I added a new photo album "No Caption Needed" as a place to preserve some of those things you see as you go about daily life - and they speak for themselves....
Just one entry so far, I was walking the dogs in the neighborhood and came across this possible reflection on the perils of excessive enjoyment on a holiday weekend...
It's nearly done, next week I get to hand in the fruits of my labor over the past few weeks (doesn't seen like much to show for it though..), but it is only the tip of the iceberg. There are two new photo albums, Black & White Classes, and Valley Forge. The Black & White Classes is a compilation of both I & II, and is mostly the academic exercises we went through during the semester, along with explanations of intent - since that may not be immediately obvious... The second album is Valley Forge, and represents the main assignment during the last class. The reason it's a separate album is because it doesn't stop here - I'll be adding to it as the year goes on, making it a more complete portfolio over time.
So enjoy, and realize that what you see here is a small part of the 400 plus images I've made in both 35mm and 645 format since the beginning of the year, not much makes it to the final cut... but it will take some time for all I've learned to sink in, and believe me, I thought I knew what I was doing before I started... How wrong I was...
Now class is over, here is an update to the last post that now includes all the final assignments I photographed. As I'm sure you realized, most of these pictures were technical in nature to demonstrate such things as motion and depth of field. The last assignment included people, so you get to see something other than inanimate objects...
The slide show is here
Just another week to go for Part 1 of the Black and White photography Class, Part 2 starts later this month. So far we've completed a few photographic assignments, developed the film, and made prints from some of the better exposed frames... you learn to bracket your exposures fairly early on, at least until you get the hang of how to meter an exposure for the lighting conditions.... The trash can bears witness to a lot of my less successful prints.... but at least the chemicals clear out the sinuses.
There's a new sidebar on the blog entitled Black & White Photography, and the link takes you to a full-screen PDF file. Once it has loaded, use your down arrow to step through the pictures. When you are done, ESC takes you out of full screen mode, and the back arrow takes you back to the blog...
You can also find it here, where it will open in a new window.
Well, I've probably lived under a rock for most of of my life, but going back to school has introduced me to some interesting technological innovations that have evolved while I was looking the other way... One is an online program from Microsoft called PhotoSynth. It's available to all, and is basically a montage of photographs that you upload to the web site, and the program stitches them together so you can wander through the resulting panorama. It's easier to understand if you go look at it, this particular Synth is the Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde in Colorado...
There are a lot of great Synths on the web site, several from the inauguration, along with a lot of fascinating views of incredibly disorganized bedrooms (why would you want the world to see that?) and ugly back yards...
This technology has been around for a while, and I feel a bit like our fearless ex-leader coming into breakfast at the ranch in Crawford and telling Laura "Gee Honey, I've just found this incredible thing on the computer - it's called Google...." So for those of you for whom this is old hat, why didn't you tell me before now..? For the rest - enjoy...
For more information, go to the PhotoSynth Web Site
... went to College - it's a long story, but I'll keep it short. I graduated from the British equivalent of High School some forty four years ago, in my case it was The Perse School in Cambridge, a Minor Public School. Being England means of course that a Public School isn't really public, it's mostly private. The public schools are the Grammar Schools (mostly) and The Secondary Moderns, at least this was the way of things in my day, it's probably all changed by now. You can tell the Public Schools because they have a symbolic emblem (mine was a Pelican) and a motto - "Qui Facit per Allum, Facit Per Se" a clever pun on the founders name, Stephen Perse, and what passed for humor in 1503, the year he decided to provide education for the Sons of Noblemen, and the odd Merchant with a boat load of cash. They are also characterized by a practice of locking the pupils away from the world for extended periods in unheated buildings, feeding them a diet of boiled cabbage and shoe leather, and subjecting them to frequent baths in cold water. It's one of the reasons Brits are impervious to torture, and went on to colonize the world. The Public Schools were obliged to reserve a few places for members of The Great Unwashed, and these were awarded by competitive examination, tuition fees were then paid by the local education authority. I must have had a box of sharp pencils the day I took the exam because - much to my parents amazement - I won a place. It was all downhill from there.
The only ceremony to mark the end of my school days was the handing in of text books on the final Saturday morning (yes, we worked a half day on Saturday), followed by a mad dash for the gates and freedom.... Never been back since. Clutching a handful of grubby GCE Certificates (General Certificate of Education, and proof that the Government had got something for their money), I was not surprised to discover I'd blown my 'A' Level exams, and instead of spending an extra semester at school to try again, I joined the Royal Air Force. So, instead of becoming a Civil Engineer and building bridges (I love bridges), I learned how to drink eight pints of beer and a) Not throw up, and b) Expand the capacity of my bladder to epic proportions. After eleven years of rampaging around the planet as an emissary of HM Queen and Co. I'd pretty well convinced myself I'd done the right thing - who needs a stinkin' college education when so much fun can be had at taxpayer expense...?
Me, as it turned out. Come the time I moved to the US and applied for a Green Card, I discovered The New World put high value on a College Degree, and instead of moving to the head of the line as a Third Preference immigrant (a three month fast track to Permanent Residency), I found myself in line outside the Immigration Office in Houston along with all the other Sixth Preference 'Unskilled Workers', mostly Hispanic and Vietnamese farm workers. You had to stand in line to get an appointment, and at 12 noon, the appointments were filled - come back tomorrow. The line started forming at three in the morning... Once through the door and a petition submitted, it would be two and a half years in limbo before my number came up.
So, here I am forty four years later, and four years since renouncing gainful employment. I am frequently asked by strangers what do I do, Americans seem obsessed at knowing what it is people do for a living, and think nothing of asking the question as if it's some form of social greeting. Europeans by the way, tend to find this somewhat impolite, they tend to prefer an air of mystery, at least until they get naked on the third date. Whatever, I'm tired of defining myself as 'Retired', because I'm not - I'm between careers. I used to fudge the answer somewhat by saying I'd taken Early Retirement, as if this made it better, but that usually blew right on by.
'What in heavens name is he babbling about" I hear you ask. Be patient. It finally occurred to me that one constant in my life has been a camera. Variously - 35mm (Canon AE1 and A1), Super 8 Bell and Howell), Digital (Canon 20D, Sony CyberShot), medium format (Mamiya RB67 and 645AFd) and video cameras (Canon HD10 and Sony Handicam), enough hardware to film the world in real time... So, I'm not retired - I'm a photographer. There are only two ways to become a successful photographer - teach yourself by going out and doing it, or apprentice yourself to a professional. Naturally, I decided to go to College...
The local Community College has a course in Black and White Photography - the old dark room skills that, like film cameras, threatens to go out of existence. I set about signing up and soon discovered this isn't like signing up for night school - I had to go through the Admissions Process, then take a placement test in English and Math. How hard can this be? I thought. The web site the College pointed to as a useful quick study and refresher turned out to be a series of broken links. No worries - how hard can this be? Two hours in front of a computer left me sweating and embarrassed, I might have done five years of Pure and Applied maths, calculus, trig and geometry, but that was forty four years ago, and one of those eight pint nights had eradicated the relevant brain cells. I resorted to a process of educated guesswork, and comforted myself that I wasn't signing up for a degree in Advanced Astrophysics. I had an interview with a placement counselor last night. Seems I did better than I thought, my math and English skills are sufficient for college entry, classes start next month.
Finally - after forty four years - I'm going to College.
Recently the Cafe headed down the drive with one human and two four-legged companions, headed for Austin, TX so we could finally meet Henry, a grandson born last April. Sabrina was planning to join me once I got down there, and then ride home in the RV.
I decided to take a southern route, and drove I-81 down the Shenandoah Valley to Staunton for the night. Max and Merlin settled into the routine pretty quickly, and the next couple of days were uneventful. The drive through southern Virginia into Tennessee was spectacular, with the fall foliage at its best. Mile after mile of yellows, oranges and greens, it was hard to focus on the drive. But focus I had to - I have never seen so many trucks on an Interstate as there were on I-81/I-40 westbound. Lines and lines of them headed in both direction, all coming past me at speed - I had the cruise control set to 61, mostly for fuel considerations.
Knoxville, Cookeville (scene of a very forgettable night on my last ride home on Hannibal back in 2005) Nashville, Memphis, Little Rock, Texarkana, The Dreaded Dallas, Waco, and finally - Austin, some three days later. Home was the La Hacienda RV Park on Lake Travis to the west of the city, and a great place to set up The Cafe for the duration, I can see the place being a regular stopping place whenever Henry Visiting Season next comes around.
The drive to AUS is about 50 minutes or so, and I was about to leave for the airport when my mobile rang... it seems SouthWest had outdone itself in early arrivals, the flight had already made it in. Still, it gave Sabrina the opportunity for some Airport Appreciation Time... as if she needs it...
The week went by too quickly, and soon it was time to leave - this time via Dallas, Little Rock, Memphis, Nashville, Louisville, Cincinnati, Columbus, Wheeling, and The PA Turnpike home. The idea was to avoid the I-40 traffic, but instead we got to enjoy battling traffic in Louisville and Cincinnati... won't make that mistake again. Up to this point the weather had remained warm and sunny, but then we reached western Pennsylvania... the snow started. Pretty soon the windshield was coated, and the temperature headed for freezing, no ice on the road, but pretty slick none the less. Stepping out at a rest stop, I decided shorts and a tee shirt weren't going to cut it, so it was out with the fleece. The dogs were ecstatic, and by the time we rolled into the driveway with the sun setting, they were leaping out of their skins. Home again.
Gas prices were a nice surprise, the best I saw was $2:44 in Waco, and as the trip was budgeted at $4:00, we came in $700 under budget - time for a new TV in the RV dear... Gas mileage was an average of 7.5, an improvement on this years early trip, and the result of the Banks Stinger package I sweated to install over the summer. Towing Black Adder (who performed flawlessly I'm happy to say), only added about 0.3 to the mileage, not surprising when you think it sits in the still air behind the RV and is only an issue going uphill - then downhill it's an added bonus... Except for the brakes.
So, the Cafe is going to bed for the winter, cosy on a new concrete slab, water lines blown out, Stabil in the gas tank, grey and black tanks cleaned and emptied, even the dogs have had their winter haircut. Next spring and the next adventure can't come soon enough, meanwhile - hunker down, this is going to be a cold winter...
... every day...
Max has stood head and shoulders above any other dog or cat I've owned in one particular area - he's racked up some hefty vet bills in the past two years... and Wednesday night was the latest entry in the journal.
They had been to Doggie Day Care and romped happily with their friends, followed by their semi-annual bath (or whenever even I can smell them...), and had returned home to chase around and roll in anything to get rid of the sweet smell of shampoo. Max was a little quiet during the evening, and by bed-time seemed out of sorts, preferring to lie outside in the cool grass until I had to drag him in. He wedged himself between the bed and the night-stand, panting the way he usually does when there are thunderstorms nearby, but the moon shone brightly through the window.... I went to sleep.
I woke to the sensation of a wet nose in my ear... The clock read 3:00am. Max paced up and down, spinning and biting his rear leg. He whimpered and curled up, only to get up again and stand next to the bed. I let him out, he just lay in the grass. I tried to check his tail which he held firmly between his legs, but he protested loudly - he was in pain. I called the Emergency Clinic, fearing bloat, but they said the absence of heaving and straining pretty much precluded that, but if I was worried, then to bring him in.
Sitting in the waiting area of the clinic at 3:30am, Merlin and I read the magazines while Max got the once over, finally the Vet appeared, he really couldn't find anything wrong, except Max was in pain, and the pain was associated with his rear end. That much we already knew, but the next step was sedation and x-rays, and the situation didn't seem that fraught, so by 5:30 I was home with a stack of pain killers, two exhausted dogs, and instructions to return if things didn't improve that day. We all went back to bed.
The day wore on, Max was disinterested in food, and mostly slept, venturing out only for calls of nature, but he didn't seem in so much pain. The next day he was a little more active, but his tail - usually flailing in the wind - hung straight down like a sail in the doldrums, and he wouldn't let me near it. He seemed to be improving, so I decided to leave it one more day.
Yesterday was better, the tail was at half-mast, and Merlin only got to steal half Max's breakfast and dinner. I still had no clue what was going on, so I called my vet and made an appointment for this morning, when life seemed back to normal, a fully functional tail, and a fully functional stomach.
I explained it all to the vet, and gave her the emergency room referral. She looked at Max and opined he was mostly lab and limited doodle...? I agreed. She then explained that labs were prone to spraining their tails, she had seen a lot of them in her practice, and for whatever reason, it usually happened after they'd had a bath.... Well, duh....
So there you have it Labrador owners - if you bathe your pet, beware the sprained tail syndrome... why this should be, who knows, perhaps they just shake really, really hard, and their tail flies off at a tangent.... a Previcox anti-inflammatory pill before bathing is probably advised...
Max is looking at me in a way that says "Supper Time....!!!" and his tail is flailing like a whip....
.... as the Jeep is affectionately known... is almost healed again. Why Black Adder? Well, Black because - well - duh... and Adder (a species of poisonous English snake) because it's always biting me in the ....
After towing what was essentially a storage space on wheels half way around America, I dropped it off at the local Jeep Shop to have the wounded transmission removed. That completed, I stopped by once more to load it in the trailer (the stench of burned transmission fluid was enough to make you gag...) and headed for the depths of Central Pennsylvania.
I took the easy route, along the PA Turnpike to Harrisburg, then north along the banks of the Susquehanna river, a broad, mile wide river that in summer you can wade across, the ancient ferry at Millersburg wends a torturous route from bank to bank seeking a navigable channel. Finally, Montoursville, the Williamsport airport, and the ramshackle shop that houses Jeep Transmissions.
I had done all my business over the phone with Tim - the 'T' and everything else in 'Jeep Transmissions' - and was curious about what I might find. Seems he usually isn't in the shop until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, he doesn't drive and relies on his 'Driver' (shades of BMW films...), even though he lives only two blocks away... The shop was in an old WW2 building next to the Williamsport Airport, and looked like it hadn't seen paint since 1942. A handwritten note on the door advised Fedex of an alternate drop off point, but the door was barred by an impressive padlock that appeared to do duty as a hinge as well, since there was no evidence of such devices on the loose assembly of planks formerly known as a door. I reached for my mobile and dialed... Seems Tim had summoned his driver some thirty minutes before, but he had yet to appear, so I went off in search of lunch.
Thirty minutes later, a kerosene soaked log lodged in my stomach and a strong urge to find a warm flat rock to sleep on, I returned to find Tim hard at work rebuilding my transfer case.... seems he decided to replace the tail shaft with a modified one that was less likely to bend - fine by me I said. Tim turned out to be younger than I expected (late thirties), whose unwillingness to walk two blocks to his shop was reflected in his stature. I had initially been concerned this need for a Driver spoke to the nature of the neighborhood, and had prepared myself accordingly, but in truth it was a quiet area of old homes and decrepit WW2 structures, no gang graffiti to be seen anywhere. Tim just didn't like to be out in the sun too much. The Driver - Bob - was an ageless beanpole somewhere between 70 and 90 years old, ridden hard, and put up wet. He was drinking a clear fluid from a gallon jug that he flicked over his shoulder in a practiced manner, somewhat reminiscent of an old moonshiner. He looked at me, put the jug down and spoke the words in my mind... "It ain't what you're thinkin'...."
Whatever.
The shop was the kind of place that reminded me why I should always pack my cameras - it was amazing... Two incredibly grimy rooms, the walls lined with benches, covered completely in at least three inches of gears, sockets, tools, oil seals and bizarrely shaped special tools - handmade for one specific purpose. The floor in turn was knee deep in transmission cases, half completed rebuilds, old fractured components, gear shafts and cans of nuts and bolts. A narrow path wound its way through the landscape to the one bench where Tim was diligently pounding a recalcitrant part into submission... The smell of oil hung like a fog, caught in the branches of a tree....
Turns out Bob was the heavy lifter, and was dispatched to bring in my transmission, which he did with an effortless economy belying the 150 pounds that had caused my eyeballs to start fully half an inch from their sockets earlier that day. Take note I thought. Tim robbed the parts he needed from my old cases, including the oil drain plug... a cup full of foul burnt oil glopped onto the carpet - damn I thought, there goes the rug - thirty seconds later, it had vanished without trace....
Some two and a half hours later, the transmission was strapped to the floor of the trailer, and I was about to head out - the long expected exhortation was delivered by Bob as I left the shop "Don't forget to trust in Jesus...." which given the hair raising stories Bob had treated me to during the afternoon, was not totally unexpected. Tim hurried him inside with a haste born I thought of experience. I headed down the road.
I decided to let my Australian navigational assistant take me home (I was tired of the American voice, and the English one sent shivers of childhood memories down my spine - Miss Taylor, English and Gym teacher, the voice in my ear "And what do you think you are doing boy...?" to this day still causes my digestive tract to launch into full defensive mode...). She took the direct route across the center of Pennsylvania, up and down the ridge lines, 8% grades both ways, twisty back roads, and coal town after coal town. Centralia is famous as the town that caught fire, seems the fire department was burning trash and set the coal seam on fire... It's still burning - I know, she took me through it. There were some towns where I wouldn't want to stop in broad daylight, even for gas. The natives eying me curiously as I drove by, not surprising since I don't think they'd seen anyone with teeth in both jaws before....
Three hours later I arrived home, worn out, and somewhat concerned that what I had in my trailer was, at best, $1,400 of spare parts....
Strangely enough, I don't visit my blog very often... I've read most of the stuff already... So when I was checking something out and went through the past month or so, I realized I'd never posted the clip from the Badlands..
It's a bit of a white knuckle ride, a narrow bumpy two lane road, washouts, off-camber, and no guard rails on some pretty hefty drop-offs. The road from the Interstate to Interior, SD (whereat lies the campsite), takes you through the Park, and it's the main route for truck traffic headed south to the few small communities out in the middle of nowhere. Meeting one of those bad boys on an outside, blind bend is guaranteed to loosen ones grip on spherical muscles.
The clip shows our fortunate neighbor surveying the damage, then through the sprawling metropolis of Interior, SD before coming up to the Ranger Station, and then the climb up into the Badlands themselves. It plays in real time from the base of the cliff to the end, the Badlands are quite narrow N-S, but they extend for 30+ miles E-W. No prizes for guessing the Road Music, at least the first part, I'm guessing no-one knows the clip that plays out the last ninety seconds....
Enjoy... I did.
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