I must confess that I thought panning was the same as panorama, and a few weeks ago I took some nice panoramas for this week. Luckily, I overheard to members talking about panning shots at our photo club meeting last month and saved myself some embarrassment.
I watched this guy fishing at low tide; he would take one step at a time, stirring up murk to make the little fish scoot out the way. When he saw one dart he would take a running leap over to where they had gone, parachute down from above to stab at his dinner. Half a dozen tries and he never got a fish. Meanwhile, it was lunch at Gecko's (Bradenton reference) for the seagull, who was sleeping on the ledge when the lizard walked right into him - didn't have to take a single step.
This is the hardest theme of the whole year for me, because since I began to take photographs I now see beauty everywhere. It is impossible to pick a favorite shooting target between a Florida sunset or a Michigan waterfall or Wisconsin's fall color explosion or whatever random gorgeous thing God puts in front of the lens for me every day. But I started out with flowers and I keep coming back to flowers, so I guess I will use my recent flower photo and be grateful it was not buried under a humungous snow drift in front of a bank thermometer that reads some hideous below-zero temperature somewhere you have to start your car five minutes before you get in to melt the windshield frost.
My son Erik blew me away this summer when he unveiled a 2 year restoration of my first real guitar amplifier - a 1974 Peavey Mace. The Mace is a tube amp beast with two 160-watt channels you can run in series and with the matching bottom my rig has six 12-inch 20 oz magnet speakers. Lynyrd Skynyrd and .38 Special used them on a tour and when I heard that "crunch" it was down to the store with my life savings. I also had an AIMS Les Paul custom made for me that I still like over any of the Gibsons I have played since. You kids in your cute little Hondas with a trunk full of Chinese subwoofers think you are loud? pffffffffft! Fire up the old growler here…….brain damage, baby.
When I heard that my 6 year old nephew wanted a drum set for Christmas, I thought there were three possible outcomes: 1) the drum kit would be forgotten after a few days of hellish racket, or 2) the parents would go insane as hellish racket continued, or 3) the parents would go insane AND the drum kit would be forgotten. It is still there and nobody is insane, so what do I know?
You can't fool your uncle Vlad (inside joke) with that mustache disguise, Claire…. A cheap prop on a stick can't mask the beauty of the newest Mrs. Nerenz on her wedding day, but it does show off her playful spirit that has endeared her to us all - welcome to the family, Claire Nerenz - and congratulations to my nephew Rob on your exquisite taste and good judgement.
I can't explain how we have spent five winters down here and hadn't yet gone to see the Ringling Art Museum in Sarastota until just recently - it is a fascinating and beautiful place. The sculptures down in the gardens that this balcony surrounded were no doubt famous and important works of classical art, but I found the light arches and long shadows thrown by the late afternoon sun to be far more interesting than the naked bronze guys standing in a fountain.
The night was dark
The wind did blew
And down the street a shit wagon flew
A bump was sounded
A scream was heard
A man was killed by a flying turd
In 4th grade Joey Kuker would recite this mysterious poem over and over just to irritate his older sisters. After each recital, he would announce: "a poem by Edgar Allen Poo" and they would scream at us and we would laugh like crazy. I guess you had to be there…and be a nine-year-old boy.
You hardly ever see a whisk broom any more; this is the one we used to sweep out the fireplace up at the lake for 50 years and it was already old when we took it out there. Over time, it has been worn down to its nubs on the rough stone and brick - not very useful any more, but much more character, don't you think?
"Hello Buffalo? Yeah, this is Frosty…hey, listen - I can't make it downtown for the Holiday parade Thursday 'cause…um…my car won't start...no, wait a minute, I got the ebola…yup, that's it - ebola (cough, cough). Stuck in the hospital….you know, quarantine and all. Sucks to be you!"
Thank you to my friend Barb Sash for showing me this hidden gem of a place - Corrigan's Bluff in Iron County, Wisconsin. It's not on a map, halfway between Upson and Saxon, as if that helps. You turn off the highway at a small marker you can't read and park in a little clearing; hike down a muddy trail that can't possibly be right until you start a steep climb up a rocky outcropping. And when you emerge from the thick brush….THIS!
L to R: Weezie, Patricia, Joanne (mine), and Mindy were nice enough to pose for a group portrait before heading out to welcome teams of breast cancer survivors flying in from Edmonton, Alberta to compete in Dragon Boat races against teams from around the world a couple of weeks ago.
P-I-N-K. The international Dragon Boat races were held this weekend in Sarasota and 4,000 breast cancer survivors from all over the world came to compete, raise awareness, and celebrate life. My wife and her friends served as ambassadors for two teams from Edmonton, Alberta (good on ya, ladies) and I took this shot of the fire truck before the big parade in Lakewood Ranch. I did not get to see the super-hunky fireman in the pink suspenders - apparently there was a rash of small napkin fires all around the assembly grounds. Turning to business news - the gift shop at Lakewood Ranch sold completely out of napkins and Bic lighters Saturday night…..
To be honest, forced perspective photos are not my cup of meat, but here goes. It took a couple dozen attempts, but finally this Great Blue Heron squawked at the same time 2 cars flashed glare off the windshields from the street on the far shoreline and it looked kinda like he was blowing bubbles - unless you have a better imagination and can help me out in the comments.
The sign at the parking lot is a little deceiving; it says the trail to the waterfalls is only 1/4 of a mile, which is a piece of cake in the cool air near Lake Superior. What it doesn't say is that it is a steep downhill climb the whole way. Remember that thing about getting there being half the fun? No, getting there was all of the fun - getting back was a killer.
A couple of years ago, my wife convinced me to screen in our front porch at the lake so we could enjoy the view during the mosquito season, which is basically any day we are there. The screen porch instantly became our favorite room - it is where each day starts with loon calls over coffee and a mirror-smooth lake view; and where each day ends with loon calls beneath a pink sunset over Finn Point on the other shore. Life does not suck.
Our cottage on Pine Lake is an old miners' house we moved from town. The first thing we put in it was this table, which we bought from some lady in Bessemer for $5. For 50 summers it has been a work bench, coffee table, dining table, game table, office, sewing table, bar, card table, puzzle board, computer stand, towel rack, classroom, and hangout; you can see the lake from three sides, sunset from two, and watch the fireplace from the fourth. If those wall could talk, they wouldn't - they would be laughing too hard to get the words out.
I grew up in a mining town, and we used to play tennis on this court - always had to wait to get on it. All summer there was a game going on every diamond, rink, court, and empty lot - a pile of bikes in the grass and the happy sound of kids playing games we organized ourselves. When we couldn't find anyone to come out, we shot hoops or banged hockey pucks against the garage door or rode around until we found somebody we knew or made friends with someone we just met.
Half a century later, there are no mines, no bikes, no kids, and silence - that's the difference. Sad.
Half a century later, there are no mines, no bikes, no kids, and silence - that's the difference. Sad.
This photo speaks to me. It says, "I was cool once, and maybe I'm not in the same shape as back then, and maybe nature is winning, and maybe I can't run all day like I used to, and maybe I just want to rest here in the woods for a while….." Oh, wait - that is just me talking to myself. Never mind.
If you grew up in the western part of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, you have a fond memory of this bridge near Lake Superior. It is the suspension bridge at Black River Harbor that connects the campgrounds and picnic area to the breakwater and beach on the other side.
But the real purpose of the bridge is for boys to torture their moms and sisters by promising not to make it bounce and sway and then once the family is half way across, you…um…I meant they….start jumping and rocking it until the girls scream and the dads pretend to be mad. My son and I went there yesterday to relive our glory days of mischief and misbehavior and watch a new generation of tow-headed hellions drive their parents nuts. Good times.
I had this bright idea to get up early and photograph the sun coming up in the fog over Little Pine Lake. As it turns out, a little bright spot in a dark grey mess makes for a very uninteresting photograph. But before I left, I noticed the sun reelecting in the water near the shore and took one more photo….
The YouTube video showed how to take a backlit photo by darkening the studio, arranging the lighting rigs, positioning the model, and using the light meter to determine exposure settings.
Sure, I could probably make a studio, buy all that stuff, learn to do what they said. Or…I could just walk outside, look up into the sun through the maple trees, shoot my photo for this week and then go for a ride on the four-wheeler. I'm thinking' four-wheeler. Yup, definitely four-wheeler.
Those three tiny kids below the knees of Hiawatha are my nephew Sam and nieces Katie and Hannah. Over the last 50 years, countless numbers of kids have stood on those moccasins to get their pictures taken with the "World's Tallest Indian" in my hometown of Ironwood, Michigan.
At a distance, she did not seem to mind that I was there - had time to change lenses and still take her picture; two steps closer and she bolted. How do I know she is female? Well, she was traveling down a backroad below the posted sped limit and when she came to an unfamiliar intersection, she pulled over, stopped, and read the road signs before proceeding. A guy would never do that.
For me, it doesn't get any better than the first of October up at the lake. The city people are gone, the bugs are dead, the sweatshirts are out, the camo is on, you have warm days and crisp nights, and the colors are peaked. Football is in full swing, the World Series is on, and basketball and hockey are starting up. After grouse hunting, musky fishing, duck hunting, bow hunting, or hiking you just find yourself a sunbeam and take a nap in the woods - it does not get better than that.
For starters, its a Jamaican Rasta guy all smoked up in a dress with a lampshade and plastic flowers, wearing gi-normous mirrored sunglasses and holding a toilet float for a microphone while a pigeon pretends to be a parrot on his arm. Even his beard has dreads. That's pretty funny.
So I'm thinking he's nuts until I see the sign that says "picha wicha $5" and notice five people are already waiting in line to stuff his tip bucket and pose with him. The guy probably raked in $200 in less than an hour and helped himself to a little goose if his posing partner was attractive. Who's laughing now?
But I can't help but wonder...f this is your job, what do you do to unwind?
There is no sound quite like it - the call of the loons at night on a quiet lake in northern Wisconsin.
They remind me of summers long past - swimming and fishing and building forts in the woods with my brothers and our friends, letting the dogs run in joyful packs with leashes and collars off, spitting wood and building steps to the lake and clearing the beach of new rocks heaved up in the ice-out. We worked and played all day and then fell asleep to the sound of the loons each night.
Everything is different now; some things better, some worse. But the call of the loons remains the same; it is nature's lullaby for each new generation of little boys and little girls on Pine Lake.