We buried the ashes of my father-in-law, Kaz, this past weekend. His widow, Mitzie, asked all of the children to write a letter which would be included in the tiny casket holding the urn. I chose to enclose one of my tractor photos. Kaz loved all things farming including all those old tractors. The service was a long-time coming. It was somber, sad, and, I hope, helped give closure to all the Takahashi family.

Two new art shots were photographed during our extended visit up north. For our last evening in the country, I planned to do a third and final shooting of yet another tractor. The location was scouted out, angles and perspectives were estimated and, finally, I had a solid lighting solution in my mind’s-eye that should lead to a beautiful and interesting finished image.

Unfortunately, Lynn came back with our car a little later than expected. There wasn't quite enough time to load all the equipment, drive to the location, prep and set up before full darkness set in. As these images are not only supposed to be fun to view-but a joy to shoot, I decided to pass on the night session. The thought of going out to dinner instead seemed like a good idea. Mitzie chose an Italian place a few towns away. Being neither close nor particularly convenient, it didn't seem like a great choice, but, what the heck.

Off we went. Arriving at the restaurant, all three of us were happy to see that it looked like a nice little place, clean and bright with about six couples already seated around the room. I did notice one particularly large table with what looked like three generations of one family; grandparents, parents and several beautiful children enjoying each other’s company, (a typical American family). We took a table near the outside edge of the room with my back to the wall.

The three of us ordered and were making small talk when the most curious thing happened. While looking down at the table, I heard a tiny "clink" of a fork falling just three inches down to the porcelain plate, and a barely audible gag. (It's strange that even in a busy place with people talking and eating, an inappropriate sound can pierce the air as if it were a stack of crashing dishes.) Upon looking up toward where the sound came from, I could see that, indeed, the youngest boy at that large table was choking. (I had never been trained in first aid and did not know how to do any life saving techniques. It still seemed like a good idea for me to be over there, helping somehow as opposed to watching from where I sat.) I stood quickly and walked up the row of tables, I could see that the young man of about 12 years old was standing up. His mom was slapping him repeatedly on the back. By the time I rounded the corner table and headed down their row, “dad” was helping. I approached the scene from behind. I could see that the father was giving the boy a sort of bear hug from behind. Three, four, five times he squeezed his son, but nothing helped. Somebody shouted, "DO IT HARDER!" ( I think it was me.) Then the mother said, in an equally commanding voice, "YOU DO IT !."

By this time, I swear that I was watching this drama play out in slow-motion, frame-by-frame. Pulling away the chair and sliding in right up to the young man, I put both arms around him. Making a ball with one fist and clutching it with the other hand, I placed the ball fist about where it needed to be, (just at the base of the sternum sounded familiar). Realizing that four or five tries weren’t going to do anybody any good, I gave it all I had. One good "UMPHHH". Looking over the boy’s left shoulder, I could see that he had ejected a big wad of food back onto his plate. His mother asked him with the same in-charge voice, " CAN YOU BREATHE ?" Almost imperceptibly, he nodded in the affirmative while saliva, mucus and tears streamed down his face onto the table. Letting go and turning to walk away, I commented to the family that I learned that maneuver from an episode of Frasier. We all had a good, deep laugh. The tension was broken. All of us realized what a tragedy this could have been.

Sitting down at my table, a huge wave of adrenaline swept over me, followed by nausea, then fear. Then our dinner arrived.

Sometime later, after the family, myself and all the diners had regained our composure, I saw the same young boy walking up to us, probably to thank me and shake my hand. Escorted by his dad, he approached our table. I stood up to greet him. He reached out a hand and started to speak a few broken words. I pulled him close and gave him a good strong, manly hug. Tears followed--no words were necessary.

Afterwards, upon further reflection, I realized that there were probably five or six people in the restaurant who would have been able to step in just in time. The whole professional kitchen staff, all the waiters and manager probably have training in this sort of thing. I just happened to be pressed into service because of a confluence of timing and proximity.

I don't draw any conclusions from this string of events: not that we chose to go to such an inconvenient and distant restaurant, or that we were there at that moment, nor do I necessarily see any cosmic connection between Lynn staying out with the car a little longer than expected and missing the evening’s planned photo-shoot-not even the original purpose of our trip up north to bury her dad's ashes. I do, however, have an observation best summed up by a line from Alice in Wonderland, when Alice falls down the rabbit hole, "Things are getting curiouser and curiouser." In my own words, I would have to say that life is indeed wonderful and strange.

Live, Love: Eric Curry