Picture It I See photography

09/03/2026

The House That Remembers

The old house stands alone beneath a troubled sky, holding memories no one else is left to carry. The windows are dark now, but once they glowed with lamplight. Children laughed in the yard, supper waited on the table, and a tired father came home after working the land.

The hay rake has grown silent, and the voices have disappeared into the prairie wind. Yet if I stand quietly enough, I can almost hear them—the laughter, the tears, and the final goodbyes that no one knew would be final.

Someday, the wind will take the last board, and the prairie will erase every sign that a family ever lived and loved here. That is why I took this photograph: to give yesterday one more place to live.

We cannot bring those days back. We can only remember them, speak of them, and hold them close—because when the last person forgets, that is when the past truly dies. Tv

09/02/2026

My life in a nutshell

09/01/2026

I am a photographer shaped by the wide-open prairies of western South Dakota, where patience, solitude, and changing light have taught me how to truly see. I do more than photograph wildlife, old farms, storms, and sunrises; I look for the story living quietly inside each moment. Whether I am lying in prairie grass before dawn, waiting beside a hawk’s nest, or standing before a forgotten house, I want my photographs to make people feel something real. My camera has become a way of preserving places, lives, and fleeting moments that might otherwise disappear. I believe a meaningful photograph is not simply beautiful—it carries memory, emotion, and truth. My work reflects perseverance, compassion, faith, and a deep love for the land and creatures around me. I photograph what many people pass by, hoping to show them that wonder is still everywhere, waiting patiently to be noticed and remembered.

09/01/2026

My 20 x 30 wraparound canvas prints are on sale now till Christmas for $299 savings of $100. Limited addition of just 30 prints will be offered.

09/01/2026

Let There Be Light

“And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.”
—Genesis 1:3

Each morning, those words are spoken again over the prairie. Long before the sun breaks the horizon, the old house waits alone in the darkness. Then a thin line of gold appears in the east, and light slowly reaches across the land until it touches the weathered boards, the broken windows, and the tired roof. For a little while, the old house almost looks young again. The first rays of morning slip through every crack and opening, entering rooms where a family once awakened to begin another day. Dust rises and dances in the sunlight where children may have once hurried across the floor and where a mother may have stood beside a warm stove preparing breakfast.

A rooster announces the morning from somewhere across the prairie. His call travels farther than it once did, because there are no voices left inside the house to answer him. Pigeons gather along the roof and settle into the rafters. They walk across the old boards as though the place now belongs to them, their gentle cooing filling rooms that have been silent for years.

As the sun climbs higher, the prairie wind begins to stir. It bends the grass and carries conversations from places too far away to be seen. Sometimes the old house hears the distant sound of a tractor, cattle calling from across the fields, or the laughter of people traveling along a faraway road. The summer breeze brings those voices through the broken windows and lays them softly inside the empty rooms. Perhaps the house listens closely, believing for just a moment that its family has returned.

By afternoon, clouds begin building in the west. The wind grows stronger, and the prairie grass rolls like waves upon a restless sea. The old house has watched storms come and go for more years than anyone remembers. It stands quietly as the powers that be begin their battle in the heavens. Lightning tears open the darkness, and thunder answers with a roar that shakes the earth. Rain pounds against the roof and pours through the places where shingles once kept a family dry. The house groans beneath the wind but refuses to fall. It has survived too many storms to surrender easily to this one.

Then, almost as quickly as it began, the battle moves eastward. The thunder becomes a distant rumble, the rain slows, and the clouds open just enough for the evening sun to shine through. Golden light spreads across the wet prairie. Water glistens on the grass, and the old boards of the house glow beneath the fading sun.

As darkness returns, the pigeons grow quiet. A family of raccoons slips through the tall grass and comes to visit. They search beneath the fallen boards and climb through the open doorway without fear. To them, this is not an abandoned house. It is shelter. It is safety. It is home.

The last light disappears beyond the western horizon, and the old house settles once more into the stillness of night. The stars gather overhead, and the prairie wind whispers through its empty rooms. Another day has passed—a day of sunlight and shadow, gentle breezes and mighty storms, visitors with feathers and visitors with fur.

The people who once lived there are gone, and their names may someday be forgotten. But the old house still watches over the prairie. It greets each sunrise, stands beneath every storm, and waits faithfully for the evening light. And when morning returns, God will once again whisper across the darkness, “Let there be light,” and for one more day, the old house will awaken.

09/01/2026

Long Ago and Far Away

This picture has become a lot like me—older, weathered by time, yet still holding on to the stories of what once was. It was the last photograph I ever took of this farm while the old barn was still standing. That was decades ago. The barn has since fallen, the years have passed, and many of the people who once knew this place are gone. Yet after all this time, this picture still stirs my soul, much like glowing embers stir the flames of a dying fire.

I look across the field and can almost see the prairie grass swaying and rolling back and forth like a stormy sea. Above it, the morning sun becomes an artist, painting the clouds with colors so vibrant they seem to take your breath away. For one brief moment, the hands of time turn backward, and the years between then and now disappear.

Portals into the past open in quick flashes, and the days of my youth come alive once again. I can hear voices I have not heard in years carried across the prairie on the wind. They whisper through the giant cottonwood trees, calling from a time when the barn still stood, the house was still a home, and life seemed as though it would go on forever.

I stand before this picture as an old man, but somewhere within it, I am young again. I can feel the prairie beneath my feet and the morning wind against my face. I remember the people, the laughter, and all the ordinary days I never knew would someday mean so much.

Perhaps that is why this old farm and I understand one another. We have both stood beneath beautiful sunrises and weathered storms no one else could see. Time has left its marks upon us, bending some things and taking others away, but it has never erased the life that came before. Every broken board, empty window, wrinkle, and scar carries a story. We may no longer look as we once did, but somewhere beneath all those passing years, the foundation of who we were is still there.

Feelings and emotions stream down my face as I remember those days of long ago and far away. The farm may be gone, and the barn may have returned to the earth, but this photograph saved one final morning for me. As long as I can look upon it, the voices will never become completely silent, the cottonwoods will never stop whispering, and some small part of me will always be standing there—young again, listening to the prairie wind.

08/28/2026

It was taken this past fall in Wind Cave National park

08/28/2026

MODELS NEEDED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am looking for someone who might be free this weekend to Model in their Regalia
I can’t pay anything, but I’ll let you keep all the pictures I take.

08/27/2026

If you read anything today, you have to read this.

The Reflection in the Puddle

I had driven past that puddle four or five times during the course of three days. Each time, I noticed the clouds reflected in the water, but I kept driving. Today was different. Something pulled at me and told me to stop. I parked along the road, set my camera on a tripod, and walked over to the edge of the water. I squatted down on my haunches in the green grass and stared into the reflection.

At first, I saw the man I am today. Then the clouds slowly moved across the water, and for just a moment, I was no longer an old man. I was thirteen years old again, riding my bicycle down the streets of that little town where I grew up. I spent most of those days alone. I would ride for hours with no particular place to go, carrying thoughts inside me that I did not know how to explain to anyone. I was a boy who often felt different from the rest of the world, but on that bicycle, with the wind against my face, I felt free.

Another cloud passed over the puddle, and the reflection changed again. I saw myself as a young married man with children to raise, bills to pay, and responsibilities waiting for me every morning. Life had become serious. There was always something that needed fixing, something that needed paying for, and someone depending on me. I worked, worried, and tried to become the husband and father I thought I was supposed to be. Other than my family, I still spent much of my life alone. But during those years, loneliness had little time to speak because life was always making noise.

I leaned closer to the water and began to see the wrinkles forming on my face. Suddenly, I was in my early forties. My marriage was over, my children were in college, and the house had grown painfully quiet. The life I believed would last forever had changed. I had a few close friends, but when the day ended and everyone went home, I was alone again. There are some kinds of loneliness that make a great deal of noise, even in a silent room.

I am now in my early sixties, and in many ways, life has not changed much during the past twenty years. I never remarried, and more than likely, I never will. I loved one woman in my life, and I do not believe I could ever love another woman in quite the same way. Some people may not understand that, but the heart does not always follow what makes sense. Sometimes it holds on to what mattered most, even after the years have carried everything else away.

The clouds continued moving, and my reflection grew older. My body has more aches and pains now. My knees do not lift me from the ground as easily as they once did. I move a little slower, and some mornings it takes longer to convince my body that we still have work to do. But I am still here. I am still kicking. I am still trying to raise a little Cain whenever I get the chance. Life has knocked me down more times than I can count, but somehow, I have always found a reason to get back up.

I placed my hands on my knees and slowly stood. Before walking away, I looked down into that puddle one last time. The clouds had moved on, and there I was again—not the lonely thirteen-year-old boy, not the young husband and father, and not the broken man standing in an empty house. I saw all of them together. Every age I had ever been was still somewhere inside me.

And standing beside that muddy road, I realized something. I will not go quietly into the darkness and simply disappear. As long as I am here, I will keep telling my stories. I will keep taking pictures. I will keep trying to help someone believe that tomorrow can be a better day. I do not know how many years I have left, but I know what I will do with them.

When my time finally comes, the world will know that I was here. It will know that I loved, struggled, fell, and found the courage to stand again. And while I was here, in whatever small way I could, I made a difference.

08/27/2026