Oh look

So here in Columbia, we are gearing up for Total Eclipse Weekend 2017.

Banners have been affixed to lightposts throughout our fair city, proclaiming Columbia as the best place from which to view totality.

Although, depending upon which website you read, the best place from which to witness the moon blocking out the sun on that day could also be Jefferson City, Missouri; Lincoln, Nebraska; Casper, Wyoming; Nashville, Tennessee; Charleston, South Carolina; and a privately-owned farm in Hopkinsville, Kentucky.

In addition to countless other places. Who knows. Conflicting information on this topic is as plentiful as stars in the sky.

(At any rate, the Kentucky farmer says he's prepared for what and who may descend upon his land on that day. I wonder.)

One website states unequivocally: No human action can disrupt the incessant dance of the cosmos, and the Moon's shadow will not wait on you if you're not ready.

At least on that point, we can agree.

Eclipse totality is set to begin in Columbia at 2:41 p.m. on Monday, August 21, 2017, lasting anywhere from two minutes and thirty seconds to two minutes and thirty-six seconds, depending on whom you believe.

What we know is that Columbia is the third largest city in the United States on the center line of totality, as well as the largest city in South Carolina with the longest period of totality. 

Word on the street is that over one million people live within a day's driving distance of someplace where totality will be visible (given that the weather cooperates), between Oregon and the South Carolina coast.

Lots of them will be on the roads in the days leading up to eclipse day.

According to some sources, untold tens of thousands who have had plans in place for years to visit a location in the path of totality, also have alternate plans if the place they're headed for turns out to have a cloudy forecast.

Even so, have you heard anything about this in the lamestream drive-by media? I haven't. But then, shortly after the (Trump) inauguration and the vile ensuing madness, I stopped listening.

I have read that thousands are expected to set up camp at Lake Murray, a five-minute drive from my house. I won't be going anywhere near that place on the weekend in question.

I plan to be at home on the day, also purposefully not participating in any of the dozens of highly commercialized activities (such as, at a local dramshop, happy hour with water balloons) revolving around the spectacular event. Doors and gates will be locked.

If you want in, you'd better know the code and keep to it. Rain or shine, we'll be outside by the pool.

My dentist, Dr. W, must have heard my heartfelt cry for clear weather on the day because a thick half-page-sized envelope arrived in the mail last week, from his office.

Not a peep from my eye doctor. Still waiting.

I have a habit of ripping what I deem junk mail -- missives from my dentist fall solidly into that category -- into two or three pieces and chucking them, unopened and unread, into the trash.

The packet in question was a hair's breadth from being file-thirteened thusly when I sensed something rigid inside the envelope. Thinking maybe Dr. W had sent me a fridge magnet, I went ahead and grabbed the letter opener.

Oh look! Eclipse shades -- two pair. That's one less thing to do prior to eight twenty-one seventeen.

I wonder, will my eye doctor be sending a toothbrush, when he finally weighs in on the subject? Because even I know, you can't view the eclipse with un-brushed teeth. They'll fall out.

Just kidding. 

Where will you be on Total Solar Eclipse Day 2017? I can't wait to hear about how you celebrate it, what you see, and the amazing things you hope to experience.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday

Godspeed Andrew

The son and heir has arrived in the Middle East and is getting acclimated, once again, to the desert conditions. 

We would appreciate your prayers for his safe return home in mid-September.

Once I sent Andrew the following lines, which, although written about a fictional detective over seventy years ago, always remind me of him:

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean,

who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything.

He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man.

He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct,

by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.

He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

He is a common man or he could not go among common people.

He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job.

He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence

without a due and dispassionate revenge.

He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man

or be very sorry you ever saw him.

He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right,

because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him,

I think the world would be a very safe place to live in,

and yet not too dull to be worth living in.

= Raymond Chandler =

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Happy Friday

Deer ones, we are gathered

Remember when we went to Pittsburgh? It was this past March.

When we hatched the plan for our trip and initially began clearing the decks for takeoff, the weather in our destination was forecast as ideal: sunny, in the mid fifties.

But as the day of departure approached, the predicted daily temperatures in Pittsburgh plummeted to somewhere between incredible and ridiculous.

As in, snow, with highs in the mid twenties. Also significant wind chill -- something I dimly remember (as in, I have tried to forget) from many years spent living in the Midwest.

Naturally, even with a fifty-fifty (or better) chance the meteorologists were dead wrong, the latter is the forecast that turned out to be correct.

Since part of our stay in Pitt was to include extensive time touring and photographing a huge historic cemetery -- don't judge -- I was obliged to seriously rethink my traveling wardrobe.

No worries. I still own a suitably warm and subtly glamorous winter coat and all the layers necessary to be outside in authentic winter weather.

Secretly, as I packed, I was excited at the prospect of seeing "up north" snow at a time when, where I live, the first flowers of spring were blooming as though June were in hot pursuit. 

We got on the road mid-morning on departure day and arrived at our hotel after nightfall. After settling in and before bedtime, I glanced outside. A wet snow had begun to slick the parking lot. 

The next morning, I peeked again to find the hundreds of trees on a nearby rolling hill transformed by snow. Everything was white except the sky, which was blue-gray, awash with scudding clouds that hadn't yet said all their piece.

TG had some business to see to in town. I drank coffee, checked all systems go on the cameras, and got ready in a leisurely fashion.

By noon or so we were driving the lanes of the cemetery, casing the joint as it were. The sky was all brilliant blue and white by now, and I was disappointed. I dislike taking pictures in bright midday light, but here was my opportunity and at least the sun kept the temperature up around twenty-five. 

Eventually I saw a monument I simply had to observe at closer range. I got out and began walking while TG parked. 

Within five minutes, gray clouds moved in on the stiff wind and the day became overcast again. For the next two hours, we experienced everything from horizontal sleet to frenetic snow to biting winds to cheerful sun.

It was perfect.

I said to TG that we couldn't have chosen a more ideal day to photograph this cemetery. I must have been touched by an angel because truly? Yes, we could have. The weather was awful.

But its fickleness and the coming-and-going of the dark clouds and spates of precipitation made for a moodiness that one longs for when taking pictures of hundred-plus-year-old tombs. The snaky bare arms of trees were just the counterpoint for the changing sky and endless marmoreal landscape.

In mid afternoon we broke for lunch. Later, all sunny now, blowing snow a memory, we returned for the golden light. It was while on a lane somewhere in the depths of Allegheny Cemetery's three hundred acres that I first saw them.

I had just photographed the massive Boyle monument, clambering like a mountain goat up the knoll on which it stands to catch it from every possible angel angle.

As I stepped back toward the car to ride forward a few hundred yards (it was so cold), TG held the door for me. I was ready to get in when I heard myself sputtering: Deer ... deer ... DEER!

TG answered with the most quizzical expression, like: What ... what ... WHAT?

I realized he thought I was saying dear ... like, the homophone, the endearment. The pronoun. Perfectly understandable.

But I wasn't. I was flabbergasted by the sight, thirty-or-so feet beyond our car's front bumper, of a whole line of deer casually appearing from behind the bulky mausoleum which stands guard over the Boyle angel, and walking across the lane to the graves grazing on the other side.

They were so close. And they ignored us.

I cameraed up and started clicking. TG was still as stone by then, taking in the sight which, no matter how much you think it wouldn't be, is always amazing to see: wildlife simply being wildlife, as though humans -- alive or dead -- neither exist nor matter.

And there is just something about wildlife in a cemetery. Maybe it's the peace. I'll get back to you on that, or having seen these photos, perhaps you will form your opinion of just what it is, that is extra special about this unexpected treat.

We'd already witnessed a gaggle of Canadian geese waddling and pecking; darling to be sure, but not as heart-stopping as deer on the hoof.

I took picture after picture until, satisfied I'd covered the subject, we moved on. I don't remember whether we saw the deer any more that day, except perhaps from a distance.

The next day, we went back. It was even colder than the day before. But as we drove around looking for things we hadn't yet seen, we encountered the deer in even larger numbers. 

While I took more pictures, a man came along the road who seemed to be well acquainted with the deer population. They knew his car and began walking towards him in groups as he slowed. He soon produced buckets of corn, which the deer appropriated as though having ordered takeout and being glad for fast, courteous service.

The man told us he feeds the deer twice a day and has been doing so for many years, at his own expense. He reported that cemetery officials call him when, as had happened that very morning, one of the deer wanders off the reservation and into city traffic (the cemetery is situated in a heavily populated urban area), and gets killed.

He speculated that at least one hundred-fifty deer of all ages make Allegheny Cemetery their home at any given time, having swum the nearby Allegheny River to gain the sanctuary of its vast wooded confines.

He described how they hunker down against tombstones to sleep on cold winter nights, how sometimes unscrupulous hunters enter the cemetery illegally with bow and arrow to kill the deer, and how the bucks' shed antlers are routinely stolen by human scavengers. The does and fawns do the best they can.

While he talked, I kept clicking and wondering what it must be like for a deer family to live out its days in Allegheny Cemetery in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. If I could, I would have asked one; but they weren't talking.

Still, it was a privilege to meet them on a wintry day in almost-spring, and to photograph them simply being themselves, mostly untouched and unafraid, in their chosen habitat.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

Home of the Braves

Sorry to be silent for so long.

TG and I came home from a short trip to Atlanta -- home of the Braves as well as Coca Cola, Chick-fil-A, and Delta Airlines -- to find that our internet service had broken down for approximately the dozenth time in ten months.

I waited a few days for the internet to heal itself. When it became obvious that I'd have better luck waiting for Johnny Depp to call and ask for my advice regarding his financial problems, I contacted our service provider.

A technician came out the next day. He was the last in a long line, all of whom have offered their own take on the problem and its solution. None of which have proved to be entirely accurate. So far.

Have you ever noticed that as many people connected with the cable/internet company to whom you put the same question -- as in, Why don't I get the internet service I pay for? -- that's how many different answers you're going to get?

They're a textbook example of the right hand not knowing what the left is doing -- or even of knowing there IS a left hand. it's a mystery.

At any rate, it's sorted -- I think -- for the nonce. We'll see how long it lasts. In whatever size window I am given to tell you about our trip, I will attempt to do so.

We went to Atlanta for a Braves game. They were playing our beloved Chicago Cubs. 

But first, we had lunch at historic Mary Mac's Tea Room, in Midtown. If you ever get to go, take it from me: have the chicken fried chicken and sweet potato soufflé.

The weather was close to perfect. Not too hot, not stifling, and even a trifle stormy as game time approached.

We were stoked about seeing brand-new SunTrust Park with our own eyes. It was pretty great and we can't wait to go back.

I am enamored of the historic ball parks first -- like Wrigley Field in Chicago, which I've seen and will soon see again, God willing -- and Fenway Park in Boston, which I haven't seen but I hope to before shuffling off this mortal coil.

For our first date -- August 24, 1978 -- TG took me to see the Chicago White Sox play the Kansas City Royals, at Old Comiskey Park. I wasn't a baseball fan then. The Sox won, 4-0. I'm pretty sure I didn't fully appreciate that fine old ball park on the South Side of Chicago. It's long gone now.

But the new ball parks are beautiful too, and very much worth visiting.

I decided against taking one of the Nikons into the park because, in reading the rules ahead of time, I learned that you're only allowed a five-inch lens.

If I'd gone to the trouble of toting a heavy camera, I wanted it made even heavier with my Nikkor 18-200 which is the longest lens I own.

To get some close-ups, don't you know.

But it measures more than five inches even before I zoom in.

So I didn't bother and what you see here is unabashed iPhoneography. I'd apologize but I do have an iPhone 7.

Which takes much better photos than my first digital camera could have dreamed of. But that still doesn't mean that if you can aim your iPhone, you're a photographer.

We walked in towards the Chop House Gate -- rather central to the action -- even though to access our seats we'd have to go around to the Third Base Gate.

I opted to walk up the noisy concourse before hanging a left and walking around the outside of the stadium to our gate.

There were scads of Cubs fans. In fact we'd started seeing them at the restaurant and saw more at our hotel.

I identified my loyalties by wearing my Rizzo jersey. Number 44 -- Cubs First Baseman and my beloved dog. Take your pick. And yes, my jersey has the World Series Champions 2016 patch.

TG wore his RESPECT Cubs t-shirt from last year's post season. Apols for not getting a pic. He looked handsome.

As we skirted the stadium, the crowds grew thicker and the clouds got darker and lightning winked in the distance. I sensed a game delay in our future.

And sure enough, by the time we were seated and game time arrived, the field was still covered. The first pitch wasn't thrown until about nine o'clock.

I didn't care. I'm a night owl and we'd arranged to meet and sit with some old friends there, who live in the Atlanta area. My friend and I yakked and visited while the dark clouds glowered at us from the west, and cloud-to-ground lightning snaked down every few minutes.

The game was good as our team led all the way and got even better toward the end, when the Braves tried tomahawk-chopping themselves to a victory over the Cubs, but ultimately failed.

Cubs won 4-3. Go Cubs go.

Next day, coming back home over the Dreher Shoals Dam near our house, the sky was so blue and white and it was so hot. Columbia: Famously Hot. Our official slogan.

I craved the friendly confines of my cool air-conditioned home and was so happy to see it.

Summer continues. Let's see how long our famously sketchy internet service can do the same.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday

Wordless Wednesday :: Summertime

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Happy Wednesday