milk wagon

Eddie saw great things and near misses. Albert Einstein as a child, not quite struck by a run-away milk-wagon as he crossed a street. A teenage boy named Albert Schweitzer getting out of a bathtub and not quite stepping on the cake of soap lying beside the pulled plug. A Nazi Oberleutnant burning a piece of paper with the date and place of the D-Day Invasion written on it. He saw a man who intended to poison the entire water supply of Denver die of a heart attack in a roadside rest-stop on I-80 in Iowa with a bag of McDonald’s French fries on his lap. He saw a terrorist wired up with explosives suddenly turn away from a crowded restaurant in a city that might have been Jerusalem. The terrorist had been transfixed by nothing more than the sky, and the thought that it arced above the just and unjust alike. He saw four men rescue a little boy from a monster whose entire head seemed to consist of a single eye.
But more important than any of these was the vast, accretive weight of small things, from planes which hadn’t crashed to men and women who had come to the correct place at the perfect time and thus founded generations. He saw kisses exchanged in doorways and wallets returned and men who had come to a splitting of the way and chosen the right fork. He saw a thousand random meetings that weren’t random, ten thousand right decisions, a hundred thousand right answers, a million acts of unacknowledged kindness. He saw the old people of River Crossing and Roland kneeling in the dust for Aunt Talitha’s blessing; again heard her giving it freely and gladly. Heard her telling him to lay the cross she had given him at the foot of the Dark Tower and speak the name of Talitha Unwin at the far end of the earth. He saw the Tower itself in the burning folds of the rose and for a moment understood its purpose: how it distributed its lines of force to all the worlds that were and held them steady in time’s great helix. For every brick that landed on the ground instead of some little kid’s head, for every tornado that missed the trailer park, for every missile that didn’t fly, for every hand stayed from violence, there was the Tower.
And the quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.
—  Stephen King, The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla
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These are two separate photos of my grandfather, great grandfather and the milk wagon horse Dickie.  My grandfather was a little boy and rode his tricycle up to the milk wagon my great grandfather drove every morning with his horse.  This is a very special pair of photos I have and for Christmas I phtoshopped the creases and crinkles out of the images and printed them for my aunt and two uncles.  

This semester I have a project that I’m doing in my glass class where we make glass post cards.  So I couldn’t decide which photo I wanted to use so I photoshopped them together this morning.  I think this is very special for me.  I’m very excited to see the finished decal on a 4x6 inch sheet of glass.  I think I will be saving it to give to my mother next year for Christmas.

I am by no means a digital artist but I know what I’m doing!  I’m very happy with this and I loved it so much it has replaced the picture of Gambler on my screen saver and that’s a big move for me because I miss Gambler so much.  I am just full of emotions right now I don’t know what else to say about it.

I hope others will enjoy seeing part of my family history.