An empty farmhouse table beckons. A cup of weak coffee, some morning chat.
Myrtle's Table
It was a great pleasure to meet Myrtle Cripps, who lived alone in a farm house. It was 1986. She invited me in one day to photograph inside where I found things placed with an exquisite austerity, simplicity. Her table had a particular beauty that caught my eye. I didn't get to see her often, as happens out in the country. She was my neighbor, but lived ten miles away in this sparsely settled area. She once showed my a crazy quilt that had come to her from her grandmother and that she was passing on to her granddaughter. It was embroidered with meaningful symbols but mostly it was serving to tie the generations of women together who otherwise lost a portion of their identity as their names changed through marriage.