Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

I couldn't believe how nervous I was as I poured the developer into the canister. My hands were literally shaking. You'd think I was performing some important surgery. No. I was developing my first black and white film in many years. Many, many years. I've been working towards this moment for the last three years. Every time I took a step forward, I ended up taking two backwards. I was so afraid I was going to royally mess up the process and not have any frames worth printing (or in today's world, scanning to the computer). My mindset was I'd rather not try if it meant failing. How dumb is that? Thankfully Lovely Beautiful Daughter told me to just stop. It wouldn't matter if I did fail. It's just film and chemicals. Both can be bought and the process can be tried again. And again until I get it right. I used to develop film all the time. The muscle memory would kick in sooner or later. The fails would be less and less.  I'm so glad I listened to her. Whi

Got myself another toy today. I know absolutely nothing about this camera, but I thought it would be fun to play with (if it actually works).  I took it out of its case and started fiddling with it. I could tell there was a roll of film in it. I absolutely love getting an old camera that still has film in it. I couldn't get the rewind to work since I didn't really know what I was doing, so then the question became: Should I open it? For the next ten minutes I went back and forth. I had no idea what kind of film was in it. I had no idea how long it had been in it. It'd be cool to develop it and see what pictures the owner (who I was told was 92) had taken. But I didn't know this person and the likelihood of the images coming out decently was pretty slim. So I opened the camera.   Inside was a roll of Tri X Pan, circa the mid 1980's. I was really kicking myself for not taking more time to figure out the rewind feature, as I could have developed this roll myself and no

I've been working on getting my darkroom up and running for three years. Actually longer if you consider the year I bought the enlarger and had it sit in the garage attic. More like fifteen years. When I brought the enlarger home and set it up in the basement of the house I was then living in, it wasn't going to work because I couldn't raise the enlarger far enough up to focus the image onto the paper. Hence why the enlarger went into the garage attic.  Fast forward twelve years and me buying my adorable little house in a little village out in the middle of corn and soy bean fields. This house has a lovely basement. I started my darkroom the summer of 2020, getting everything in place except for making the room light tight. I turned my attention to other things, leaving the darkroom to sit until this summer. This summer I returned to that social media platform I'd left five years ago. Five years of not knowing what others were doing. Five years of learning that it's

I'm taking two grad classes this semester. A better idea would have been to take one, but hey, when I decide to do something I figure jump in all the way.  So far, I'm staying afloat. Barely. Teaching five composition classes and being a part of "develop a new course" group is a lot. And then there's Teddie on top of all this. Teddie the sweetie. Teddie the needy. Teddie the terrible (but just every now and then, never all the time, thank goodness). I haven't been this busy in my life since the kids lived at home and were involved in their activities. I'd gotten used to the slowing down, the free time to do absolutely nothing.  Now, if I don't put what needs to be completed on the calendar, it doesn't get remembered or completed.  But I'm afloat.  One goal I am determined to achieve is get the darkroom done. DONE! It's been three years in the making, with nearly everything I need to develop the first roll of film, but I've dragged my fe

Eight, maybe nine years ago, I was frustrated with my sons. Both were deep into gaming, spending hour after hour on their computers. I didn't understand how they could sit like that, hours at a time, staring at a screen, their fingers moving quickly on the keys to operate the character they'd created within the game. I would call them to lunch or dinner and hear, "It'll be a bit. I'm in the middle of a game!" I didn't understand why they couldn't just pause it and come eat the meal I had spent time making. I would ask them to complete a chore I'd asked them to do two days before. Again, it would be, "I can't. I'm in the middle of something here!" I would get angry. One day, I'd reached that moment a lot of parents reach: I thought I had failed. In being supportive of their love for gaming, in allowing them to buy games labeled "Mature" when they weren't able to buy the games themselves I'd enabled a behavior

The smell of marigolds isn't completely pleasant. It's not completely offensive either. It's somewhere in between. It's a smell all its own. Hours after my hands have moved their long stems, cupped the blooms in wonder, I have to pause what I'm doing -- making the bed, vacuuming the house, hanging up clothes that had been unceremoniously dropped on the bedroom floor -- when the faint whiff of marigold drifts up to remind me of my time with them. Marigolds are just lovely. Whenever I see a marigold or smell a marigold, I'm taken back to my childhood. To a movie that for some reason became a part of who I am. I was only eight when the movie came out, but I remember having a very strong reaction to it, and every summer when I plant marigolds, I think of that movie: The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man in the Moon Marigolds. I try to watch it at least once a year, and since the marigolds I planted this summer are blooming, I thought the time is perfect to watch the movie

After five dog photography shoots, I'm beginning to understand the direction I'm wanting to go.  The dog with its human. I enjoy shooting just the dog, and some dogs are more interesting than other dogs, but the connection between the dog and its human has that something I really want to capture. I don't believe this connection can come from posing the subjects. It happens in between the posing, so I'm constantly pressing the shutter button in hopes of capturing "the moment." I've not been successful with a couple of the shoots, but I have managed to get one or two "moments" that speak to me. And as I write this, this thought occurred to me: Should it matter if any given photo speaks to me? If the photos are really for the owners, shouldn't I shoot with the intention of getting images that speak to them? Is is possible to accomplish both?   I find it interesting, too, which photos the owners prefer. Their choice is often different than my cho

I had dinner with friends last evening. In their screened-in patio overlooking a wooded backyard leading to a creek. The air cooled significantly as the sky darkened, and at one moment we all enjoyed watching an owl that had taken perch on a tree limb near the creek. While a movie played, we chatted and ate ice pops. I'm pretty sure mine was grapefruit. At least that's what I'm going with.  Not long after the movie ended, I made my way home, which wasn't far. Just a couple of blocks. Cicada, cricket, and frog song drifted on the cool air, and when I looked up, I saw a clear sky full of stars. We've not had a clear night in some time. I stopped in the middle of the street to take in the scene. When I finally arrived home I decided to try and get some night sky photos, something I've never done before. I had no idea what I was doing. I spent twenty minutes or so on the front porch, swaying in my hammock swing as I read an article about astrophotography. What lens

I picked up my first camera when I was around nine years old. I started photographing old barns and houses. Silos. Even as a kid, I loved the stories surrounding these structures that were in disrepair, falling down, abandoned. At the time I didn't know how to bring out the best in what I was seeing. Just somehow, I knew there was something there. Fast forward to college. I decided to minor in photography, and it was through these classes that I was able to bring out the best in what I saw through the viewfinder. The photo that truly showed me I have "a good eye" happened during a class trip to Chicago, to the Art Institute. After our tour, we gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Institute. To one side there is a park-like area with seating, trees, and flowers. It was springtime, so the trees were just leafing out. I turned to watch the people and noticed two men sitting on separate benches underneath the trees. One man, a white man, was looking straight ahead. The ot

Rain this morning. I can hear it as I awaken. Still early. Maybe around 5:30 am. I roll over, feel Teddie curled up near my knees, and go back to sleep. A crack of thunder wakes me a bit later. Still raining. Harder. I turn towards the windows, the lace curtains gently swaying with the breeze. I never tire of the wonder that I get to wake up here, in this little house. Murphy and Teddie stand at the foot of the bed, watching as I finally give in and leave the warmth of the sheets, the comfort of the pillows. I walk them to the kitchen door and push the screen open. Teddie takes a step forward then stops. The gutter spews water where it shouldn't, a waterfall through a crack in the elbow, down onto the back steps. Teddie retreats into the kitchen. Murphy follows his lead. Both dogs look at me with the expression akin to "Nope. Not goin' out there," then make their way to the living room rug and lie down. I worry Teddie might pee on the floor since he didn't go outs

Seven months have passed since I last posted. I've been vacillating about continuing the blog, mostly leaning the direction of no. But the last few weeks . . . something has been stirring, reawakening. It's still a bit groggy and might take some time to come fully awake. That's okay. Like with many areas of my life these days, I'm going to let it take all the time it needs. Some changes will be made, starting with the title. I started this blog when I was 45 years old. I'm now 59. My children are young adults and doing well. I live in a little green with yellow accents Craftsman style house in a village in the middle of corn and soybean fields. Two Australian shepherds keep me company. I spend my days thinking about the end of my teaching career and the beginning of my retirement.  Which is why the title Standing at the Trailhead of Winter seems fitting for the blog.

Well, I had the thought of closing the blog. I've not been posting recently, and every time I thought about writing a post, that sinking feeling I get when I really don't want to do something filled the pit of my stomach. I've learned to listen to that feeling. I've learned it's telling me I'm not ready yet. More time needs to pass. More healing has to happen . . . whatever is hurting needs more space, more time. Over the last few months, the hurting has been the incredibly huge, empty space left when I said goodbye to Ado. Even now, the sadness creeps up on me nearly every day. Murphy, too, is still adjusting to being without his best buddy. I try to keep Murphy busy, which keeps me busy, so we both have some respite from missing Ado. But I know I'm not what Murphy really needs.  I realized recently just how much most of my days are filled with silence. I haven't had the stereo on, listening to my albums or my CDs like I used to. I only listened to Chri