I’m walking past artist booths on Venice Island Florida, five blocks from my current house, cell phone to my ear, when I see the photograph. I stop, hard. My eyes stay with the picture, like maybe it’s going to disappear from its white pegboard wall. I end my call.
“What’s the story behind this photograph,” I say to the lanky fellow standing nearby. He looks like the kind of man who thrives on trekking across pastures with cameras.
“Oh yes, there’s a story,” he says. “How did you know?”
“I can feel it.”
He nods. “This old house was one of the first churches on Merritt Island. When they built a new church, it became the parsonage where the pastor lived. Later it got moved to an orange grove where it still sits today. After the 911 attacks, the lady who owns the property went out and painted the flag on it.”
I ended up purchasing a tiny print of the Crackerhouse. Turns out, it is located less than five miles from where I was born. I sense another click in the rotation of my life’s dial.
And I like that.
(Photograph by Jeff Thamert of Titusville, FL)