Exposure

A voice from behind my left ear said "No picture taking allowed."

I lowered my Nikon lens and whirled around to face an older man with a brown leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He was holding a Nikon F body camera and chuckling at the confusion on my face.

"Who do you work for?" he inquired.

The question took me aback. Normally, I'd say "The NJ Turnpike Authority, or "I supervise for the Garden State Parkway" but at this point in my life I was not anchored to an employer, and I felt adrift for the first time in a year. It was a raw feeling.

"Just me." I said.

"You're documenting for your personal records?"

"Yes." I said. "Who are you with?"

"The (NY) Daily News." he said. I nodded in acknowledgement, feeling a twinge of awkwardness that I couldn't participate in the type of shop talk that comes quite naturally to collegues. I was acutely aware of the silence.

He went along his way, and after a short time talking to some of the good folks who came to pay their respects, I went off to talk to Edwin.

Whitney and her dad here.