What's the record?
Crew went with me for photo shoots at the firehouse, where he rode the
bumper; to the lake, where he pretended to be a big fish at the end of
Davids line; beneath the redwoods, beneath ready-to-harvest apple
trees, beneath a big dew-outlined spider web, on hardened and cracked
earth beside a big black spider, in fields of California poppies, under
broom bushes in full bloom, beside supermarket planters filled with
flowers. He posed beside the Golden Gate Bridge, which he outshone hands
down, and at the Golden Gate National Cemetery. I wanted to take him to
Oregon in March, but David put his foot down, saying that would be
carrying it just a bit far, didnt I think.
He was orange and shapely, born in 2001 of a seed from the 747 LaRue. In
late May he began to soften.
On June 17, 2002, I took him into town, where a giant sculpture stands
outside the mall. As I hefted him from the trunk, his blossom end
spilled tears and a few seeds onto my leg, soaking through the fabric of
my jeans. I lugged him the two blocks to where the sculpture beckoned
and placed him lovingly in the hollow of that hand.
Then I backed away and shot him from several angles. Satisfied that I
had what I had come for, I turned and walked away, leaving him to spend
his last day on earth doing what God had put him here to do put a
smile on the face of all who met him.
May my last day be no different.
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