Two Photographers, One Car

I've been down this road before. Bright blue skies, wide open Texas in seasonal change, one map, 4 cameras, one brand new convertible, and one husband (also a photographer)....... in the driver's seat.  Oh he's left me on the road before! Taking that slow roll away as I am knee deep in wild flowers waiting for the breeze to stop blowing my perfect shot out of focus. Expecting peace on today's drive was unrealistic at best but we hit the road with good intentions.

Texas reveals her autumn with subtlety.  Sturdy yellow flowers rise in rolling pastures, green crops are harvested leaving brown stubs behind, and tractors recline with ease along barn sides.  Even barbed wire fences take on a rusted orange hue. 

As we twist through empty county roads, the perfect shot is around every corner.  The trouble is knowing where to stop.  I know the spot instinctively.  I notice small details, the tree line opening, the lone remaining corn stalk spared, or the longhorn whose cinnamon coat catches the afternoon sun. 

 

  My husband is a big picture guy.  He jokes he's "the one who knows the perfect shot". So when I say "here"!  He keeps rolling.  Inching along at 5 mph as my shot gets smaller in my rear view.  We playfully bicker away another 300 feet of asphalt.  And when he finally says "here's the shot"- I am hoofing it back to my muse while he checks his phone.  (Smoke billowing from my ears.)

I get my revenge when I am in the driver's seat.  There's no stop I won't make, no U-turn too sharp for the right composition in nature.   Loose pit bulls threatening that shot of the bayou curving off?  No problem!  And those antique stores my husband slows near and asks, unimpressed, "Really?  You want to stop here?" as he rolls on by.....  Oh yeah!  I'm stopping when I am behind the wheel.

 No wonder our photo explores wear us out!  But after 20 years, we've got this photo sharing thing figured out.

LOVE  &  BACK ROADS!

The Great Wide Open

The Great Wide Open

 

  I wonder if all women long to be free?

 To hop the fence and charge the horizon!

Where the great wide tears open

                     And clouds float like lazy rivers;                                             

Where greens grow brighter

From grass to reed to leaf

To reach summer's sky.

 

Where hawks fly circles

Steady like clock hands;

Far overhead, never seeing

 Still spiders silent at my feet

Just outside my steps

As I walk through doorways

Worn out by winds and winter rains

 Of decades passing, decades decaying.

 Nature reclaiming spaces she had lent.

I look through jagged broken panes

seeking souls who once settled here.

Women who raised families here.

Who loved and lost here.

Who sought the great wide open,

Longing to be free.

 

        

A Restoration Life

After my recent visit home, many people have asked about living in an old house.  Here is my article published in FOLK Magazine's Summer 2013 issue.  Because the issue was only digitally released, it missed many of my usual readers. So here it is in its entirety. 

 

 A Restoration Life

 

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home.  Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes.  Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered.  At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs.  They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial.  My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy.  Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid.  My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service.  On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise.  The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheet rock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries.  This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood.  It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices.  Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam.  One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other.  At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling.  Complaining was not allowed.  If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways.  Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor.  Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.



Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic.  For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found.  Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents.  Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery.  Part of our backyard was an 18^th century dumping ground.  As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archaeological digs.  Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds.  It was like growing up in a museum.  Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards.  Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in.  Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.  

 

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations.  I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs.  These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college. 

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there.  I can go home and see their years of hard work still standing strong.  Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw! The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles.  The beauty is in the details.  Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice.  Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary.  Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started.  Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork.  With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

To read the original article and see more from FOLK Magazine click on the link below.

http://issuu.com/folkmag/docs/digital_folk_summer

 

LOVE  &  RESTORATION!

Texas Justice

The great wide open roads of Texas offer countless historical gems off the beaten path. With my daughter now 4 hours away in college, I have a new roads, much less taken, to explore while making the drive between Houston and San Antonio.

Ever since my trip to the Spanish Missions in Goliad, Texas, I have been in love with the Gonzales Flag.  It's simple lines and strong daring message stand as a tribute to Texas Independence.  So naturally, Gonzales would be my first side trip.  A simple architecture photo journey turned into a deeper, richer history lesson in Texas justice.

The Gonzales flag proudly waves in the wind on every corner of this tiny community.  I just had to have one of my own so I pulled up in front of the unassuming Chamber of Commerce.  What waited just steps away totally made my entire day!

Greeted by an enthusiastic volunteer, I learned the building was actually the town jail- currently under restoration.  I was shown the warden's office, the tiny downstairs cells complete with original furniture, cots, and confiscated prison shanks.  Seeing my excitement and interest, the docent boasted, "Oh you have to see UPSTAIRS!"

I followed behind her like a kid seeking candy!

Upstairs was the hardcore jail in use from the mid 1800's until 1974.  The first sight  was the hanging platform- looming large like a warning to all the newly incarcerated of their potential fate.  Hangings did occur in this space, as death row was just off the gallows, though the earliest hangings took place in the courthouse square.

  This day was hot!  100 degrees outside and not much cooler inside.  Fresh hot air blew through the open windows behind the rusted bars.  I sweat as I stood snapping photos.  I can only imagine how hot, smelly and frustrated prisoners here felt doing their time.

 Layers of prisoner graffiti spanning the decades covered the walls, floor to ceiling, like a tramp art time capsule. Many bearing the strike marks of days served, some noting early gang affiliations, and most just simple carved names of lives lived on the wrong side of the law.

Behind this door was death row.  Thick iron bars and doors protected the warden from the condemned.  I walked the narrow hallways that wrapped the ward and definitely felt I was not alone. The docent had left me to my own explorations but the air was thick with unseen company. At times the hair on my neck stood on end and I could almost hear chatter dripping from the ceiling.

One particular cell chilled me.  I froze, considered running like scared cat.  So I did the logical thing: took a picture.  Perhaps it's dust dancing in the mottled sunlight, perhaps my eyes wanting to see an old-timey man's face there.  But just maybe it's something supernatural.  A wandering soul, an old inmate, a proud warden.  I'll let you decide for yourself.

Should you find yourself in Gonzales, visit the Chamber of Commerce and take the jail tour.  I was doubly surprised to wrap up my visit with a woman who grew up in the jail.  Her father was the last warden.  (The Chamber is located in the adjoining living quarters.) She has happy memories of a small town country life and is directly involved in the continued restoration of her iconic Texas Justice home.

LOVE  &  THE ROADS LESS TRAVELED

FOLK Summer 2013 Preview!!

 

FOLK Magazine~ the perfect summer companion!

FOLK Summer 2013 is due to hit the stands in the coming weeks and it is alive with the spirit of New England! Perhaps it is because summer lasts for such a short time in the North East that the towns and people of this region burst into life, welcoming natives and tourists alike to take in the birthplace of American freedom and ingenuity.

Visually stunning (as always), FOLK lays out the North East from every angle.  Veteran FOLK writers walk the reader through the two biggest cities, New York and Boston, while FOLK readers have submitted their takes on other popular destinations such as Portland, Maine.  Vacation memoirs, reader's photos, and essays on iconic New England life fill the nooks and crannies of FOLK Summer 2013. 

Take in the artists of the North East as FOLK introduces artists such as, Johanne Cassia and leads a tour of her beautiful Ipswitch home. Stitch up a treasure with Trudy Honeycutt's complimentary primitive doll pattern.  Meet the creative minds behind jewelry innovators JuNxtaposition and Bel Monili.  Be tempted by the food sirens as well!  All hail the berry in this summer issue which includes mouth watering recipes for strawberry jam, cherry butter, blueberry sundaes, and fresh fruit parfait! 

Though FOLK Summer 2013 focuses on the North East, the constant theme of Homegrown America burns brightly.  In an ever-growing global community, FOLK unites people striving to rekindle Main Street America.  By sharing stories of family traditions, local history, and heirloom recipes, the fabric of the future is weaved with the past.  By spotlighting current retailers grounded on American made quality, consumers find the rewards of shopping local.  By reviving Main Street as a commerce destination, the dream of those early New England colonists' remains strong: an authentic life based on freedom and ingenuity.

If you haven't subscribed to FOLK Magazine yet, the Summer 2013 issue is the perfect time to start!

 

LOVE  &  LIVE AUTHENTIC!

Insta-Awesome At Auction

It's been many years since I've been to a good country auction!  Recently I stumbled across a local ad for an auction company just up the road in Bacliff, Texas.  Hubby was out of town, Baby Girl was off with her friends, and the dogs were fast asleep.  It was a Saturday night and I had money to burn!  Perusing the online flyer, I saw many a fine item I knew had a place in my home- so off I went.  Prepared to splurge, I soon found myself in bargain heaven and scoring insta-collections at scrumptiously low prices!

 

 Upon entering the gallery, I assessed the crowd, sizing up my competition.  I can spot dealers and resale stockers and rule them out as competition because they predominantly swoop in on glassware and furniture.  I am on the lookout for other artsy-fartsy types such as myself with the telltale swag bag full of projects to keep idle hands busy.  Spying out other people who want rusty cast offs and layers of useless knickknacks, I see no others.  I am alone on the pond of possibility.  All the fish are mine for the taking!

I was prepared to pay $50 for the camera box lot- a heaping mound of Kodak gems including manuals, lenses, and vintage video cameras.  I scored at $15!  The bottles were a steal at $3 for all! The only real battle I had was over the skeleton keys.  Resalers know they are a quick flip- I just had to go high enough to force other bidders out of their profit margin.  Still a bargain at $10.

This sweet Argoflex camera is by far my fave purchase!  Not only was it the target of my attendance- but it became the battle of wills, the defining moment between me and the auctioneer. The worst possible scenario for an auctioneer is to have awesome merchandise but only one bidder interested.  By time this camera came up for bid it was well known I was the lone vintage hunter in his audience.   He knew it would be undersold but had to control just how low it would go.  I knew I could score- but I had to get as low as possible before he pulled the item. We sized each other up as the Argus made its way to the block.  He started high- calling out for $30, scanning the audience, staring into my eyes with a burning intent of, "You will not walk away with this one too!"  It was a serious threat masked in that toothy grin of his.  I stared back with a challenge of, "You can go lower...."  Finally dwindling down in numbers, scraping the bottom at $10, I knew I had to pounce as  the auctioneer was verging on the pull. 

 

 This was the last camera offered for the night.  The remaining cameras, antique typewriters, and bubble glass frames would have to wait until next Saturday's auction. A good auctioneer knows to give away just a sweet taste to leave bidders hungering for more.  I was a little disappointed but knowing that the life of the auction is bidding drama, I will be thankful for this week's bargains and return next week to bid again.

 

LOVE  &  INSTA-COLLECTIONS!

Kemah Strolling

Morning walks along the water are so refreshing.  The salty air, sail boats and laughing gulls set a cheerful tone for the day.

 

Kemah is a strolling fave as its gentle currents pour itself into the Texas Gulf against a backdrop of brightly colored amusement rides hushed silent by the early hour. Morning here is quiet, peaceful, and void of tourists.

 

 

Hubby has joined me this morning on my walk.  After time in Bangladesh he is wearing off jet lag enjoying the sweet sun sunshine unfettered by the smog and filth of Dhaka. 

Spending so much time apart, Hubby doesn't mind my need to photograph everything I see.  He is tolerant of my bird watching- my fascination with the comic gulls and stoic herons that dominate the pylons.

He understands my excitement as the local fishermen reel in a large black drum fish and show it off to boardwalk spectators before releasing the large fish back to the wild.

There is magic in the morning.  The details visitors don't see.  The simple nuances of time juxtaposed by weather and wanderers. 

 Mornings are meant for the observant and I am simple a steward of the lens capturing ordinary events in all their beauty and significance. 

 For these are the times that matter most- the easy hours spent in the company of those we love reveling in simple joys each day has to offer.

LOVE  &  ORDINARY MORNINGS

The Perfect Perspective

Any photographer, no matter the experience level, knows perspective is the difference between a good photo and a masterpiece.  When it comes to the perfect shot, no risk is too great, no roadside position too humiliating if the reward is earned.

Normally I am alone in my photography quests but this week, as we all know by now, I had the good company of Ashlie Blake, who matches me in my fearless quest for just the right angle.  Stomping through ant-ridden sands, tip-toing around thorny shrubs, and trying to guess the stampede warning from a wary longhorn.  After all, "no trespassing" signs are just a suggestion, right?

The greatest fun at the end of the day was sifting through all the photo flops and laughing at how we got the shots in the first place.  The uncooperative butterfly, the blooms that knew to wind dance just when the focus was right, and broken window shots that look more like crime scene evidence.

There were the battle scars of the hunt: sun burned necks, dirt-filled shoes, and swollen hands from a palms-first fall into a raspberry patch.  All symptoms of a time-grown friendship

captured both before and behind the lens.

Finally meeting Ashlie in person has been one of the greatest joys in my life. If a picture is worth a thousand words- the story behind it is worth a million more. So if ya catch me smiling at the pics of our 4 day excursion- know that I am simply dreaming of the adventures yet to come.

 

LOVE  &  JOURNEYS

Serenity NOW!!!!!!!

Gotta love those days when I spring from bed full of energy and excitement and within a few footsteps that good mood decends into crumugeony crankiness and my light step resembles more of hooves contemplating a thunder!

 

 

Yup! 100 pound dog has puked over every tiny grid inch of her snoozing crate, the stubborn cat decided the bathroom rug would make a better litter box, and the bio hazzard known as my teenager's room remains in such an abominal state I am certain a small village of trolls lives in there!  All of this has to be cleaned and the house (which is also a disaster thanks to spring mud and tiny paws) has to be prepped for hubby's friends coming to visit while I am away- so there is no packing the suitcase and simply running away for me. (insert violins background music)

 

Oh what's that Al Roker?? A major snowstorm has shut down the airport I have to connect through??  Thousands of flights cancelled? Possibly a mess through the weekend?? AWESOME :/  Today is supposed to be blissful vacation prep but it feels more like trying to mop up after a hurricane!

 

Time to call in mental happy places!!  If there must be snow, may I be as content as this wee fellow in an old backyard tree.

 

 

 

And may all the noise of this day be washed in the silence of Saint Olaf's Kirke.

 

 

May my stress be cradled away in the arms of those I love as gentle as a dew drop in the morn.

 

 

LOVE  &  DEEP BREATHS!