I am a product of the Ozark mountains. My family moved from Iowa to Arkansas looking for a better life. I grew up in a retirement village where the minimum age was 65. We were granted special allowances because, as a heating and air man, my father was a much needed resource. I spent much of my youth in the woods. I eventually moved to California and more and more my focus narrows to my final years. For me the Ozarks are gone, gobbled up by the giants of capitalism. My private garden of wonder is now a sprawling spaghetti of bike paths, nature trails, golf courses, and McMansions for the WalMart elite. So when I die, I ask only to return to the Earth. I mortal crapulance has been dedicated to reside in a body farm. My corpse will work the forensic anthropology research facilities, laying prostrate locked in a rictus embrace with mother nature.
Wynn Bullock’s Child in Forest, looks to me, as the binding of my own book. A gelatin silver print from 1951 pretelling the story of both my birth and fate. I’ll end with a frequently used and all encompassing quote from my own father, “well…”