The farmer landowner and I were about to part company after a good visit. I had seen firsthand how he was reclaiming land in eastern Tennessee that had been strip mined for coal.
But before we went our separate ways, I got his okay to stay a while longer to make a few pictures of a couple of houses just down the hill on his property. Simple and nearly identical, they appeared to have been at one time homes for tenant farmers. What struck me most, however, was the curtain that with each occasional puff of wind was blowing outside one of the windows.
He agreed and after he left I walked down the hill, mounted the camera on a tripod and waited for the best time to release the shutter. That’s when I had a strange feeling that I was being watched. Sure enough, as I turned around, there in a clump of trees about forty feet away was an elderly man with a rifle.
The gun, however, wasn’t at his side or being held at waist level. Instead, he was holding it in firing position with his finger on the trigger. Clearly, this was a serious situation with potentially deadly consequences.
I told him he had startled me, that I was so intent on making a picture that I hadn’t noticed him. No matter, he said, because there wasn’t going to be any picture, that his sister lived in the house and that he was looking out for her welfare, and that it was past time for me to leave. And no, it didn’t matter if the farmer landowner had said it was okay. No way was he, the brother, going to allow any pictures of his sister’s house. It was then that he said in a determined voice. “It’s already past time for you to leave.”
Even more worrisome than his words was the fact that he had not lowered the rifle. It was still aimed straight at me. I had only one chance and a few seconds to soften a definitely sharp and brittle situation.
That’s when I noticed the small white dog that had trotted up and was standing at the man’s feet. I asked him if that was his dog. He said it was. How old? About six years. Had he ever had his picture made with his dog? No. So I told him that before I left I would gladly make a picture of the two of them and send him an 8X10 color print he could frame and hang on his wall.
Without saying yes or no, he looked down at the dog, nudged him a bit closer to his left leg, and looked at the camera. I took the picture. But I told him to hold it a few seconds longer so I could take two more to be make sure I had a good one.
I then approached him, had him write down his name and address, thanked him, packed up, and headed for my car. A few days later, I made good on my promise but understandably I never heard from him.
That was the first and last time I ever had a loaded gun leveled at me. Yet, it only takes one situation gone wrong to make a tragic headline.
Of all the human senses, dignity is the one closest to us. It makes no difference how wretched we are or how desperate the circumstance, we steadfastly protect it for as long as our mental or physical condition is able. The old man was not only the protector of what belonged to his sister, he was also upholding the unforgiving dignity that accompanied that responsibility.
And so it is with everyone everywhere. The circumstances can and do swing widely from any kind of normalcy, yet it’s not anger or any of the other emotions we exhibit that count. Instead, it’s our dignity that comes to the forefront.
It can well up on the inside of anyone, be caused by any of a countless number of conditions. Each time, however, it must be identified and the threat behind the cause neutralized then removed. If not, then it remains until the person no longer exists.
Luckily, I was able to quickly identify both what he was thinking and what was causing him to react regardless of the logic involved or possible avenue of compromise. And it could have happened just as easily in an air conditioned office in Chicago as it did on a sunny day in the Tennessee countryside.
Best we always remember that dignity is our last stronghold of reason and purpose.
