Collecting Pictures

Lately, my elderly has been sleeping when I stop to visit. Today, one of her caretakers invited me in because she wanted to chat with me about what might come next.

Suddenly, we heard her name.

"There she goes!" the caretaker said and headed down the hall.

In a minute, she came back in and said, "Chocolate ice cream! Go on in."

So I did.

"Whatcha got?" my friend asked.

I showed her irises, a wildflower close-up, Gracie, and another friend's cute dog.

Taking a long time to study each picture, she finished her ice cream and ordered more.

Then she asked, "Are you still walking the dog?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "How's J?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "What does she do?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "Does she still have a loom?" as she always does

And after I answered, she asked, "Why did she move here?" as she always does.

And after I answered, the caretaker returned with more ice cream.

Seeing my camera, my friend said, "Go on wherever you're going!"

"I'll see you some more," I said, but as I stepped out of her bedroom, she called "Robley!"

I turned back and in. "Yes?"

And suddenly she was laughing and stared out at the window and then at me and said, "I forget!"

Tomorrow I am going to show her more irises and this, and we'll have the same conversation all over again.

On Torture

This morning, when coming up and out from Guerry Garth Gracie and turning into the covered walkway along the Quad, I saw a slug making its way toward grass and shrub. I paused, let Gracie slip out toward the student guide leaving her tour group and heading toward us. I cautioned her about the slug while she chatted and watched her step over the creature before continuing on ahead of us.

Then I came home and read this,

Slugs

by Brian Swann

Who could have dreamed them up? At least snails

have shells, but all these have is—nothing.

Small black antennae like fat pins wave

as if they could take in enough to get them through.

Turn them over, they’re the soles of new shoes,

pale and unmarked as babies. They flow,

the soil itself learning how to move and, moving,

almost staying still, their silver monorail

the only evidence of where they’d been.

And they die quiet, or at least (thankfully)

out of the human ear’s range, between two stones,

under heels, shriveling in salt or piss, at the tips

of sharp sticks. Fight back, I hear myself say,

do something. Don’t just take it. But they die

as they had lived, exuding slime, like

the smaller boys, who’d just

stand there, miserable in short pants,

school socks down to their ankles,

school tie unknotted and askew, and flowing

from noses slow cauls of snot that

from time to time they’d lick or sniff back up

part way, until it flowed again, coating

the upper lip, falling into the mouth, mixing

with tears before anything had been done,

the fear itself enough, so even if we wanted

we couldn’t let them off. Sometimes it was

the knee “where you daren’t show your mother,”

other times the kick in the shins, the stick over

the head, the punch in the mouth, while they

just stood there, or double up, gasping

for breath, and we did it again.

Suddenly, I remembered that as a child I learned to pour salt on slugs. I watched them, delighted to see them shrivel, dying before me, without ever, even once, considering what I was doing. I want to think I fel pleasure because I was a child and because I believed that whatever a parent taught me to do was the right thing.

Since walking and looking and noticing, I am not so sure that I didn't enjoy the killing and dying for their own sake.

And I feel ashamed for years of mindless squashing.

Ironies Abound

According to the University of the South: Sewanee's Guide for Living in Community: Statement of Rights and Responsibilities, "Ecce Quam Bonum (EQB) is the University motto and describes our highest aspiration for community, lived out in expectations for our students. 'Behold how good and pleasant it is when brothers and sisters live in unity!' -- Psalm 133:1.' "

Note the operative words community and aspiration.

There's a reason why campus tours do not venture out to the on-campus lakes: garbage (i.e., liquor bottles, beer and soda cans, abandoned bicycles, take-out cartons, books and paper, used condoms and wrappers, underwear, . . .). 

Dragonflies don't care, even if I do.

A Lucky Turn

into my driveway resulted in this

My love/hate relationship with my macro lens continues.

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.

Rainy Day Musing on a Number

Fifty-Fifty
by Patricia Clark

You can have the grackle whistling blackly 

        from the feeder as it tosses seed,

if I can have the red-tailed hawk perched 

        imperious as an eagle on the high branch.

You can have the brown shed, the field mice

        hiding under the mower, the wasp’s nest on the door,

if I can have the house of the dead oak,

        its hollowed center and feather-lined cave.

You can have the deck at midnight, the possum 

        vacuuming the yard in its white prowl,

if I can have the yard of wild dreaming, pesky 

        raccoons, and the roaming, occasional bear.

You can have the whole house, window to window, 

        roof to soffits to hardwood floors,

if I can have the screened porch at dawn, 

        the Milky Way, any comets in our yard.

Making My Own Entertainment

A quiet day: dog walk, brunch, work, social media, reading, making an image, blogging.

I suspect I have always been able to spend hours by myself, a habit more children might well develop. Silence is sometimes golden, but silence isn't always silent when the mind and imagination are at play.

After this

I discovered this

So what if it's still foggy and rainy? I've got sunshine aplenty inside.

Sometimes I Miss Classroom Teaching

Yesterday on our walk, Gracie and I ran into a student we'd met before in Abbo's Alley -- Gil Horner. Both he and I said, "Haven't we met before?"

Previously, he'd been sitting on a bench in Trink's Terrace, where he was reading and enjoying the sunshine. We chatted then about his time here (he loves it), where he's from (south of Nashville), and the beauty of the campus.

Yesterday, a gray day, we met him on the sidewalk near the bookstore, and he walked with us all the way to the library, where he peeled off to study (but not before extending his hand and formally introducing himself). Along the way, I learned this: he is one of the first Hippocrates Fellows at Sewanee and that he will be here this summer for two courses, one of which is Medical Humanities. He wants to help people and already does through a number of service opportunities.

Here's what our ten-minute chat really tells me: he is a young man worth knowing, and his professors are lucky.

A Snafu Day

A day spent fixing serious computer problems is not my idea of economical pleasure, even with the assistance of a great tech guy.

At least I took this cellphone snap while walking Gracie.

And I think the machine is happier.

For now.

The Familiar and the Foreign

Heritage Flowers -- that's what I call my neighbor's peonies, descendents of her grandmother's flowers, dug and replanted and nurtured. Peonies like it here, and I like having them next door. They announce spring in a burst of color and passion, and love over generations.

Passion equal to this surprising performance by DkhaBrakha, a Ukrainian quartet.

Nothing much to see

but plenty to hear in Abbo's Alley. When bird song lifts from the woods behind my house or from the woods along daily walks, I feel as if I were Gracie -- cheerful to be out and about and in the moment. Even she was content to stop so I could listen and make this recording before we wandered on. This is one of my favorite songs (a wood thrush, I think).

When it rains

it pours.

Three and a half inches.

In one period during afternoon.

Ruining prospects for a photowalk.

(I did trudge through rain with Gracie, at least.)

And what it poured was more than rain.

Two things of Noosa Yoghurt, to be exact.

I fool myself into thinking it's healthy just because it's delicious.

Even the packaging is delicious.

Ew is how I feel about the weather, but not about Noosa.

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!")

An Easter Request

Today, my One-Hour-A-Day-Dog decided she would like to become an organist.

However, after my description of the stops, keyboards, and footboard -- familiarity I learned from playing the pipe organ at St. Luke's Episcopal Church, Gracie turned in disappointment to mark yet another patch of grass, and I felt compelled to join her.

When the neighbors visit

I remember how much I have missed making chocolate chip scones for early morning delivery and the sound of children laughing and playing.

Two of the neighbor three children now are now too old for the noise the youngest makes, one of the "three Ms," as her mother called the girls when she introduced me to the two BFFs.

When they leave, the neighborhood is less sparkly and more staid than I like it, but I can look forward to summer, and their happy return.

One benefit of walking Gracie --

my One-Hour-A-Day-Dog -- is chatting with folks on campus. Students often ask, "May I pet your dog?" or smile and nod (briefly looking up from their screens), or offer a passing hello, or even want to talk.

One young woman curled into an Adirondack chair, reading and enjoying the sunlight, hopped up and asked to pet Gracie. "Of course," I said. And then she told me about her dog.

"I remember how hard it was to leave my cat at home when I went to college. What year are you?

"First."

"It got a bit easier this semester, don't you think?"

"Yes," she said.

Gracie, meanwhile, was basking in the student's affection.

She told me she would major in psychology with a second emphasis in political science. "I love it here," she added. "I just love learning new things."

With that, we parted.

A bit later, I stopped to photograph this stencil on the sign. A student turned the corner, looked where I was looking, and said, "What's that?"

"I was hoping you might know!" I answered.

"No clue. But it looks like an insect, doesn't it?"

"Yep. I just love random things like this."

"Me, too," she said. "See ya!"

Conversations with strangers each morning, another reason why I enjoy walking with Gracie.

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).

Death by Drowning

An underwater larva emerges from the water and becomes an air-breathing winged dragonfly. Most live air-borne only long enough to mate and ensure the survival of the species. But some die early.

Of drowning.

When I first learned this from reading, I was taken aback. An insect that had long lived under water drowns. That was one thing.

Seeing them drowned or drowning or being knocked into water by another of the same species is a whole other thing entirely.

Five today. I pulled out four -- those within reach, but only one survived (but I suspected she wouldn't for much longer because one wing was crimped). Not this one. He looked perfect, but he wasn't.

Every time I think I can make a difference.

Only sometimes can I.

Below, Above, Through

Seeing below and above and what lies between, like that odd space between sleeping and waking, not quite dreaming and not quite thinking, when a sliver of light parts the curtains, blown just a bit by a breeze, or the cat's shadow as she leans in to my face and for a moment I think she's something else, just a shadow.

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.

I have very few friends who

understand me as well and tolerate me as patiently as does Florence, my former neighbor. Within ten minutes of walking into her kitchen for an overnight visit, I asked, "Would you mind if I take a few pictures of your garden before lunch?"

"Of course not!"

And so I did.

I do love tulips, but I love Florence so much more.

A Day of Discovery

A friend sent me a review of Patrick Barkham's Coastlines: The Story of Our Shore. The reviewer wrote, "Bleak and windswept, the place [Scolt Head Island] was no idyll, and after an episode in which Barkham's father spotted two men stealing rare eggs but failed to persuade the island warden to confront them, the family stopped going there. Revisiting it 35 years on, Barkham surmounts the discomfort he felts as a child to achieve a dreamlike peace or hypnagogia -- no easy matter when you're swimming in the North Sea."

I am not British, nor have I a shore. I don't remember a non-idyllic place which my family visited, nor have I swum in the North Sea.

But I know hypnagogia.

I experience it every time I take pictures outside or in, when I see something beautiful and want to experience it both outside the frame and in it. At those moments, I suspend thinking and simply look and do.

Today, though, I paused long enough for the wind to die and realized that even when I take lots of not-so-great photos, I could keep doing it and keep failing all day. Happily.

Fortunately, after struggling to photograph a Shooting Star, I found something that doesn't move.

Generosity

Spring strews signs of renewal everywhere,
without preference or favoritism.

If only people would do the same.

Good Thing There Was No Traffic!

On my way to the Lake Cheston upper parking lot, I cruised by the farm, noticing a whole lot of birds in the big double-tree (one of them's a flowering tree of some kind) across from the baseball field. In another ten yards, I screeched to a halt, backed up, drove into Old Farm road to turn around, raced back by the tree, stopped the car, looked again, then drove into Cobb Lane like a madwoman, pulled into the grass, and leapt out, leaving the car running.

Cedar Waxwings! Lots of them!

Craning my neck, I looked upwards and started snapping. Soon, I noticed a retired professor (who was walking the dogs) stop on the sidewalk across the street. "Cedar Waxwings!" I shouted. "I saw them when I was passing and turned right around." "You knew what they were from you car?" "Not at first, but when I got to the road up to the hoophouses, I realized what they were." "There sure are a lot of them," he said and walked on.

I stopped counting at 42. Some flew off, many stayed, others returned. Too high for a really sharp photo, but not too high to miss and never too high to enjoy.

Return to the Honey-hole

In one lovely visit to my two favorite ponds, these friends flew: Blue Corporals, Carolina Saddlebags, Common Green Darners, Fragile Forktails, Citrine Forktails, and Southern Spreadwings. The sky, and the grasses, and the bare limbs, and the just visible beginnings of leaves, and . . . so much to love. I could spend the day there and come home happy, even if the ode photos are all terrible.

Instead of

a 6-pack of my favorite beer

I bought

two 8-ounce tubs of Noosa yogurt.

Me for the WIN!

A Day of Red

roof

quince

redbud

choir robes

fire and passion, too, in student, family, and colleague memorial service testimonies attesting to the powerful influence of a beloved Sewanee professor, a man I met a few times and left each time charmed and intrigued and touched by his quiet humor and intelligence

If you need me

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