VIEW FROM THE HILL

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN PAUL PENNER
The last of the ice from the latest storm is melting away. On most days, I keep a digital camera at the ready when working on the farm.

Unfortunately, I left the camera home one particular day.

Ice crystals coated tree branches, fence wires and farm machinery in a beautiful array. The sun hid behind dense clouds while low, white clouds floated past the darkened sky.

Thickened by Jack Frost’s breath, barren trees were a stark contrast to the deep blue sky above. This was a rare “Kodak moment.”

Our family has a reputation for taking many pictures at family gatherings. As a rule, where two or three are gathered together, a camera is lurking in the shadows. It matters little if the snapshot is posed or candid. Either way, we cherish the images of a special moment.

In a way, I have learned to appreciate fleeting moments in other ways when a camera is unavailable. Two of our adult children live far away, while one lives nearby. Their spontaneous phone calls or e-mails offer a look into the world they live in.

Recently, on her way home on the subway, Jessica sat by an older man talking to his daughter on the cell phone. The topic: her failing marriage. Anyone within earshot could hear the conversation.

It seems most New Yorker;s philosophy of privacy is this: You are one in millions of people using the subways. You meet perfect strangers in the subway. You ignore them and they ignore you. At best, you are an amusement piece, a micro-drama, a sound-byte of data. Minutes later, you vanish, forever.

Small town, rural life can be like that too, though it is both different and similar at the same time. Though numbers of people are fewer, we may pass each other numerous times in the day. You say, “Hi, how are you?” and I respond with a cursory “Fine. You?”

Moments later, the encounter is over.

Our desire for ultimate privacy is paramount, and yet, if I were to walk in on any coffee shop in town, early or mid-morning, judging from the conversation, most people know what their neighbors are doing. Good or bad, this is a part of our culture.

Most New Yorkers view privacy differently. When close proximity to strangers is unavoidable, privacy is more like a state of mind. They will pack a subway train until there is no more standing room and yet feel safe enough to have an intimate conversation with a companion or on a phone.

Two years ago, in a crowded New York subway, a young couple stood in a passionate embrace. From my vantage point, the phrase, “up close and personal” came to mind. I had no choice but to stand still like a wallflower.

Looking back, I could have taken their picture. Public displays of affection may look cute to some people, I suppose.

Where does one draw the line between appropriate and inappropriate behavior, however? Personally, I wanted to give them a few words of advice, like “get a room!” But I took my cue from fellow travelers. They ignored the conspicuous lovers.

Fast forward to last spring-this snapshot evokes emotions of a different kind. During spring break at a university in Budapest, Hungary, Dave traveled to a small village where his landlady’s relatives owned a farm.

The countryside resembled Kansas with fields of wheat and other crops. The houses in the village reflected earlier times in our own community’s history.

This landlady’s relatives gathered to celebrate the baptism of a young member of the local family.

For Dave, the lively conversation around the dinner table and the smell of home cooking was like being home with family and friends, if only for a moment.

Speaking of family and friends, our home was like Grand Central Station during the Christmas break. Former high school and college friends of our children came by to visit and renew friendships.

Fortunately, for them, my camera was as idle as was I.

Before our family split up and headed home after the holidays, we visited Coronado Heights near Lindsborg.

As the late afternoon sun cast its golden light over the beautiful landscape, we posed for the camera for the last time.

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