Visual valium
I don't suppose it comes as a surprise to any of my cherished readers that I am a tad ... shall we say, uptight?
Personally I prefer the euphemistic and slightly elegant designation highly strung.
At any rate, I was born this way and I doubt it's going to change, so deal with it.
In addition, every job I have ever had has disagreed with me, with the exception of one: waitress.
I adored being a waitress, which employment path I pursued for one whole summer in my callow youth.
Even now, I threaten a couple of times a week to go back to waiting tables.
Ask anybody.
You would've loved me as your waitress. Believe! Even the lady upon whose powder-blue polyester trousered leg I deposited a medium-well filet mignon circa 1977, thought I was an angel.
Maybe she was the angel. Hot debate!
Speaking of angels, when I have a frustrating day in one of the tens of thousands of fake-wood and vinyl conference rooms in South Carolina, on my way home I do one of two things.
I stop at a cemetery or a Protestant church.
Ecclesiastical and funereal architecture ... either or both ... never fails to soothe my fevered nerves.
And of course I always have my camera with me.
About a month ago I was held hostage in a particularly seedy conference room in Rock Hill (a charming city). It was the first cool autumn day we'd had; the conference room never warmed up. My feet felt like blocks of ice most of the day.
One of the lawyers was rude; the other was vague. Together they managed to kill a horse by mid-afternoon, then beat it for about three more hours.
We went off the record at a few minutes before six that evening. We'd started at ten that morning.
I was so frustrated by the time it was over, I was mad.
Not only was I tired and hungry, but I'd be driving home in the dark.
And I was worried I wouldn't get a picture of a little red church door I'd seen on the way into town that morning.
I had to remind myself to cling to the Rock of Ages. Cling for dear life.
Well, I did get the shot of the little red door at The Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Rock Hill, as well as the windows, doors, and bell tower of the First Presbyterian Church.
Then, for good measure, a few sunset photos.
I was shivering and my tummy was complaining of the hungries, but simply taking the time to pull over and take the pictures made me feel I was a little more in control of my time and my life.
I was still nettled on the drive home and even the next day, but eventually I let it go.
A week or two later I had a similarly exasperating experience -- although not nearly as draconian as what shall henceforth be known as The Rock Hill Incident -- but as you will see, it was yet a blazing blue day as I stopped to take pictures of the exquisite gothic bones of Church of the Resurrection Episcopal in Greenwood.
The sky, the stucco, the shadows ... the arches, the leaves, the stillness ... it was divine.
I hope you'll take a few minutes, and a deep breath, and look at my pictures here. There aren't very many.
I love you!