Tripods and the Language of Love

When we cleared through my dad’s things after he died in August 5, 2018, one of the running jokes was how many tripods he owned. So many kept being discovered in every nook, cranny, and corner. So many versions of “just in case.” It felt like a metaphor for his whole life—always building, fixing, preparing for whatever he might want to make or do next.

Fast forward to now, and I’m deep in my own creative time of growth. I’m growing my business, learning to create and work with video, experimenting with light, angles and storytelling. Which means… I need tripods. One for this. One for that. One that goes overhead. One that doesn’t quite work. Suddenly I’m on my fifth tripod, and my partner Jack is teasing me: “You’re just like your dad.”

And he’s not wrong.

The latest twist? I ordered a weighted, top-down tripod for desk videos. It arrived, and it wasn’t quite right. When I tried to return it, the company refunded me and told me to just keep or donate it. So now I have yet another tripod I don’t even need, and “the right one” is on the way. I shook my head and laughed. Of course I do.

But underneath the humor is something softer.

I would give anything to call my dad and ask, “Which tripod would you use?” I miss his advice. His opinions. His way of solving things. I miss him every day. And sometimes it feels like these small echoes—tripods, habits, quirks—are how our love keeps talking.

Maybe becoming like him in this tiny, funny way is a form of remembering. Maybe every tripod is less about clutter and more about connection. A quiet reminder that I come from someone who loved to make magic happen—and now, so do I.

Different tools. Same instinct.

Still building. Still learning.

Still loving him.