Back in June 2016, I started a new "series" of posts... if you will... 
 And so on Wednesdays; I've been posting an old photograph to inspire your creativity.
Write a poem!   
 Plot out a short story.
 Have inspiration for a piece of art or composition.... let your artistic soul shine.
--and occasionally I write my own sordid story or poem. 
 (you can click on the photos in this post to make it larger to see).


This is the last known photo of Professor Dodde.
An immigrant from Wales, he received his doctoral degree in Quantum Physics from Stanford University in the early 40s;
and taught for many years throughout California and the west coast.
He was a peculiar fellow, having left all his family back in Wales, and did not associate with them (or even speak of them) once he moved to California. He did not chat with his neighbors. He did not attend the local church. He was a studious sort, preferring to spend his days in dusty libraries and tinkering about in his garage. He relished his solitude, save for a black cat he named Midnight.
Every so often, one could catch a glimpse of him on his way to the store to get cat food,
or writing furiously in one of his journals on his back steps... cat curled up at his feet.
It's not that he didn't like folks.... it's just that he didn't have much reason to deal with them.

In point of fact, no one knows what became of Professor Dodde.
He simply disappeared one day. Actually.. it could have been any day in the month of February, 1958. For no one saw him the entirety of the month. Not that many did anyway. ...But he didn't pick up his mail... and soon enough the papers were strewn about his door. Neighbors called the police, who politely wrapped on his door... and discovered no trace of him. His clothes were still in his closet, his pipe, cold and forlorn on the mantle. His bicycle was still in the garage.
But he was gone. His journals were all gone. His favorite coffee cup was gone.
And there was distinct smell of sulfur about the house that no one could explain.

Rumors thought he had perfected time travel, and had moved on to another time and place.
Whispers on the wire thought he might have been a CIA informant, and had been eliminated.
Still others thought he had finally become homesick; and moved back to Wales.
Who knows....
but when the wind howls, and the sand stirs up on some foggy beach near Santa Cruz,
folks have said to have seen him... walking and writing... cat at his feet.