Ivory Soap

Like many metropolitan areas in America, Rochester is surrounded by a number of small “bedroom community” towns.  Some of these towns and villages straddle the old Erie Canal, a waterway connecting the cities of Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, and Albany.  Like the canal, they have become artifacts of a way of life remembered by very few.  Now they’re mostly just places to live, places where your kids go to school and you buy your groceries. 

Brockport is such a place.  A small town about 20 miles west of Rochester, it has the usual small – town atmosphere, including a main street full of potholes, old store fronts, and a few old churches.  The village’s biggest claim to fame is a college – SUNY Brockport, where, coincidentally, I received my undergraduate degree – and a small hospital.

Over the past several weeks, we’ve spent an awful lot of time in that hospital.  My wife’s mother contracted pneumonia in the middle of January.  After dealing with a number of complications, she passed away this past Friday.  Ironically, she died on the same floor and a few rooms down from where my own mother died in June.

On one of the days we were there, I left the hospital for a while and walked along the old main street.  When I looked up and saw the old “Ivory Snow” sign painted on this building, I had this strange feeling of nostalgia.  It’s been there for as long as I can remember, and I’m willing to bet that it was there when my mother and mother-in-law were young.  Once upon a time, it was the way advertising was done (or at least one of the ways).

Heck, it’ll probably still be there when I’m gone.  Some things just seem to go on forever.  Except for people, of course.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #10

Fog at Taughannock Falls

So there you have it.  Ten images that I have, at one time or another, hung on my wall.  Favorites.  Images that I still very much enjoy looking at, if for no other reason than for the memories they dredge up.  Interestingly, this image is the only one that is geographically close to where I live (about 90 miles south).  While others seem to be making a career out of pointing their camera at things within a mile or so of home, I can’t seem to generate much interest in my immediate surroundings.  It just seems dull.  And if it’s dull to me, how could I expect anyone else to be interested?

This trip to Taughannock Falls was an unplanned one.  The weather was not nice at all.  Dreary, cool, and very wet.  Since I really don’t like exposing my gear to the elements, I was surprised to find myself making the 2 hour journey to Trumansburg.  I think it was just one of those days where you have to get out and move around.  It was raining when I got there, but at least the place was empty.  After 30 minutes or so, the rain stopped and I headed for this vantage point (an observation area above the falls).  It was then that this stringy fog began to form and fill the gorge. 

And yes, I saw it as a black and white image.  And yes, I’ve purposely enhanced the brightness of the leaves that were beginning to change color.  It may not be a depiction of “reality”, but it’s exactly what I wanted.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #9

Hanging Valley, Zion NP

Of the many hundreds of photographs I’ve taken in Zion NP it’s ironic that my favorite 2 were made on the same day, and that that day was my first day ever in that amazing place.  As anyone reading this will know, that kind of thing is a rare event.  Normally, you have to visit a place multiple times to get a ‘feel” for it.  You’re never exactly comfortable when you visit a place for the first time.  Then again, this was the only time I’ve ever seen snow in Zion.

I have one major regret with respect to this image (although it still hangs on my wall, right behind me as I write this).  I stood there, looking at this hanging valley, with the snow on the trees, for more than an hour.  I think I’d have sold a body part to get just a few seconds of  sun on those trees.  In my mind, it would have made all the difference.  I know there are many who disagree, but I’m one of those who believe that light is more important than subject matter.  You have to have both, but I’ll sacrifice great subject matter before I’ll sacrifice great light.  Not that you very often get a choice.  In this case, it was so-so light.  It could have been worse, but it also could have been much, much better.

A small side note:  I’ve never managed to relocate this exact spot.  I know roughly where it is (along the road near the Big Bend area), but I can never seem to find this specific view.

Today, of course, is Groundhog Day.  As I said a year ago, it’s one of my favorite holidays, simply because it’s also one of my favorite movies.  In case you missed it, the silly creature saw his shadow this morning (as usual).  Meaning another 6 weeks of winter.  Personally, I’ve never understood that.  Here in Rochester-land we’d consider ourselves damn fortunate to only have 6 more weeks to contend with.  I mean, let’s get real.  Another 6 weeks takes us to mid – March or so.  We’ll be dealing with cold and snow until mid – April (at best).  Another 10 to 12 weeks.  So what the hell does the Punxsutawney Phil thing mean, anyway?  And it can’t be because it happens in Pennsylvania.  Yes, they’re south of us, but not that far south of us.  It’s near Pittsburgh, for heaven’s sake.  Not exactly the sunshine capital of the world.

If you like numbers (as I do), here are a few to chew on:

For the last 112 years or so (actually, there are 9 missing), Phil has seen his shadow 97 times and not seen it only 15 times.  Seems a little one-sided, don’t you think?  His real success rate, by the way, is about 39% (according to the National Climatic Data Center).  In other words, the folks in Punxsutawney would probably be better off flipping a coin.  In the meantime, I’ll be flipping them something else.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #8

Great White Egret, near Charleston, SC

Once upon a time, I really thought I wanted to photograph birds.  So I paid a bundle for a Canon 300 mm f/2.8L IS lens and added a 2X teleconverter.  I actually needed an even longer lens, but couldn’t afford it.  Heck, what I did get cost more than I could afford.  But it was a sweet lens – undoubtedly the finest glass I’ve ever owned.  Absolutely tack sharp, especially when used alone.  It focused quickly and the IS worked very well.  Even when photographing birds, handheld.  I loved that lens, but eventually sold it to purchase my Canon 5D MK II.  I just wasn’t using it enough.

I also don’t think I have the patience for bird photography.  Darned things just never seem to want to pose the way you want them to.  Take Egrets and Herons, for example.  If they’re not eating or sleeping, they’re pruning.  And flight photography is just plain hard.  Half the time I wound up with pictures of their butts as they flew away and the other half their eyes were out of focus.  Cardinal sin, that.  An eye has to be visible (hopefully, with a little catch-light) and in focus.  I think I can count the number of good in-flight images that I managed to get on one hand.  And they were taken at Bosque del Apache (in New Mexico) of Sandhill Cranes.  Magnificent birds that move slow enough for amateurs like me.

I also got a few (like this one) in South Carolina.  In mating plumage, no less.  He even stood still for a few seconds in a fairly regal pose.  I know that he was a “he” because a few seconds later he was mounting his mate.  I have a picture of that, too.  Real honest to goodness bird porn.  No, I never hung that one on the wall (although I did print it).  So if you ever need a biologically correct image of Egrets mating – for scientific purposes – let me know.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #7

The Margaret Todd, Bar Harbor, Maine

Almost forgot this one…….I think it was the first large print I ever made from a digital exposure (the old Canon D60, my first dSLR).  I believe I made an 11 X 14 print.  Not bad for a 6.0 megapixel camera.  Now I have a 21 megapixel camera, but still only go up to about an 18 X 12 print.  Although I could go much larger, of course (if I had a wider printer).

I’ve always loved the sea and ships, even though I don’t sail and have never owned any kind of boat.  Heck, I’ve never even gone on a cruise.  Must be one of those “love at a distance” things.  The reason, I think, is that my great, great grandfather (Joshua Slocum) was the first man to sail around the world alone.  He left Boston in April, 1895 in his tiny sloop (the Spray) and returned to Newport, RI some 3 years and 46,000 miles later.  And he did it with a used compass that he purchased for a couple of dollars.  It’s quite a story.  He wrote a book on his adventure titled (oddly enough) Sailing Alone Around the World.

To add a little mystery to the mix, he set out again some years later (in 1909 at age 65) - supposedly to go to South America – and was never heard from again.  He simply disappeared.  I used to routinely get in trouble with my grandmother and mother for suggesting that he had set out with but one purpose in mind – to die.  If they could have, they probably would have banished me from the family for even thinking such evil thoughts.  Still, I think it’s a reasonable hypothesis. 

First, the Spray was in very sad shape by then.  Joshua had been a sailor since he was 16 and had been captain of some large sailing vessels in his career.  So he knew the importance of having a solid vessel between himself and the sea.  Second, he set out knowing that a violent storm was imminent.  Again, he knew better.  Third, he’d never really gotten over the death of his first wife, Virginia.  By all accounts, he wasn’t a very happy man.  To me, it seemed kind of obvious.  Suicide by storm at sea.  That was heresy, of course.  I soon learned to keep my “theory” to myself.  The truth is that no one will ever know what happened or why.  No trace of Joshua or the Spray was ever found.  I’ve even seen stories that claim he was lost in the Bermuda Triangle.  Yeah, right.

Anyway, that’s part of the reason that I’m drawn to the New England coast and to vessels of all kinds.  Who knows – maybe Joshua’s spirit is still hanging out there somewhere, waiting for the right tide or a favorable breeze.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #6

First sunrise, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

While of no particular consequence to anyone else, this image has always been one of my favorites.  Still sitting in a small 5 X 7 frame on one of our bookcases, it captures one of those shared moments in life that you never forget.

My wife and I had just made one of our periodic visits to Charleston, SC and were heading back north.  On this particular trip, we’d made plans to meet our daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons in Myrtle Beach, where they’d rented a small condo for a few days.  At supper on the first day, the oldest asked what we were going to do the next morning.  Well first, we said, we were going to get down to the beach before sunrise, walk around, and maybe take pictures of the sun coming up.  He said that he’d never actually seen a sunrise and that he’d like to to come along.  OK, we said.

When we got up the next morning, my wife and I figured that if he was still sleeping we’d just let him be.  It’s one of those “rules” that you learn as a parent: Never wake a sleeping child unless it’s to get them up for school.  But he surprised us – he was already awake and eager to get to the beach.  He wanted to see the sun come up. 

So off we went.  It was cold that morning (we were all dressed in heavy sweatshirts) but he didn’t seem to mind.  What really surprised us, though, was his reaction when the sun broke the horizon.  Talk about the joy of “discovery”.  I’ve rarely seen him get that excited, even for a new video game.  He still gets animated about it.  I guess he truly had never seen the sun come up before.  Certainly never over the ocean.

I suppose that that’s part of the fun of being very young – every experience, no matter how “old hat” it is to the rest of us, can evoke a sense of wonder.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #5

Abandoned, Stonington, Maine

While walking around in the fog in Stonington, we almost bumped into this vessel.  Sitting a good 100 yards from shore, it had obviously been abandoned.  It reminded me of cars abandoned in a field or yard somewhere.  No longer of any use, it had simply been dragged to this point and left to rot.

Being the fan of visual metaphor that I am, there was no way that this image wasn’t going to wind up in a frame.  It’s just too good a reminder of where we’re all headed.  If we’re lucky.  Looking at it kind of keeps you humble.

Anyway, I promise – no more “fog” images.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #4

Geneva Sue, Stonington Harbor, Maine

Like the previous image, this one hung on my wall for a long time.  And also like the previous one, I gave it to a friend (the same one; he seemed to like images of the sea).  He told me that this one looked more like a painting than a photograph.  I was flattered, but I told him that it was probably because the man’s face was indiscernible.  If you magnify it, it looks like he has no eyes or nose or mouth – there’s no resolution at all. 

I like it for different reasons.  Here was this guy, sitting in an older vessel, waiting for the fog to clear.  Many of the other boats, equipped with modern electronic gear, had already gone out.  All he could do was wait at the dock.  Eventually, he gave up.  The fog never cleared.  Not for two days.  Heck, we didn’t even drive anywhere for those two days.  You just couldn’t see anything.

The image below, by the way, is what it looked like just before this fog bank rolled in.  It was like a wall of clouds.  I’ve seen sand in the desert make ”clouds” like this, but this is the only time, I think, that I ever saw a genuine fog bank.

And now that I think of it, there’s nothing like the smell of heavy fog on the Maine coast.  Just stay off of the many narrow, curvy roads in the “down east” region.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #3

Stonington Harbor, Stonington, Maine

At the risk of annoying the “Omigod – Not – Another – Sunrise – Picture” crowd, here’s an image that used to hang on my wall.  It doesn’t now, mostly because a friend really liked it so I gave it to him.  For whatever reason, I never reprinted it.  But I still like it.  And, by the way, I’m discovering that a number of these images that I’m calling “favorites” have something in common.

It’s kind of weird, so I’m a little hesitant.  But it’s “smell“.

Yep, weird seems to be the right word.  Apparently, if I like the smell of a place, I’ll take a picture of it.  That’s not always the case, of course.  Smell had nothing to do with the first image in this little series – there are very few olfactory delights on the Las Vegas strip.  However, I’m finding that a disproportionate number of photographs with high numerical ratings in my Lightroom library can be associated with some kind of “smell memory”.  Images taken in the spring in the desert, for example, when desert flowers are blooming, seem to rank pretty high in my system.  If it had just rained, they were really ranked high.  Anyone reading this is probably convinced that I’m certifiably looney (and maybe I am), but if you’ve never walked through the desert after it’s rained, you might want to reserve judgment.  Or try it for yourself.  Or ask my friend Steve Weeks – he’s lived there for quite some time.

For me, Maine harbors are no different.  Especially this one, and especially around dawn when the fishing fleet is headed out.  Stonington is just south of Bar Harbor and Acadia NP (as the crow flies) and is one of the few true working fishing harbors left in Maine.  It is very much not a tourist trap.  There are no big chain hotels, no big restaurants, no major chamber of commerce efforts to lure the folks who otherwise crowd the streets of places like Kennebunkport or Camden.  If you want a real slice of old Maine, this is the place.

For some reason, the edge of the Atlantic in Maine is different than anywhere else on the eastern seaboard.  It looks different, it feels different, and yes, it smells different.  My wife says it smells “more oceany” than other spots along the coast.  I’m not sure that explains it very well, but I know what she means. 

Which brings me back to this image.  On this particular September morning in Stonington, it smelled very “oceany”.  I can still smell it.  And I can hear the fisherman talking as they headed out (in the vessel in the bottom center-right).  The weather’s not always this perfect, of course.  Very often it’s foggy like you wouldn’t believe.  Really thick stuff that rolls in off the ocean.  But these guys usually go out anyway.  They go out in all kinds of nasty weather, even snow.  It’s a difficult, dangerous job.  But that’s how they make their living. 

Oh, just in case anyone is wondering, this photograph has not been “pushed”.  In fact, the sky and clouds have been desaturated somewhat.  I increased the contrast a bit, but the colors are actually toned down from the original raw image.  The reflection on the water was really that bright.

Hanging by a Thread Series, #2

Towers of the Virgin, Zion NP, Utah

Our very first visit to Zion NP was in February, 2006.  It was also our first visit to the southwestern United States.  Had our son not been living in Las Vegas, I doubt we would ever have made the trip.  We loved to travel, to be sure, but we were essentially “north – south” oriented.  Our sphere of interest ran from Maine to the Outer Banks to the Smokies and finally to Charleston, SC.  Neither of us had any burning desire to see the Great American Desert.  Most New Yorkers, by the way, seem to follow that same travel ”model”.  When we visit Charleston, I can absolutely guarantee that we will see any number of people who are not only from western New York, but from the same damn county.  Guaranteed.  If you drive west, on the other hand, you’ll be lucky to see a New York license plate anywhere.  As a rule, New Yorkers don’t drive east and west, they drive north and south.  I have no idea why.  One of life’s mysteries.

Anyway, we instantly fell in love with this place.  This image was taken the first morning we were there.  I’d driven into the park before sunrise and realized that there’d been a light snow the night before.  And it was cold.  But I knew that the first rays of sun to hit the park would be on this particular formation – known as the Towers of the Virgin.  You gotta love the names of things in this place.  The Court of the Patriarchs.  The Watchman.  The Great White Throne.  The Altar of Sacrifice.  Not to mention the Virgin River. 

To make a long story short, I took a whole lot of images as the sun rose behind me.  As expected, the orange and red rock took on different degrees of luminescence as the sun gained elevation.  Something occurred, however, that I didn’t expect.  Right about the point when I figured that the morning show was over, clouds began to form at the highest elevations (the rock face here is roughly 2,000 feet tall).  At first, they were very light and almost invisible, more like fog or mist than clouds.  But after a few minutes they turned into this mantle of greyish white, accentuating the sugar coating of snow below.  It lasted about a minute, and then the whole thing slowly disappeared.

We’ve been back to Zion a number of times since, and I always go back to this same spot at least once while we’re there.  I think I must have a couple of hundred pictures of sunrise on this formation.  But I’ve never seen a repeat of this phenomenon.  Probably never will.  So while this image has no deep philosophical implications, no “message”, it has a very personal meaning for me.  It was the moment I discovered a place that I hadn’t even known existed.  It was one of those rare moments in life when I was exactly where I wanted to be doing exactly what I wanted to do.  In reality, how often does that happen?