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I was born from parents of mixed race. My Dad was a circus clown and my Mom was a gas station attendant. Dad liked to drive the tiny car that hundreds of other clowns climb out of. He loved circling the main ring under the big top in the tiny car and waving to the hysterical kids, squirting them in the face with his seltzer bottle. The car needed servicing one day so he took it into the gas station where he met Mom. The first time they met, Mom was wielding the grease gun. When Dad saw this, well he fell in love instantly. They got married. For the wedding, Dad took off the big red nose and put on a big white one. Mom managed to wipe all the grease off her chin. On the day I was born, Dad invited all the circus midgets into the delivery room and he told me years later that they were all laughing and pointing at Mom as my fuzzy head popped out. Dad was chasing them around the room in a rage with his seltzer bottle when I was delivered.
My love of photography began at an early age when my Dad threw a Nikkor 105mm fixed focal length lens at my Mom but it accidentally grazed off the top of my head, careening into the canary cage. Freaking cage explodes and Bernie the canary escapes out the window, never to return. Now when I say he never returned, I mean he stayed in the Maple tree right in our backyard — just far enough away so we couldn't recapture the damned thing — mocking us and tweeting. Free. My Dad never did forgive me for getting in the way. Said it was the best overhand he ever threw. "Could-a got her good," he yelled, still wearing his enormous red clown shoes. "But youuuu had to come along, didn't ya?" Bernie froze to death that winter. Found his little frozen body, hard as teak wood, on the way to school.
Years later, I entered a garden magazine contest — one of these "send us a picture of the beautiful garden you made and win a prize" things. I was a teenager by now. When I should have been out carousing with the guys in the neighborhood, the only seeds I was planting were freaking geraniums, fer chrissakes! My garden rocked, though, and I won a prize.
I took the test to become a mailman. I passed. I became a Mailman. I had my own uniform with a shoulder patch of an eagle. I had my own gum-soled shoes. I memorized the Postman's Credo. I loved this job. You're on your own all day, nobody bothers you except for Rottweilers and stuff but you can just pepper spray the hell out of them.
I got fired from the Post Office. I was delivering mail in a really hi-so neighborhood. Houses and land were so big you needed a jeep to get around. The door hinges of my particular jeep were rusting off real bad so I stop and tear the door off before it falls off. I get back to the P.O., the boss sees me drive up with the freaking door in the back and goes completely ballistic. It was OK I got fired, too, because I never got laid by any of these steaming housewife types. That's a myth, I think.
I now have a day job that doesn't suck that much and make pictures on the side. Sometimes people buy them. I wear a hat regularly. I miss Bernie.