Yet Another Barn Picture

image copyright Fred First
I look at the exotic images from far away places taken on great adventures by photographers who post their works now so easily on the web for all to see. There are breathtaking panoramas in mind-numbingly beautiful light; local people in bright dress engaged in unguessable celebration or worship; and amazing animals in lush rainforest or stark desert places I cannot imagine.

Then I look at my monthly photo-archives of very ordinary local insects, pasture flowers, fall leaves, and always: the barn. It is certainly the most photographed structure in all of Floyd County, and almost all of those images are mine. But that’s okay, and by intention.

Almost five years ago I heard the story of a New York City photographer who became disabled to the extent that he was not able to leave his room. His room, fortunately, was on the fourth floor of an apartment building that bordered Central Park. But his passion for capturing the everyday scenes of his life didn’t end. He continued his career for several years, growing where he was planted, taking thousands of images from his window–of people passing by on the sidewalks below, of snowfalls on treetops in the park, of light reflected from the windows of the building across the way, even of pigeons on his windowsill. That story of immersion in the close-at-hand resonated with me that winter.

And six months later an empty page of time opened in my life when I left my profession not knowing what would come next; and I remembered this story. Even if I don’t leave the house every day and see no other people but the mailman on his rounds, I told myself, there is a world of color and form here in this valley–easily enough to keep my camera and eye, mind and heart filled with good images to contemplate and to share.

And prominent among those images, the barn. It is an illusory symbol of permanence here. The house is much changed since we first saw it in 1999, with a new front porch, new windows, foundation, a paint job, and now the Annex. The house has been “improved” and it shows to anyone who knew the house in its earlier incarnation.

But the barn would have looked just the way it does now at the time my grandmother was born. And this old structure hewn from logs cut on these hillsides puts the human lives lived here into the beauty of the natural landscape in a way that I find comforting, and visually satisfying–to draw the eye to its unnatural straight lines in contrast to the pleasant curve and chaos of nature.

This Time Last Year

image copyright Fred First

“I can’t remember what I was doing this time last week, let alone this time last year” Ann often confesses when I slip into one of my time-traveling reveries. The past is the foundation for today, and every day is the anniversary of another brick and mortar time worth building into the present. The weblog certainly helps in this time travel, but all you have to do is pay attention to your senses to reconnect with last year this time, or the year before, or three decades ago.

Last November 05 shares with today the very same seasonal smell of wood smoke and dry leaves. It bears the identical feel of the cool air on my neck in this morning-drafty old house, the same insect noises or bird calls just out the door–or silence but for the creek’s babble on this frosty morning. The stage is the same, the players, props and plots have, of course, changed, as life goes on.

Last year when the leaves smelled and crunched underfoot just so and on a day after the moon rose over the east ridge in the very same notch where it did last night, I was hanging out with Jonathan. A talented freelance photographer, this kind and intelligent young man had contacted me in the spring (via a google search on Floyd) about a photo project he wanted to do in the county and pitch to a major magazine. I learned a lot from him, including how many tools of the trade it takes to be prepared for every photo-opportunity.

The day this photo was taken, he was here at the house when the lighting on the barn drew his eye and camera’s lens, as it had mine so many times before. He pulled out not only his 7 foot tripod from the back of his van, but also an aluminum stepladder to take advantage of the higher perspective that gave a composition not obtainable any other way. (Note: the metal ash bucket is not one of Jonathan’s tools.)

I coveted his study Domke camera bag. I’ve had mine almost a year now. He said I should be using a polarizing filter more; now, I do. And he had this really fine pistol-grip camera head for a tripod that would position with the legs straddled out almost their full length for a very wide base of support–a capability that was useful when he and I were trying to get sunset images from the top of Buffalo Mountain in a 35 mph wind that would have blown over a lesser support. Mine won’t extend to 7 feet, but I have the camera head now and a great Manfrotto tripod that’s certainly good enough for an amateur. I’ve had it more than a week and haven’t had a chance to use it yet.

Maybe I’ll test it out today. The sky promises to pink up a bit here just before dawn; frost is heavy on the barn roof I can see just now. Might be I’ll come inside when I’m done, have another cup of coffee, and bring to light an image–yet another image of the barn and pasture–that I’ll look back on fondly on November 05, 2007. And the years and anniversaries just keep coming.

Update: Sunrise image captured! Will post tomorrow, right here–a new-site FFF exclusive!

One Less Squirrel

A gray fox squirrel, a pretty thing seen so close, bore the same markings as the common gray squirrel but with a whiter vent and half again as large. This one sported the characteristic tail longer than the body, it’s unmoving spiny shaft conspicuous, wet now with saliva. The pasture grass had concealed the animal as it harvested walnuts from the tree just up the bank from the creek. But the same grass made it hard to see an approaching predator, and then once pursued, impossible to run at full speed to safety.

I don’t think Tsuga set out to kill, only to play. But he plays rough with creatures in fur, though he’s not once growled or snapped at us. I’ve never seen him happier than with his new playmate hanging out both sides of his grinning mouth. Yes, I think dogs do smile. I wish I’d taken his picture with his tropy.

Ann asked me while the dog was distracted across the creek to please go pick up the carcass and dispose of it. I carried the customary grocery bag prepared to evert it over the warm, wet remains, still to my fingers alive-seeming through the thin plastic. There was nothing for the bag but the gray tip of a tail.

Bug Zapping Right and Left

Image copyright Fred First Okay, I’m trying to blog outside the box. Or actually inside the box of Blogjet as opposed to freeform in NoteTab Pro’s html editing mode that I’ve been using now for four years plus.

First, let me say how great it is to feel like blogging is a two-way enterprise once again. And then to thank you folks for hanging with me through so many twists and turns to get here, a place I trust will be FFF’s home for some time to come.

From What Sean P tells me, Blog Jet should give me more flexibility with images than I’ve had before (as it takes over some of the formating and sizing operations of posting images) and I hope will become my new normal SOP for getting blogs up every day. However, I’ve grown used to NoteTabPro as an archive of all my past posts and not sure how I feel about giving that up. I have been able to search the NTP file much faster than searching the blog via its search function. There will be trade-offs, for sure.

So, we’re working out the kinks. Got to get up the bloglist and other sidebar items, and don’t think Blog Jet helps with sidebars. Could be wrong. I want better links to image galleries, and better, more thought-out image galleries in the future. I want to do more podcasting—if not the full audiobook thing—and post those links in a permanent part of the sidebar.

I want my little images back up in the banner, and to rotate them weekly or at least monthly. (I’d also like to get the colors I chose for links and such to actually appear when I save my template changes. So far, not working. Trust me: I didn’t chose purple text, I just can’t get rid of it. Bleccch!)

I want to do more writing, though in truth, I will probably do LESS blogging in coming months if my next project gains momentum as I hope it will. But then, you’ll be hearing more about that as soon as I get my head around it.

Well, TGIF. It’s Miller Time. And btw, you should be able to comment now without signing up for a blogger account. We’re squashing bugs every step of the way (no offense to my arthropod friends intended in this figure of speech, understand) and getting back into the blog-groove. Yes!

Fall Leaf Fall

image copyright Fred First

It fascinates me that a leaf knows when its time has come to fall. Perhaps some combination of day length and temperature gives the signal. But maybe it’s just the good taste to abort, an inner sensitivity to the needs of the whole that gives its parent tree a chance to hibernate with its blood gone underground for the winter, safe from freezing. Whatever the signal for the moment of leaf launch, I’m glad they don’t all get the same idea on the same day.

First, the walnut and basswood and spicebush leaves fly in the first winds of tropical storms or sudden thunderstorms in late summer. The poplars and hickories, cherries and sumacs have the good manners to wait a while, until after a leaf has had the proper opportunity to strut its chameleon color changes during October before finally falling, drab and shriveled, in a north wind on a bleak November day.

An oak leaf will refuse to let go until December, clacking and waggling brown and brittle in the cold breeze. The serrated leaves of a smooth-boled American Beech turn almost white and become so thin and light they hang like feathers and seem to move on their own, even on a still January day. This year’s beech leaf may stay on the twig until next spring’s tiny new leaf evicts it, finally, pushing it out and away, off into space, down to the black soil among the first of the spring mustards and violets.

Leaves enter my fantasies this time of year. I have wondered about them, individually, and as a race. If all of the leaves from the countless trees on our acres here fell and did not decompose by the following spring; if this happened year after year, how many years would it take to choke off all growth along the forest floor? Should our woods remain alive after even one year of such a calamity, which is doubtful, how many years of leaf-fall would it take to completely fill the bowl of our valley to the rim?

If all these same leaves from our small valley could by some fairy-industry be stitched together, edge to edge, would it make one huge leaf, big enough to dress all of the New River Valley or Virginia?

And if a curious person was to lie on his back in these woods for a day, could he learn to tell all the leaves to species merely by the pattern of their falling from the tree when the air is still? My hypothesis is yes, and I gladly volunteer to undertake the research.