When people ask me about the “best book I’ve ever done,” I always reply with the truth. My book of selfies, of course. Because I’m me and I’m so awesome. The book is me saying I’m never tired of being me. But when really pressed about what is the best book I’ve ever done, my mind does not go to the books that were nominated for prizes, or the books that sold the most, or the books that were collected, or the books that clients loved. My mind goes to Inertia. My book with mom.
Is this a perfect book? No, far from it.
The title bleeds over the front cover fold, I don’t like some of the font choices I made, the page design is just okay. But in this case, none of this matters because this was a book I made with and for my mother. My mom, as of a few weeks ago, is no longer with us. She had a good run, accomplished many things and did a good job of raising us kids.
For most of her life she was pushing forward. She was an alpha female in a world dominated by alpha males. The hunting, fishing, cattle operation world. When my parents first went to Wyoming in the 1960s, mostly to hunt deer and antelope, the main guide said “I don’t hunt with women.” My father looked at him and said “Well, you do now.” Her nickname was “Annie Oakley,” and most of the time she had fire in her eye. There are family snaps of mom gutting a deer surrounded by a range of laughing men who were giving her a hard time. In Wyoming, she was the boss.
She flew on the Concord, tore her knee ligaments doing a flying side kick in karate class, and taught me how to shoot and fish. She was encouraging. Once, when we were hunting dove, a fighter jet passed over us at five hundred knots. She looked up marveling at the jet and said “You should be a fighter pilot.”
She was an amazing cook, gardener and amateur naturalist. She sold herbs, misidentified countless birds, and absolutely detested cold water. She couldn’t jump, hated riding bikes, loved Tom Cruise and explained to me as a child that our family “didn’t fit in.” She wrote, illustrated, printed and bound a children’s book about a race car and would read me the story again and again using different voices for different characters. She once fell down in a Chinese restaurant parking lot after having two glasses of plum wine.
Later in life I began to make audio recordings of our conversations. She was suffering from vascular dementia and I wanted to get down what I could before it became too much of a struggle. She talked about things that none of us knew. She never graduated college and was more interested in shoes and clothing. She paid a stranger to sit in her place at chapel so she could shop in Toledo. At fourteen, she drove brand new cars home from Detroit to her dad’s tiny dealership in small town Ohio. She was a tomboy. She had asthma. She had rheumatic fever. (We found out later she had undiagnosed Lyme Disease which they think she had for at least thirty years, making me believe it wasn’t rheumatic fever.)
My mom had visions. Crystal clear visions, while she was awake. Scenes of both the living and the dead. Several days after dad died my mom’s demeanor changed in an instant. “What happened?” I asked. “I saw your father,” she said, casually. “He was young and fly fishing with a dog by his side.” “He told me to live a long life.” “And he told me when we meet again, to him, it would only feel like a moment since we had been apart.”
She wrote poetry. She wasn’t a poet, per se, never did anything professionally or had things published. But for several decades she wrote on a daily basis. Several years into my Blurb career I asked her for her top fifty poems. She said, “That’s impossible.” I said, “No, that’s called editing, now get to it.” Several months later she sent roughly twenty poems. I decided to pair them with my images and make a book.
I never asked her to be part of the book. I never told her I was making the book. I edited, designed, sent off for print then casually placed it on her coffee table and never said a word. A few hours later she noticed the book but didn’t pick it up, thinking it was something of mine and probably something I didn’t want anyone to touch. But her curiosity slowly got the best of her.
About six pages in her facial expression changed. She didn’t say anything. She just looked across the room at me and then at the book and then at me. I didn’t say anything. “Wait a minute,” she said. “These are MY poems.” “Yes,” I replied. “Wait a minute,” she said. “THESE ARE MY POEMS.” “Yes,” I replied. “I don’t understand,” she said. “This is real book.” After I explained the concept she just kept repeating “Oh Daniel, oh Daniel.” It was real. Her work transferred to the page was like a lightning bolt. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”
So, when people ask about what book is the best book, or what book sold the most, or what book did this or that, my mind goes to Inertia. A book that was printed in run of two copies and will most likely never be printed again. A book that makes sense to she and I. A moment between us. A testament to what she gave to me and what I returned in favor.
I’m fortunate. I don’t want to be famous. I want to do things and make things with meaning. I want to live a meaningful life. (Not always easy.) Mom was there when I had to live in an oxygen tent. (The real “Bubble Boy.”) Mom was there when I couldn’t breath. Mom was there when I thought I saw Bigfoot out my bedroom window. Mom was there when I had nightmares. Mom was there when I first got published. Mom was there when we tried to use a chicken to lure an alligator out of a tank on a hunting lease. I realize this last sentence needs further explanation.
I got lucky. I didn’t just get a mom, I got my mom. She had an energy to her. Her older sister wrote me and said the same thing. “Your mom got what she wanted.” My wife routinely asks, “How do you feel about this or that when it comes to your mom.” “Did you cry when you found out she passed?” she asks because she knows I didn’t cry. I never do. I don’t cry. I ponder. I remember. I wonder. Where is she now? What is she doing? Is she nothing but dust and bone? Me, I try to be as Mexican as possible when it comes to death. I celebrate. I don’t mourn. What a life this little bird had. What a life she gave to me.
Comments 56
Sorry for your loss, Dan. What a beautiful memorial text. This is straight from the heart and it reads in a very engaging way.
I can imagine that this is your most precious book. I also do 1 or 2 prints only. I share it with people that I decide I want to share print work with. Either dark room prints, digital prints or book prints. And that is what it is all about in the end; sharing with care and thought.
I must admit I’m kinda curious about the book Inertia now to be honest, hah!
Again sorry for your loss, all the best.
Author
It’s a fun book. Again, meant something to use, but most likely, not to a larger audience….
Beautiful tribute Dan. I cried.
Author
Thank you. Sorry you cried, but hey, a good cry is a solid thing to do from time to time.
What an amazing tribute Dan both on what you wrote and the book you created. She was one of a kind.
May she rest in peace.
Author
Thanks PG. You would have loved her. Not much off limits with the old bird.
I remember the time we went to visit your mother. We had been at some conference or other.. and on the drive there I said “We need to stop and bring something – maybe something to eat?” And you said, “You don’t understand. There will be a spread on the table before we arrive.” This was amazing to me. My own mother had died a long and lingering death (brain tumor) when I was a teenager. I had forgotten the “Mom-ness” of Moms. Your Mom was a wonderful reminder that people like her still existed in my friends’ lives. She made me feel welcome and happy. And the food was fantastic. Almost as fantastic as she.
Author
That’s an interesting point. I never thought of that, but I do remember that trip and that meeting with mom. And yes, the spread. Always a spread. I knew things were going sideways when the last few trips home before we took her out of the cabin, she didn’t make anything food wise.
Sorry for your loss, Dan. Beautiful memorial you’ve written here. I can see why that book is your most loved one.
All the best.
Author
thanks friend. Appreciate that.
Thanks for sharing that.
Beautiful. My sincere condolences Dan.
Author
Thanks amigo.
This is the most heartfelt text I read on your site. It stirred something in me. As I was reading each sentence, I was jumping to another. I was running with my eyes. I didn’t feel at first how I had stopped breathing and how my tears came out from little hide and seek. You see, I too lost my mom 2 years ago due to C19. Through your words, I too, was pondering what she might be doing now.
I am really sorry for this immense loss of yours. Huge, huge respect to your mom, who was such an admirable and strong lady. I absolutely loved her poems.
Author
I’m happy her story resonated. Not my intention to make someone cry but I can see how that might happen.
Her Soulfulness now resonates through you…What beautiful gift.
Author
Ah, you are being polite. Let’s face it. I’m not sure what is resonating through me.
My sincere condolences! I found your account of her discovering the book very touching. This and that you’ve created something together can’t ever be taken away from you. My own mother passed away five years ago from sudden cardiac arrest. Totally unexpected, so a lot of words went unspoken. I still miss her.
All the best!
Author
My dad went the same route as your mom. Right in front of us. Quite a day. So, I get your thoughts and feelings. Sorry amigo. But we move on as better humans. Our parents are out there in spirit.
Wonderful post, Dan. My condolences on the passing of your mom, but, as you say, it DOES sound like she had a great run and did many good things. That’s all we can hope for. Peace to you and your family.
Author
Oh ya. She was a doer. And she wasn’t like most of my friend’s moms. She had a black Porsche she called Darth Vader, her all time fav character.
So many thoughts and feels about this post. Firstly, I’m sorry for your loss. Sounds like she had an amazing life, and she made your your time together amazing. May her memory be a blessing. Secondly, your thoughts on knowing that this book would be understood by only you too. So profound. When I think of things that have meaning for me and, a concert ticket stub because I was there, a card from a former student, a journal entry recapping a day – all these things mean something to me. But if someone stumbled upon my little pile of memories, it would not mean anything to them. You and your mom, you had shared a memory of experiences together too. That’s what that book is. It’s very special. Which leads to me more thoughts and pondering after what happens to all our memories after we are gone. Will anyone care for them, or know them like we did? It’s humbling. Thank you for this post, and making me ponder.
Author
They get lost and the world moves on. The world will never be cut and dry, orderly. The world is a mess. But that’s okay.
We are all sorry for your loss, Dan. But also happy for what you got since your birth.
This was beautiful to see and read.
As you metioned in other moments, you are the photographer of your family ( after your mom). The same follows to me, but things got out of control and a book got published as an “essay” from that material. It was fun to work with and editor and everytime you said something like ” books don’t pay your bills/make you money” I use to laugh because I know how true it its.
Aside from the published 200 copies, the my favorite book of mine is, in fact, a second version of it with only two copies. Archive folder like an envelope, xerox printing, an archive folder of the memories that I ( and only I) want to have to remember the personal story behind the body of work. I finished the book photographingthe burial of a lover relative on my birthday, I didn’t cry but ,as you do, I think, remember and wonder, that is why this “archive folder”, in honor of our memories together.
Thanks for sharing and teaching everyday.
Author
Thanks for reading. There is a wrinkle to that books don’t make you money statement. They can. I’ve seen it happen. Almost always with story driven books from authors with email databases. Have seen books sell in the six figures. Even heard of books that sold in the millions, but most authors/photographers put ego before education.
A beautiful and heartfelt tribute to your mother Dan.
Sincere condolences on your loss.
Vale…
Author
Thanks Pasquale!
Thanks for sharing this, Dan. A wonderful celebration of a life well-lived.
Author
Thanks Scott. She was a stem winder.
Your mother sounded awesome.
Late last year my father passed away after a long illness and now my mother-in-law is about to do the same. Over the many years family members have always wondered why I photograph all the mundane moments.
Now they know. Photos,
sound recordings, and videos of those mundane moments bring back much.
Author
Mundane is personal. Doesn’t work in the social world or popularity world but often comprises the most important things.
Your posts are always worthwhile, but … damn, man, this one moved me so deeply and powerfully. You write with great deftness here, and lightness, and make a portrait of your mother and your time together with extraordinary grace. I am glad, though, that I came across this at home, in private, because your piece made me a little…misty.
Author
I wanted to get back at yo for living in Paris. My plan is working. And thank you!
Condolences for your loss, Daniel.
Author
Thanks Luca!
(I commented earlier but it seems to have been lost to the void so I’ll rewrite it. If the original shows up please delete it.)
Your mother sounded awesome.
I lost my father last autumn to long and rare illness and it looks like I’m about to lose my mother-in-law in the very near future to illness, too. It sucks, especially as so little time has passed. But family have always wondered why I spend so much effort taking photos of mundane moments in their lives, but now they know.
I photographed my wife and daughter with her mother/grandmother just this morning and already the photo is painful to look back at.
But photos, videos, sound recordings, and of course poems… they all help to keep memories vivid and relevant.
Author
A tapestry of history. LIke a puzzle, always with missing piece.
My sincere condolences! Your account of her discovering the book is very touching. You and your mother created something together; this is something that can never being taken away from you and her. My own mother passed away five years ago – sudden cardiac arrest, totally unexpected. This left a lot of words unspoken. I still miss her.
All the best!
Author
Good point. Whatever you need to say, say it now…..
My condolences.
Lost my mom not so long ago.
Still trying to give it a place in time.
Very thankfull of how she “shaped” me.
Thanks for sharing Dan.
Author
Thanks Pieter. Moms are our anchor in many ways. I think it’s normal to feel a bit adrift after.
The one thing I realized is when you lose your mom, you have lost that one irreplaceable person who would always be your biggest cheerleader and no matter what you do, successes and failures that they are always on your side. Great read as always man – cheers.
Ain’t that the truth.
Nice writing, Dan; the endings are never good, simply because they are endings.
My mother died in September, about twenty years ago, and in November of the same year my wife found a lump. Exactly four years later she was off to join my mother who, I suspect, preferred her to me. If I’m right, can’t say I blame her. My only concern about death is not to leave a physical or fiscal mess behind for others to clean up. I like to think that I’ll catch up with the family, and that if not, then I’ll never know or be disappointed. I believe I would rather a spiritual, non-physical rebirth, where there would not be the need to strives, compete, and waste so much precious time just keeping the tank filled with juice in order to repeat the treadmill exercise again the next day. I feel that way after having had the good luck to spend most of my life doing the job I wanted in the first place; to look back on a life spent doing nothing of interest, but just clocking in somewhere for that weekly packet of pennies is something somewhere beyond the imaginable.
I have no interest in leaving marks or memorials; cities are full of birdshitted statues of people nobody knows, and country churchyards of fallen stones and weeds.
Author
Cleaning up before you go is the ultimate courtesy to those left behind. I know this from people who did this, and those who did not. Good point.
Author
Very true. When my wife lost her mom I knew I had to step into that part in her life. Giving her encouragement and praise.
My sincere condolences Dan on the loss on your mum, thoughts are with you matey. Memories always come back on the loss of a loved one, the most important thing is that those memories will always be with us. Mothers are what we are. What a lovely tribute to her for printing her poems, good on ye. Thanks for this post Dan.
Author
Thanks for reading. She was a wild one. Wish I had more time to share her golden years.
Again, my condolences. You’re both beautiful souls. I can see how you are what you are now, sir!
Beautiful tribute and memorial post, Dan.
Author
Thanks Tsutomu!
Your book made me think of my own plucky Mother. Beautiful writing from both of you.
Dear Daniel,
this wonderfully written piece leaves me a little shaky. It feels like I knew your mom which couldn’t be further from the truth. But the text reflects a kind of strength that I find and admire in my own mother. And that reminds me of her role and my role and the role of my daughters in my life. Thank you for that! I do hope we can have some coffee vibing to Albanian jungle music soon. PS: Did she love French Fries?
Author
She LIKED french fries. She LOVED fudge. And would routinely eat herself sick on it. She was a binge person. I came home once, for about a week, and all I saw her eat was strawberry shortcake. And yes, to the Albanian jungle music. Berlin, spring of 2025….
Awesome, Dan. Amazingly beautiful and personal. I´m sorry for your mom – I ´ve been through that as well, and I know how much it hurts.
What a tribute, thank you for sharing. Reading it has seeded some new ideas (as most of your blogs do – I have lists and actions).
Author
Thanks Rachael, glad you found something that works.