FORGOTTEN MAIN STREET

I don’t usually start a Forgotten Main Street story in a hospital room.

But on Sunday, December 21, 2025, the road did what the road sometimes does – it reminded me that no matter how tough I think I am, my body gets a vote.

That morning didn’t come with a warning sign—no rusty arrow pointing toward danger, no faded billboard screaming turn back now. It hit like life sometimes does: fast, unfair, and absolute. The pain was sharp and unfamiliar, nothing I’d ever felt before – and something I hope I never feel again. A heart attack doesn’t care about your plans, your projects, or all the things you still haven’t said out loud.

And the week leading up to it was already heavy. I was buried in cancer scans – this time zeroed in on my right lung – and I made it through a bronchoscopy after coughing up blood prior to PhotoCon OKC. They removed several small tumors and one larger mass that was partially blocking my airway.

So no… it didn’t happen in a vacuum.

The Long Fight Behind the Lens

Since December 2021, I’ve been battling my health and pushing through the spread of kidney cancer – starting with a tumor that showed up in my left shoulder, twenty years after my kidney was removed because of renal cell carcinoma. Those cancer cells stayed dormant for a long time… until they didn’t. They woke up and rewrote my life again. Since then it’s been rounds of radiation, infusions, and chemo, all aimed at one thing: slowing the progress. I’m not living inside a clean, happy-ending “I beat it” story – I’m fighting for the keep-going story.

All my doctors have been incredible—especially Dr. Meredith and Dr. Clapp. They are in the fight with me, listening to what I need, helping me balance photography work, education, and projects with treatment plans, and caring for me like a human being instead of just another chart on a clipboard. They’re more than letters in front of their names or framed certifications on a wall—they’re the decision-makers I trust. And that matters more than people realize.

Because somewhere between pain management, fatigue, scans, and the mental grind… something unexpected showed up.

A creative spark didn’t just survive – it built a new road.

Finding the Back Roads (Again)

I’ve had a battle buddy through a lot of life – Fielding “Peep” Piepereit.

Peep and I have been friends since 1987, back when we met in Germany and discovered we shared the same obsession: photography. Back then it was film, long nights, learning the hard way, and figuring out how to see the world instead of just looking at it. In fact, Peep got out of the service and launched a regional automobile magazine – basically blending his two lifelong addictions: cars and photography. He damn near willed that thing through the brutal first year, grinding out stories, shooting cars, learning CMYK separations, working the print process, sitting through advertising meetings, and figuring out the business side on the fly. He didn’t survive it because it was easy—he survived it because he chose to push, learn, and adapt. And then, almost by accident, he pivoted into SAP and climbed all the way to the top of the supply and logistics world… without ever losing that long, stubborn love for photography.

We’ve stayed friends—supporters, and a steady rock in life’s storms—through time, distance, life changes, and all the chapters that stack up between two guys who’ve seen more “life” than most ever will. We can go months without talking, and then in five minutes it’s like no time passed at all—right back where we left off.

And then, somewhere in the middle of my cancer fight, this project – Forgotten Main Street – became oxygen.

The Path of Choosing

Since May 2022, Peep and I have taken several trips traveling the back roads of America – off the beaten path, away from the mainstream flow of populations – finding forgotten places, things, and people. Using our Fujifilm digital cameras, paired with vintage manual focus lenses, we searched for clarity and story versus clinical sharpness and high-definition captures.

Forgotten Main Street became my reminder to slow down – to take in the moments as they happen, to let these places matter for their own simple reason of being, and to spend time with the locals who’ve watched the years roll through small towns like weather. I want to understand what changed, what stayed, and what’s still worth remembering. And honestly, the Fujifilm colors – blending film simulations in-camera – pulled me right back to my film days in the best way: less chasing perfection later, more being present now… and no more coming home to post-process hundreds of captures just to feel like the trip counted.

Out there, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to explain. The road doesn’t care if I’m tired or hurting – it just asks me to keep moving at whatever pace I can handle. And the towns we find? They’re honest. They’re not polished. They’re not trying to impress anybody.

They just are. And that kind of honesty is rare.

There are No Wrong Turns on an FMS roadtrip.

Holidays: The Season of Pretend

As you can imagine, my plans for the holidays – plans that are always a thorn in my side – didn’t go as planned but, neither did cancelling a brother’s trip back home to Sevilla, Spain back in November. But I’ve learned to weave and dodge life’s last minute surprises like an aging boxer in the championship rounds.

Truth is, the season hits me like a weight. Before the holidays even get started, the PTSD kicks into faster cycles, dragging up memories of my brothers-in-arms—men far more deserving than me—who will never come home. And on top of that grief, my disdain for the fake niceties of the “season of caring” shows up uninvited, like a smile people wear for a month and toss aside the rest of the year. So forgive me when I pull back this time of year, it isn’t because I don’t care—it’s self-preservation. It’s my way of boxing it all up and burying it deep enough to make it through the end of the year. I can smile, laugh, and crack jokes, but inside the light is damn near out, and some days I’m just fighting to reach the first week of the new year.

I imagine and wish a world that celebrated kindness, help, caring, and random acts of goodness all year long—rather than cramming it into the 30 days between Thanksgiving and Christmas like it’s some limited-time offer.

It’s a beautiful dream.

But I’ve traveled the world and witnessed acts of violence from humans of every race, culture, and social standing. I’ve seen the darkest parts of what we do to each other. So no, I don’t have a lot of faith that the world suddenly turns a corner because the calendar says it’s time to be nice.

Especially not in whatever short stretch of road I’ve got left.

So I do what I’ve learned to do, over and over, time after time:

I focus on what’s within reach… and I can reach further than I can see.

One decision. One moment. One frame at a time.

Legacy Isn’t Later—It’s Now

People love to talk about legacy like it’s something you only cash in after the credits roll.

But how important is legacy if I don’t live a life that meets my own expectations while I’m still here? So many times I’ve said it—hell, I’ve preached it: “You’re where you are because of two kinds of choices – the things you did and the things you didn’t do. If you don’t like where you are, make better choices.” But too many people get stuck staring at results they’ll never reach because they won’t do the work it takes to get there. So they don’t really live… they just exist.

They complain, make excuses, and blame everyone else instead of picking a point on the horizon and starting to walk. The destination can change a dozen times, but the decision to move forward doesn’t. Life doesn’t care – and everyone gets the same 24 hours. So what are you going to do with yours, and how will you make the journey matter?

If I have a legacy—and that’s a big “if”—it won’t be a list of accomplishments with bullet points and dates. It won’t be numbers on a screen, follower counts, likes, shares, awards, or whatever the internet decides matters this week. And it won’t even be the photos themselves… not in the way people usually think.

Because prints fade, hard drives fail, formats change, and someday even the sharpest image becomes just another artifact in a box.

If anything survives, it’ll be the ripple effect – the way photography helped me connect with people, the way a class or a conversation made someone believe they could create, the way I taught them to slow down and see what they’d been walking past their whole life. It’ll be the stories those images carried, the moments they preserved, and the people who were changed – just a little – because someone cared enough to document the world with honesty.

It’s the family and friends who truly support and uplift me, not by standing in front telling me where to go, and not by trailing behind waiting for me to fall – but by walking beside me through the rough stretches as well as the good ones. They’re the ones who’ll carry the torch forward, passing the love of seeing, creating, and telling life’s story to the next generation of image makers – long after I’ve set my camera down for the last time.

Not just the technical side—settings, lighting, gear, and all the debates that stop mattering the moment life gets real. For me, the heart of it is believing in someone when they don’t have confidence in themselves yet. It’s being the voice that says, “You’ve got more in you,” and then nudging them – sometimes firmly – into the uncomfortable zone where growth actually happens. Not by lying to them to keep it safe and easy, but by telling the truth in a way that builds them instead of breaks them.

Because honesty isn’t cruelty. Honest feedback, given with care, is a gift. It helps people see they can become a stronger version of themselves – more intentional, more aware, more fearless with their vision.

I can teach you the technical. I can explain exposure, composition, light, and how to make the camera do what you want. But I can’t train you on where to point your lens or when to click the shutter – that part comes from your life, your scars, your curiosity, and what you’re willing to notice. Everyone can make “pretty” pictures. But not everyone makes images that speak… the kind that carry weight, tell the truth, and make somebody feel something they didn’t expect.

Documenting the world around you in a way that helps other people see, feel, and understand. Because photography – real photography – isn’t about a selfie proving you were there. It’s about proving it mattered.

Tell the story. Tell your story.

What This Heart Attack Changed

A heart attack changes the way you hear your own footsteps in the dark.

It makes the small stuff louder – the quiet moments, the honest conversations, the way morning light hits a wall you’ve driven past a hundred times. It makes the important stuff unavoidable, like it’s standing in the road with nowhere left to detour. And it makes the noise of other people – opinions, drama, expectations, the constant demand to perform – feel less necessary, less worth the oxygen. It strips the clutter out of your priorities like a hard prairie wind ripping an old sign clean off a vacant building, leaving only the bolts and the truth behind. It leaves you raw from the fight, scraped down to the real parts… but still willing to get up, take the next step, and keep moving forward.

So here’s my choice right now:

I’m still here.

I’m still fighting.

I’m still creating.

And I’m still rolling down the kind of roads that remind me the world isn’t all noise and neon and performative kindness.

Some places are quietly good. Some people are good quietly.

And sometimes the most radical thing you can do is keep going imperfectly, and with your eyes open.

If You’re Reading This…

If you’re carrying something heavy – illness, grief, burnout, loneliness, or just the weight of trying to be okay – hear this from somebody writing to you from a hard stop in the road:

You don’t have to celebrate like everybody else.

You don’t have to perform joy to be worthy of love.

You don’t have to pretend it’s fine.

But if you can do one thing – one small thing – do this:

Bring your camera everywhere. Go make a frame. Go tell the truth. Go document what matters to you.

That’s not just art.

That’s how your story survives after you’ve shed your earthly bonds and the memories of you start to soften in the minds of those left behind. Every capture grows more priceless with time – because the longer you’re gone, the more that frame becomes proof you were here.

And that… is my Forgotten Main Street.

Wishes are only Dreams… until you take action to start the journey!