Wake-up Call: A Post About Stealing

When I lived in Nashville, my neighbors were robbed at gunpoint in our shared backyard as they got home from a trip to the grocery. We lived on a quiet street in 37205 in a beautiful old home which had been converted into a duplex. I lived in the small side; the neighbors, Amy and Laura, lived in the larger apartment across the wall, and we all felt safe and comfortable with our comings and goings, even those which happened late at night.

I was working night shift as an ICU nurse in one of the nearby hospitals and kept all kinds of peculiar hours. Staying up "through the day" after my last shift for the week was a common occurrence, and I thought nothing of being awake for twenty-four-plus hours if I had something I wanted to do. I also thought nothing of turning down the volume on the phone and answering machine before throwing myself into the bed for sixteen or so hours of snooze-time.

On this particular day Sis was visiting, and we had big plans. John Prine, one of the founding fathers of what is now called "Americana", was taping an episode of CMT's "American Music Shop" at Vanderbilt, and I'd gotten free tickets. Back when CMT actually produced some decent programming, opportunities for free entertainment were all over the place. Sure, we had to watch JP do about a dozen takes of "The Sins of Memphisto", but it wasn't his fault the band kept coming back in on the wrong beat after the bridge...

After the taping we did a bit of shopping, some errands and an early dinner before Sis headed back to Smithville. A friend of hers had died in a car accident, and she wanted to attend visitation at the funeral home, so she borrowed a skirt from me and well before dark, was eastbound toward home. At that point in day, I'd been awake for at least twenty-four hours, and looking back, I have absolutely no idea how I was able to summon such energy, even back in my younger days.

I remember so many parts of that day with complete clarity - as if they'd happened a few weeks ago instead of the actual twenty years which have passed since then. I don't specifically recall adjusting the volume on the machine or turning down the ringer on the phone or how many seconds it took for me to go comatose after my head hit the pillow, but I know all of those things happened, because when I got up for a bathroom trip at 3 o'clock in the morning, I could hear the the click and groan of the tape in the answering machine. It was recording an incoming message. Right then.

Before even going to the bathroom, I grabbed the machine and adjusted up the volume to catch the tail-end of a female voice leaving a phone number. By the time I picked up the handset on the phone, the caller had hung up, but I already knew it was trouble. Almost nobody calls in the middle of the night unless something bad is going down - especially strange women leaving phone numbers.

My sleep-disoriented mind quickly cleared, and my first worries were for my family, especially when I saw the number "20" blinking, insistent and red, on top of the machine.

In a panic I began listening to the messages - first one neighbor then the other, informing me that they'd been robbed.

"The police are here. Are you home?"

"We've banged on your door. We've banged on your bedroom window - We know you're in there. Please wake up."

"This is Lieutenant Brown of Metro Police... Miss Page, an officer is at your door. If you're home please let us in. There's a situation."

I'm lucky they didn't break down my door, but after their many attempts to get me to stir, they'd became firmly convinced that nobody was home - after all, who could sleep through a police officer banging on a window two feet from her head? Who doesn't notice police sirens in her own back yard? The blue lights from four cruisers? Who misses that kind of action?

This gal.

Relieved as I was that my loved ones - and my neighbors - were all safe and sound, my worries turned to my own safety. One message had explained that the gunman forced them to drive to the nearest ATM and withdraw their maximum amounts for the day. Another message went on to say that the robber had asked if the other girl (me) was home and that he was still on the loose.

When I finally got to the end of the messages, I called Laura, the woman of the last message, at the friend's house where they'd gone when the police were finished with them. She filled me in on the rest of the details, and I abandoned any possibility of going back to bed for the night.

Laura's car was eventually found - stripped clean of its good parts in a bad part of town - but to the best of my knowledge, no arrest was ever made in the case.

Since then I'm still able to sleep through pretty much anything, but I learned a very important lesson about things like phone-ringers, answering machines and being available in the world, even when I'm mostly dead to it.

Apparently what I did not fully come to appreciate is that people will steal. Sometimes they use guns. Sometimes they use stealth or a carelessly hidden spare key. And these days sometimes they use their computers.

Since starting Sink Creek Photography a few months ago, Jack and Pam at the Lake have been eager for people to see and appreciate our work, and Facebook has provided a wonderful place for us to gain some much-needed exposure. Facebook has also provided a wonderful place for people to rip off the work of others.

A few weeks ago I shot a wedding with a friend of mine, and during the reception as I worked the room getting candid shots of the couple with their friends and families, someone approached me and said, "Share lots of photos on Facebook!"

I cheerfully replied, "Sure thing!"

Sis had already warned me that my work was at risk, and the following day, when I'd posted the first of several wedding shots, I realized she was right to be concerned. There in my newsfeed was a photo of the beautiful bride - my photo of the beautiful bride - in someone else's photo album. All indicators of where the photo originated were gone. The person had downloaded the photo, cropped out the Sink Creek Photography watermark and claimed it as her own.

Of course most people recognize that the photo came from somewhere else and likely know exactly who took it, but that isn't the point. And of course before I share photos on Facebook, I make sure the files are so itty-bitty that anyone trying to make a print from one of them is going to end up with a really shitty picture, but that isn't the point, either. The point is that I carefully add a copyright statement underneath every single photo I put there, and I periodically share a message reminding folks that they're welcome to pass along photos to anyone they think might enjoy them, as long as they share from my page, leave all watermarks in place and appropriately credit the work.

Some people just don't care. To them, there's a world of difference in carting a couple of girls to an ATM at gunpoint and stealing someone's photos or music online. Aside from the whole "gun thing as an aggravating factor", there really isn't. So watermarks are now big and garish. Photos I share with the world of Facebook will come from the Sink Creek Photography website, where I'm currently using three levels of anti-theft protection.

Stealing is stealing. But this time I'm not sleeping through it.


Writer's Note: While I have added a copyright statement at the top of the blog, I'm 100% unconcerned about you lovely folks. Please always feel free to share my posts and photos with you friends and others whose days might be brightened by them.