But All I Had Were Old Ones

So it's been a while, nearly a week, since I last found myself here at this computer, typing, researching; typing, researching. Testing; erroring out. Deleting, rewriting. Typing, researching. Very familiar.I wanted new pictures, but all I had were old ones. This one's called "That's Mister Boy To You."A story, which I might describe as small, smooth, and hard, inspired the title of this picture. The story goes like this. Let's say I am at the lake near my house last weekend, photographing things. I am taking a picture of something... a dock worker talking with a man in a rich-looking, noisy boat. I am snapping pictures of them, and I am imagining their conversation (which could be addressing anything from stock portfolios to infidelity to theology to the career plans of the dock worker, who looked high schoolish, but possibly also be undergraduate-esque). Then I hear the following:"Hey boy, come here!"I look over and see this six-year old kid, who is apparently yelling at me.I think, That's Mister boy to you.This child has been fishing. He is by himself. Now, he wants me to carry his five-gallon bucket of half-dead fish back to his uncle. He tells me this is what he wants.The bucket comes up past his waist, and it looks (to me) like he would have to carry the thing on his head were he left to do it on his own. I have images of him doing this, of the thing tipping over, of him tipping over after it, of sunfish flipping desperately in the grass, and they are quickly expiring as he rushes to get them back. He is now wet with lake water, and everything getting more sad. Under the pressure of the situation he begins to cry.I notice then that it's a beatiful Saturday, not a day for six-year-old children to be crying. So I say I will help him. But first I asked if I could take a picture. He agrees.So in a way, I paid for this shot.