THE BUG LIGHT BOYS

A Little Light in the Room

A True Story by Lloyd W. Alexander

Bonus Content · True Adventures · Approved October 19, 2026

There are friendships in life that don't require a lot of words. You don't always have to explain what someone means to you, and they don't have to explain what you mean to them.

Sometimes, you just know.

That's the kind of friendship I had with Charlie.

Charlie was one of those people who genuinely wanted to see others succeed. He didn't just talk about supporting people. He showed it.

For years, he came to my photography shows, sometimes traveling quite a distance to attend. He would stand near my display, talking with visitors about my photographs, often encouraging them to take a closer look. Sometimes he'd purchase a photograph, only to turn around and give it to someone else.

That was Charlie.

When we spent time together away from the boys, I would occasionally bring him a photograph I thought he'd enjoy. There was never any expectation of payment or anything in return.

It was simply something I wanted to do for a friend.

And Charlie was much more than just a friend to me.

He was someone I admired, someone I respected, and someone whose presence in my life was making a difference I hadn't yet fully understood.

At the time, Charlie's wife was very sick. She was battling cancer, and we knew her time might be limited.

I'd met her a couple of times at their home. She was a lovely woman, and there was never any question about how much Charlie loved her.

Charlie had mentioned that she enjoyed my wildlife photography, particularly my bird photographs.

And especially cardinals.

That gave me an idea.

I wanted to bring her a collection of photographs and spend a little time sharing the stories behind them.

Not simply show her pictures, but take her along on some of my adventures.

Because that's always been one of the things I've tried to accomplish through my photography.

I don't want someone looking at one of my photographs and simply saying, "That's a nice picture."

I want them to feel like they're there.

I want them to feel the experience.

My standards for photography have always been pretty demanding. I try to capture the photograph correctly when I press the shutter. If I get home and can't finish editing a photograph in thirty seconds to a minute, chances are it isn't one I'm going to keep.

To me, the photograph should already tell its story.

And I hoped that, for a little while, my photographs might help Charlie's wife experience some of the places and moments that had meant so much to me.

The Visit

We arranged to meet at Mercy Hospital.

Charlie knew about my anxiety and understood that hospitals, crowds, and unfamiliar surroundings could be particularly difficult for me.

We met toward the back of the parking lot, away from the busier areas.

I was familiar with the hospital grounds because I'd photographed wildlife there before. That familiarity helped.

As we walked toward the building, Charlie asked about the photographs I'd brought.

I had selected a variety of wildlife images, including several birds, and I'd deliberately placed the cardinal near the end.

I asked Charlie if he wanted to look through them before we went inside.

He declined.

He wanted to be surprised.

That was wonderful.

And, for someone with my anxiety, a little terrifying.

Immediately, my mind started questioning my selections.

Were they good enough?

Would she enjoy them?

Had I chosen the right photographs?

Should I have brought something different?

But something interesting happened.

I became so concerned about making the visit special for her that I wasn't spending nearly as much time worrying about being in the hospital.

My focus had shifted.

For once, the concern I had for someone else was taking up more room in my mind than the anxiety I usually carried.

As we approached her room, Charlie stopped.

He needed a moment.

I could see how difficult this was for him.

He took a breath, and I stood there with him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

After a moment, he looked at me.

"We can do this."

Not I can do this.

We.

That one little word meant a lot.

Bringing the Outdoors Inside

Once we were in the room, we settled into conversation.

I began showing her the photographs, sharing stories about the animals and some of the experiences I'd had photographing them.

When we came to one of my fox photographs, I told her its name: the Vested Fox. I'd called it that for years because of the way the sunlight fell across its fur, making it look as though it was wearing a little vest.

I told her about first encountering the fox as a curious young kit in Crawford Notch while Naomi and I were photographing wildlife. Over the years, I would return and sometimes find that same fox again. Eventually, spending time with her became more important than getting another photograph. I already had plenty of pictures. Sometimes I just wanted to enjoy being there.

It made Charlie's wife smile to hear how one photograph could carry so many memories.

Charlie couldn't resist adding his own commentary.

At one point, he compared me to Dr. Dolittle.

That was Charlie, too.

He could find a little humor in almost any situation.

Eventually, we reached the bird photographs.

Almost immediately, I noticed a change in her.

She became more animated.

Her eyes seemed to brighten.

"What bird is that?" she'd ask whenever she encountered one she didn't recognize.

I'd tell her its name and talk a little about its habits, its habitat, and the things that made it interesting.

But I was careful about something.

I didn't want to spend time telling her exactly where she could go to see these birds.

I knew she wasn't going to be visiting those places.

And I didn't want to unintentionally remind her of something she might never be able to do again.

So rather than saying she could drive fifteen minutes down the road and possibly see a particular bird, I'd explain how it liked to hide in the brush or describe some interesting behavior I'd observed.

I wanted her thinking about the bird.

Not about the places she couldn't go.

It wasn't something I discussed with her. It was simply a decision I made as we talked.

I wanted to give her something positive.

Something she could enjoy right there in that room.

And then she said something that meant more to me than she probably realized.

Looking at one of the photographs, she told me she felt as though she could almost reach out and touch the bird.

That was it.

That was exactly what I'd spent years trying to accomplish.

I wanted people to feel they were part of the experience, not merely observers looking at a photograph.

And here was this woman, sitting in a hospital room, telling me that was precisely what she felt.

It was a wonderful moment.

The Cardinal

I'd saved one particular photograph until nearly the end.

A cardinal.

And not just any cardinal photograph.

This was one of those rare images where everything seemed to come together perfectly.

The bird appeared almost to have posed for me.

The lighting was beautiful.

The detail in its feathers, the way the light caught its eye, the rich red color—everything was exactly as I'd hoped it would be when I pressed the shutter.

It was one of those photographs that needed virtually nothing done to it afterward.

The cardinal almost seemed to jump right out of the picture.

I knew how much she loved cardinals.

Charlie had made that very clear.

And I hoped this photograph would mean something special to her.

But there was still that familiar uncertainty.

No matter how many years I'd spent behind a camera, no matter how many people had praised or purchased my photographs, showing someone a new image never became easy for me.

Every time felt like the first time.

I would study their expressions.

Listen carefully to their words.

Look for the slightest hesitation.

It was part of my anxiety.

To me, handing someone a photograph was almost like handing them a piece of myself and waiting to be judged.

Not just the photograph.

My abilities.

My judgment.

My worth as a photographer.

I knew that wasn't necessarily what the other person was thinking.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally can be two very different things.

So even though I loved this cardinal photograph, I had no expectation that she would feel the same way.

I simply hoped.

Then I showed it to her.

Her mouth opened.

Her entire expression changed.

"Oh, I love cardinals!"

There was no mistaking her reaction.

She was delighted.

I asked her what made cardinals so special to her.

And she began telling me.

She'd loved them all her life.

To her, cardinals represented something beyond their beauty. She associated them with people who had passed away, with the idea that someone we love might still be close to us in some way.

They reminded her especially of her father.

Of happy memories.

Of people and moments that remained precious to her.

I listened as she talked.

Suddenly, this wasn't simply a photograph of a beautiful bird.

It was connected to something deeply personal in her life.

I'd brought the cardinal hoping it might make her happy.

I hadn't realized just how much meaning it might carry.

I'd already decided that if she truly loved the photograph, I would leave it with her.

And now there wasn't any question.

I gently placed the framed cardinal photograph on her lap.

She looked at it.

Then she looked at me.

"Is this mine?"

"Yeah," I told her. "That's yours."

She turned toward Charlie.

"Charlie, did you buy this for me?"

"No, I did not," he answered. "This is just Lloyd being Lloyd."

She looked back at me, smiling.

Then she teased Charlie, saying something about how he'd told her what a nice guy I was, but apparently hadn't told her just how nice.

We laughed.

And it was exactly the kind of moment that room needed.

For me, much of the visit had felt serious. I was constantly aware of her illness, of Charlie's feelings, and of my desire to make everything go well.

But for those few moments, we were simply three people enjoying a beautiful bird, sharing a few memories, and having a laugh.

And the photograph belonged to her now.

The cardinal photograph shared with Charlie’s wife. Photograph by Lloyd W. Alexander.

A Little Light

Eventually, Charlie suggested that we let her rest.

We made sure the framed cardinal photograph was positioned where she could see it and continue enjoying it.

I told Charlie I was going to head out.

Before leaving, I thanked his wife for allowing me to visit, for her patience, and for letting me share a little part of my journey with her.

Her response caught me off guard.

She told me I didn't need to thank her.

She was the one who wanted to thank me.

She said I'd brought some light into the room and into that moment in her life.

She told me how much she'd enjoyed looking at the photographs, hearing the stories, and sharing experiences she otherwise might never have had.

Then she said something else.

She told me how much it meant to know that Charlie had such a wonderful time when he was with me.

She enjoyed hearing about our adventures together.

And she wanted me to keep doing those things with him.

She wanted to know that Charlie would continue having those moments.

I told her, of course.

Charlie was one of my best friends.

Someone I looked up to.

Someone I admired and respected tremendously.

And someone I genuinely cared about.

Naturally, Charlie couldn't let me get too far into that.

"That's enough, Lloyd."

I looked at him.

His face had actually gotten a little flushed.

He was embarrassed.

And I couldn't help finding that a little funny.

Here was this man who could talk comfortably with just about anybody, who was always ready with a story or a joke, suddenly becoming uncomfortable because someone was telling him how much he meant to them.

That was another side of Charlie.

I told him I'd wait outside the room, or I could leave if he wanted to spend some time alone with his wife.

He asked me to give him a minute.

He'd walk out with me.

To the Moon and Back

I stepped into the hallway and wandered a short distance away.

I could hear them talking quietly.

Their voices were much softer now.

It was a private moment between a husband and wife.

Then I heard her say something.

"I love you, Charlie."

And Charlie answered.

"I love you too, to the moon and back."

I'd heard that expression before.

On television, in movies, and in conversations.

But I don't think I'd ever actually heard someone say it to another person in quite that way.

There was something about hearing those words in that hallway that stayed with me.

They weren't dramatic.

They weren't spoken for anyone else's benefit.

They were simply words of love between two people who had shared a life together.

After a little while, Charlie came out.

His eyes were misty.

He walked over, placed his hand on my shoulder, and gave me a little pat.

"Thank you. Awesome job."

He told me how wonderful the visit had been.

"You're welcome," I said.

Then I looked at him.

"You okay?"

He paused.

"I'm dealing, Lloyd. I'm dealing with it."

And that was enough.

We walked quietly back toward the parking lot.

There really wasn't much else that needed saying.

Just What You Do

When we reached our vehicles, Charlie thanked me again.

He couldn't seem to thank me enough.

But I didn't feel I'd done anything that required thanks.

Not really.

I'd brought some photographs to someone who might enjoy them.

I'd shared a few stories.

I'd spent some time with a friend and someone he loved.

To me, that was simply what you did for people you cared about.

For people you loved.

And I did love Charlie.

I don't know whether that was the exact moment I fully understood it.

Maybe I already knew.

Maybe I'd known for quite some time.

But standing there in that parking lot, I became more aware of just how important this man had become in my life.

He wasn't simply someone I met with down near Bug Light.

He wasn't just another one of the boys.

Charlie was someone who had made a genuine difference in my life.

A man who encouraged me.

Who accepted me.

Who understood some of my struggles without making me feel that those struggles defined me.

Someone whose friendship had become far more important than I might have realized.

And I hoped, in some small way, that I'd been able to give him something meaningful in return.

We decided we'd meet up with the boys afterward.

Charlie said he was going to take a little ride first.

I understood.

Sometimes a person needs a little time alone with their thoughts.

I headed back toward our usual gathering place, arriving well before he did.

Charlie showed up considerably later, perhaps an hour or so after we'd left the hospital.

I never asked where he'd gone.

I didn't need to.

That was Charlie.

And sometimes being a friend means knowing when not to ask questions.

What Stayed With Me

I've taken countless photographs over the years.

Some have won awards.

Some have appeared in publications.

Some have been purchased by people I've never met.

And some have become particularly meaningful to me because of the moments surrounding them.

That cardinal photograph will always be one of those.

Not because it was technically perfect.

Not because the lighting was beautiful or the detail exceptional.

Those things mattered to me as a photographer.

But something else mattered far more.

For a little while, that photograph helped bring a smile to a woman who was facing something terribly difficult.

It brought back memories of her father.

It gave her something beautiful to look at.

And perhaps most importantly, it gave Charlie and his wife one more happy moment to share.

I went into that hospital hoping to bring a little light into her room.

What I didn't realize was how much that visit would illuminate something in my own life.

How much Charlie meant to me.

How important our friendship had become.

And how sometimes the smallest gestures can carry a meaning far greater than we ever intended.

I don't know exactly what Charlie thought about during that drive afterward.

I never asked him.

But I know what I carried away from that day.

A memory of a beautiful cardinal.

A woman smiling at a photograph.

A husband telling his wife he loved her to the moon and back.

And a friend whose quiet strength, kindness, and friendship had changed my life in ways I was only beginning to understand.

Sometimes, bringing a little light into someone else's life has a way of illuminating your own.

And sometimes, that's what friendship is all about.