a light heart. She felt her heart beating for the first time and realized that in all the years before it had merely pounded, ached for something.

The aching was gone, replaced by this love she felt. She knew that she would make a difference in this life and in the world, for this was the beginning of a new season in her own life. As she watched him begin to stir, waking up from where ever he had gone to while his eyes were closed, she knew what a gift she had been given in him and that somehow she would always manage to honor that gift. And she pulled him just a little closer to her, gently reaching down to kiss his forehead, taking into her senses his cry and his sent, for this little man that lay upon her was more a part of her than any human had ever been. He was her child and through him coursed both of their lives.

“The heartbeat of another human life should always be guarded and loved, for no one knows at the moment of birth what that life shall become. When we leave the infant heart unattended and un-nurtured we also leave our future unguarded.” (me 2012)

Thank you B. Willing James for the music today.

Making A Difference

Once upon a time a small child existed inside of her mind, she was full of laughter and always a smile graced her face. With time that child found herself to be alone in a world of strangers and hostility. It was not the child that was a fault, for she only wandered the path that had been carved for her by her parents. They were clueless as to the future pain they were inflicting on their child, living instead in the moment of time, living their lives unto themselves.

Time would give into them, wither their bodies, their minds and eventually taking them back into the earth from which they came. But it was the little child that would be left behind to gather the stones to cover their graves, a child small in mind and grown in body. For this child, now an adult, still carried with her the hurt and pain of the past. Mired in insecurity and self-doubt she remained. There was no wealth left to her upon her parents passing, no knowledge and no self-worth. Those things were taken away long ago, removed before they were ever given, possessed by parents that were unwilling to share them.

Walking alone, away from the death that had consumed her life from the very beginning, this child at heart was a woman without direction. Her path took her on a longer journey than she had ever known. A journey of self-awareness and exploration, to places within herself and to places so far removed from her that she sometimes felt as if she was traveling into a vast abyss barren of all living things. There was emptiness within her and outside of her, loneliness and isolation. Yet, it was her journey that would eventually set her free, that would help her to see all that she was and all that she was not.

For it was the journey, through the briars of life and the thorns of her emotions that led her to find herself, sitting at the edge of the writhing ocean. As the tide began to nip at her toes, splashing up and onto her legs, she found herself to be weary, tired and sore from her excursion. It was then that she finally gave in, yielding to the overwhelming sense of exhaustion and took a seat upon the beach. She sat there for what seemed to be an eternity and yet it was only a moment in time. The water came and went, splashing up and onto her with each breaking wave, as did the flood of emotions that she felt in her solitude.

But the waves and the emotions cleansed her, giving way to a sense of freedom she had never before known. No longer did she think about what she had lost, her childhood, her parents nor her sense of self, for she had a moment of clarity; a moment wherein she knew that another day was on the horizon and with that moment, with that new day, would come opportunities. She knew that her moment was now, that her opportunity was before her and her life, like the journey and the waves, would always show her something new, and provide her the means to give of herself and to wash away the pains of yesterday. And in that moment she felt the words that she had been missing, and she repeated them over and over again, silently into her heart…..

“Only today shall I grieve for the past, for I cannot change where I have been. Tomorrow my past shall become my guide, not to change my own future, but to make a difference in the life of another.” (me 2012)


And thank you Brent Shuttleworth for inspiring me.

Art comes in many forms, and it inspires me to create words. One such form that inspires me is photography and I am very grateful to a friend who allowed me to use one of her images in my blog. I hope to use more of them in the future, for one image can create a million feelings and serve to provoke a thousand words. One must just see and feel, absorb and share. 254 Mocha Charlie Photographer The photo that you see at the top of my blog belongs to Mocha Charlie, and it is, to say the least an inspirational image. One that conjures up the good things that are burried under the clouds, that there is life, even in darknes. Mocha Charlie's photos inspire me in many ways, they put to sight what I feel in words, but her photos also bring with them the images that go along with my other passion, music. She has captured some of the most amazing moments in sound, the look of a musician as he or she gives us their art. It is true that all forms of art walk hand in hand, that they work together to appease our senses. If you are on Facebook I hope that you will take a minute to check out Mocha Charlie's photos and like her page.