Ready for Green

Springtime view of Woodrow Wilson Bridge (5/2020)

Quiet reigns. The days are getting longer. I’m relaxed. My stress level is low. The trees are bare. Cold is king. Well, not South Dakota/Minnesota cold, but, chilly by anyone else’s standards. I miss the green leaves. Before we moved to RVA, January was precariously unpredictable and I often shoveled snow. But now, just 90 miles south of the DC suburbs, snow is a rarity. Thank God.

Yesterday and today I “un-decorated” the Christmas tree. This was a solo event. Diane does the rest of the house so all things are put in their proper boxes. The kids used to put the tree decorations away (well, most of the time). This year, it was just me. I had four boxes to fill with the tree’s leavings. It was a surprisingly nostalgic time, for years my role in Christmas tree decorating was minimal, either the kids did it, or Diane and Kyle did it. I watched from afar, taking pictures, placing a few, kibitzing and enjoying the time. During this year’s tree devolution, I touched each of the decorations. Some of them I hadn’t held in years, since they were first gifted or purchased. Incredibly, I remembered everyone of them, why we’d liked them, who’d given them to us, and the relationships we’d had. Some were signed by the givers, “Love, from Kathy” for instance. Others were handmade by the kids…you know those popsicle sticks glued with Elmer’s onto colored paper to make mangers or Christmas trees or whatever… Others had little pictures in them, taken during that year: a young me with a one & a half year old Kirsten sitting on my lap pointing to something off in the distance; a smiling Kelsey, head tilted down, eyes looking up in that impish “Now what?!” look; and Kyle, confidently taking on the next gadget in his life. Tugging on heartstrings? Oh yes, a symphony of those strings. But now those decorations are all in a box, headed to the garage where they’ll be put on a shelf with a thousand other memories. Waiting to be played again.

Readers Anonymous

My family asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted for Christmas. I thought for a while and posited I would appreciate the gift of a book that each of them had read and preferably held in their hands (although I wouldn’t turn away electrons). I want to read the same thing they read but through the lens of my time, my biases, and my myths. They came through with the books in the image above. I’ve already started the first one, “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” by Suzanne Collins. I had no idea Collins had written a prequel to “Hunger Games”…so what was the proper thing to do? I have a philosophy on prequels written after a successful series, take Star Wars, for example. I think they should be read/watched in order of production so in Star War’s case, 4,5,6,1,2,3,7,8, & 9. (Not counting all the sideshow movies). I did not want to read the first three Hunger Games books. I’d watched the first movie many years ago. But now, now, I had the prequel and had no idea about what it was a prequel to. (I hate dangling propositions) Time for a binge watch. Kyle and I watched the first two Hunger Games movies yesterday and the second two today. We won’t watch the last until I finish the book which I’m targeting for next week. Not exactly Christmas movies, but hey, we were together!!

I’m truly very happy about these gifts and look forward to reading each of them. I will ponder what each family member thought as they soaked up the exotic words, the adventures, the mystery and the mayhem. Ha! Sounds like I want a book report…I don’t, I want to walk through the pages of a book, just a few hours, virtually together in a bit of a different way. Makes me happy.

And then, they were gone…

Christmas Village Miniatures

The Christmas Season is an increasing symphony of anticipation, preparation, joy, and laughter. The fun, frustration and frenzy of in-person shopping trips measured against the frequent stops of the Amazon truck. The Holiday movies playing in the background as we wrap packages, decorate the tree, ready the guest beds. The Facebook and online greetings combined with the ever decreasing snail mail Christmas cards. We plan for five days worth of fun into what is really only 24 hours of time available. Then comes the day…presents opened, dinner together, laughter, smiles, pictures. And, to all, a goodnight.

And now, well, it’s quiet again, each of us heads home, another thread woven into life’s texture. I wrap myself in the quiet and settle in with the memories of sound, touch, taste and love from the days of Christmas 2023. Today is just the Second Day of Christmas, I wish all of you joy, fond memories of Seasons past, and the beginning of an awesome New Year.

Then & Now

I am paying more attention to emotion in my images…a more purposeful journey than I imagined. The approach got me to thinking about evolving. To that end, I picked three images from this year and compared them to three images I took in 2018. Criteria? No, not really. I just appreciated the images. Two from 2018 had been selected to hang in The Art League Gallery for a month, but that’s not why I chose them. The question I was asking myself…has my art evolved over the past five years and if so, am I happier than I was then?

How could I forget that 2018 was also the year I had a hip replacement and a heart attack? Except, I actually had forgotten until I saw the image of me in a hospital bed. Ha, ha…those were the days, waited on hand and foot. Some observations about the differences. I am taking WAY fewer photos these days. Could be my age keeps me in, there is some truth in that. I took more than 18,000 images in 2018, I’ve taken about 5,000 this year. Quite a change. Could be because I don’t know Richmond like I knew DC and as an older guy, I’m more bashful about going places I don’t know. Some truth in that, too. Could be because I had a super group of fellow photographers I went out with a several times a month including an ex-Pat Brit who can’t find the “Color On” switch on his camera. Could be I’m spending more time with my wife learning about the new city we live in. In truth, it’s a little of all of those things. However, this year I’ve focused more on the emotion the composed image triggers in my brain. It’s no longer lines and edges and thirds…it’s about how I feel when I look through the viewfinder.

The images above are from this year. The first image is an iconic 19th century kitchen scene…I can imagine working in the light of the window with a candle ready for the coming darkness. I’m comforted by the warm setting but terrified as enslaved people worked in that very spot. I’m also attracted to this image for Koh-Itten, red, one spot. The red grinder brings my eye deeply into the setting and is a thing of efficiency in a world of forced labor. The second image was found near a canal with two walkers headed to trail’s end. The size of the walker on the bridge provides scale. The forest behind the bridge is a borrowed landscape bringing the forest to the walkers which is probably where they’d come from on their walk. The bench breaks the photo in half and suggests a place to rest or enjoy the forest. The last image was on a street walkabout in Fredericksburg, VA. The young man was curled up on a pillow reading a book in the window space of a book store. What great window dressing! I enjoyed seeing his little bit of isolated sanctuary from the busy street seen in the reflections.

The images below are from 2018. Our land, that, is the land in America, is a powerful symbol of the diverse peoples who live on it. The first image seemed to represent the untamed woods and the cultivated fields. I was attracted, of course, by the symmetry of the bales. The second image was taken on a chilly, rainy day on The Wharf in DC. The rain was coming down hard…my friends and I and our cameras were protected with awnings and beer. The young lady was walking quickly. She had to be careful the wind did not steal her umbrella away. The last image is of a man and boy, perhaps father and son, playing in the fountain on The Wharf on a sunny day. I wanted a long exposure to “freeze” the water but was afraid the father son would move and lose focus. I was bracing my camera on a handrail, the two stopped, I took the shot. Perhaps these last two are also “emotional” but I think I approached them more as events than human feeling.

I conclude my art has evolved. Perhaps not a lot, certainly not from a “sellable” or “gallery-worthy” perspective, but I’m happier with what I’m doing. What do you think?

Christmas Quiet

Capitol 2018

A different kind of quiet. “Christmas now” versus “Christmas past.” Part of a Dickens story…maybe, put certainly part of my story and probably many others. So, what’s different? Hmmm. When I was a little kid, Christmas was exciting, noisy, impatient, musical, and interactive. As an older teen my circle expanded and became even more filled with the sounds of joy and excitement. Secular? Christian? Certainly both, I think. As a young adult I traveled back to the parent’s and in-law’s homes for Christmas and the Holiday sounds continued. When Diane and I married some 33 years ago, I was in law school with a very loud and joyous group and we celebrated together as hard and loud as you’d expect students (even of my advanced age) to do. Thirty years ago we had our first child and silence during the Holidays was unheard of.

I’m an “older” dad and for me, that’s been a blessing since I’ve carried the joyful noise of Christmas into my 70s. Until now. Now, it’s quiet. When the three kids were growing up I’d write small “poems,” usually knockoffs from a poem like “Night Before Christmas.” and cut them up into small pages of four lines each. Each stanza was written to guide the child to where I’d hidden the next stanza. I would hide them throughout the house. They knew that sometime during this treasure hunt, they would discover a small toy or candy or dollar bill for each of them. They would take turns reading the clues but would all search for the next one. Each night we’d gather, read, laugh, search, and have fun. It was a break or transition from the busy days at work and school to the time of family and fun and waiting for Christmas Day.

But now, it’s quiet. Diane or I open the Calendar door sometime during the day, no fanfare, no poem. But, memories flow when we look at the empty space behind the door. Until today, I hadn’t noticed the quiet.

The image above was taken outside the Capitol in 2018, flags at half mast honoring President George HW Bush who had just passed. The image below was taken this morning of our Advent Calendar.

Our Advent Calendar

Happy Holidays!!

Last night we went to the Ginter Garden Dominion Energy Garden Fest of Lights. This was our first visit to the light festival even though we visit Ginter Garden quite often. Truthfully, I’ve been reluctant in the past because I anticipated cold (wrong!) and the crowds (wrong again!). BUT, this was different, we went just as the sun was setting on a weekday to avoid the crowds. AND, the temperature was in the high 40s, low 50s, clear skies so the weather was perfect. There were folks with small kids but not that many, I’d think it will pick up as Christmas gets closer. And it will get colder. Ah. Life.

The images are from my camera, hand held so the ISO and “noise” is a bit high. The video is from my little camera on a stick. We walked all the walks, had hot beverages in the “Jingle Bar,'“ sat in most of the benches, and enjoyed our time in the forest, electronic as it was. For us, this was a peaceful, two hour, Norman Rockwell kind of night.

Dear Diary,

Carmel, Indiana

I am a fan of benches and also of “forest baths” so when the two meet…I am compelled to sit and immerse myself in the forest’s embrace. Sounds corny…but it works for me. In Japan, forest bathing is Shinrin-yoku. Sometime it’s also called “komorebi,” the light that leaks through trees. Science validated the emotional value of forest bathing, enjoying the shadows, sounds, feeling of the trees and light. It’s proven to lower blood pressure, reduce stress, and help minimize worrying about things we always worry about. Sitting on a bench gives me the opportunity to soak in the motion and emotion of the trees…they do talk to each other, you know.

Whenever I see a bench, I imagine other people sitting on it. What were they thinking when they looked out at the same view I’m seeing? I took this image 15 years ago, almost to the day (11/26/2008) on my brother-in-law’s property in Carmel, Indiana. His family moved several years ago. I’ll bet they left the bench. This was a peaceful place, the quiet, the smell of evergreens and crisp fall air, the sound of the leaves rustling in the light breeze. Yesterday I listened to a Zoom lecture on Forest Bathing from the Smithsonian. The speaker is a certified Forest Bathing tour guide and teaches folks how to make the most of your time in nature. She tells me that large sections of Japan’s forest have been specifically reserved for Forest Bathing and tours are plentiful. There are several in the DC area, sadly, I don’t know of any here in the RVA.

Stone Gardens II

Cemeteries are normally peaceful, quiet places. There are exceptions…Arlington, for instance. But, for the most part, when I’m walking, sitting, photographing in a cemetery, you can actually hear the birds. For those of you that live in more rural areas, you’re thinking, “Duh, of course you can…they’re always there!” But I’ve lived in a busy suburb or burb for a long time and hearing nature is not a normal “thing,” traffic, industry, airplanes, construction, machinery…but not in cemeteries. For some reason the sound of the “outside” of cemeteries stays on the outside. And most graveyards have benches and you know how I am about benches.

I was potsying (my word) around my YouTube Channel and saw this old video I made during COVID. Still practicing my software skills, I did a remake of the concept and even used some of the same images as Stone Gardens One but added a few from the RVA area. I don’t think I’m being morose or depressed or whatever, I just like graveyard quiet and try to stop and walk about when I can. There are some extravagant monuments in the Richmond area. There are just as many unmarked graves.

I don’t think I find comfort visiting my parent’s graves. In fact, I know I don’t. I am thankful for all they did for me but that’s got nothing to do with where they are buried and me going to “visit” them. I honor them wherever I am by trying to live up to the values they tried to impart. I don’t do flowers, stones, or any icon. And, I certainly don’t go to cemeteries to talk to ghosts! Hah, I carry my own ghosts, I don’t need strangers. Of course, if my parents had been buried on a hill with a view and a comfy bench…it might be a different story.

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.