Lytha Curry
Be it bold or intrusive, I tend to lack a great deal of protocol in times of curiosity. While enjoying a peaceful ride through the hills of Tennessee, I came across a home emitting smoke from the front entrance. I knew there was not a crisis requiring emergency services, but I stopped to see what was wrong. In an area where coal exuded from most every crevasse, the locals collected this free fuel. Such was the case here where an elderly lady’s cookstove lacked proper ventilation and the smoke-filled the house till it found its way to the front door. I drove into the yard, she bolted out in alarm at a visitor in this remote area, and I inquired of her safety. She scoffed at my concern but was embarrassed to lack presence for a visitor. Her name was Lytha Curry, uncertain of my purpose, but not one to show any lack of hospitality. 
I expressed an interest in how she survived with a few chickens and a pig. She was quick to point out her brother came by often to bring other essentials. My anxiety to put this moment on film violated her privacy. I was amazed at her conveyance of home with the simplicity of a wildflower in a Pepsi bottle and a newspaper image of Jesus pinned to the wall. Perhaps I should have spent more time in conversation to build a better bond of comfort. As it was, her pleasure was probably in her own realm.
Be it bold or intrusive, I tend to lack a great deal of protocol in times of curiosity. While enjoying a peaceful ride through the hills of Tennessee, I came across a home emitting smoke from the front entrance. I knew there was not a crisis requiring emergency services, but I stopped to see what was wrong. In an area where coal exuded from most every crevasse, the locals collected this free fuel. Such was the case here where an elderly lady’s cookstove lacked proper ventilation and the smoke-filled the house till it found its way to the front door. I drove into the yard, she bolted out in alarm at a visitor in this remote area, and I inquired of her safety. She scoffed at my concern but was embarrassed to lack presence for a visitor. Her name was Lytha Curry, uncertain of my purpose, but not one to show any lack of hospitality. 
I expressed an interest in how she survived with a few chickens and a pig. She was quick to point out her brother came by often to bring other essentials. My anxiety to put this moment on film violated her privacy. I was amazed at her conveyance of home with the simplicity of a wildflower in a Pepsi bottle and a newspaper image of Jesus pinned to the wall. Perhaps I should have spent more time in conversation to build a better bond of comfort. As it was, her pleasure was probably in her own realm.
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