Hello - and goodbye

Christian hymns have been playing in my head continuously for the past several days. I believe this is because I was unable to travel to Soundarya's funeral and so my subconscious mind had to create a funeral for me. The only way it knew how to do this was to pull up the hymns that it has heard at so many funerals - none of them Hindu. I just don't know any Hindu funeral hymns.

Within the past few hours, the hymns have gone away. They have been replaced by two Beatles songs, which come and go as they please: To Know Her is to Love Her and "I don't know why you say goodbye I say hello." So my personal funeral for Soundarya must be over. I did not see her body or the beautiful saree and flowers that would have adorned her. I did not witness her cremation. I did not observe or participate in the rituals. I did not get to embrace her mother and father, her brother and sister or any of her large family of relatives - my relatives now.

I did not get to weep with them.

Even so, my brain provided what it could by way of a personal funeral and now that funeral is over and I must move on.

Before I do, I thought that I would put up one last picture of Soundarya and I thought that it should be from when we first met - either from the wedding feast for Vivek and Khena or from the walk Sandy and I took afterward.

So I typed "Sandy" into my computer's internal search engine and then chose several candidates from the many thumbnails that appeared upon my screen. I narrowed these down to the three pictured here on my monitor and then finally chose the one to the left, desaturated of most of its color.

Then I realized that I could not just put a picture from the past up in the context of the past, but that my "hello-goodbye" picture had to be as I saw it today - looking out at me from my computer screen in my dimly lit office.

The two model airplanes on the wall to the right, as some of you know, were made by my deceased brother, Ron, before he broke his neck and became tetraplegic. 

Ganesh Facebooked a link to me of a song, Kabhi Kabhie Mere Dil Mein, performed by professionals. He and she once sang it together and ended it with a big laugh fest. I listened to the song several times, but each time I closed my eyes so that I would not see the actors in the video, but only her and I saw her strongly. She once told me online that she had visited a seer who had told her that we had been close in lives past and would be close in lives future.

This life is the only life that I know and am certain is real, but it is a nice thought and would explain many things.

Now I will let her go. I will not stop thinking of her, my tears for her will not altogether dry, but I will let her go and I will deal with the things that I must deal with everyday and I won't be blogging about her anymore.

At least not for now, not for awhile. Someday, when I find the money to return to India and capture the time to find a way to better tell her story, then I will blog about her again. How can a storyteller have a muse and not tell her story?

I will tell it, Muse. I will tell your story. The world will know about you - your sweet, gentle, caring soul that could bestow kindness not only upon a kitten but even upon a bug - or a cobra... the fierce defense that you would throw up to protect those you loved against those more powerful than you... the dreams, passions, ambitions and desires that filled you... the bitter disappointments that you pushed through again and again right up until this last one... the beautiful even if painful memory that you have now become.

I will tell this story - but not now. For now, I must pull back and do other things.

As for these two on their snowmachine, I saw them yesterday afternoon off Church Road as I was cruising and drinking a Metro coffee that I had bought from Shoshana.

View images as slides

The brothers two: Kalib and Jobe - what do they think of each other? I stop briefly at All Saints Episcopal to pay my respects to Senator Ted Stevens; a man walks alongside a fence

I made a quick trip to Anchorage late this afternoon and visited Kalib and Jobe. Jobe had been on his mother's lap, but Kalib pulled him from her and held him - for a few brief seconds.

This could be deceptive. Kalib is not trying to slug Jobe. Kalib is merely bounding across the couch with his usual energy. Lavina knows how rough Kalib can play and so she is ready, just in case he bounds too far.

Jobe studies his big brother. I wonder what he thinks of him? I wonder how he will think of him in the future? I had three older brothers and when I was small I looked at them with a combination of terror, adoration and, of course, love.

Well, the terror part didn't really apply too often to Ron, the youngest of three, four-and-half years older than me. He had his terror moments, but mostly he was very good to me, bought me treats, let me read his comic books, Mad Magazine and often took me out to fly the wonderful model airplanes that he spent so much time building. When I graduated from high school and followed him to Brigham Young University, where he had returned after serving a two-year Mormon mission in Germany, he let me look at his Playboy Magazines.

We hung the centerfolds on the wall in such a way that when the inspectors that BYU sent out to inspect student rooms, even in off-campus housing, the images would be hidden the moment our bedroom door opened. It was always amusing, to sit there  in our room as those serious, righteous-looking men in suits came through the door, stood there with the Playboy centerfolds hidden right behind them, observed the fish swimming in my tank, our study areas, various books - including the Bible and the Book of Mormon and proclaimed our room to be clean, appropriate and up to good BYU-LDS standards.

Damn! Ron died altogether too soon!

The older two, Mac the tall twin and Rex the short twin, kept me in a state of near constant terror, but still I held them in adulation and it was they who the bullies who came after me soon learned to fear and respect. 

So I wonder what it will be like for these two as they grow?

And what does Kalib think of Jobe right now? I know he is a little jealous, as Jobe gets attention that not so long ago went to Kalib alone, but I do believe he loves him as well.

Kalib rolls about in the midst of his dad and Muzzy.

Before I left them, I saw Jobe, Jacob and Lavina together on the couch and thought it would be nice if Kalib were there, too, so that I could get a picture of all four. Jacob and Lavina motioned to him, but he would not come over. Instead, he stood by the TV, where, in local news coverage of his life and death, Senator Ted Stevens, killed last week in a plane crash near Dillingham, appeared in an old news clip with President Jimmy Carter. 

It was okay that he did not come. It made a better picture this way.

I gave some thought to doing some serious coverage of the memorial for Senator Stevens on this, the day that he lay in repose in a closed casket in All Saints Episcopal Church in Anchorage, but decided against it. Many serious news organizations, including the Anchorage Daily News and The Alaska Dispatch and Alaska Newspapers, Incorporated, would be doing serious photo documentaries of everything that would happen, both today and tomorrow, the day of his funeral.

What could I add to it? Not much, I decided. Plus, I had no desire to go in and compete with my fellow photographers today. Still, Alaska history, American history, was being made today. Plus, I had several contacts with the man in life, had photographed him more times than I can remember and on this day I felt that I must go in and pay my respects.

So I did. I walked to the closed casket, stood solemnly in front of it for just the right amount of time, shook hands with his family members seated nearby, walked to the back, signed the guest register and then sat down for just a few minutes next to my friend, Al Grillo, the freelance photographer who for so long covered this state for the Associated Press. I shot a handful of frames and then I got up and quietly exited...

...but before I did, I noticed this trio and so photographed them, too. I have no idea who they are. I could have asked for their names, I suppose, and their feelings, but I was not being a journalist today. I was just being a citizen, there to briefly pay my respects and then go.

As I left, I saw Channel 11, preparing to broadcast. I'm not really too familiar with these folks, as I tend to watch Channel 2 News the most. Actually, I tend to get most of my news off the internet these days and locally that tends to mostly mean the Daily News and the Dispatch and a number of blogs, most of which don't really cover the news but get angry about it instead.

As I drove out of Anchorage, I saw a man, walking by a fence. This is frame 6...

...Frame 5...

...Frame 4...

...Frame 3...

...frame 2...

Frame 1.

And so walked this man on the evening that Senator Ted Stevens lay in repose.

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On the day that her brother was honored, Daisy Stevens sponsored a Gwich'in naming ceremony for three of her grandchildren

Up until this, the day that her late Uncle Jonathon Solomon was honored at the Gwich'in Gathering, this young lady was known only as Amara Stevens. On this day, she was given her Gwich'in name - Dee'iideek'it - which means she has taken over where her uncle left off. The naming ceremony was sponsored for her, her step brother and a cousin by their grandmother, Daisy Stevens, Jonathon's youngest sister.

Amara was being born on July 19, 2006, even as I took this picture during the burial procession for Jonathon Solomon, Traditional Chief of the Gwich'in.  "Jonathon met her before anyone of us while he was on his journey," Daisy says.

That's Amara's Uncle Jonathon at the left, doing part of the work that he has now left for Dee'iideek'it to take over. It was when I learned that Jonathon would receive a day of honor at the gathering that I decided I must be there. I suspect that in the career of every photojournalist, there are a handful of images capturing moments so exceptionally special that they stay with him always, images that define the world for him as he saw it.

In my case, this would include images such as Kunuk raising his harpoon and then thrusting it into the very first bowhead that I ever witnessed give itself to his people; there would be Malik, who in his life was said to be the most successful harpooner alive, reaching his hand out to touch the snout of a gray whale stuck in the ice, a whale whose life he worked so hard to save, a whale that he communicated with; the five moments of birth of my own children, each of whose first breath I captured; the moment that my own father took his final breath.

And then there is what I consider to be the extremely special image that Jonathan is the subject of, although he cannot be seen in it. The eagle can be seen, though, the one that came to his grave, the one that took away the pain and tears that flowed there and replaced them with smiles, warmth and hope.

That moment was so extraordinary and wonderful that when I learned that a day of this year's gathering was to be devoted to Jonathon's honor I knew I had to come.

It had been and still is my intent to take the images that I took on this day of Jonathon's honor, mix them up with others that I took of Jonathon as a living man, tell what I could of the life he led and the battles that he led against seemingly impossible odds to protect the way of life of his people and the animals and fish they depend upon, particularly the Porcupine caribou.

Once again, even as happened to me with the unfinished tribute that I set out to make to my friend, Vincent Craig, my unfinished story on the General Assembly of the Inuit Circumpolar Conference that recently took place in Nuuk, Greenland, I find that the pace and demands of life has overwhelmed me. My short time at home is already over and even as I finish this post, I am 850 miles away from my wife, children, grandchildren and cats.

It will take time and thought to tell this story right and I do not have that time right now. So I am going to save it for later - months later, when it is dark and I hopefully have more time for putting stories together.*

I wish that I had documented the full ceremony when Amara became Dee'iideek'it, but I didn't and I have only myself to blame. The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 7:00 PM and I had told myself that I had better be there right at 7:00, despite "Indian Time."

"Indian Time" is something that everybody jokingly and affectionately refers to mean that nothing will ever start at the set time, but will start later, when everybody is gathered and comfortable about starting. Up until this, the third evening of the gathering, every event that I had attended had started on "Indian time" - anywhere from 20 minutes to more than hour after the scheduled time.

On this evening, I was still in the final download of pictures that I had taken earlier in the day as the clock approached seven. I thought about stopping and bolting over, but decided to let the download finish.

"This will start on Indian time," I said. The card finished the download at 7:07 and I headed straight over to the school, only to find that this event had started right on time.

Two of the three naming ceremonies had already been completed, Amara's and that of Isaiah Horace, who was given the name K'aiiheenjik, which means that he is a great, strong warrior and he is in the Bible - Samson. Jonathon's son, David, stands behind K'aiiheenjik and Dee'iideek'it, holding the rifle that the boy was given along with his name.

This Dylan Coppock, the third of Daisy's grandchildren to be given a Gwich'in name on this day. He listens intently as the Rev. Trimble Gilbert of Arctic Village, Second Traditional Chief of the Tanana Chiefs Conference, explains to him the importance of his new name, Ditsii ta'i"i. This means he is following in his grandfather's trail.

Simon Francis Sr, Traditional Chief of Fort Yukon looks on from the left. Behind Gilbert is Ditsii ta'i"i's grandparents, Kevenne and Gatherine Gottlieb and his father, Matt, son of Daisy.

Along with his name, Trimble Gilbert gives Ditsii ta'i"i a blessing.

Chief Simon presents him with gifts.

Ditsii ta'i"i speaks a few brief words of appreciation to the crowd.

His father places the gift of special necklace around his neck.

Dee"iideek'it applauds her step-brother.

Ditsii ta'i"i receives a hug from his grandfather.

Kenneth Frank of Arctic Village, who came to sing and drum, presents the boy with a rifle.

All three of those who received their Gwich'in names. Katherine Gottlieb, who in 2004 received a MacArthur "Genius Award" for her work in Native health care, whispers in her grandson's ear.

Ditsii ta'i"ii displays his new rifle.

K'aiiheenjik and his Uncle David - who you will read more about when I tell the bigger story of Jonathon Solomon, his life, burial and the eagle.

Matt presented a special chief's necklace to Chief Simon.

Gottlieb gives a priest's sash to Rev. Gilbert to honor him for his role in the naming ceremony. Gilbert is an ordained Episcopal priest.

Chief Simon also received a shotgun. 

Daisy addresses those who came to see her grandchildren receive their names. "The kids were quite happy to be getting their Indian names.  They talk about it all the time," she told me in an email.

Kenneth Frank and his daughter, Crystal, who sang with him.

View images as slide show

*At the end of last year, the first full year that I had produced this blog, I ran a series of pictures in review. This year, my plan is to use December, a dark month, to sit down, revisit some of these stories that I have touched upon but have not been able to find the time to complete, and tell them in greater depth.

Another possibility that I am thinking about would be a create a separate, digital, magazine that I could use to tell complete stories in a way that I am beginning to think may not be feasible in a blog - not to replace the blog, but to complement it. I haven't made up my mind about this, but I am thinking about it. If so, I would seek to construct those stories mostly during the darkness of winter, so that I could keep summers open for shooting and story gathering.

Royce, the cat who was always looking for love: December 31, 1994 - June 15, 2010

There is a certain pain that sometimes strikes me in the prostate when I am sleeping and it is horrible. It usually lasts somewhere between half-an-hour and an hour and then it goes away and I can go back to sleep. I had barely fallen into a strange, colorful and bizarre dream that was taking place simultaneously in three separate frames when that pain woke me at 12:20 AM Tuesday morning.

I did not want to believe it was coming on, because I never want to believe it. I always want to imagine that if I just think it gone it will be gone and I can sleep on. It never works that way. Only the cats and I were home. Margie had gone to spend the week in town babysitting Jobe and Caleb was at work.

I waited for the pain to go away as usual, but it did not. One AM passed, then 2:00, then 3:00. About 3:20, just because I wanted to change my surroundings, I left my bedroom and headed to my office, where I stayed for somewhere between two and three minutes, then turned to go back into the house.

When I opened the garage door into the living room, I smelled something horrid. Then I saw Royce, lying very still on the checkered rug somewhere between two and three feet from the door, eyes open, the left side of his face against the rug, his front paws framing his face. He looked dead. I could see no breath. I could hear no sounds.

His eyes did not blink.

He had not been lying there when I had entered my office, but now he was. I knelt down beside him and placed one hand on his chest. Suddenly, without moving his body, he took a gasp of a breath, then lay still again. Perhaps 30 seconds later, he took another breath.

I could see that nothing could be done for him. He was dying, but why? It looked to me as though he had been struck down. The only thing that I could think of was maybe he had a stroke. I wondered if he was suffering? I ran my hand up to his windpipe and for a moment thought that maybe I would just squeeze and end any pain that he might be experiencing.

But I couldn't. He was going. He was leaving this world and if he had any consciousness at all I did not want his final memory to be of me choking him. Plus, he did not look to be in pain. So I just sat with him, stroking him, saying a few things to him now and then, waiting for him to die. Every now and then, I would grab a paper towel and pick up the poop that kept coming out of him.

I put another tissue under his face to catch the drool.

Fifteen minutes passed and he was still alive. I hated the fact that he was lying on the floor, dying on the dirty rug, so I went back into my office and got the little bed that I had made nine years ago for Jim from a Mac laptop computer box, placed Royce in it then sat on the couch with him on my lap.

Chicago and Jim quickly joined us. Chicago positioned herself at the head end of the box, Jimmy on the arm rest. Pistol-Yero came, but sat on the far arm of the couch.

Remember, Chicago and Royce have always been friends. I wondered what she knew?

Just before Royce died, she climbed up to the back of the couch, crossed behind me, then put her paws on my shoulder, her face next to my face. At the moment Royce died, about 4:05 AM, Chicago was looking into the box, right at him. I took the above picture very shortly afterward.

I remained where I was with Royce on my lap and one hand stroking him for another hour. I called Melanie but got no answer. I sent text messages out to everybody. Rex called back within minutes. Then Melanie called.

Finally, I put Royce on a high shelf in the garage and then went back to bed. It was nearing 5:30 AM now. As usual when I go to bed, Jim and Pistol-Yero joined me. A few minutes later, I heard a mournful, mournful, sorrowful cry out in the hallway. It was Chicago, who never sleeps with us.

I got back up, opened the door and saw the wailing Chicago down the hall. She stopped her cry, came running to me. She followed me to the bed, jumped up and crawled under the covers with me.  It had never happened this way before. There she stayed until 8:00 AM, when the phone rang and I had to get up.

I hung up the phone and went back to bed, but it rang again about two minutes later. It was all business stuff. I decided just to stay up and go get breakfast at Family Restaurant. I got a good seat in the corner with my back to the wall and a window to look out of.

Soon, I heard a distant whistle, then a low rumble. The train came along.

My order came not long afterward. As I was eating it, I was surprised to hear another whistle, and then to feel another rumble in the earth.

It was a two-train breakfast.

That doesn't often happen.

In the afternoon, after I had gone out to deal with a bizarre happening that I will one day write about but not yet, I was in the car and came to a stoplight, right alongside and just beneath this car.

In the evening, beginning with Lisa, the family began to trickle in from Anchorage for the funeral. She had left work early this day to go home and be with her two cats. I still had Royce in the box in the garage. She went to see him and wept.

Melanie arrived later. She spent some time playing with Kalib, who was a bit sick, then came out to see the kitten that she had loved from the day it left the womb, the kitten that I had told her we could not keep, but when I saw the love I had tied a blue ribbon around his neck and then presented him to her on her birthday.

Now, she petted him and then began to work the knots out of his fur.

Then she got a cat brush and smoothed him out real good. I was amazed at how good he looked when she was done.

The boys set about to dig the grave as Lisa gathered rocks to place atop it.

According to the Navajo belief she lives by, at this stage in her motherhood Lavina could not look upon Royce, nor could Kalib or Jobe. She could fix dinner. She did. Corn chowder.

We brought Royce outside for the final viewing. Everybody shared a memory or two or three or more of him. 

When Jacob remembered how Royce had once saved him from getting a speeding ticket, everybody laughed. Tomorrow, I will put up series of pictures of Royce in life and will include that story as well as others.

Margie chose this blanket to be his burial shroud, as she had often observed Kalib and Royce together on or near this blanket. Kalib would point to the different squares as Royce watched attentively. Now she wraps him in it.

Muzzy and Royce were friends.

Royce was Melanie's cat. She carries him to his grave.

Before Royce goes into the earth, Lisa holds him and weeps. Then I take him and lower him into the hole, which is deeper than my arm is long.

Melanie scoops up dirt to gently place directly atop him before the rest is shoveled in.

Once Royce was in the earth and could not be seen, Kalib was allowed to come to the grave. He picked a wild rose and brought it to his good friend. Long time readers know of this amazing relationship shared between the baby and the cat, but, for those who don't, I will address it in tomorrow's post.

Kalib placed several flowers and several rocks upon the grave. Lisa put the golf ball there.

There is so much more that I wanted to write in this post, as I placed the above pictures, but it is now 2:07 AM the next day, I have not even taken a nap and I need to drive into Anchorage early in the morning. I need to get some rest, sometime, so I will go to bed now, sleep a bit, take a quick look at this before I leave for Anchorage and then hit, "published."

So this is it. Never again will I pet this cat or hear him purr.

If I had known that, I would have picked him up repeatedly on Monday. He would have purred and purred and purred.

I just didn't know. I thought he was getting better.

My trips to Arizona and Anaktuvuk Pass - the connection; on the home front, Jobe, a horse, and some kids

As regular followers of this blog know, I was recently in Arizona, where I journeyed to see my friend Vincent Craig just before he died, and then stayed for his funeral and to visit family. I traveled straight from Arizona to the Brooks Range Alaska village of Anaktuvuk Pass to attend the wedding of Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee to Ben Hopson III (B-III).

I have mentioned that there is tie between the people I gathered with in Arizona and those whom I joined in Anaktuvuk Pass.

You can see that connection right here, in the above photo. This is Velma Kee Craig, Vincent's daughter-in-law through his and Mariddie's oldest son, Dustinn. I took this photo inside the Fort Apache LDS church house during the lunch that was served to family and friends of Vincent right shortly after his burial.

Please note the necklace and earrings that Velma chose to wear to her father-in-law's funeral. Both were made by Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee, whose wedding I would photograph in Anaktuvuk.

The moment that she saw the necklace in an online ad posted by Rainey, Velma loved it and wanted it. "Sorry," Rainey informed her. "That necklace has already been bought."

She did not tell her that it was Dustinn who had bought it. Dustinn had sworn her to secrecy.

In the summer of 1981, two months after Margie, little Jacob, Caleb, Rex, baby Melanie and I rolled into Alaska, I found a job at the Tundra Times, a now defunct weekly newspaper that served the Alaska Native Eskimo, Indian and Aleut communities. I started as a reporter/photographer and then became editor/reporter/photographer for a short time.

Back then, each October during the Alaska Federation of Natives Convention, he Tundra Times would host a banquet. Entertainment would usually include at least one Native American act from Outside. In 1984, I suggested to those planning the banquet that they consider bringing Vincent Craig up to perform and that is just what they did.

Mariddie came with him and they stayed with us in our Wasilla house throughout the convention.

Vincent and Mariddie wanted to take a memento of Native Alaska back to Arizona and so they purchased a pair of mukluks - caribou, if I recall correctly - at one of the arts and crafts booths that are always set up at the convention. They were very pleased with those mukluks.

One night, as I drove them back to Wasilla from convention happenings in Anchorage, the Northern Lights climbed in a glowing green arc over the Talkeetna Mountains, and then divided into various curtains to shimmer, dance, and flash in different colors. Vincent and Mariddie were fascinated

"Dustinn would love this," Vincent said. "He would feel awe."

That's Dustinn above, with Velma and their four children, Chance, Ashlee, Tristan and Kraig. I took this picture in their home, approximately five hours before his father died.

As Dustinn grew, he would often look at those mukluks. He would touch them, smell them, feel the texture of the fur. He would wonder about the place they came from, the people who made them. He would feel a sense of awe and fascination. His dad would tell him they came from Alaska; he would tell him about his friend, me, who lived in Alaska, who had his own airplane that he flew all about his mysterious, northern, land.

After Dustinn became a filmmaker, the primary center of his work became centered on Arizona, primarily on his Apache people, but he also branched out elsewhere - into Northern Alaska. 

In the image above, he is showing me his "Freshwater Ice" film. It tells the story of how, when a loved one dies, Iñupiat people will sometimes venture out onto the salty sea ice to find a certain kind of clear, blue, coveted piece freshwater glacial ice that yields the purest, sweetest, drinking water to be found.

They will chop it up, bring it back to the village, melt it and this will be the drinking water that will quench the thirst of those who gather to bring comfort to the deceased's family.

It is beautiful. It was also a bit amazing to me, to sit in his living room in Mesa, Arizona, and to watch this film that he made, people with faces and voices from Arctic Alaska, all well-known to me.

Dustinn was also hired to teach a film-making workshop at Barrow's Ilisagvik College. One of his students was Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee and another was Iñupiat filmmaker Rachel Edwardson. The three were all about the same age and after class got to spend a good amount of time visiting. 

Dustinn later got to work with Rachel on a film in Point Hope. Here is a trailer showing some of Dustinn's Point Hope work.

They discovered that, as young Native artists working to make a life in Native society that for them was different even than it was for their parents, they faced similar challenges and had much in common. They all became good friends.

And here is Nasuġraq Rainey Hopson, who made the necklace and earrings that Velma Craig wore to her father-in-law's funeral in Arizona, on the evening of the day that she got married in Anaktuvuk Pass.

With her is her sister, Angela and her new brother-in-law, Byron Hopson.

I have a number of pictures and stories yet to post here from my trips to Arizona and Anaktuvuk. Now you will know how the two tie together.

In time, I intend to bring Rachel into this blog as well.

I don't know how to state this without sounding like I am bragging, but it is part of this story, part of this connection, so I have to say it. When I got to Rainey's home, she showed me her stack of the battered Uiñiq magazines that I made and she saved. She told me that she grew with my pictures, that my inspired her and that is why she kept the magazines, why she wanted me to come and photograph her wedding. That is why, after I made my final stop in Arizona at the home of Dustinn Craig to visit he and his mother, I got on an airplane and began the first of the four-leg that would take me to Anaktuvuk Pass.

Now, a little bit from the home front:

Yesterday, I had to go into town to take care of some business. I stopped at Jacob and Lavina's to visit Margie, who is babysitting Jobe. Jobe was asleep in his cradleboard.

Another view of Jobe.

Late in the evening, I took a ride on my bike. I had not gone far before I came upon this group of young people. The girl on the horse told me her name, but I was so certain that I would remember I did not bother to record it. I have forgotten. I do not know the name of the horse, either.

I should have lingered, spent a bit more time with them, learned a bit about that horse and how the girl feels about it and what the kids on the bikes think.

But I didn't. I just quickly stopped, told them what I was doing, got the name that I would forget and then pedaled quickly on.

Update, 11:35 AM Friday: AKponygirl left a comment and identified the horse-riding girl as Marcella. Thank you, Akponygirl!