“Sir, can I talk to you for a minute?” The firm voice of the police officer, who had just pulled up next to me, told me that he was serious. “What are you taking pictures of?” The well over six-foot officer stepped out of his black and white.
I’ve always believed that the best way to get to know an area is to take a stroll and get lost in the streets. So with a beautiful Sunday afternoon at hand, I had given in to a nagging need to get out of the house and wonder around. With my trusty camera at my side I couldn’t have asked for more perfect day.
“Um, houses, flowers…” I answered nervously. “Why?”
“We got a call from a few concerned parents about some guy taking pictures of their kids.” His towering figure in the bright sunlight was accented only by my realization that another police car was pulling up behind us.
“Would you like to see what I’m taking pictures of?” I quickly offered. I began flipping through the images that I took throughout the afternoon, fully knowing that I had not been taking pictures of children and that this had to be some grave misunderstanding. “Oh don’t look at this one, this isn’t the best example of my work.” I chimed in, half being an artist that didn’t want my unedited work looked at, the other trying to put on a little charm.
When we got to the pictures of the sunflowers, officer Jim seemed to respond positively. Something in his response told me that this is where the misunderstanding took place. Apparently some of the little girls that live in my neighborhood saw me taking pictures of the sunflowers and thought I was trying to “hide behind the flowers” in order to take pictures of them.
It was rather embarrassing, and not exactly how I was hoping to be introduced to the friendly people in my town. But everything was cleared up. I even finished my walk and took a lot of great pictures.
Later, on my way back home, I walked past the ever-present gaggle of young girls in my neighborhood. Apparently I had been the subject of much debate. “Guys! He’s back!” I heard one girl’s loud whisper. Peering from behind the bushes, they watched me as I walked into my backyard to be greeted by my wife. “I told you he lives there!” said another voice.
Thankfully, it was only a misunderstanding. Besides the few minutes of meeting the police, getting a friendly background check, and momentarily scaring the neighborhood into thinking that the new guy was a creep, it wasn’t a bad day.
It actually worked out in the end - I did meet one of the neighbors, a young father named Will. He came up to my back porch the next night with his son to say hello, and to offer his apology for what went down the evening before. Will seems like a nice guy - his poor son is the only boy in the neighborhood and that night the girls were having a club with a “no boys allowed” policy.
So from now on, when I get the itch to wander in my new town, I might consider calling in first to let the police know I’m on the loose. I’m just glad to report that this letter is not written in place of my one phone call.
Peter-John Campbell
P.S. Here are a few pictures for you to enjoy.
