Thanksgiving

Joshua Tree in the Mojave Desert

Thanksgiving is more than just a celebration of the harvest; it is a celebration of the bonds we forge in the kitchen and around the table. My first memories of Thanksgiving are from my grandparent’s house and I’m pretty sure when I was little, we also had Christmas dinner at their home. When I was ten years old my parents bought their “big house” and we split the holiday dinners, Thanksgiving at the grandparents, Christmas at ours. Eventually, just at our house. The dinners were always big deals…polishing the silver, shining the crystal, baking for days ahead, decorating, and just working to get things done…almost always with smiles and laughter. Not always…but mostly. Celebrating together, working together, laughing together.

But then, of course, we weren’t together anymore. Geography. Health. Finances. Duty. And much more split us up. The last family Thanksgiving my parents, my sister, and I had was in 1969. But then, Diane and I started a family and the feasting and fellowship tradition began again 30 years ago. Every year we’d have a dozen friends and family over with all the chaos, and cooking, and fun as what I’d remembered when I was growing up.

But now, of course, we aren’t together anymore. And I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

In the image above, if you take “the long view” you see not only the desert but also the distant mountains and the whole world sort of drops into place. That’s the way I am about my family and our celebrations, the kids are moving on, creating their own traditions and memories and, thankfully, Diane are a part of them. My “long view” is that each time some or all of us together no matter the occasion, it’s a day of Thanksgiving and I am thankful. Thankful for all those who came before me, thankful for those who taught me, and thankful for those who sat with me as I learn about what’s coming next.

Fly Fishing

Fly Fishing Under Maiden Bridge (Not me!!!)

Some of my memories are like the cats eye boulder marble I used to carry as a kid…kept securely in a small leather bag in my front jeans pocket until it was time for a game. The problem with memories unlike marbles is if they aren’t taken out once in a while, they start to fade away. My memories of Spearfish Canyon Lodge are precious, and yet they are starting to dim. To slow the inevitability of its loss, I’ll write down some of what is still knocking around in my brain although probably effected by the patina of time.

In the 1950s, the Black Hills was popular with South Dakotans; Mount Rushmore was a huge tourist draw. Tiny Spearfish Canyon was sort of off the beaten track, popular with fishermen and locals. Surrounded by steep, green hills, Spearfish Creek was right next to our cabin which was only a stones throw from the restaurant and shop. I remember log cabins, wonderful evergreen trees with all their fragrance, chill air despite the height of summer, and best of all, Spearfish Creek.

Mom and dad fished…well, mostly dad. But mom had also dabbled and in fact had a pair of hip boots which fit me quite well. Dad was there to fly fish and by default, so was I. But I didn’t have a clue how to make that rod and line do their magic. I did have an old bamboo fly rod and manual reel…and a great deal of enthusiasm. I had the basics, I’d learn to cast on the street at home but the street at home did not have trees. Or rocks. Or people. Hmmm.

I had a little landing net, a creel, a couple of flies, and my rod and reel. The sun would begin to show in the east and I’d be up ready to head for the creek. The smells and sounds at sunrise in the mountains next to a fast flowing creek brought every cell in my body to full alert. I couldn’t get enough, the fish were actually way secondary. Which was a good thing…I was not a great fly fisherman.

I remember the creek was maybe twenty feet wide in places and relatively fast flowing. Some places were deep, most were not. The water was crystal clear. Dad would give me some pointers and then off he went, upstream, while I stayed relatively close to our cabin…but still thigh deep in the creek. I loved it!

I could see the trout, Brook Trout, I think. They’d look at me and pretty much ignore the flies and go about their business. If I waded too close, they’d be gone in a nanosecond. Frustrating? Yes. Exhilarating? Absolutely! I walked up and down that stream for hours. Cold legs, cold hands, fully alive in the experience. Oh…and, the trees.

Fly fishing is a bit of an art…grand gestures of hand, arm, and upper body wielding a twenty or thirty foot whip of line tipped with a small barb. The idea is to “place” the fly naturally close to where the trout might be watching, the fly would “naturally” float by coaxing the trout to rise up and swallow its prey. For beginner me…well, I caught trees. Trees were close by the shoreline of the creek and their branches provided a canopy in some places, other places were open. Of course, the fish preferred the covered spaces and the covered spaces were a natural trap for my flies. I spent a great deal of my time untangling my line, finding the very small fly lure, and often reattaching it to the leader and line of my rig.

Dad taught me a little about what type of fly worked best. I had a small allowance and went to the store at the Lodge…I think it might have been a combination restaurant, gift shop, fly shop. I looked at the variety of flies in the case, asked the clerk what people were using, and acted like I actually was catching fish. But, I wasn’t.

I don’t remember actually catching fish on those two trips, but that didn’t make any difference. I can still see them swimming among the rocks in the stream. I can still smell the pine trees. I close my eyes and can still hear the swift flow of the snow fed creek and feel its cold through the waders.

Some might ask, “Would I like to go there today to see what it’s like?” My response would be no, I like the view I have.

Addiction

Family Graveyard at Tuckahoe Plantation

I just finished reading Matthew Perry’s Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing. Well, actually, the book was an Audible so I listened. The reader of the book was Matthew Perry so listening was a personal, double dose of Perry being Perry. Of course, until I read the book, I didn’t know much about him but I felt I knew Chandler Bing quite well. I did not watch the series Friends when it was aired from 1994 to 2004, I didn’t start watching until 2021. Not sure why. The show Friends has received criticism for a variety of things, probably deserved. The worst is fat shaming, perhaps a tie with the lack of diversity. The series was notable for the very apparent bond among the actors, an ensemble instead of a “star” approach, and the actors’ skills at being the characters the writers had in mind. I think back (oh, so long ago) when I was that age and played hard with my friends. Those were my OV-10, Nail FAC days…oh my.

I started listening to the book and Perry’s voice, familiar and comfortable. I paraphrase but he said he’d almost died several times and so the reader might consider the book as coming from the other side. It took me by surprise, he’d passed just a short while ago and so for me, it was from the “other side.” And, “other side” became an underlying theme as I listened to him narrate his life story. I got more than a peek into his life, he opened up about pretty much everything and the Big Terrible Thing was his disease, addiction. He started drinking in his mid-teens and continued drinking for most of his life…perhaps not the last year or two. I don’t know. He smoked, 2-3 packs a day. He did a variety of drugs, mostly opiates…sometimes 70+ Vicodins a day. He never felt he was “good enough.” The drugs helped him deal with many issues, emotional, social, work. Even at his lowest he was apparently fun to be with at work and play. But he was sick. He only had one sober season in Friends and that was the last one. He said you could tell whether he was doing heavy alcohol or heavy opioids by how much weight he carried…booze he was heavy, drugs he was skinny. He spent $7 million on rehab. The season Chandler married Monica he was driven into the set from rehab and picked up after the shoot. His intestines exploded, his lungs were awful, and on and on and on. He’d quit drugs for a while and then…something would happen and he’d start again.

Addiction is a disease and it’s not a matter of “just stopping.” The disease captures the physical, emotional, and mental center of a person. Perry’s big wish before Friends was to become famous…he thought being famous would make everything “okay” and he wouldn’t feel inadequate and alone and could then stop drinking and drugging. He found fame did not unlock the door of knowledge or self worth. His book is a very gritty tale of an addict trying to be part of something…a career, a relationship, a family member, a friend. For Perry, he was always tilting, falling, getting up, starting over…like a beginning unicycle rider. He was a big proponent of Alcoholics Anonymous and went to thousands of meetings.

What’s it like to be an addict? What’s it like to battle the disease? Listen to the book. Listen to Matthew Perry. It truly is gut wrenching.

G Flight Yacht Club

My water post a few days ago got me to thinking about why I avoid the state of “being on the water.” That wasn’t always true. When I was growing up, my dad would take me fishing on his 12 foot aluminum outboard “skiff.” Not a perfect boat but its purpose was to put you over where the fish were and the rest was up to you. For that purpose, it was good for the small lakes and rivers of South Dakota (but not the Missouri!). Ironically, I picked up the sailing bug in the wilds of western Texas…where flat, dry plains with little water, is the normal landscape. But not for a group of intrepid instructor pilots from a long gone Webb Air Force Base in Big Spring, TX.

Somehow or another, most of the instructor pilots in “G Flight” of the 83rd Flying Training Squadron, started to sail…in West Texas. There were no bodies of water, I repeat no bodies of water, to sail in close to Big Spring. Why we got this bug…I do not remember, probably youthful exuberance, testosterone, stupidity. (Back then all pilots were male) But. Sailing became a thing. I am not sure if I’ve got all the names right…I think the first “sailor” was Bill Atwater. He smoked Kool cigarettes. In those days, if you sent in so many Kool package “stickers,” they would send you stuff from the Kool Catalogue and one of the things you could get was a “Kool Sailboat.” A.T. Water was determined to get one. He smoked and smoked and smoked and finally got enough stickers to cash in for the boat. What he got was a mast, a sail, a keel board, plenty of rope (er, lines), a rudder, sheets of fiberglass, resin, and a styrofoam hull. The instructions had him “fiberglassing” the entire thing, installing the hardware, and then hoping it all “balanced” and stayed afloat. And, of course, the sail had a large “Kool” logo. He started the process, said it was horrible, but he finished and it was a thing of beauty.

Fun!! Now everyone in the flight of 8 or so pilots thought they should have a sailboat. Well, not everyone, but some. We named our group of landlocked sailors the “G Flight Yacht Club.” I bought a 12 foot Sea Snark, a plastic covered foam, unsinkable craft, perfect for a wannabe sailor and a flatlander. “Fish” Pyrch bought something similar but racier, and the end-all-to-be-all purchase…John Nicholson bought a 16 foot Hobie Cat! There may have been others who also had little boats but those gray cells are on recess. Lima Bravo…maybe. Terry…maybe. Timmie…maybe. The only place to sail in that part of Texas was Spence Lake, a reservoir about an hour’s drive away. Many weekends we would gather up our gear, our beer, and our sense of derring-do and head for the lake. We raced (hah), tried all sorts of fun maneuvers, and got our adrenaline rush when allowed to sail John’s Hobie. The Kool boat was not durable and I believe it put A.T. Water in the water. My boat, like so much of my stuff from those days, is probably in a landfill near Big Spring. Years and years later, I ran into John at the Pentagon. He’d moved up and I think I remember him saying he had a 70 plus foot boat he kept anchored somewhere on the Texas coast.

Those were the days. So, no. I haven’t always been a water avoider. I guess I’ve gotten more timid in my experienced years.

I am still working on video stuff. I know I said I’d stop but…. A few years ago the US Coast Guard Cutter “Eagle” docked in Old Town Alexandria. I went out twice, one rainy day, one sunny day. I did a quick “trailer” video of some of the images. A Coast Guard presence at Spence Lake probably would have been comforting to the G Flight Yacht Club.

Looking In…Or Out

I think people are fascinated with looking in other people’s windows. It’s probably because they (we) want to know what’s inside and whether or not it’s better than our stuff. I can’t imagine living in a big city high-rise on some high floor, looking out my window and seeing all the other windows and all the other people looking at me. I guess people know to draw their drapes or just live with the constant exposure to curiosity seekers. Maybe that’s not a big deal to them. To me, the Bashful Norwegian-American, it is a big deal. The South Dakotan-me wants a private sanctuary.

When I look through a window, I don’t just see “stuff,” I imagine what it must be like on the other side as if the portal is some magical and transformative thing…and perhaps it is. The other side of the window is usually much different from where I’m looking…the obvious…outside/inside, hot/air conditioned, cold/warm, the same/different, comfortable/uncomfortable, scary/safe and on and on and on. It’s interesting that most of the time, the rest of the world is on the other side of the window from us, we are “on the right side” of the window…everyone else is “out there.” I’ve been in situations where people walk by the place I’m working, living, playing or whatever and look in on me and those with me. I imagine them talking about us and what we’re doing much like we talk about bears when we visit a zoo.

I think windows heighten our sense of “aloneness” since we have the option of changing their configuration…we can open them, we can close them, we can cover them so that only light gets through, we can cover them so that light and “almost” gets through. A hint of life and adventure on the otherwise. How exotic and mysterious. I wonder how other cultures treat windows. It may be a function of climate as well as culture. For instance, I believe that western style windows are a new thing for Japan, their openings to the world were much larger although still configurable from closed to open.

Books are windows into people. I am currently reading three…one at a time, of course, but each of them occupies a special place/time so they are all being read. “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: a Memoir,” by Matthew Perry. “My Name is Barbra,” by Barbra Streisand, and, “The Future,” by Naomi Alderman. I am immersed with each of them. The first is a tragic peek through a normally very private window. More to come.

Southern California & Me

Laguna Beach

I have a thing about the water…I love being near it. Near it, not “on” it, I don’t think I’m a cruise person. This is, perhaps, because I’m a flatlander, a child of the Great Plains where water was a luxury. I did live close to the “mighty” Jim River in Huron but back in the day, the Jim (James) River was mostly a smelly, brown sludge run, quite the opposite of what I imagined were the cool, pure waters of the oceans. My mom’s sister and her husband (Edie and Bob) lived in San Diego in the 50s & 60s. We drove out there one summer when I was 13…I bleached my hair…Beachboys, remember. This was the first time I’d seen an ocean or any body of water I couldn’t see across. I was enthusiastic. As my Air Force career took off and my relationships did not, I pretty much lost contact with my California family. Fortunately, we reconnected in the late 1980s and took full advantage of the rest of the time we had together.

Uncle Bob and Aunt Edie were like a second set of parents who cared enough to have patience with my youthful inattention. When we got together again it was as if no time had passed since we’d last seen each other. They came to Virginia, we played golf, drank wine, laughed and had a wonderful time. In the 1990s, I had business in L.A. and flew there once a month, usually spending the weekend with them. They’d moved to the La Jolla area by then so my visits seemed “exclusive.” Smile. My business dried up in L.A. and I switched jobs with little to no travel out west so getting out there was not at the top of the financial priority list. However, my cousin invited me out in January, 2009 and then my whole family traveled out there in July. We had a blast, we reconnected…Bob & Edie and their kids, Diane and I and our kids. By then Bob & Edie had moved to Orange County and their kids (kids…hah…my age +/- 5 years) were close by. Diane’s sister and hubby lived in the high desert a couple of hours northeast of L.A. so we would go see them, too. Our first family trip we stayed with the oldest of my cousins in her gorgeous condo in Laguna Beach for a few days, she had us entranced by the area, all the art, the restaurants, the things to do. We returned for several years (not to her condo, but to Laguna). We’d visit Bob and Edie and their family for a few days and then venture off into the wonders of Southern California. I can’t tell you how much fun we had, the food, the laughs, the thrills, the scenery…all bounded by the ocean. I am sure I could always smell the Pacific and even if I couldn’t, I knew it was just a short drive away. We typically stayed at places on the beach so we didn’t have to drive. Our “stay zone” was Laguna Beach so we could go north or south and have the best of all SoCal. And then my Uncle Bob died.

I’m not very good at death. Perhaps it’s the stoic Norwegian in me, perhaps the death of many friends in the service…I don’t know. It’s strange. Diane asked the US Navy barracks for a flag that could be used in Uncle Bob’s funeral. The Navy found that Uncle Bob was on an LST at Omaha Beach and Anzio, they quickly flew a flag at the CNO’s house at the Navy Yards in his honor. My older cousin died unexpectedly a few years later. She and Diane and I had become very close since her dad passed, phone calls every week or two, she’d flown to Virginia twice, we saw each other often for living so far apart. When her brother told me she’d passed, oxygen seemed to leave.

Once in a while I go down the rabbit hole of cool places I’d like to visit and Laguna Beach usually comes to mind. I remember hot air balloons floating over gorgeous golf courses, crashing waves with exuberant surfers, clinking glasses and comforting laughter. The challenges of “The 405” were offset by the sounds of joy at Disneyland, Universal City, Venus Beach, The Zoo, Old Town San Diego and more. The peaceful missions overlooking the grand vistas of the Pacific. And I think, how cool would it be to experience all that again.

But no, going back expecting the same kind of joy we had then is a formula for grand disappointment. I have these wonderful, heart warming memories I want to treasure, not change. Things are different now. My Aunt and Uncle and two of their “kids” are gone. My “kids” are adults. I can go back to SoCal but it won’t be the same. Doesn’t mean going back would be bad, just different.

Veterans Day

I think of all of us who’ve served in the U.S. military, citizens and non-citizens, and am grateful. The service can be difficult, joyful, tragic, warming…all of the human emotions. Tales of men and women, mostly young, heading off to do their country’s bidding. The sacrifices they make also ripples onto the families. At the 11th hour on the 11th day in the 11th month of 1918, the Armistice of the War to End All Wars went into effect and we use that day to honor all those who’ve served. The image above is USMC Sunset Parade at the Iwo Jima Memorial with members from the Washington Barracks.

My father-in-law flew in combat for three wars, WWII, Korean and Vietnam. He started in the B-17 and flew a variety of heavy aircraft earning the Distinguished Flying Cross and a host of other medals during the many years he served. My service ended some 35 years ago so my kids aren’t really aware of what my early life was like. The second image is my “tiger” pose at Hill AFB, UT, sometime in the 1980s. The last is Kirsten and I in 1998 in a simulator in the USAF Museum in Dayton. So long ago.

Thank you!

American Sensibilities

I had the pleasure and honor of participating in two George Nobechi workshops earlier this year. The theme was “Japanese Sensibility in Photographic Practice.” It was humbling and eye opening; a superbly positive experience.. Several of us in the workshop are continuing collaboration, it will be a “global experiment.”

The workshop had me wondering if capturing “American Sensibility in Photographic Practice” is possible. “Of course, it is,” I answer! But, no, not so fast. I searched for “American Sensibility” and was not entirely pleased with the results. The search algorithm seems to play off the competitive and divisiveness of our culture rather than positive values or social mores. So I eliminated the word “American” in my search and just looked for “Sensibility.” That’s where I sort of hit pay dirt…a politically neutral definition. This is one I like the best, “a way of understanding things.” Again, easier said than done, is there an American standard for understanding things? Apparently in Japan, certain sensibilities, Wabi Sabi, for instance, are difficult to explain but easy to see if your upbringing, culture, instruction, etc., has opened your mind to the concept. Sensibilities that are fiercely American must exist. You’ll know it if you see it. RIght?

Of course, as I sit in my little island of isolation in central Virginia, all this is new, well, new to me. It was probably a university major in the 1960s and 70s. (I mean, what wasn’t?) Sensibilities? Do we have some sort of spectrum? Racism. Capitalism, Urbanism. Nationalism. Hate. Love. I think this will be a multi-faceted project, defining American sensibilities, applying them to my art, describing them, creating sets. Perhaps, then, I would look at laying Japanese and American Sensibilities next to each other and seeing what happens. If anyone has any thoughts on what might be a candidate for inclusion in a list of “American Sensibilities in Photography,’ please either comment or email me. Seriously…I am interested in your thoughts (and I need some inspiration).

The image above is from the kitchen of Tuckahoe Plantation, not too far away from where I live. The plantation was built in the early 1700s and some of the original buildings remain. The current owners are preserving the plantation as an historical landmark and rent it for weddings and other events. The grounds are open for visitors days when no events are scheduled. The kitchen pictured here is a separate building from the main house, you wanted to keep the heat and fire danger away from the owner’s living space. The plantation owners enslaved many people although many were freed in the years prior to the Civil War.

The Missing Years

I took a lot of pictures in 1969, 1970, and especially 1971. They’re all gone now. Almost all of them were black and white shot on Kodak Tri-X pan 400, usually boosted to 1600. Poof. Nada. No more. Not having a darkroom in the USAF was a factor. Youthful energy and taking life for granted were others. I stopped taking photos in 1972…well, I started again for a bit when I lived in Iceland in the mid-70s but only a few survive. I tried video in the 1990s but software was crazy so I did little but convert video to DVDs. Most of them are gone, too.

Why am I bringing this up? Well, I started down the rabbit hole of finding pictures of benches (from yesterday’s post). Talk about a time sponge!! Wow. I do delete a lot of photos but still have almost 200,000 in my archives. In the 90s I was trying to capture the first years of our children. It wasn’t a real hobby then, I was busy with kids, law, work, etc., etc., etc. My sister-in-law is a photographer, I admired her photos and her sense of seeing. She inspired me to get serious about photography in the early 2000s…so I ditched my point and shoot (it WAS a good one!) and got a digital DSLR. I haven’t looked back. I digress.

I managed to get through 2007 in my archives. Talk about the Way Back Machine firing up…young kids (babies), young friends, exotic places, normal places. Parents, family, friends long gone. Was I ever that young? Skinny? It was fun and sad to peer into the past and have so many memories triggered.

It dawned on me that my 20s and 30s were completely missing. With the exception of a handful of images from Iceland, I’ve no record of me in those years. Well, I do have a couple of snapshots of me in the F-16 with my dad in 1983. I also have an Air Force magazine with a photo of me and my OV-10 in 1979. And I still have my pilot training tiger shot. So, including Iceland, I have maybe 24 pictures of me in those 20 years. I did have two failed relationships in those years and I’m sure that had something to do with no pix. In truth, I don’t want to trigger any of those memories. Smile.

Back to benches…I’ve found a few images in the early years of my rekindled hobby, but mostly with kids sitting on them. Nowadays, when I find a bench on a walkabout or even on just a regular outing, I imagine someone sitting on it and looking at this little slice of the world in front of them. If my imagination has the traction, I imagine their warmth on the seat of the bench and their thoughts as they look out at the same things I’m seeing. And then I’m glad for the memory and smile.

Benches

Pump House

I am drawn to places with benches. Hmmm, or maybe it’s just benches themselves. Selfishly, of course, because I enjoy the “act” of sitting and benches fit right into that joyful act. The people who put benches where I find them must understand this type of joy because I very often find benches in exactly the places I would have put them. This morning, I watched the moon set in the west and thought a lot about benches and sitting. (One of my thoughts: if anyone was walking by and saw me sitting in the dark watching the moon, they might be wondering…the “Old Man and the Moon.”) But…I digress. Again.

Watching the sinking moon this morning, I tried to remember some of the benches I’ve “consumed” and realized I’d left a great deal of seeing unseen. The beauty of sitting is letting myself open up to all that’s around me. That’s not as easy as it sounds. In fact, it’s nigh impossible even though I am trying harder. I’ve built up “filters” and biases that screen out the world around. For instance, hearing traffic from a mile away highway distracts me and I miss the birds in the tree right next to me or the flowing water in the canal in front of me.

Patience. Yeah, right. I think this is a skill. I’m a beginner. Maybe “Benches” would be a good project for future images and for an archives search. I’ll have to sit down somewhere and think about it.