I will assess the colors, the height, the impact of surrounding furniture and check if the planets are aligned before hanging a picture. Greg will get it right the first time. He decides; he checks the spot, pencils one precise mark, and hammers away.

These three went up last night:

These are “The People We Don’t Know.” Many, many moons ago we were sifting through a nameless antique store somewhere on Belmont Street in Chicago. For no reason at all, we leaned down to look at an old box on the floor, and in that box was a stack of faded yellow envelopes. We opened one, and out spilled three delicate photos. Someone else’s photos.

We bought them for one dollar each, and had them framed for more than that. And so they became our photos. To us, they will always be “The People We Don’t Know.”

I love the bartender on the phone. I saw him every day at the old house when I dragged laundry up the stairs, and I often thought, “why, he’s taking my order.” Cosmopolitan, please!

The people we don’t know are always walking in the snow, in New York.

Here, I think they are at the races.

I can’t be sure, but the binoculars and the glass are a pretty good clue. In my mind it has a title – “A Day at the Races.”

Now The People hang near the kitchen. In discussing where to hang things, I motioned the kitchen hallway and said to Greg, “…remind me of what’s going there?”

“The People We Don’t Know are going there.”

“Oh, right….People We Don’t Know.”

We’re so attached to them. Who were they? Who is the bartender talking to? Did they live in New York, or were they just visiting? Either way, they’re frozen in time and making us happy forever. Someone’s photos live in Kansas now.

And they seem to like it just fine.