A Birthday Ending in a Zero

July 03, 2016

A New Yorker cartoon several years showed a despondent young man leaning against a fence. Off to the side one of his friends asked another, "What's the matter with Jason?" The friend answered, "He's sad because today he hit the big One O." Well, shortly I'll hit a big "O", too, and I've navigated my way through the One O, the Two O, the Three O, the Four O, the Five O (played Pebble Beach for that one), Six O (greatest thrill of all time with daughter and son-in-law returning from Nepal for that one), and now in a few days, the big—and yes, it does seem really big to me— Seven O.

I just returned from a high school reunion in Cincinnati where everyone present either hit or will hit the big Seven O this year. We had a wonderful time, and I reconnected with my high school rock n' roll band to play songs of the early sixties, the time when we last played together. We remembered and played them faultlessly, knowing each other's musicianship as well fifty-three years later as well as we did when we played in the Battle of the Bands in Covington, Kentucky in 1962.

It was a wonderful three days, reconnecting with old friends, and recognizing that although most of us are retired and closing in on the end of our lives there is much that brings us happiness, love, gratitude, and joy.

I took a class last year called "A Year to Live", in which we studied and practiced not being here. We did exercises that involved giving up things we cherished, writing our eulogies, even discussing the words we'd like to have on our tombstones. Our final exercise was to spend a half hour or so on a busy street imagining that everything we saw and experienced could—and was—taking place whether we were there or not. And when we're no longer there, people will still line up in Starbucks, cross the street in front of Andronico's, and put coins in the meters along Solano Avenue. Nothing will change, except that we won't be there. We're all a part of this great fabric of life, and the fabric will be there whether our thread is part of it or not.

So this is a time for me to look back on the last sixty-nine years and three hundred and some odd days and celebrate all the richness in my life—my loving wife, my three children, my five grandchildren, the wonderful home and community in which I live, the soft blowing summer fog and the deep rich colors of the winter sunsets over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Oliver Sacks, after learning that he had terminal cancer, wrote this:

"I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure."

I haven't written nor have I read nearly as much as I should have. But I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal on this beautiful planet, and for the privilege of sitting in the front seat of this roller coaster the whole time I cannot express my gratitude and appreciation deeply enough.

Lava Falls (Yes, perhaps not the greatest composition, but our raft was in the rapids, too.  I tried to take about five shots of raft #2, but this was the only one in which the raft was in the photo). — Lava Falls (Yes, perhaps not the greatest composition, but our raft was in the rapids, too. I tried to take about five shots of raft #2, but this was the only one in which the raft was in the photo).

188 Miles on a raft, May 22-28

May 30, 2016

Jadyne and I just returned from a six day raft trip down the Colorado and through the Grand Canyon. The piece de resistance on day six was Lava Falls, a treacherous journey not more than a mile above our final campsite. The rapids on the Colorado are all numbered. One is the easiest. Ten is the most dangerous. Lava Falls is off the charts. Even one of our three guides, seated in the bow of the raft, was almost tossed into the turbulent frigid waters as the raft ducked, buckled, and bounced its way down river. We were all soaked, laughing, and grateful. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip. Dozens of rapids, hikes, side canyons, and the warmer waters of the rivers that flow into the Colorado—the bluish "Little Colorado" the waters of the Havasu, countless waterfalls, slot canyons, steep hikes, and gourmet food—grilled ribeye steaks and even Eggs Benedict.

The next day we floated one more mile, climbed aboard a helicopter, then rode a short shuttle ride to a small paved runway, flew eighty miles to Boulder City, took another bus to Las Vegas, Virgin America to SFO, then Uber to Kensington. Last night Jadyne woke up and went to put her sandals on so she could walk to the toilet by the river. Readjustment may take another day or two. The sand was finer than dust. Getting rid of it will take a lot longer.

No internet, no news, no contact, no cell phones (cameras only). If "less is more", then "nothing is even better than more," as we slept in sleeping bags on cots under the clear star-filled sky, watching shooting stars and satellites before nodding off, then repeating it all again. the next day. Fearing damage to my DSLR I managed to squeeze off a few hundred photos with my Point n' Shoot, a few of which I'm posting below.

The only four mile nearly straight stretch on the Colorado.  We climbed up 600' to the "Granary", a place where the natives stored grains a thousand years ago. — The only four mile nearly straight stretch on the Colorado. We climbed up 600' to the "Granary", a place where the natives stored grains a thousand years ago.

Lunch break in a cave that could hold thousands

My Life Behind a Lens

May 21, 2016

As a former English teacher, now photographer, I'm very conscious about the grammar, the content, and the images that I post in both the website and the blog. Not just "your" and "you're" or "its" and "it's," but the meat and potatoes of what it is that makes reading about and looking at these images rewarding. They are a synopsis of what I've done with a camera over the past forty-seven years. Virtually none of these images were work-related, meaning that I took them because "I like to take pictures." I feel naked without a camera.

Last year I took a class called "A Year to Live." One of our assignments was to write our own eulogy. In mine I quoted a document I wrote nearly forty years ago (when I was an English teacher) that I posted on a sticker that I placed on the back of every photograph I wanted to sell. Here it is:

"Henry Thoreau recognized that life was filled with brief moments wherein things reveal themselves for what they really are, moments he called “fabulous realities.”

It is in search of these, the elusive expression, or the instant when the sun and sky and water come together that I take my camera.

I have spent the last five years in Sonoma County, California, watching and photographing the autumn grape harvest, the waves crashing the rugged California coastline, and the sun struggling to touch the majestic redwoods, in the damp secluded forests along the Russian River.

In quieter moments I search the leaf-lined creek beds for the subtle earth colors of seasons changing and seasons past, or the faces of my children for the wonder of childhood with its joys and disappointments. Perhaps that is why many of my close-up photographs mean so much to me, that in the smaller corners of our lives there live—to paraphrase William Blake—the grain of sand that possesses infinity,

and the hour that speaks for all eternity.

I seek those things in our lives which may last only for a moment, or are so small as to be almost invisible, but which nevertheless remind us of

the eternities and infinities that lie both within and without us."

Thirty some-odd years later I was asked to submit a current bio. Here it is:

"I like to take pictures."

And that's it. I've always appreciated that others enjoy my images, but mostly I take these for myself. It's what I do. I like to take pictures.

Cameras

May 21, 2016

They all do the same thing—take a three-dimensional scene, remove one dimension and arrest all movement. Whether you use a Hasselblad ($40,000) or an iPhone (a whole lot less), the photographer's responsibility is to see the world as it is, to recognize that by arresting movement and removing a dimension. he has the capacity to remake what he sees in a new way, one that the rest of might not see. When Picasso took a bicycle seat and handlebars and reassembled them he found a bull's head. Discovering how the camera transforms light and movement, the things that are known and visible, into something new and exciting is endlessly pleasing. That's why I always carry a camera. And it's more likely to be an iPhone, not a Hasselblad.

Lillian and Isla, cousins, were captured as they are by my daughter-in-law, Rachel McGraw, using her iPhone.  Even Annie Leibovitz suggests that most of us won't ever need anything more.. — Lillian and Isla, cousins, were captured as they are by my daughter-in-law, Rachel McGraw, using her iPhone. Even Annie Leibovitz suggests that most of us won't ever need anything more..