The hayride that lives in my heart

I’ve taken thousands of photographs over my lifetime. In college, I took classes in the art of photography and learned how to develop and print my work in a photo lab. The skills I learned made me technically aware of the power of the photo to construct a story. These learned skills formed the foundation from which my love of the art form grew. But what lies behind the captured moment is often more revealing than the instant frozen in time.

In the fall of 1982 after an afternoon of hiking, my wife, Alice, and I and our kids stopped by Martin Viette Nurseries in East Norwich. It was a gorgeous fall day, sunny and October warm with the rich colors of the season near their full bloom glory. The nursery was running hayrides around the property, and the kids were thrilled to have one. Amanda was 6 and Matt was 3. It was late in the day, so the wait line had dwindled and the kids were on line alone.

I saw the photo developing in my mind as the tractor headed down the Northern Boulevard side of the nursery. My kids waited anxiously for the tractor’s return with their backs to me. My telephoto lens placed them in the center of the frame just as the tractor came into view. The depth of field that the lens produced kept the kids in focus while leaving the tractor and hayride filled with kids just fuzzy enough to be identified. I knew instantly I had captured something special, but it wasn’t until I had it developed and blown up that I realized what I had.

There is a tension in the photo, and we beg to know what their faces would reveal if we could only see them. Their back images tell me a lot about my kids and even provide clues to who they are today. I envision Matt’s expression would be of an open mouth, almost holding his breath expectantly — not unlike his sleepless nights begging for Christmas morning to arrive. His wonderment and joy of living come through the photo when I look at his body language that speaks to me so clearly.

And then there is Amanda’s expression. Though we still can’t see her face, her hands in her back pockets and her casual body position suggest to me her anticipation is harder to read and perhaps a bit less enthusiastic. She shares her brother’s enthusiasm but in a different, more grown-up way. Is there some bizarre foreshadowing contained in her body language that the passage of time will reveal?

Both my children were growing up. I remember that day and all its sweetness as a milepost in their time with us. Gone were the stresses of infants, diapers and sleepless nights — they were little people now, and we were enjoying them as they passed from early childhood into an easier phase.

Last year as Mother’s Day approached, Alice painted my captured image in oil on canvas. It was an emotional experience for her, often having to pause to wipe away her tears. As with so many images of time gone by, there is a sadness and a joy in remembering.

Reader James D. Riordan lives in Old Westbury.