Coincidental Meeting

I snapped, cursed, and apologized. Another bad photo

She said, "Oh, that's OK."

Once I got the photograph, I walked past her and noticed the lovely outdoor stool. "Wow, that's a nice stool!" I said, turning to the land spit by the beach.

"Thanks!" she called.

"I could use one of those," and I really could. Sometimes it's a pain just waiting and waiting and waiting for the right shot.

I gave up, and turned back to the bridge where she sat, cross-wise, legs out, for a bit of rest.

"I apologize again," I said, and she stood.

I noticed her painting and asked about it.

"It's for a class."

"Art major?"

"No. Environmental Arts and Humanities."

Then I saw the Alabama Outdoors water bottle.

"Are you from Birmingham!"

"Yes," she answered.

"Me too!"

And we were off -- similar pleasures in our home town, similar complaints, similar interests, similar insights. Chat about schools, and majors, and plans for the future, and art, and photography.

When I got home, I suddenly realized I had spoken to the writer of this superior essay -- "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by Jessie Hook.

I hope you enjoy it too.

The Regulars

"That a new hat? It's beautiful!" he commented as they approached me on the dam, the dogs trotting ahead.

"Yep. A wider brim. A fisherman's hat."

"It's beautiful," he said, and they headed for bridge. 

We're regulars -- the walkers/swimmers and I.

Like the pink lady's slippers and slant line moths who rest on them and the dragonflies and damselflies I photograph, we too know the place and enjoy its intimate pleasures.

Where Have All the Good Men Gone?

At least has gone to Sewanee.

Not one of his three female companions nor I would touch the two full swim diapers on the beach bench.

T---, however, simply picked them up, holding each by thumb and forefinger, hands held well before his body, and then strolled casually to the trash can no more than 15 paces away.

The girls said, "We wouldn't have done that!"

Nor would I.

But T--- did.

He was the hero four women needed!

(Note: the women did best him in their newt netting, a loss he accepted without embarrassment, and all cheered when he finally called out, "I got one!")

The first time

I saw a Lancet Clubtail emerge I nearly fell in the water. I was that excited. Truly.

Today, after walking Gracie, I decided to stop by Lake Cheston, where I watched about a dozen Lancets emerge -- all in different stages of development. And this time I was extra lucky: while watching two on one rock, I noticed a larva crawl up out the water on the rock just on the right. Then, throwing caution to the wind (the dam having just been given the Easter weekend close-cut, which usually lets loose the chiggers and ticks), I hunkered for a long while, snapping shot after shot after shot.

I left happy (even if still coming up short with the macro lens).

The odes are coming

now!

An oddly slow start to the odonate season may be coming to an end with the arrival of Common Whitetail, Springtime Darner, Carolina Saddlebags, and -- finally -- the Common Baskettail to Lake Cheston.

I'll just let the picture and video do the talking.

Well Used

Runners.

Cyclists.

Walkers.

Strollers.

Insects.

Creatures.

We all use this bridge.

The love is beginning to show.

If you need me

I'll be at the office with a few colleagues.

You Can't Always Get What You Want (Different Ode Species)

Sometimes you get something better.

I noticed the pair when they arrived with serious fishing gear and got to work. She caught something immediately, and then my attention strayed: Blue Corporals, at least six, emerging or having emerged (including one fatally injured with permanently crimped wings, never to fly, just hanging on).

Eventually, I noticed the man had moved across the lake and the young woman had wandered back to the grassy area near the beach where I stood. I asked her, “Catch and release or eat?”

“Catch and release!”

“Good choice!”

In a few minutes, she came over to ask what I was photographing. Once I showed her the emerging Blue Corporals, she was as hooked as I. 

Of different generations and backgrounds, we found our common ground: love of nature. Like me, she watches something terrible in a nature video and wonders, “Why don’t you guys do something instead of just taking the video?” Like me, she rescues things in need. Someone said to her once, “It’s just nature.” Her answer is mine: “Yes, but I’m there; I can do something, so why wouldn’t I!”

“Yes,” I said. “If I have a wreck on the highway, I hope some living thing that sees me will rescue me.”

"Exactly."

From there we launched into stories of her life – what she had wanted to be (a mechanic, but her father had asked how will you lift heavy things? to which she said to me Uh . . . ask? with a half-smile and shrug), what she hated doing (hanging dry wall with her father), what she'd done that made her proud and taught her the big things in life (serve in the Air Force), what she has done for her sister (pay for everything for the sister and sister's baby for two years), and what she won’t do again (surrender herself so fully financially to someone else who could look at herself or himself). She also talked about sometimes wishing she were back in service for one reason: no big decisions. "Everything is decided for you and that's kind of comfortable."

She’s lucky. She has her health,  and smarts, and experience, and family. She said, “I keep asking if I can pay rent or buy the groceries or help out with the bills, but they always say no.”

“Good,” I said. “They know you need the time now to decide what comes next.”

“Yes,” she said. “And that’s the scary part.”

After I told her about Lake Dimmick and showed her the map, we parted, but not before we introduced ourselves.

“I really enjoyed talking to you, A_______.”

“Same here, Robley.” she said. “I’m really glad I walked over here.”

I am too.

One Hirsute Ode

My brother teneral Blue Corporal is an hairy bug.

with apologies to and great affection for Alan Bennett and Beyond the Fringe

Maybe Soon

The records say this is the warmest year so far in history, with February breaking all the records.

All I know is that we have had rain and rain and more rain, making for a slow start to damselfly/dragonfly emergence. Even though I can't prove it with a decent photograph, I saw a Common Green Darner cruising the lake today, flying fast, darting in and out of shore vegetation, on the make.

The frogs already got to it some weeks ago and now the toads too. Suddenly, the overflow channel (bone dry much of last summer) waves their egg masses and jelly strands.

Maybe there's hope yet for a lively renewal in and around the water.

Another Conversation with a Stranger

Having discovered the Fragile Forktails (who must have emerged in the rain when I did not), I wandered round Lake Cheston to the cattails and grasses near the beach. Sure enough, two males and a female, sunning and eating and cavorting. I leaned in to snap, and I spoke to them as I usually do.

Then I wandered across the beach to the next set of cattails and grasses (sedges?). On hearing two distinct and distinctly small plops I looked in the water and lo and behold there it was -- a little toad (at least I think it was a toad). Again, I leaned and leaned in and apologized for disturbing it and again when it sank out sight.

By this time a woman and her two children had rounded the walk.

"May we know what you're photographing? We heard you talking over there," gesturing, "and over here."

I smiled. "Yes, I have a habit of doing that."

The children came close.

We made a tight circle so I could show them my camera screen. "I was taking pictures of the first damselflies I've seen this year -- Fragile Forktails. They're less than an inch in length."

There were suitable gasps and comments like "Beautiful."

Then I showed them the toad and where it had been.

The children were delighted as was the mother, who introduced herself (I know who she is and have met her husband -- both musicians). We chatted, as one does in a small place, and discovered we have mutual friends.

Then she said, "We're moving to Prague this summer, but we come here nearly every day, so we'll probably see you."

"Permanently?" I asked.

"Yes," she said."For me it's home, and it's about family and opportunity."

And with that we parted.

(I hope we do indeed meet again for another delightful conversation.)

Socialization

Walking a dog, even someone else's dog, every morning has surprising benefits, chief among them socialization.

The kindness of a neighbor and her dog Panda eases Gracie into new territory: friendship with a previously unfamiliar canine. Yesterday, after previously barking at the same pair several times over the course of different days, we happened upon Panda and her human on our way to the lake. We were invited to walk along beside, at some distance, and Gracie was allowed to sniff Panda's markings, and Panda to sniff Gracie's. After an enthusiastically boisterous beginning, Gracie settled into a companionable stroll. Today, when we met them on their way home and on our way out, Panda and Gracie shared a lovely moment of rest while the humans chatted.

A bit later, as we crossed a Lake Cheston bridge, we encountered two students taking advantage of their late first class (11 AM), soaking in the sun and blue sky and strangely (uncomfortably so) warm weather. Instead of barking at the seated young women, as has been her wont in the past on encountering unknown people, Gracie wagged and wiggled and they giggled and stroked her and took cell photos. Then, about halfway to the dam, Gracie spotted her first slider (my first slider of the year) sunning on the fallen tree where they often are. Instead of charging full-out toward it, Gracie assumed a position and stared a good long time. Still later, at the dam, as a gaggle of children and parents approached, Gracie stopped, accepted their smiles, and then moved on.

Even the players at the baseball field were just other points of interest, for us both, and we headed home feeling happy to have made such good relaxed acquaintance with those along our way.

Gliding

I imagine gliding like this, along the surface of water or deep in sleep, easy and peaceful, seeing things up close as never before or far away as never before, and then I remember my aching back, the nightly heating pad and fitful turning, one cat or another moving to take up new space, sometimes on that same pad where they glide effortlessly into sleep.

I'd like that.

Walking with J's Gracie

while my friend heals heals me.

Gracie is all senses -- she marks and sniffs and watches, swims and shakes and admires.

Gracie likes me and trusts me -- she waits at the door for my arrival and jumps on me eagerly, she looks at me while she walks, she holds no anger, and she doesn't sense mine.

Gracie is kind -- she pauses when I have to go downhill on the wet stepping stones more slowly than she and when I have to stop to retie a shoe lace. She even lets me take an occasional cell phone snap.

Gracie likes the lake and Abbo's Alley as much as I do -- the goats and chickens, the ducks and water, the paths and views, shadows and light, the greenhouses and their magic, the creek and bridges, the crocus and fallen trees with their fungus.

We walk each morning at 9, and for an hour or more I think only of Gracie and the pleasure of walking with her.

I am grateful for her company.

Long Shadows

my cats
curled in beds
purr when 
I look
at them

Gracie
a friend's dog
squeals when
on seeing me
before our 
daily walk

I hope
she sleeps
now with
her human
home today
from hospital

elsewhere
people & pets
suffer, wait

and

we are
the lucky ones

Bitter

cold -- of the kind that turns my fingers red, numb, white (though gloved and stuffed into wool-lined pockets) and fingernails purple, the kind that makes me fumble when I try to press any button on my camera and dries my eyes straining to see anything clearly, even my own shadow, reddens my nose and cheeks, whips up my jeans and down my socks -- may slow me down, but doesn't stop me from a brisk walk and a look, especially a slightly cheering one on seeing more water in Lake Cheston but still depressing given the appearance of segmented hardened earth -- like quilt patches -- of once-mud-then-packed-dry-blocks under that water; then the pronounced shadows, the long shadows that slash the reddened grasses standing up to the teens and the icy winds, teaching me to surrender to weather and still walk, still see, then recover with tea and warm water and cats, always doing the smart thing: hunkering in their round beds.

Haptic Learning

Before my cashier could look up the item code, the one next to us provided it. She said, "It's always better to ask. You'll remember the codes faster that way."

She wasn't with a customer, so I asked her, "Why?"

"I learn by listening," she said. "I learned all the codes within a couple of weeks."

"Aha! I'm a teacher, so I know what you mean. Some folks are natural auditory learners."

My cashier said, "That's not me. I learn best just by trying to do something."

"Right, me too," I said. "That's haptic learning: just do it till you figure it out." 

Later, at the lake, I stumbled across the HDR option in my long camera menu (I was looking for something else, of course), but I saw it, so I chose it. I gave it go. After checking a  photo or two, I quickly discovered that I had better shoot at higher ISO. I also realized I needed to shoot at the limited option (a macro lens to begin with wasn't ideal for leaf reflections, but so what?). At home, I looked at the photos and then realized I had met the limits of my learning. A quick glance at the directions proved fruitful: shoot in Auto. Duh.

I could sure use an auditory GX8 guide beside me just like the young woman at The Pig. Until then, . . . .

Local Color

So startled by red towers
like exclamation marks
cresting the hill that I blurted
"What the heck are those?"
Closer, I answered myself,
"Just stacked plastic crates."
But so much more than just:
exclaiming sky, clouds, bushes,
dry grass, bluebirds,
so many bluebirds
wheeling in
perching, staring
zipping to ground
then back up --
blurred dashes
ellipses
virgules
before twilight.

Sometimes the smallest object

says it all,
and that's enough.

Fall Color ABCedarian: V

VIVID BURGUNDY AND VIOLET BLUE