Why do horses like to stand head to rump? Is it that they’re more interested in keeping a mutual eye out for predators on each horizon, or are they just the strong silent type who would rather not chat?
Does he think they match because they’re both white?
What do you get for your $1.95? Do they scotch guard your shirt on the spot where you’re gonna spill your tea?
So many questions… so few free wi-fi hotspots to ask Wikipedia…
You know those days that start out ordinary and just stay that way from the first morning speed bump in the parking lot to the last tomato truck in front of you on the uphill drive home?
Soon followed by the unwelcome reflection, “So, this is it? Is that all there is?”
Fluorescent lighting overhead, an itchy tag in your sweater you didn’t notice until the second meeting of the day, a lunch hour spent in a slo-mo line at the post office…
Wave after wave of email…
Nothing majestic or inspiring or even noteworthy on the near-term horizon…
We get those days too…
… which makes a little Pelican Point therapy exactly the right cure.
At least I put my outdoor woolies on first this time.
Yes, this is the same old building on our neighbor’s property we posted a different photo of in our last posting. But around here, life and art is always full of new possibilities: new light, new snow, new angles of perspective.
So this day, I went inside.
Nothing much on the floor except petrified horse poop and old boards. But if you’ve ever, um, enjoyed a Mission Impossible movie, you’ll know that when you enter a room, you must always look up.
Unbelievable. Another fabulous “soft rime web,” this time spotlighted through the missing roof boards.
It was a classic: a natural, brilliant crystalline objet d’art.
In the deep quiet, I was the sole witness to an exquisite, perfect, and fleeting memorial to a long-since deceased master weaver. It lasted for the time it took the sun to move one inch on a spider web.
The moment passed, and all that was left was a couple of breathlessly captured photos and the feeling of having been incredibly blessed.
But this place wasn’t done with me yet.
Getting a little chilly now, but dang! The steaming headwaters of the Teton River waited just over the fence.
When the Upper Snake and Grand Teton mountain ranges call from the distance, what’s a girl to do?
Pristine, jaw-dropping beauty demands a shutter response everywhere you look.
Hey, what’s that? Green stuff growing in the ice cold water? What the heck is that, anyway? Just one more shot… Get closer…
Who gets to stare at individual snowflakes reflected in gently running water?
Me. Overwhelmed, humbled, grateful me.
I couldn’t take any more splendor. Time to get back home.
But not before I was arrested by snow flowers…
… and summoned by sugar-frosted prickles. Boy, some girls sure clean up nice…
I was clearly over my head.
Normally, I hate these suckers. They will relentlessly and obnoxiously “stick” themselves in your running shoe laces so tightly you have to cut yourself out. So when I found myself on my knees in three-feet of snow having shot fifteen portrait-worthy photos of them, I was clearly going the way of Dorothy in the field of poppies. I was dangerously close to laying down and (snow) drifting off…
Fortunately, I was hungry for breakfast and had to pee, so I shuttered my eyes and came back inside.
The End. For now.
Take some of this…
… and add some of this, well-chilled.
Stand back…
Then grab your camera, and start out on your belly on your living room floor with the door to the side deck open, and marvel over “Old Lilac Tree, Revisited.”
Gasp.
Run outside in your slippers and sweatshirt. Open your eyes. And start shooting.
Realize you are now standing on top of the snow plow pile in your slippers and sweatshirt. No gloves. No hat.
You can no longer feel the fingers in your left hand.
RUN!! Back into the house. Get real boots, hat, and Michelin-man fleecy on. RUN! Back out to shoot on the other side of the snow pile.
Still no gloves.
Understand there is more to life than gloves. And feeling in your fingers.
Gasp again.
Almost pass out from holding your breath. Thank God for beauty and your D90.
Resume breathing.
Visit next-door neighbor’s pond.
Re-freak.
The race is not always to the swift.
That’s a 10-4, good buddy.
On October 31, we wrote a post featuring photos of Rick’s Dad’s miniature Halloween world. This week a few of the photos were picked up and re-posted, with credit, on the oddly popular pumpkinrot.blogspot.com. If you’re not a big fan of Halloween, old horror movies, or anything that falls under “gently macabre” in the dictionary, maybe give it a pass. Our ghoulish little figures are by FAR the cuddliest images on the site.
In any case, the name of the blog reminded us that we’ve been meaning to stop and take photos of this:
We pass Pastorinos Pumpkin Farm on our commute, and every morning we note with curiosity and a slight revulsion that the Halloween rejects have morphed ever closer into dirt.
Perhaps it’s more than just the mold progression that is disturbing.
Who wants to see disembodied Frosty play the lead in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”? It has all the appeal of that freaky Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Yet if I can get beyond the Hollywood-induced imagination trauma…
… and if I ignore how much the carved ones in the compost heap look like human heads…
… and that we waited until we were splash-dab in the middle of Rain Week to take the photos where even the houses in the background seem like they’re looking at you….
… then I can remember that this cyclical live-die-nourish process is part of The Big Plan.
And without that, Mr. Rot would have had to find a different name for his blog.
And there wouldn’t be photo ops like this.
They are the most remarkable little works of nature.
Witnessed from a yard or two away, their perky, Pixaresque characteristics of size, spunk, and aerodynamic abilities are mesmerizing.
Have I mentioned lately how much we love our new Nikon D90? The only thing I did to these photos was crop them to fit the format of our blog: no Miss Clairol or Photoshop for these beauties.
The males are especially vibrant… showy little things, really. I mean honestly… look at those eyelashes, even!
It’s hard to imagine, but a seat closer to the action is not necessarily a good thing when it comes to hummingbirds.
They’re addicts, and addiction to a perceived scarce resource is an ugly game to watch up close.
These kids need sugar, and they don’t like to share.
Oh sure, a male and female can tolerate one another for a minute or two around the old watering holes. Where else can you meet people these days?
But when two or more males get a bit peckish and decide to head for a seat at the local bar at the same time, things happen alarmingly quickly.
They come in fast and without advance warning, like stealth drones on a mission. They DO NOT like to be crowded for elbow space and will not tolerate being rushed through their meal by punk Johnnys-come-lately.
Furtive sips are necessary, always on the lookup for the inevitable intruders. As soon as one is spotted, they zip into mid-air, puff themselves out into “check the pipes, dude!” mode and vibrate like peacocks in a turf war. It’s like watching two-inch helicopters in a classic dogfight.
Truthfully, the little peckers are making me nervous. I’m afraid I’m going to get caught in a fly-by shooting and lose an eye, which is what makes the appeal of this…
… so completely lost on me. Some people have serious thrill issues.
For me, trying not to lose a full tumbler of a refreshing adult beverage while being dive-bombed by outraged needle-nose fliers with low-blood sugar is close enough, thank you very much.