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For 22 years I lived in the same building, at apartment 702. A 4-bedroom, 2-bath apartment, with nothing particularly unique to it, except for its terrace. The mountains of Serra do Curral that takes over the east edge of town could be seen from there, as well as, Prudente de Morais Avenue down below, where as a kid, I could see the donkeys that provided rides in the Municipal Park galloping in the morning into town, and returning at the end of the day for a deserving rest. Small fruit trees were carefully planted on each corner of the terrace’s generous square footage, all bearing fruit: bananas, figs, limes, tomatoes. The terrace held a cacophony of pets owned by my Dad and sister - A black bird; A rabbit; A parrot; A dog; A hamster - living there simultaneously, or not. A box turtle was the only pet I dared to call my own. Basking in the sun was the only way I believed I could prepare for school exams. And the turtle would make its way to rest right next to my warm body, as we both sunbathed in the afternoon, under crisp blue skies. A thin glass window in my room seemed astronomically positioned for the moon to break into every night. Even the marble floors of the building at each apartment entrance where smoothly suited for my clunky 4-wheel-roller-skates. From which, to this day, came all my knowledge on nuts and bolts, screwdrivers and the importance of a good lubricant for mechanical parts. For the 25 plus kids inhabiting the 41 apartment complex, the garage was the ultimate hide and seek spot. Eventually evolving to be the perfect pot smoking and dating nook for the despair of parents and of the supper in charge of the building: my Dad.

I believed back than, my Dad’s craving for precise engineering and meticulous calculations was what made him such a committed supper. The constant checking of piping, TV antennas, and renovations throughout the building’s grounds; Followed by late meetings and detailed minutes hand written religiously every month. But on the right side wall of the garage entrance was the reason for his zealous care. There on top of some marble tiles, in gray rusting letters was written: Edifice José Amaro. My grandfather’s name.

José Amaro was the owner of a bakery - Padaria Sul America at Rio Grande do Sul Street, in the center of town. Like most cities in the turn of the century, Belo Horizonte’s main residences had a special slots not only for mail to be delivered, but bread and milk. Early in the morning, 12 coaches would leave my grandfather’s bakery full of bread loaves and bottles of milk. Its more than 40 horses wondered the city. Since most of the clientele lived in the neighborhood of Cidade Jardim, the horses would come to rest at the end of its main avenue, Prudente de Morais. The land where Edifice José Amaro would be built, and where I would grow up, was where it once stood my grandfather’s stables.

The bakery used 12 bags of flour a day - 60 kilos each. Dozens of bakers worked from night to dawn. They provided bread for the community circling the select Country Club, Minas Tenis Clube, different priesthoods and hospitals around town, and scattered apartment buildings and mansions. But nothing was reason of more pride to the family as to be the sole provider of bread, milk and butter to their soccer team: Clube Atlético Mineiro. The one and only team you could be faithful to. A family rule as black and white as the team’s stripped uniforms. Just watch an Atlético soccer match with my dad and uncles and it’s clear that its an honor to this day. The team headquarters was still in the center of town, conveniently located in the bakery’s delivery zone.

My uncles and aunts would help my grandfather at the counter or as cashiers. Their commitment of hours to the bakery dependent on their chosen careers. The lawyer and the teachers were not expected to be available as often as the others. My dad’s childhood memories at Sul America bakery are sweet. Even though, according to him, he never cared for the cakes, cookies and fine pastries surrounding him at the store. Just bread and butter. Fresh out of the oven. His memories at the bakery go back as early as when he was 4. He was the youngest of the 6, and constantly busy getting yelled by teachers for bad behavior. When he was finally accepted into Colégio Loyola, a catholic boarding school, it was a relief for his older siblings and a chance to save his soul. Later, he too would join his brothers in running the family business. Specially when my grandfather’s failing heart couldn’t keep up the pace. Later, in his career as an engineer, my Dad would have his own business. It wasn’t a mere coincidence that he owned a factory that built industrial ovens for bakeries.

The bakery and land would be sold, many years after my grandfather’s passing. An edifice was built in the late 70’s, and each son and daughter received an apartment in return for the land. To this day, I have uncles and cousins living in the same building: Edifice José Amaro, together with all my childhood memories, still suspended on that 7th floor terrace.

I am in the same room as he is. Camera in hand, under the same lighting, facing the same subjects as him. But no. I don’t see it. Not what he does. When the session is over and I combine our shots on a computer screen is when I realize how uniquely we see. It’s a very humbling experience. It never lets my ego say: “I do it better.”, but makes me realize: “I do it differently.” He claims the same of me.

When Gene and I share a photo shoot, we exchange eyes. And help each other see what we couldn’t on our own. That happens in and out of the studio. He is my Valentine. I hope you find yours. And if you do, bring him over, we would love to look at you, together.

To see more photos of this studio session visit my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/jennifercabral.photography

I surround myself with relics. Trinkets that become sacred because of the places it has come from, or of whom has given it to me. I keep it for the beauty it possesses, the laughter it reminds me of, or as a mere attempt to believe in something. These objects don’t take me home. They make my home.

I keep the Madonnas and secretly envy their mantles; Seeds, roots and crystals bewitch my surroundings, as I crave pagan objects to still be forbidden. To this day, I would exchange beads for mirrors, any time. And toys don’t let me take myself (or my profession) too seriously.

But as 2012 is about to start, or as many say, to end it all, we need protection from the four directions. So lets keep images of Saints and its angels for guidance; Use sage to clear our bodies from evil spirits; And even bring offers to a body of water for the goddess Yemanjá, if need be. Let’s come up with rituals. Invent sacred objects. Allow them to invade homes and haunt each corner with its blessings and curses. And believe in all its powers, so it can cary us throughout the year. And to the next. And next.

May the new year, begin.

Photo stories of everyday life - that is what Jennifer Cabral creates. Her search is for those intimate moments that happen in a family’s daily life. She wants you to invite her over, and let her witness your day as it happens. (And that, probably doesn’t include 10 family members in matching outfits, posing barefoot in your living room.) You are all sitting on a table having pancakes, the juice spills;  You are trying to read on the couch and your 5-year-old wants to play. Legos are all over. The dog, too. It’s messy. It’s life. It’s real.

When you invite Jennifer to document your routine in your own environment you are giving her access to all the elements she needs to tell your story. Any background can be added: the park where your favorite swing sits; or the backyard bench you wished you enjoyed more. Props can be included, too: cookie sheets and sprinkles, blowing bubbles or Goodnight moon pages.

To see some photo stories go to www.jennifercabral.com

Copyright ©Eugene Pierce

Ten years ago, I woke to witness the absolute worst and the very best that humanity has to offer. Now, a decade later, I am sadly left with the feeling that there are far too many days in which the worst has the upper hand. Terrorist groups still twist and warp the words of religion to justify their goals, while, our own politicians, use the events of that day as a rallying cry to serve their own agendas. Many of the responders that survived that day and the days to follow, still struggle to obtain the quality of medical care they so desperately need and deserve.

Although  many hold names, such as King, Mother Theresa and Gandhi in high regard, it seems we have only learned the words, they spoke, and not their true lessons. I don’t remember, where I read it, but one of my favorite quotes has always been: “pray for your enemies.”

This has been week 1 of 2 that I’ll be without a car. And so, a walk in the neighborhood took a completely different meaning: it was no longer for leisure, but out of necessity. I told myself: this is a good opportunity to see the community, use local services like the library and public parks and shop at local stores.

But when I looked for a grocery store, all I could find were stale vegetables and white bread on the shelves; When I wanted a bakery or coffee shop, there was none to be seen - unless you call Dunkin’ Donuts as such; and the public library was closed - summer hours threatening to be effective year around, because of State budget cuts. I saw a neighborhood forgetting what it was like to be a thriving community and starting to acknowledge it was barely making it.

According to a 2001 Sensus, there are about 4,081 people, 1,747 households, and 1,070 families residing in Lawrence Township with me. Well, they might live here, but they are not shopping locally. The concept of “local” is going 20 miles north to the next strip mall. SUV required. The habit of walking around the neighborhood disappeared. And with it, came entire stretches of town with no sidewalks in sight.

When I lost count of how many store fronts were boarded up, I realized the radio announcements of a weak economy had materialized right down the block. Months of vacancy had now become years, and any attempts to keep the empty real state presentable were as abandoned as any expectation of an economic recovery. My inconvenience is easy to deal with for two weeks, what’s hard to face is that, what’s gone is probably not coming back to this neighborhood any time soon.