Empty houses

I’M STILL ON THE MEND from my surgery, holding off on firing the Canon for a while, but I’ve been looking back on some recent images and trying some fresh edits. This photo was taken in March on the day of my father in-law’s funeral. Tears and sorrow in the morning gave way to smiles and even some laughter as we gathered at my sister in-law’s 30-plus-acre spread to celebrate family.

The image is a comfortable sight, one subliminally absorbed often during many visits. I’m not sure why I was drawn to the vacant bluebird house as I stole away for a quiet moment. Perhaps it represented the emptiness of a family gathering without the big man. Viewed months later, though, there’s a sense of solace.

Hearts and Poets

FOUR WEEKS AGO TODAY, I had open-heart surgery, an unexpected but, as it turns out, fortuitous event. Besides knocking me on my butt for a while (not to worry – I’m progressing well), it also knocked the camera out of my hands. In my downtime, however, the chance to rethink my photography approach and goals has been a gift and may yield some freshness once I get back behind the camera. 

Today marks another anniversary, the 200th birthday of the great American poet Walt Whitman. Known for his words, Whitman also was the subject of numerous photographs during an era when commercial portrait photography was taking off. Posted here is probably my favorite portrait of Whitman, made about 1863 in Washington, D.C., by Alexander Gardner. Whitman describes himself in the photograph (in Horace Traubel’s With Walt Whitman in Camden) thusly: “How well I was then! – not a sore spot – full of initiative, vigor, joy – not much belly, but grit, fibre, hold, solidity. Indeed, all through those years – that period – I was at my best – physically at my best, mentally, every way.”

It is a handsome portrait and a fair description, reminding me of how I think now of myself in my pre-surgery days. Or maybe, yeah, my best days are still ahead of me.

Spring Swoon

I WAS BORN IN THE FALL, and for that reason and many others, it remains my favorite season. Yet each spring I’m forced to second-guess that. The burst of fresh color, the reset and rebirth of nature — it’s awe-inspiring and energizing. The colorful palette of flora and fauna steal the spring show, but to me, none of that would be possible without drapes of glorious green. The color of nature, green symbolizes growth, harmony, and fertility. Go green!

Indian paintbrush flashing its smile.

A cedar waxwing before a curtain of spring green.

A budding redbud tree getting a buzz.

The magical, colorful bluebird.

Evening primrose wearing the remnants of a morning shower.

Black swallowtail dipping among the Indian paintbrush.

Breakfast Buffet

SOMETIMES THE BEST NATURE WALK is close and convenient, like the one I’ve been taking on Sunday mornings this winter from my front door to a stealthy viewing perch on my front porch. With warm boots and a coat thrown over my PJs to ward off the chill, I watch a birdie breakfast buffet lit in the warm tones cast from the sunrise slot above the horizon but below the larger limbs of an expansive red oak tree.

The tufted titmouse, with its muted but lovely coloring.

Woody, the red-bellied woodpecker, with his bent beak.

The northern cardinal, red and black and seemingly always angry.

Breakfast buddies, the American goldfinch and downy woodpecker.

The bluejay, with its distinctive back pattern.

The American goldfinch offers a lovely contrast to the cool winter sky canvas.

This house finch keeps a messy house.

Best of 2018

MY FAVORITES FROM 2018 include waterfowl, a night sky transitioning from stars to storm, and a fungi masquerading as a wine glass.

The Way We Were

A BLURRY SNAPSHOT summons a crystal-clear memory and a reminder that it is, indeed, the memories that matter. In it, my kids and I are perched on a large stone, a quiet stream barely visible in the wooded background of our campsite. Our sweatshirts hint at the crisp coolness that usually accompanied those outings, whether spring or fall. 

The photo was taken in the afternoon’s glow before sunset near the end of a fun weekend. Perhaps our smiles are a sense of relief that the hiking and other physical exertions were over, but I suspect that the sweetness of that moment is simply a manifestation of the love we felt in that bonding experience. It’s a memory mosaic, an image that captures the way we were before sports, school, teenage turmoil, and the digital revolution complicated life. 

• A full head of hair helps frame a youthful, healthy me, clad in my favorite campout hoodie. Dare I say — it might be the most handsome I’ve ever looked. 

• My son sports the chili bowl haircut that he insisted on during that part of his adolescence. Like mine, his face is healthy and relaxed. His hiking boots betray a young nature lover.

• My daughter is the centerpiece of the image. Her grip on my shoulders, the twinkle in her eyes, the purse of her lips — they all reflect what a daddy’s girl she was then.

That blurry, spur-of-the-moment photo takes me back to a simpler time when I didn’t insist on a certain perfection from my images, a time when making the memory was the thing that mattered.

Arizona

IN 2018, I FOUND MYSELF in a state I’d never visited before — twice. A work assignment in February took me to Tucson, where I hiked rocky trails through the Sonoran landscapes featuring cacti that looked like magical giants. I saw deer, rock wren, beautiful hummingbirds, and amazing desert flora. In September, while on another work trip to Phoenix, my kids joined me for a bucket-list trip to the Grand Canyon. On the way to the South Rim, we stopped in Sedona for an afternoon hike to Devil’s Bridge. My photos barely hint at the majesty of the scenery.

Hiking the Hidden Canyon Trail in Tucson.

The red rocks of Sedona.

Celebrating as we reached our hiking destination, Devil’s Bridge.

A young elk relaxing in the brush near the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

A collared lizard catching some rays.

At Bright Angel point with my daughter and own bright angel, Megan, along the South Rim.