The red dog is not known for his patience. And being a Cattle Dog, he’s not afraid to take over the helm.
And all you folks with rookie teenage drivers thought YOU had problems ….
I was searching for a clearing to shoot the sunset at Bashan Lake when I spied these snow covered boats through the trees. I couldn’t get any closer and I was penned in on both sides, but I decided to try a couple of shots anyway. Most of the homes on this lake are seasonal and are closed up for the winter, but I didn’t feel comfortable trespassing on private property. I might get a better shot later in the winter if some of the snow that’s blocking the way melts, but for now this will have to do.
Jan 16, 2011. 5:12 PM. EST.
Canon EOS 7D
ISO: 100, 135mm, 1/13 sec, f/22.
Lens: Canon EF-S18-135mm 3.5-5.6 IS
Lightroom 3: Brightness/contrast adj.
This photo of a wedding carriage was taken earlier this month at the Equine Affair. You can just make out the veil of the bride sitting in the back. They were moving at quite a clip and I had to shoot fast. Unfortunately, the best photo out of four had a big honking dumpster in the background. (They were everywhere at this four-day event.) I did use Lightroom to neutralize the vivid green of the dumpster, but otherwise left the photo as shot. (Yes, the sky really was that blue!)
This photo seemed fitting …. my husband will be “working” as a groom/footman this weekend at a holiday carriage event in Ridgefield CT.
Nov 11, 2010
2:23 PM. EST.
Canon EOS 7D
38mm, 1/160, f/16, ISO 200
Lens: EF-S 18-135mm IS
There are no roads that lead here, no trails. I’m not sure how this car got here or why it was abandoned so deep in the woods. It’s been sitting here since way before I moved to this area, which was twenty-four years ago last month.
The occasional visual blight aside, I love this stretch of woods. It’s not clogged with underbrush and the rolling landscape is dotted with interesting old trees
and crossed by several old stone walls.
I’ve spent a lot of time exploring these woods and I’ve come to think of them as my own … even thought they’re not.
I have a new camera that has so many buttons and settings, it makes my brain hurt. For the most part I gave up taking pictures about a dozen years ago, when my husband came home with a point and shoot that was too tiny and complicated for my sporadic use. Having to re-read the entire owner’s manual just to snap a quick pic was tedious and left me not wanting to use the camera. So why I’ve decided to jump into photography as my newest hobby is beyond me, except that I think it’s time I tinkered with a hobby that doesn’t leave me physically battered and broken. Not that photography doesn’t come with a few risks (as I’ve quickly discovered), but with a little planning and foresight I hope to reduce the danger factor to something a bit less demanding than say, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.
So lately I’ve been taking a boatload pictures of a lot of different things because they say practice makes perfect. I find myself scanning the upcoming events in the local newspaper and dashing off to things I never would have thought of doing before. And that’s a pretty cool thing in itself. I mean, there are specific things I know I want to shoot in the future, but for now it’s all good!
Last weekend I hit an antique car show. That’s not my thing, but it was a challenge to get some decent pictures. Between the people constantly waking into my field of vision and the difficult angles, I struggled to get some good shots. The photos I did get were nice, though I can see where I could have tweaked this or that to improve the end result. And that’s why I’m doing this: to learn!
I met my husband in a gym. Today, that’s the equivalent of a bar, but gyms didn’t have that sort of stigma back then. It never failed that he would walk past me just when I was gritting out a rep and say something really cheerful like, “Work ’em hard!” or “Good job!” If he wasn’t so darn handsome I probably woulda decked him.
Eventually I got a name, but that was a cruel joke. Back then I didn’t know anything about ethnicity or European cultures. Where I grew up the closest we ever got to having a label was that you were either a dairy farmer or an apple farmer. Sadly, I could not for the life of me remember his name, which made for some amusing early dialogue. And truth be told, there was another guy at the gym who looked a lot like him, so to play it safe I was probably a little too nice to both of them than I would like to admit. Just to cover my bases, mind you. Today, you’d have to poke me in the eye to get my attention when I’m lifting. Lucky for him, I was more easily distracted back then.
Ah, she’s grown so cold.
Anyhow, in the fall of 1981 we finally got down to brass tacks. The story went like this:
His opener: “I’m working on this great Mopar. You like Mopars?”
Me: “Sure do!”
Mind you, I have no idea what a Mopar is. I hoped I hadn’t just admitted to liking something illegal or immoral.
Big huge pause. He’s clearly at a loss for words, which I mistake for nerves. I’m flattered and let it slide. Come to find out, this is a permanent, gender-based glitch in his brain that causes him to say nearly everything in three sentences or less.
Me: “I’d really like to see your Mopar!”
I have no idea what a Mopar is. Now I’m really hoping it’s not illegal or gym slang for a body part. Or something.
Looks at me like he’s just stumbled on the Lost City of Gold.
Thinking: OK, I’ve just thrown caution to the wind, so you’d better get with the program buddy. This is your big chance. He tells me he’ll bring it to the gym on Friday, which means it’s probably not a body part or an exercise. Phew!
Friday he walks into the gym all cocky, clearly in a great mood. He tells me he brought the Mopar. He’s not wearing or carrying it, so I ask him where it is.
“Of course.” I say.
Thinking … motorcycle? Mysteriously, we finish lifting at the exact same time. (Another story) The excitement mounts. We walk out to the parking lot together and there she sits. The Mopar.
It’s a car, for crying out loud.
In steel gray primer.
“WOW! It’s beautiful”
First lie. Honest.
He thinks so. It’s written all over his face. Proud as punch.
I slowly circle the heap. Peer inside. It’s God-awful. Smells like oil. Milk crate for a passenger seat. Open toolbox on the floor. Racing harness seat belt. (Not a big confidence builder.) Funky looking pistol shifter. No door panels. Is that blue SHAG carpet? Enough gauges on the dash for a lunar landing and stereo speakers that make the ones in my living room look like a Sony Walkman.
I grope for something nice to say. I’m smiling so hard, my face actually hurts.
He’s such a hunk.
The car is a train wreck, but obviously it’s important to him. So I said the only really cool thing I’ve ever said in my entire life.
“Did you bring her up here just to look at, or are you gonna take me for a ride?”
Months later, when it was safe to admit he had feelings for me, he told me that he fell for me when I said I liked his car.
Men. If they only knew the truth.
PS. Turns out, that little ‘Cuda kicked butt.