Spring has sprung and the ducks have shown up at our pond. I call it a pond, but it’s really more of a reedy, mucky puddle. No matter, they like the early vegetation that sprouts from the bottom. Being a shallow pond, they can easily reach whatever grows and I suspect they like the water that warms so quickly in the early April sun.
I get a kick out of seeing them. This year they showed up as an attached pair, whereas in years prior I’ve watched the female get chased hither and yon across the water by several pursuing drakes intent on having her as a mate. Once they’re paired, they stick together like glue, but sometimes the drake has to spend a lot of time chasing off other suitors. Oddly, this year things seem very quiet and it’s been just the two of them.
His job is to keep tabs on her and protect his future progeny.
Her job is more complex, as usual. 😉
To my surprise, they hung around all day. Usually I only see these ducks once or twice before they leave to raise their young in a safer location, but then they showed up again a few days later and spent the better part of another day eating the black oil seed that has dropped from my feeders and snoozing on a small island of grass in the pond. At the end of the day they left, and I haven’t seen them since. A nearby neighbor has a beautiful, huge, clear pond, so I feel quite honored that this couple even chooses to visit my little puddle when they could have much nicer digs right down the road.
Last week, before it turned 90 and ridiculously humid, I went hiking in the woods with Hazer. We hadn’t gone hiking in a long time and I was feeling pretty nostalgic, especially when we came to Hazer’s “up” rock. The “up” rock is a very large bolder that graces the side of this one particular trail. When Hazer was a youngster he learned to run ahead, jump up on this rock and wait for me to come along, praise him. and give him a treat. It was a game we always played. We’d approach the general vicinity of the rock and I’d say, “go find the up rock” and Hazer would run ahead, jump up on the rock and wait for me to come give him a treat. It was great fun and we’d play the up rock game both coming and going on that trail. Although the trail is littered with large boulders in several areas, this is the only rock Hazer has ever climbed.
We hadn’t hiked this trail in about 2 years and I’d kinda forgotten about the “up” rock. As usual, Hazer trotted along in front of me, veering off the trail from time to time when something piqued his interest. At some point Hazer jogged ahead out of view and when I came around a bend, there he was waiting patiently on his favorite rock. I was so amazed that he remembered! It really warmed my heart. Fortunately, I always carry a little pouch with treats and I gave him several as I praised him for remembering our game. I called him down and we continued on our way.
The trail crosses several small streams, but all have dwindled to barely a trickle in most places. Our final destination is a larger stream that, despite a recent dry spell still sports a pretty little water fall and a deep-ish “swimming hole.” Hazer’s never been much of a swimmer, but if opportunity presents he likes to wade in a stream. At this particular spot he’ll usually walk in until the water is about belly deep, then stand there to cool off and have a drink. There’s a nice crop of ledge that I can sit on while he putters around for a bit. This is our turnaround point, so there’s never any hurry to rush off. Many a deep conversation has been held there between Hazer and I and today was no different. We had a lot to discuss.
Hazer is getting old. Oddly, I’ve noticed him aging more so than Neena, who is the same age. He sleeps a lot more during the day and his movements aren’t as quick or as steady. More often than not I’ll come home from an errand and Hazer won’t run to greet me in the kitchen like I’m the second coming of Christ. When I put my things down and go looking for him he’s usually sacked out somewhere comfy, awake and well aware that I’ve returned, but not inclined to jump up and carry on like before. Sometimes he picks his head up off his pillow, other times he just glances in my direction before sighing and drifting off to sleep again. It makes me a little sad. He’s not always like that, but it’s not unusual either.
I’ve spent most of Hazer’s life wishing he’d shut up and behave more like a normal dog. He could be the poster dog for Autistic Dogs. To say he’s a difficult dog to live with is a gross understatement. Quirky, irritating, OCD and socially inept, he’s the kind of dog who’d have been better off being the only household pet. But he’s not, and so he takes it upon himself to make life hard for everyone. Back in early June Hazer jumped Gus and they had a nasty fight. Hazer doesn’t signal these things and even though I’ve always got one eye trained on him when Gus is around, his usual MO is to wait until he’s behind my back to make a move. There was no pre-warning growl. His posture didn’t change. He just launched. And for the first time ever, Gus didn’t ignore the challenge. Oh, there have been other instances when I’ve had to step between the boys to “break” Hazer’s locked-on, I-dare-you stare. But Gus has always let Hazer’s nonsense roll off his shoulders. You see, Hazer is an alpha-wannabe and I think most dogs get that his nonsense stems from his insecurity. But this time it was different and Hazer finally barked up the wrong tree one too many times.
I’ve lost count how many fights Hazer has started. It’s not a lot, but any fight is one fight too many. And every time it happens you’re horrified, even when the outcome isn’t all that bad. Why do dogs who live in the same house and seem to get along fine suddenly snap and want to kill each other? Something has to take place between them that humans can’t sense or see. Some invisible trash-talk, some insult or challenge must get hurled through space in a glance or a stare. Humans always can’t hear this “inaudible” dialogue and sometimes we can’t even see it, but it’s there. And it can get ugly fast.
I pulled Hazer off Gus, who was reluctant to let go of Hazer. Gus is a terrier and he’s got a strong gripping instinct. Tapping the super-human strength that adrenaline brings to these situations, I hurled Hazer across my kitchen and herded Gus into a corner of the foyer. He was injured, bleeding and threatening to bite me, but there was pain and fear in his eyes, not angst. I paused for a few seconds to give Gus a moment to calm down. It was not a good scene, but at this point I was just thankful that Neena hadn’t jumped into the fray and that for the moment, Hazer wasn’t the least bit interested in finishing the job he’d started. I got both ACDs into my office, closed the door and directed my attention to Gus, who was shaking his head, splattering his blood all over my kitchen cupboards and floor.
As far as ears go the damage was minimal. It could have been MUCH worse. It seems like the bigger the ears the more the target, and Gus has HUGE ears. He sustained a puncture wound about halfway up one ear and the very tip of that ear had what looked like a small divot in it. I couldn’t tell if the divot was just some fur missing or if the tissue was gone too, but it was clear Gus wasn’t going to let me touch it. At least not right away. I grabbed some sterile gauze which I dampened with cold water, then did my best to clean the blood away so I could decide if we needed to make a trip to the vet. Experience has taught me that ear wounds might bleed like heck, but they don’t always require vet attention. After about ten minutes or so the bleeding started to abate and I got a better look at the wound. I didn’t think there was much the vet could do besides clean him up and send him home with some antibiotics and pain meds. I’m not a big on treating every little wound with antibiotics, so I decided to keep an eye on it and pass on the vet unless things took a turn for the worse.
The bigger problem was figuring out what to do from that point on. Living in a small house with two dogs who don’t get along is a serious problem, one I’ve always said I’d loathe to do. Baby gates were dragged down from the attic and covered with polar fleece blankets to discourage any visual challenges. A new routine and protocol had to be instantly implemented to keep the boys from having any interaction. This meant having to think about who was where at all times and carefully planning for trips in or out. Gus now eats upstairs, the other two dogs eat downstairs. Being a reluctant strategist made me grouchy and made my brain hurt, not to mention that I was constantly living with pet strife.
Gus healed, both physically and emotionally. He also got neutered. Zip-zip, just like that, Gus went from a show dog to non show dog. I was seriously bummed, but the alternatives weren’t good. Hazer was neutered at 16 months because he was starting to pick fights with one of my older dogs and now I was neutering Gus because Hazer was targeting him. This so sucked. For about a week I felt like I was living in some endless version of pet hell. Since all my dogs want to be with me, one of them is always whining or yipping or acting out their misery in whatever room I’m not in. All the trainer’s I’ve ever known have told me that if you ignore their noise and nonsense they’ll eventually give up and quit. They’ve never met Hazer. He’s in the living room right now, where he’s been whining for several hours. Pet hell.
Slowly, we’ve started going outside together as a group. I keep the dogs busy playing ball and Frisbee for a bit and then everyone seems pretty content to mind their own business. I have 6+ acres so nobody needs to be right on top of one another. It still requires management, but it’s pretty doable and I’ll take any improvement I can get. Inside we’re still a work in progress. I’ve had the boys “mingle” a little because if I keep them apart for too long they’ll start to think something’s wrong if they’re suddenly together. Better to give them small, heavily supervised doses of togetherness and mix things up to keep them guessing. I want them focused on me, not each other when they’re in the same room. But they can’t be together unless I’m able to have my full attention on them. When the weather permits, I try to hike Hazer, then he and Neena do several hours in the outside pen. Gus hangs out with me. Some days I feel like my whole existence revolves around managing the dogs, but I have hopes that this situation won’t last forever and eventually we’ll return to a more normal routine. I’ll never trust Hazer around Gus, but as more time goes by without any further issues, the better it bodes for all. Although Gus seems to be letting go of any angst he had about the fight, I’m sure he doesn’t trust Hazer. Who would? Gus gives Hazer a pretty wide berth. For now, that’s the new order of things around here. We’ll see how it goes.
An early morning sunrise over a local swamp. The sun had just barely cleared the treeline before it was overtaken by an onslaught of approaching clouds, leaving the rest of the day overcast and dull. The entire shoot lasted about ten minutes and served as yet another example of having to “be there” before the event happens if you expect to capture it!
When I bought my camera in June of 2010 I’d never had any interest in taking photos. I didn’t own a smart phone and I hadn’t used a point and shoot more than a half dozen times in as many years. I simply woke up one day and decided I needed a new hobby, and settled on photography. I sat down at the computer and started doing some research on digital cameras, which is sort of hard to do when you don’t know the first thing beyond pushing a button and getting a mediocre result. A few years earlier I’d tried reading the instruction manual for the point and shoot camera we owned and it lost me after explaining how to turn the camera on. As a result, wading through the endless narratives about which camera and what brand would best suit me was a monumental exercise in frustration.
I finally settled on the Canon 7D for no other reason than the fact that it was (at that time) a new model and most people were raving about it. I didn’t stop to think that I might be getting in way over my head rather, I thought I’d eventually “grow into” my camera. I reasoned that once I knew what I was doing it would be better to have everything I wanted in a camera than wish I’d bought the next model (or two) up, right? Well it’s been three years since I bought it and I’m still not sure if it was the right decision.
The first year I had my D7 was a spectacular year for taking outdoor photos. I didn’t know that then, I just thought I had a big fancy camera and every picture I took would (therefore) turn out great! Wow. It’s kinda hard to believe I was that naive. Truth of the matter is, by sheer dumb luck I’d just happened to buy my camera at a very good time. I’ve since learned that great shooting conditions are rare and you can go an entire season (or year or two) and not have more than a few days where the conditions are great for shooting. I didn’t use to care about that and I took lots of pictures anyway, but they weren’t the same quality and I (eventually) knew it. As hard as it is for me to look out the window and see beautiful fall colors in the trees and surrounding landscape, I won’t grab my camera unless the conditions for shooting are just right.
Perhaps that makes me sound like a snob or far more of a professional than I really am, but the truth of the matter is, I’m lazy. The days of taking a roll of pictures and dropping them off to be developed are gone, and while that gives me lots of creative license, it’s a huge time-suck to have to process my own photos. I’ve become far more discriminatory about when and what I’ll shoot and even which pictures I’ll keep. So the fact of the matter is, unless the conditions are perfect for what I want to shoot, I won’t even bother to try.
I’ve watched the days turn into weeks, then months as my camera sits untouched. I admit, that makes me a bit uncomfortable sometimes. I worry that I’m being TOO discriminatory or lazy. I feel guilty about the money I’ve spent on equipment that isn’t getting used. But eventually I know I’ll wake up to a morning when I can instantly tell that it’s going to deliver everything I want: light, color, subject and the right conditions. The photo above was taken on one of those mornings.
No matter how crazy life gets I’m thankful for the peace and beauty of every new day.
I used to think I was pretty well-grounded. Believing you’re a rock with a good grasp on your life; where you’re going and that you can get there on your own, is almost a rite of passage for the young. But as the years go by I’m beginning to realize I’m not an island, and there’s a danger in thinking I have complete control over my destiny. I once had somebody tell me that when I avoid asking for help I’m denying someone the opportunity to serve me, which blesses them and helps them grow emotionally and spiritually.
Deep down I know that’s true, but I still tend to hesitate to ask for assistance. Yet, when someone comes to me for help I usually feel privileged that they’ve put their trust in me. So why shouldn’t I be willing to allow someone else the same opportunity? Is it because I think I might look stupid if I ask for help? Am I afraid of being vulnerable? Am I arrogant, thinking I should be capable of solving all my own problems? Do I hesitate because I might risk feeling connected? Or is it really just easier to go it alone?
There’s a part of me that stubbornly clings to the belief that if someone loves me they’d know how and when to help and I shouldn’t need to ask. I don’t know where I got this foolish idea, but it’s one of several thoughts that prevent me from seeking help when I need it. Most people aren’t mind readers and don’t always see when a friend or family member needs help. Others need to be given a very specific request to fulfill or they’ll waffle and hold back until you provide them with a clear directive. For example, I think one of the worst things you can say to someone who has recently experienced a trauma or tragedy is, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” That’s pretty vague. And it puts the affected person in the position having to ask for and even delegate help later, which they may not be capable of doing in the aftermath of an event. Better, would be to simply ask, “How can I help?” and wait for a reply. The person still may say they don’t need help, but at least you’re giving them the chance to ask specifically for what they need at that very moment.
Life is full of opportunities to learn to ask for help and to offer assistance to those who need it. It’s up to us to get out of our comfort zone, wade through our awkwardness and use these lessons as stepping stones for growth.
I almost didn’t post this picture because the resolution is absolutely abysmal unless you click on the picture. I don’t know what’s up with WP, but this format is making me not want to blog. What’s the point if the resolution stinks?
This photo reminds me so much of the Adirondack Mountains that it makes my heart hurt. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. I miss it terribly.
Anyone who has been reading my blog for the last year knows I went through a buttload of eye surgery and problems. I’m glad to report that a few permanent changes aside, the affected eye is doing good. Translated, that means it sees pretty well most of the time. Occasionally it hurts and I’ll get a day where it’s achy or feels like there’s a grain of sand in it. The rods and cones that make your eye adjust to different levels of light are significantly damaged. So, for example, when I come inside on a bright day it’s a bit like walking into a black wall. I’m trying to learn to give my eye time to adjust to changing light levels, but sometimes it catches me off guard and I get frustrated. Especially if I’m moving from room to room looking for something. But considering what I went through I’m relieved that I have any vision at all. I dodged a bullet there.
While trapped in the continuous loop of repeated eye surgery, I was forced to post-pone a couple of the preventive tests that the average woman will routinely endure to assure optimal health. Let me just say one thing now and get it off my chest: Men, you have NO idea. None. About any of it. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t a woman alive who, in the midst of a mammogram or PAP test isn’t thinking the same thing. I know women are supposed to get used to having their bodies poked, prodded and palpated by complete strangers, but really, who does? So guys, next time you break out into a cold sweat at the thought of a five second prostate exam just know that no woman alive feels you or cares. Get over it.
Last week, like any well-trained middle-age woman, I went for my slightly overdue mammogram. I’ve been going to the same imaging office since I started this yearly pilgrimage eight years ago. I went somewhere else the first time and was totally and thoroughly traumatized. I mean, who created this torture anyhow? The radiology tech was young, impatient and rough, and it took everything in my power not to kick her in the shins. I promised not to come back and didn’t. Instead, I found an office with a slightly older than middle-age tech. Having been though a mammogram or two herself, Cindy is compassionate, professional and very good at her job. I’ve been going there ever since.
Over the years a few things have changed. For one, x-ray images are now digital, which means they’re “processed” in the same room where they’re taken, and it takes a lot less time to know if you’re done and can be off on your merry way. What hasn’t changed is how the images are taken. The patient steps up to a machine with two small, square plates that close together like a vice. One by one each breast is then stretched out and placed on the lower plate as the tech moves the coordinating arm and shoulder either into or out of the way. The idea is to get not only a picture of the breast, but as much of the surrounding chest wall as possible. This is not an easy feat to achieve, but try they must. Yes, its a little weird to have to watch a stranger manipulate your private parts. It’s not like you can look away. I mean, it’s easier to accomplish the job if you cooperate and …. well, gee … they’re right there under your chin! Sheesh! When the tech finally has your body contorted into the right position she steps on a foot petal that lowers the top plate toward the lower plate and literally flattens your breast between the two plates like a pancake. Yes, it fucking hurts. And if that’s not enough indignity for you to endure, she then has to take a second view from a different angle. This time you turn sideways and step toward the machine so it can squeeze your breast from side to side instead of from top to bottom. Good times, not. Then you get to repeat the whole procedure for the other breast.
The other thing that hasn’t changed is that the tech can’t tell you anything about the x-ray. Now I’m not idiot; I worked in dentistry long enough to know that the person developing the x-ray can probably read it just about as well as the radiologist. Especially someone like Cindy, who’s been taking mammograms since the beginning of time. But her opinion isn’t worth diddly squat and by law, she’s not allowed to share it. But, that doesn’t mean every woman won’t ask. I did. I always do. And she kindly and compassionately deflects. It’s a game every woman probably plays to break the tension. Otherwise it feels a little too much like going to see a palm reader who pours over your hand, then smiles and says, “Thank you very much” and dismisses you without ever telling you what she saw. So we make small talk and babble about the hot weather while I try pretend the whole procedure is really quite routine. Actually, it’s not. There’s nothing routine about getting your breasts manhandled and smashed, then not knowing the results for a week or more. However, once the test is done and I’ve left the office I’ve never worried about the results. I don’t have any real reason to be concerned and I’m usually just so glad to have it over that I tend to put the whole experience behind me for another year. I’ve always gotten a letter in the mail about a week later telling me everything is hunky-dory and they’ll send a reminder to schedule an appointment in a year. It’s kind of like going to the dentist only it’s booby recall.
So now I’ve crossed one thing off my “to do” list and in two weeks when I go to see my doctor for my semi-annual PAP test (another wildly enjoyable event) I can say I had my mammogram done. Dr. C will be so pleased. And I was pleased too, until yesterday when I came inside from riding and found a message on my answering machine. It was the message no woman ever wants to get: the hospital asking me to call and speak to Lesley in radiology. Shit. Your mind just kind of wigs out. You have to call, but you don’t want to call. Finally the suspense is killing me so I dialed back and asked for Lesley, who, after the initial pleasantries says I need to come to the hospital to have “more views” taken. “Why?” I ask. Lesley can’t say. “Right” I think, “you’re scaring the crap out of me, but you can’t say why.” Makes no sense whatsoever. Leslie patiently went on to explain that this is not uncommon and it happens a lot. “What … so this is some kind of breast lottery and my number just got picked?” There’s a small pause in the conversation while Leslie thinks about that. “No” she says finally. “Sometimes the breasts are dense (as in stupid?) or sometimes the radiologist wants a different view.” (Ding! Ding! Ding! Red flag alert! I’m not fooled! How many different ways can you squeeze a breast? I’m guessing that means they think they see something and they want to clarify! ) Leslie didn’t know what my specific case was, but those were the two reasons she gave to help alleviate my fears. (Not!) I scheduled an appointment. They could see me the very next day and oh, by the way, the radiologist will read the films right then and there so I’ll know what’s going on before I leave. Nice touch.
I really don’t have any reason to be worried. Thing is, I’m sure plenty of women thought the same thing and were wrong. But worry never made anything better, so I’ll put on my big girl panties and get myself over to the hospital today to have my boobs assaulted. Again. After all, how much fun can a girl stand?
New year, new beginnings. Lots of stuff going on here right now. My father-in-law has been in the hospital since early Nov. That’s wearing everyone down. No idea if or when he’ll be moved to a nursing home or if he’ll recover enough to come home. Lots of stress and anxiety for the family around that. We’ve had his elderly sister, niece and grand-nephew visiting from Croatia. I’ve yet to see his sister but word has it she’s got some sort of nasty upper respiratory bug. Being here on a visa means no insurance and one more thing for Mom to worry about. Mom’s acute sciatica has run it’s course with the doctor-ordered physical therapy …. to no avail. Basically, they just put off doing what I’m sure they knew needed to be done and let her suffer for two months while trying to cope with her husband’s health problems. I’ve tried encouraging her to push for an MRI so they can move to the next step, which will probably be an epidural injection. She can’t stand or walk, so something needs to be done. Yes, getting her to and from the hospital (daily) has been a tall task.
The animals have all been great … thank goodness for small favors! Gus is fully into his “terrible tweens” and is a chewing machine. (Minor destruction of small abstract objects included) I was contemplating getting him into another basic obedience class … mostly for the benefit of proofing some of his training, but I’m not sure if I can juggle it with my schedule right now. The class I’m thinking about starts tonight, so I’d better decide soon!
I’m starting a new nutrition program with my long-range goals set on getting certified to coach the program somewhere down the line. I’ve been lifting weights and staying fit for 33 years, but like anything else you do long-term, my goals have changed and my routine has grown stale. I’ve been thinking about doing this program for a good four or five years and I’ve finally decided this is the year to take the steps in that direction. I’m doing the course as a participant first, because it’s my opinion that’s the best way to learn it … from the inside out! With my own training and nutritional program needing some tweaks and new enthusiasm, this should be a lot of fun. Besides, I don’t feel I can authentically help others unless I’ve walked the walk myself. So wish me luck … I hope to be in even better shape in just a few months!
Unless the weather takes a sudden turn in the right direction I don’t expect I’ll be posting as many photos. Certainly not landscapes. It’s been several weeks since we’ve had a photo-worthy sunrise and I’m not going to get out there at the crack of cold dawn unless I really think the payoff is going to be good. Of course that can change tomorrow, but be forewarned that a few days might go by with no new posts.
Finally some white stuff, but no spectacular skies or great light yet. So …. meh. I got out and shot a few frames only because it’s been so long that I needed the practice … use it or lose it and all that rot. I’d forgotten how cold my fingers can get in a matter of minutes. Spring and fall are my favorite times to shoot. Freezing cold winter and the heat of summer … not so much! While sitting in the comfort of your home it’s pretty easy to forget what a good photographer must often endure to catch a great photo op!
Another day of sleet and rain. How many does that make in the last two months? No photo ops today! In fact, none in weeks. Depressing. I feel like crawling into a cave and hibernating until spring.
I’m a little behind getting a photo posted today. Yesterday was (overall) a nice day with family and friends. I was blessed to have been able to talk to all of my siblings in one day, which always makes me feel kinda warm and fuzzy. It’s been 30+ years since I’ve been “home” for Christmas, so talking with each of my sibs on the phone is the next best thing.
Unfortunately, we started our morning with a trip to the hospital to visit my father-in-law who’s been there since early November. It was probably the worst I’ve seen him since his initial operation over six weeks ago. Since then he’s had multiple organ blowouts and failures, fevers, infections, high blood pressure and the inability to eat anything by mouth. A feeding tube was placed late last week and it’s taken several days to get him up to speed with it’s operation. Just when we thought he might finally be able to get downgraded to a rehab facility (oxymoron, since he’s not going anywhere from there) he developed yet another complication. As it stands, I don’t think he’ll ever come out of the anesthesia-related dementia/psychosis. He had a touch of moderate “forgetfulness” going into this, but now ….. well, he can’t comprehend what’s going on or communicate a thing. The family imported his 85 year-old sister from Croatia in hopes that might bolster his reserve, but this has done little more than add another stressed person to the chaos. I vocalized my disagreement about this decision when it was in the process of being made, so now I just need to shut up and stay out of the way.
While this isn’t one of my best pictures, it’s a reminder to enjoy each day as it comes. Our time here is fleeting.
I was out doing barn chores this morning when my nose was suddenly assaulted by the strong pungent smell of fabric softener. That’s right, fabric softener. How on earth a fake floral scent can waft through the air and completely override the earthy smell of horse poop, hay and damp horseflesh is beyond me. And this isn’t the first time this has happened. Like clockwork, every two or three mornings my neighbor does her laundry, and I guess her washing machine doesn’t work very well because she thinks she needs to coat her clothing and a half-mile radius of the neighborhood with a “flower on steroids” chemical stink.
I simply don’t understand this mindset, but it appears clever marketing has won the war to convince the general pubic that we wreak. We’ve been brainwashed to think our house stinks, our clean clothes stink and even our clean bodies stink. I mean, why else would we feel the need to spritz ourselves with perfume after slathering ourselves with heavily scented body wash, throw perfectly clean clothes into a dryer with sheets that are chemically loaded with phony perfumes and “clean” our houses with chemicals that tout hyper-powerful scents ?
I think this is going to become what the war on invasive smoke was to the last two decades. Sure, you have every right to smell like a floral polecat in the privacy of your own home, but when your fake chemical stink starts to seep into my open windows and linger over my back yard and barnyard then it’s not just YOUR problem anymore. These products are known to make people and animals sick. They’re made to adhere to our skin and clothing and penetrate the surface of inanimate objects, where they can linger for days. Don’t people see the connection between chronic illness and the crap we’re breathing and cleaning and bathing with day in and day out? Enough already! Please, folks. Spend a few pennies more and buy unscented, chemical-free dryer sheets or vent your dryers into your own damn basement … I’m sick and tired of the chemical assault every wash day.
Morning Fog lifts off a swamp.
This was a challenging spot to try and shoot. I was perched on a steep bank only a few feet from a busy and very foggy highway. Thick ropes of invasive vines wrapped around my feet and tripod, making it hard to move, and thorny brush ripped at my clothing. Broken bottles and discarded garbage lay scattered in the foreground. I hoped the sun would break clear through the fog. I’d seen several better views on my way to this spot, but none offered me a safe parking spot for my car. Today, this will have to do.
Fall to winter, day to night, mild to cold. Last night change rolled in on a magenta sunset. As we finished up a nice trail ride the sky started to form what l though might shape up into a nice sunset. I grabbed Gus and hit the road with my camera and gear, thinking that if I got lucky I might find a nice shot lurking not too far from home. I thought I had at least a good forty minutes to get someplace and set up before the sky started to really put on a show, but much to my dismay a front decided to come in riding low, dark clouds. Not quite ready to accept defeat, I kept searching. My local region doesn’t have the long, wide vistas one needs to catch the sun slipping over the horizon. Instead, we have nooks and crannies and deep valleys that hide the setting sun, and offer only a hint of a spectacular scene …. someplace else.
They say you should always wait until the final curtain goes down, so with darkness moving in I quickly searched for a sweet spot that might offer one last glimpse of what should have been a gorgeous sunset, but was fast turning into vivid ribbon of color against a dark sky. In a last-ditch effort I pulled off the main road onto a seldom-traveled side road that runs parallel to a big swampy area. I’d driven this road months before, hoping to find better access to shoot the swamp, but I never found the right vantage point. I kept one eye on the winding road and glanced at the setting sun every few seconds. I knew I didn’t have a minute to waste: I either needed to find a magic opening in the trees right now, or turn around and go home. I slowed the car as I drove into a sharp bend and suddenly, there it was, the picturesque view I wanted! The spot wasn’t anything special and in fact, I’d have to do a bit of creative maneuvering to work around some junk in the foreground, but if I could manage to do that then it just might work. In the five minutes that it took for the sun to slip below the treeline I shot a handful of pictures, then blowing on chilly fingers I packed up my gear and headed home. Not too shabby for ten minutes work!
Our storm is finally here. After several hours of wondering if I’d made a horrible mistake by talking my husband into cancelling work and staying home, it looks like the storm is really going to show up. You do get kind of numb to all the hype that seldom pans out. I was beginning to think maybe this was not going to be any different than all the other ‘unprecedented” storms that never materialized. While we don’t have sustained high winds yet, we are getting huge gusts that make the two (plus) story white pines in the back yard bob and weave with a life of their own. That’s a little scary. And I worry about the big oaks near the pasture and the barn. We New Englanders love our trees and if given the opportunity to strip the land bare of them, we’d politely decline the offer and suffer the consequences. More easily said when the weather is nice, than when in the throes of the third mega storm in 12 months.
We’ll see how this all pans out. They’ve basically promised we’ll all be without power, and some for an extended time. I’ve been to the library. I should be all set.
Thanks to all who left comments or wrote to encourage me to keep blogging. I have a very large catalog of pictures that I’ve taken over the last two years, so I’ll go back and dig around to see what I can come up for this blog. I apologize ahead of time if I post a repeat. It’s doubtful that I’ll post the exact same picture, but I often take several photos at each shoot, which leaves me with a pretty good assortment of shots that I can use. I’ll try my best not to get too repetitious, but unless conditions improve I don’t expect to be taking new photos for at least a few more weeks. (And even that might be wishful thinking.)
Both my parents grew up on lakes. My father was raised on the shores of one of the Great Lakes (Lake Ontario), my mother on one of the smaller lakes in the Finger Lakes region. (Conesus Lake.) As a consequence, both parents felt it was important for all of their children to learn how to swim at a very young age because they knew we would grow up spending a considerable amount of time at either lake. I don’t recall how old I was or how I got my feet wet, but I was a proficient, if not highly skilled swimmer well before Kindergarten. My mother enrolled each of us in formal swimming lessons, though I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps she felt it was important for us to achieve our Red Cross swimming cards or maybe it was just her way of showing off? Whatever her reason, we smoked every kid in each class that we took.
By the time I was in sixth grade I was waiting to be old enough to take Senior Lifesaving. If I recall, you had to be a certain age to enroll. At that point in my life we lived in the suburbs of the city and we had an in-ground pool in our back yard. Swimming was as natural for us as any other childhood game or sport and given this advantage, I’d advanced well ahead of the curve. In fact, my formal lessons had come to a screeching halt a few years prior as I had passed all but the two final tests: Junior and Senior Lifesaving. As a young man my father had earned money working as a lifeguard at a public beach in Charlotte, NY., so naturally he expected that his children would take (and pass) the lifesaving courses. And as mom pointed out, with a pool in our back yard, the more card-carrying lifesavers around, the better!
My older sister was exactly eighteen months (to the day) older than me, and when she reached the age to enroll in Senior Lifesaving my mother somehow managed to get me enrolled in the class too. This meant that I was the smallest and youngest in a large class of mostly boys and a few girls. While my sister was a strong swimmer she was by no means a tough girl. But I was, and that more than made up for the slight disadvantage I had going into this class. I don’t remember all the details of this experience, but I do remember having to swim lots and lots of laps and having to tread water for a ridiculous amount of time. None of that bothered me the least, but what did bog me down was the amount of reading and reciting that we had to do. I remember sitting poolside and reading our Lifesaving books, yellow hi-lighter in hand. Often, my sister and I would jump into the deep end of our pool to practice something we’d just read. I’m sure this gave us a huge advantage over other students in our class.
When it finally came time for our water tests the instructors did their best to try to intimidate us. We were each tested alone; nobody except the crew of instructors and their hand picked “drowning victims” could watch. Each test for every student was different, created spontaneously as the student was ushered from the bowels of the locker room up to the pool. We nervously waited our turn, then as each student returned from their test we peppered them with our questions. “How was it?” “Was it hard?” “Did you pass?” “How many tries did it take?” Unfortunately, each student was sworn to secrecy before being dismissed, and so we learned nothing. Two or three students were injured in the process. Dislocated fingers and broken toes seemed to be the catch of the day.
My sister was called to test ahead of me, leaving me for last. By then, word had it that several students had failed their water tests. I was shocked to learn that several of the biggest, best swimmers had failed to “land” their victim in the allotted amount of time. I worried that my non-aggressive sister might not fare well and I hoped the best for her. When she returned, she looked defeated (she had, in fact passed) and subdued, and she wouldn’t catch my eye, afraid perhaps that her big sister concern would tempt her to share more information than allowed. I remember the chill as I walked up the long tiled corridor, followed by the strong smell of chlorine as the warm humid air hit my face. I was quickly introduced to my ‘victim’ before he jumped into the deep end of the Olympic size pool. By all accounts, he was huge. Tall, muscular, very long-limned, and I had no idea how I was going to “rescue” him. I knew for certain that he’d be doing his best to try to drown me in the process, especially since “Realistic” was the only description I’d managed to cajole out of any of the other students.
My test was explained to me. I was to perform a direct front in-water approach and a classic cross chest carry. Once I got out there anything could happen and I would be allowed to make my own decisions on the fly, but that was what I was supposed to attempt. I nodded that I understood, glanced at the clock and walked to the edge of the pool. There were ropes with life rings attached, long poles and other implements that we could use as we deemed necessary, but only after our prior assignment had failed. The whistle blew and I dove in. A strong under water swimmer, I didn’t surface until I was just out of reach of my victim. I called to him and he lunged directly toward me, mimicking a full blown panic! I dove deep, grabbed his legs, spun him around until his back was against me. I crawled up his body, gripping him like a vice, terrified that he would get turned around again. I knew I didn’t stand a chance if he wrapped one of his spidery arms around my neck. My lungs were about to burst. I kicked hard, surfaced, threw an arm across his chest and locked my elbow down. We headed toward the edge of the pool, but his long, heavy body dwarfed mine and I had to fight to keep us both afloat. Meanwhile, my victim was doing everything in his power to sabotage my rescue. He repeatedly tangled his legs in mine and tried to break free, but I rolled him like an alligator and kept working toward the make believe shore.
I was one of four students who passed the Senior Lifesaving water test that summer. I never applied to be a life guard anywhere, but swimming has remained my strong suit. Many years ago I joined a YMCA and swam laps on my lunch hour. Something about the steady rhythm of the crawl appealed to me. I found it calming. When I was young my parents used to pack me up and send me off with my older sister for a two week stay with my mother’s mother. Grandma didn’t spend much time worrying about us or supervising our every move. We knew what was off limits and what the rules were, and were were pretty much on our own. One of my fondest memories was waking up at the crack of dawn so we could swim while the water was still calm. The cool morning air made the water feel bath-tub warm and the only sound we could hear was the soft slapping of the occasional wave against the sides of the rowboat that was moored along the dock. I remember the long, stringy, green seaweed that clung to the wooden ladder at the end of the dock. It looked like cooked rhubarb as it waved back and forth, pulled by an invisible current. I remember doing handstands, my feet kicking in the air and my fingers pushing against the ripples of sand on the shallow bottom. My sister and I swam or rowed to a float that was secured some 150 yards or so from the main dock, where we planned our strategy for swimming across the lake. (Accompanied, we thought, by one of us rowing the boat alongside!) We were young … probably seven and nine when we were doing all this, and totally unsupervised. Like many memories from my childhood, I’m so glad we had the opportunity to do these things, unfettered by parents who thought better of our crazy schemes and ideas.
Blue Spanish Sky by Chris Isaac from Heart Shaped World
I’m hoping this fall is as colorful as it was two summers ago. It’s hard to believe fall is almost here. Where does the time go?
An interesting name for a boat!
I’m having a heck of a time trying to figure out how to share some music. For now, I guess the very bland play bar will have to do. The song is Una Mattina by Ludovico Einaudi. I would be lucky to play half this well some day!
Happy Birthday to my sister! May the dawn of a new decade be as bright and beautiful as the lovely woman, born this day many dawns ago.
PS. It’s all downhill from here, sweetie! 😉
The local streams are flowing like crazy. The bigger rivers and streams should be good kayaking in a few weeks.