Saturday, August 30, 2014

Rain

It's been a long time since we've had rain. Clouds to the west and east had drenched swaths of Alabama, but none here.

When I looked at radar this morning, it looked as if today would be no different, but Jilda woke up with aching shoulders and wrists. As I wiped sleep from my eyes with the back of my hands, she rolled over and said, "It's gonna rain today." But as added insurance, I washed my truck.

I'd worn my shoes so thin that you could have thrown a soccer ball through in places, so we went in to town to buy me a new pair. I'd actually rather have shingles than to buy new shoes, but I knew resistance would be futile. So we loaded up and headed into town to shop for footwear.

Jilda's sister Pat went with us, and after buying a new pair of spiffy new shoes, I treated the girls to lunch at the new Cracker Barrel that opened out on the freeway.

We took a seat by the window and as we waited for food, we could see rain in the distance. It looked like fog, but you rarely see fog at noon in August here. The temps were in the 90s but off to the east, you could see cloud to cloud lightning.

It rained for a moment at the restaurant, but only long enough to turn the parking lot into a steam room. I wondered if the rain had passed us by again.

When we got home, it was overcast and I could hear thunder off to the west. Soon I heard it coming. It started out like static on an AM radio station with the dial slightly off station. Then as it came closer, we opened the doors. On the screen porch, the wind drove wisps of mist through the screen and onto my face.

At first the rain puddled on the hard clay of the yard, but the persistent drops began to soak into the roots of the water oak. You could almost hear it sigh.

Radar shows more showers headed in our direction and soon the temperature will drop enough to make it comfortable sleeping with the windows up.

As my lovely spouse often closes out her blog: Good night, sweet dreams.

Summer Weeds

Friday, August 29, 2014

Photography

Years ago, long before bits and bytes painted pictures on screens not much bigger than a postage stamp, I learned to take pictures.

A photograph then was an investment, so I spent a great deal of time on setup. I'd check the light on the subject, check for stray hair, or wrinkled clothes. And then I'd spend a few seconds thinking about things like, shutter speed, f-stop, depth of field, and focus. Shooting a spontaneous picture was rare for me.

Then came developing and printing photographs in a small cramped darkroom with a dim orange-yellow light which was the only color light that wouldn't harm photo paper. 

I'm sure the smell of those toxic chemicals were the cause of the third ear I had removed from the middle of my forehead back in the late 70s. (OK, I'm kidding but I couldn't resist.)

I didn't take a lot of color pictures in those early years, mainly because I couldn't develop and print them myself because I didn't have the supplies and equipment.

When I did take color pictures, it was rare I'd take a full roll at one time so I'd make a mental note of the number of shots I took. I would then roll the film back into the small canister and write the number of shots I took on the roll. When I got ready to shoot more color pictures, I'd put the used roll into the camera, leave the lens cap on and shoot off the number of photos I'd already taken. That way, the pictures I'd already taken would be double exposed. And then I take the new pictures at the end of the roll. I know that seems like a lot of work, but color film wasn't cheap, and I was broke most of the time then so cutting corners was routine.

Once I had forgotten to make a note of the number of photos I'd taken when I loaded a roll of color film into my camera. 

Thankfully the photos I shot were for fun, because shot over about a half roll of film which resulted in about 18 photos that were unintentionally double exposed.

Most of them were throw aways, but as serendipity goes, a few of the pictures were stunning. I still have them stashed in one of my picture boxes.

The process changed with digital photography. Now you snap of a half a hundred pictures at the drop of the hat and simply delete what doesn't work.

The downside to the new way is that a lot of people take pretty good photographs, but they don't really know how they did it. Or if the light is tricky, they don't know how to compensate.

Below is a picture I shot with the double exposure app on iPhone. It took less that 10 seconds.





Thursday, August 28, 2014

Backup plan

I've struggled with focus this week. I know my updates have been as thin as corn silk, but no matter how hard I tried or how hard I focused, the words would not come.

That is the ebb and flow of writing. My column was due yesterday afternoon and at lunch, I still hadn't written the column.

After lunch, I sat still on the couch and meditated. Each time one of my mental voices chided me, I pulled it like a weed in my garden and tossed it in my virtual compost bin.

When I sat back down at laptop sitting patiently on the table on the screen porch, I managed to pull a column together.

When I addressed the column to all the newspapers awaiting it, I breathed a sigh of relief, and vowed to do something about the drought.

This morning, I fired up the laptop and did some research while sipping coffee as thick as pine tar. I came across several resources with column ideas. I also came across a link to a Life column that runs in the New York Times. After a few clicks, I found how to submit my work for consideration.

Maybe I'm a dreamer, but I'd love to be published in The New York Times.

Before I shut down my laptop, I'd document 10 killer ideas for columns. This afternoon, I took one of them and wrote it within an hour. This gives me one in my hip pocket in the event I hit a dry spell again.

I know it's not Friday yet, but I'd like to be the first to say, Have a great weekend. And while I'm at it, since it's almost the first of September, I will also wish you a Merry Christmas.

In honor of National Dog Week, here's a photo of my
faithful companion Caillou


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Blooming moss

When I see blooming moss in summer, I think of my great grandmother. She and my grandfather didn't have much. They were in their late 80s, living in a three-room house. It was built of second-hand pine and listed a little to starboard when the power company hooked their house to the electric grid.

They were on social security, living from check to check, but one thing she did have an abundance of was flowers. 

During the spring and summer months, her porch looked like a rustic botanical garden. She had flowers planted in most any container that held dirt. Someone had made planters from old car tires. 

They'd cut the edges in a way that when turned inside out, the container looked like a lower itself.

She'd totter down creaking steps into the yard each morning before sunrise, pulling weeds and deadheading petunias. There were many plants she couldn't name except with the old names used by her mom.

My favorite flower was blooming moss. She had an old coal scuttle that served as a hanging basket and the moss draped over the edges. The blossoms looked like candy.

I found this photo I'd taken last summer of blooming moss and and it triggered the memory of my great grandmother.



Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Sad garden

The wet-spring garden was slow to develop, but once the weather warmed, it was off to the races. However this year, it went from warm to hot and for the most part dry. Soon much of the garden was dry as tinder. It seems during dry summers, that no amount of city water makes it thrive.

So this has not been a banner year for bumper crops. It is my intention to experiment with raised beds with a small irrigation system. Raised beds are work intensive on the front end, but when built and laid out correctly, they tend to be less trouble over the long haul.

I stepped down this evening as the sun settled in the west. There's little left except a few puny tomatoes, and peppers. For some reasons, peppers love summers here.

I snapped this picture over the fence of the outer edge of sad little garden. It would probably be best to put it out of its misery and simply bush hog the entire plot.


Monday, August 25, 2014

Problem with tobacco ~ my column from Sunday's paper

It’s a wonder I never got hooked on tobacco. Most of the people I adored during my formative years smoked, dipped or chewed, but for reasons I’ll explain later, I never did.


I remember my grandpa Charlie Watson smoking as he sat in his overalls on an oak stump the size of a No. 3 washtub. None of those sissified filtered smokes for him. No, sir. He rolled his own.

He did a lot of work for the mines in those days, and he had a blacksmith shop behind his house. He’d heat and beat orange-hot strips of metal into U-shapes. These later became shoes for the mining mules. When his arm tired from beating hot metal, he’d sit on the stump, which also served as a workbench, and take a smoke break.

From the bib of his overalls, he’d pull out his Prince Albert tobacco, which was in a can as red as a stop sign. Curling a thin rolling paper with his index finger, he’d thump in a little tobacco, snap the can closed with one hand and place it back in his pocket. 

With practiced motion, he’d twist a cigarette as tight as a ready-roll and seal it together with a lick of the tongue.

The routine was almost a ritual. Somehow, the act of rolling his own cigarettes gave him time to think. As he blew smoke skyward he’d sometimes wax metaphorical and say, “These dang (I cleaned that word up) thangs are nails in my coffin.”

My Grandma Watson never smoked, but she always had a spittoon within arm’s reach. She often spent evenings on her front porch dipping and reflecting on life. 

She’d put a pinch of Bruton snuff just inside her bottom lip. After a while, she’d make a V with her middle and index finger, raise it to her mouth, lean toward the edge of the porch and spit an amber stream the size of a pencil into the yard.

My dad and my brothers also smoked, but thanks to an invaluable life lesson, I decided tobacco wasn’t for me.

Little-league baseball was a part of every summer when I was a kid, and one day just before practice, a teammate offered me a chew. 

“You want some of this? It’s great,” he said with a bulging jaw. He looked like he’d lost another fight with his older sister, who was as mean as a snake with an abscessed tooth.

“Sure,” I said a little too quickly. Appearing naive was a big concern at that age, so I reached into my jeans for my Old Timer pocketknife to cut off a corner. “Just bite it off,” he chided. I slid the knife back in to my pocket and took the plug from him. 

It looked a little like a chunk of cow dung and didn’t smell much better.

Almost breaking a tooth, I gnawed off a corner. Thanking him, I handed the plug back to him. Not wanting my friend to think I was without vices, I didn’t ask what to do with the juice.

I chewed the tobacco for a while but instead of spitting the juice out, I swallowed it. 

Practice was short that day. My head began to swim, and my stomach churned as if I’d swallowed a live eel. I threw up so hard that muscles throughout my body ached for a week.

That one episode was all it took to realize that tobacco was not for me.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Dog days

The Dog Days of summer are hard on my creativity. I love summer and all that it brings, but instead of thinking stories and blog posts, my mind is at the beach, or the mountains.

Each day, Jilda and I get email updates from San Francisco, Sedona, Telluride, and Tullamore, Ireland. The temps in all these places are incredible. In the low 70s and80s during the day and down into the 60 at night. It danced with triple digits and after five minutes in the sun, I could fry a can spam on the hood of my truck.

In years past we had an abundance of butterflies, but they headed out early. I'm not sure where they went, but it's probably some place cooler, with a pool and drinks in frosty glasses with umbrella stirs.
I actually shot this picture last year about this time. It was enjoying a respite on a zinnia in our garden.

I know I'm whining a little and soon fall will be here, but a little rain to cool things down would be nice.



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