Confluence and Conversation

   At this spot lies a confluence of two mighty rivers. The Mississippi River flows in from the right and heads south. The Ohio River merges from the left. 
    Back in the day, Indians paddling canoes must have visited this peninsula. It's an obvious rendezvous. Strangers from different tribes would have traded goods or socialized around a campfire. Later, white explorers might have gotten into the act.
     Minutes after taking this photo, I picked up two hitchhikers--a young man and his girlfriend. They were stranded on a nearby road. The couple was adventuring across the United States. I drove them near a town. We chatted for several minutes then said goodbye.
   Near the confluence, travelers and explorers are still socializing.

Candyjack Elf

   A lumberjack elf wields an ax. He chops a candy cane.
   This Christmas display is visible on a property near my neighborhood. The homeowners have a reputation for creativity. Each holiday season they introduce new displays.
   Researchers who study creativity are raising alarm bells. Tests reveal that creativity is declining among children in the United States. The downturn began in 1990.
   Some experts blame standardized testing. Others point their fingers at information overload. One expert cites lack of freedom--little time to play and explore free of adult supervision.
   Researcher Kyung Hee Kim claims that stunted creativity affects kids in other ways. They are (to paraphrase her) less expressive, less sensitive, less humorous, less imaginative, and less unconventional.
   Here's an assumption I'd bet upon: Whoever created that candyjack elf didn't grow up peering at smart phones.

Puddle of Cheer

   A puddle on a walkway caught my eye. Reflecting on its surface was an electric snowflake, part of a Christmas display up in the trees.
   I set up a tripod and took some photos.
   Lost in the moment, I didn't realize that a group of people had gathered behind me. They had stopped walking to avoid cutting in front of my lens. I didn't know how long they'd been waiting. Their patience was commendable. The evening was chilly and raw.
   I told them it was okay to cut in front. They smiled, offered a heartfelt greeting, and moved on.
   Every December, the media writes about the stress of the holiday season. Those people waiting behind me were anything but stressed. They had been strolling about and enjoying Christmas lights. Even after being delayed, they spread good cheer.
Merry Christmas!

Georgia Red

   People in Georgia describe their soil as Georgia red clay, even though it resembles orange.
   Once I walked along a roadside lined with the clay. It stuck and lumped against my boots. Walking became a hobble.
    Scraping away the goo was harder than anticipated. I'm a Yankee from up north. Our mud isn't as hard to remove. I got lazy and didn't clean away all the clay.
   Later inside my car, the clay tarnished a floor mat.
   I cursed that Georgia red clay. But not for long.
   Messing up my boots wasn't just a hassle, it was fortuitous. My visit to that state was to scout locations for a novel. (I'm writing it). Now, a character in that novel will contend with a muck of
Georgia red clay. Readers will better envision the setting.
   Authenticity demands more than research, it requires hardship.

Degrees of Lying

 
   Twenty two dollars.
   Lured by the price, I scheduled an appointment to get the oil changed in my car. I'd never before visited this business. It's a nationally known auto repair chain.
   When the job was done, a man in charge presented me with a list (seen above). It cited problems with the car. He suggested that the car wouldn't pass the annual vehicle inspection. By coincidence, my inspection deadline was three weeks away.
    I was leery about the mans' diagnosis, so I declined his offer to repair the problems. And besides, his prices were steep.
   Several days later, my personal mechanic looked over the car. Surprise! Surprise! With one exception, he found nothing to jeopardize the renewal of my sticker.
   The man at the national chain was guilty of duplicity. Chances were, he'd seem the number 12--representing December--on my sticker. He'd assumed that I was concerned about the deadline. By creating a sense of urgency, he wanted hose me for additional money.
   Why are some mechanics--or anyone for that matter--duplicitous while others are honest?
   All of us lie now and then. Sometimes lies happen on the spur of the moment; they're called innocent even if they're still wrong.
   Duplicity is rarely innocent. Seems to me, when duplicity targets other people, it represents a virulent form of lying.

Why Do I Visit a Shrine?

   One of my favorite places to visit is Our Lady of Fatima Shrine in Massachusetts. Last night there I photographed Christmas lights.  
   When strolling those grounds and praying, I feel closer to God.
   Does psychology explain this reaction? By exposing myself to a concentration of religious statuary, along with a peaceful setting, do I delude myself into believing that God or His spirits are closer?
   With respect to Fatima, I don't accept the psychological explanation.
   Shrines are sacred. Miracles happen at shrines and holy places. These miracles don't happen often, but their frequency is greater than elsewhere. That track record suggests that God and His celestial hosts are more active, and receptive, when mortals communicate to them from shrines.
   It's true that some miracles can be debunked with scientific evidence and reasoning. But empiricism can't and never will explain all miracles.
   We all have hangouts. Spirits might too.

Europe's Eyesore

     A scourge of graffiti permeates Spain. I was shocked by the ugliness of its walls. This photo was taken while hiking through an underpass in Iguzquiza. I've read this problem exits in much of Europe.
     Graffiti is not a just symptom of social problems, it's a creator of social problems.
     A 'broken window' theory claims that when people and governments ignore vandalism, be it smashed windows, graffiti, or whatever, it conveys an attitude that says, 'we don't care.' When a culture of indifference takes hold, social harmony declines into social disconnectedness.
     Here in the USA, graffiti was commonplace during the 1970's through 1980's. Not any more. Today the walls in cities look cleaner.   
     During my travels about America, I've noticed another change. People seem happier with each other. Could a crackdown on graffiti be contributing to this trend? 

Rotten Apples

     Standing on a ladder, I pointed my camera toward a stump of an apple tree. It occupies a spot in the back yard.
     Why haven't I sawed away the stump? When I push a lawn mower, the stump gets in the way. Those neat lines I cut in the grass bend out of whack.
     Sentimentality keeps the stump around. As a boy, I'd climb the tree with my brothers. When apples fell, my aunt would collect them and bake pies.
     My friends and I used apples for ammunition. We'd engage in apple throwing battles with kids from another neighborhood.
     In our rivalry with those boys, we once decided to up the stakes. A hole was dug on a footpath in the woods. Leaves and twigs concealed the hole, better described as a booby trap. Rotten mushy apples were spread beside the hole. Our plan was audacious. We'd lure our rivals down the trail. One of those suckers would trip in the hole and fall among the rotten apples.
     We approached a back yard where our rivals were hanging out. We flung apples at them. They were infuriated. They chased us down the trail. Those rivals were bigger and faster than us. They drew closer. We knew that capture meant getting roughed up.
     My friends panicked. They forgot about the trap. One of them stepped into the hole. He toppled into the apples. My friend had fallen victim to our own chicanery.
     Come the spring I'll chop the top of the stump into the shape of a bowl. A trash can lid will get placed upside down upon it. Voila! A bird bath.
     The apple tree will provide new delights.

Crappy Situation

     Dog poop baggies are showing up in my neighborhood.
     Someone walking a pet is dropping these baggies on lawns, including mine. I think it's happening after dark. His (or her) identity is unknown.
    Since I take evening strolls around here, it's possible I'll notice this person from afar when he strikes again. How will I react?
     I've fantasized revengeful scenarios against this jerk. Every one of these paybacks involve the contents of the baggie. And his door knob. Or his door mat. Or his car seat. 
     Revenge is wrong. I'll rein in those flights of imagination. But envisioning that guy reaching for his door knob--his greasy door knob--puts a smile on my face.
    Last week another baggie (the one in the photo) appeared near the sidewalk. A new idea came to mind. If I observe the perpetrator in action, I'll rattle his cage.
     That'll mean trailing him to his home, getting his address, and obtaining his name.
     The next day he'll find an anonymous note--a scarlet letter--inside his mailbox. The note will threaten him with a public outing if another baggie shows up.
     Is shaming, or the possibility of being shamed, effective? In Texas, a teenager got arrested for ripping off a K-Mart store. The judge sentenced him to stand outside the store for one week. The boy carried a sign about his crime. Later the kid wrote a letter to the judge. It read, 'I had seven days, eight hours a day, to reflect on my life. I didn't want to continue this mode of self-destruction any more.'
     The manager at K-Mart reported no thefts during that week. Shaming indeed deters misbehavior.
     When the perpetrator in my neighborhood opens his mailbox, he'll discover more than my note inside it. Greeting him will be a return to sender baggie.

Perseverance

     A baboon in South Africa refused to look at the camera. My dismay was fleeting; it barely moved the meter on the Richter scale of disappointment. 
     Last year the meter jumped. A rejection notice arrived from a literary agent. I had queried her about a novel I'd written.
     Nailing an effective photo is challenging. So is publishing a book. Perseverance keeps us going.
     Researcher Ellen Winner studied children with an aptitude for visual arts. She claimed they possessed a fierce determination to improve their abilities. She called this urge a 'rage to master.' Those kids didn't need parents to prod them along. They forged ahead on their own initiatives. 
     What about adults? Do late blooming photographers and writers possess a built-in motivation to succeed? Is their perseverance inherent or acquired?

The Value of Boredom

     My mother pointed at the wallpaper in the kitchen. A ray of sunlight illuminated  it. The artwork glowed under a warm toned ambiance.
     Over the years I've seen beams of light dancing on that wallpaper. But I'd never recognized them as sources of beauty. Perhaps my inattentiveness was attributable to the time of day. Those light shows happened during late afternoons when I was passing through, rather than hanging out in the kitchen.
     In the final analysis, busyness kept me from noticing.
     We're busier nowadays. Even during relaxation, our brains are busy processing data from televisions and electronic devices. Are creative people--artists, writers, designers, and photographers--becoming less creative from this sensory overload?
     Not too long ago, episodes of boredom happened more often. To get through them, we'd wander outside to view the stars, or lay in bed looking up at swirls of paint on ceilings above us. Boredom served a purpose. It enabled us to think without distraction.
     Boredom inspired creativity.
     Nowadays people deprive their brains of free time. Just thinking about whatever is perceived as  boring. Instead we keep busy, or expose ourselves to a barrage of digital content.
    Creativity is suffering. Have you noticed that it's harder to find novels that hold our attention? Have you noticed the music industry is no longer prolific in the creation of quality? With so many television channels, why do only a few offer top notch programing?
     Here's one answer: Because of digital media, creatives spend too much time viewing or listening to each others work. Input is diminishing the quality of output.
     The situation reminds me of these lyrics from David Bowie's song, Five Years: "My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare. I had to cram so may things to store everything in there."
     There's too much cramming going on. It's hurting creativity. 
     What does the future portend for creatives? Those creatives who spend too much time riding the digital merry-go-round will not reach their potentials. They'll spin in circles rather than breaking new ground. Those creatives who reduce their exposure to the Internet, and find time for boredom, will experience inspiration. They'll create works that resonate.
     This photographer resolves to cut back his time spent on that digital merry-go-round. This photographer intends to get bored more often.
    During The Renaissance, I'll bet Michelangelo devoted time to idleness. He must have understood that inspiration requires nurturing. Who knows, perhaps he too stared up at a ceiling in his bedroom. In those swirls of paint he might have conceived his greatest work later drawn on another ceiling, the one inside the Sistene Chapel.
     If Michelangelo were alive today, he'd carry a flip phone rather than a smart phone loaded with apps.

Leather and Laces

     My mother's favorite shoes are beat up. Look at the bulges on the interior sides; they were created from bunions on her feet.
     Mom doesn't want new shoes. This pair still works. She's elderly, having grown up during The Great Depression. People from that generation are frugal. They're less apt to throw stuff away.
     The laces are tattered and short. They string through only two eyelets. Tying shoes is a hassle for her. Being 89 years old makes the task even harder.
     She won't buy new laces unless they match the color of her shoes. Greenish-tan laces are impossible to find. I patronized several stores without success.
     Yesterday she visited friends for lunch. She wore black shoes because they're not ugly like the greenish-tan ones. I sensed an opportunity in her change of routine. Unbeknownst to her, I strung new laces, brown in color, through the eyelets of her beat up shoes.
     I wasn't sure how she'd react to the new laces. They didn't match the color of the shoes. If she become upset, I'd string the tattered laces back on.
     This morning she entered the kitchen. I was sitting at a table. It blocked my view of her feet.
     When she wasn't looking, I leaned over the side. My movement was slow and discrete.
     Her feet came into sight. Well, part of her feet. She was wearing those favorite shoes. But only the tips were visible. Her pants blocked out everything else including the laces. Was she wearing the new pair?
     I kept leaning as she walked. She wasn't aware of my attention. The hem of her pants shifted. A brown lace appeared.
     Yes! I straightened myself, said nothing, and ate breakfast.
     I have another thing to be grateful for on Thanksgiving.

Shedding Light on Luck

   
     Is luck random? Or can we affect the frequency of luck happening?
     At the instant I took the photo seen above, someone activated a flash. An explosion of bluish light illuminated the audience in a dramatic way. The synchronicity between my camera and that flash was not planned.
     I got lucky.
     Luck is not random. The more proactive our behavior, the greater the odds of experiencing luck.
     Proactivity requires inertia which often encounters resistance. Sometimes this resistance comes in the form of laziness. Or it comes from factors apart from ourselves.
      Before snapping that photo I drove eighty-five miles to the arena. I was tired from being up late. Resistance came in the form of exhaustion.
     Once inside the building I wandered about in search of a shooting position. During this survey my movements were curtailed by security people. More resistance.
      Later, while shooting photos from my vantage point, people waving signs impeded my line of sight. Resistance yet again.
     I didn't get lucky in spite of resistance. I got lucky because of it.  
     Proactivity vs. resistance = a greater possibility of luck.

Bird in the Hand

     Protestors faced a street. They pounded on drums and chanted slogans. Their signs criticized a presidential candidate. One protestor wore a Big Bird costume. Across the street stood backers of the candidate.
     A mother and her child approached. She wasn't interested in demonstrating. She spoke to Big Bird through peep holes under the beak of the costume.
     Big Bird bent toward the boy, shook his hand, then turned back toward the street.
     How nice it was to witness a tender moment amid the clamor of protest.

Failure or Success?

    Aftermath of Mitt Romney's election eve rally.

 
    What distinguishes successful people from failures?
    Consider the career of Mitt Romney. He lost an election to a famous person. His opponent wasn't President Obama. Back in 1994 Romney lost a senate election to Ted Kennedy.
    How did Romney react? He managed a winter Olympics, led a business to profitability, and governed a state. This year he became a nominee for present of the United States.
     Even though he failed to become president, Romney is not a failure.
    A failure broods over a failure and looses initiative. A successful person licks his wounds, gets back on his feet, and forges on.  

Reason for Voting

Voting on primary election day near Columbus, South Carolina

     Why do I vote?
     Ever since casting my ballot on election day, I've pondered that question. The answer boils down to this: I belong to a sacred trust.
     Sacred? The word implies something to do with God. How does the act of voting get lumped together with divinity?  
     Consider the preamble to the American Declaration of Independence: It states that people are '…endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'
     Some people assert that God does not bestow rights. How could Thomas Jefferson, the writer of that declaration, know if God doles out rights? Assumptions aren't proof.
  What matters is this: Here in America, the right to liberty is regarded as unalienable; it comes from God. Because voting represents a tangible expression of that right, voting can be equated with sacredness.
     During some elections, the candidates or issues hold little interest to me. Yet I still make an effort to cast a ballot.
     What motivates me to vote is being part of a sacred trust passed down by Americans since 1776.

Breaking Through the Clutter

     

     Wall to wall campaign signs in Ohio. They're situated beside intersections, posted on front yards, and appear along rural stretches of road. Some of them tout presidential candidates. Others support local races.

     After a while they become a mind numbing hodgepodge.
     But one sign caught my attention. It stood outside a church. It was posted by a preacher with a sense of humor.

Are We Hardwired to Believe in God?

    Photo: Crosses on a church property seen through a windshield during 'Superstorm Sandy.'
    
    Bushes uprooted by wind skidded across the highway in front of me. Rain splattered against my windshield. Tractor trailers driven by maniac drivers gunned by on the left, worsening the turbulence in the air.
     As 'Superstorm Sandy' raged against the passenger side of my car--the side facing Lake Erie--I whispered a prayer for protection.
     Near Sandusky, Ohio the tempest subsided. My white knuckles relaxed.
     I can't know if my prayer for help was answered two nights ago. Perhaps it was cautious driving alone that got me through those churns of wind on Interstate 90.
     Some researchers claim our brains are hardwired to believe in supernatural forces. If so, where does this hard wiring originate?
      One theory making the rounds is that supernatural belief, and the concept of religion, derives from evolution. Primitive people joined together in rituals. By forming into groups and associating with each other, their odds of survival increased. Call it strength in numbers.
     Or does an innate belief in the supernatural originate from a divine source?
     One thing's for sure. The next time I face a dicey situation, I'll ask for God's protection. 

Casper the Homographic Ghost

    
     By holding a 'Boo!' sign, is Casper the Ghost scaring people or booing a presidential candidate? Homographs are words with the same spellings and different meanings. To answer the question, the property owner in Ohio who posted the sign endorses the candidacy of Mitt Romney.
     Happy Halloween!
  

Power of Rhythm

     Does rhythm create unity? It seems that way, based on my observations of crowd behavior at presidential campaign rallies.
     A marching band warmed up an audience during a rally for President Obama. When the percussion unit (seen in photo) performed, folks gyrated to its beat. When Obama showed up, the crowd was all the more juiced.
     A pulse of rhythm broke out at a rally for Paul Ryan, the Republican VP nominee. Some people shouted together, "USA! USA!"
     During a rally for Joe Biden, the Democratic VP nominee, an individual shouted, "Four More Years!" Four More Years!" Seconds later, hundreds of people joined the refrain. Hands raised with four fingers stabbing the air. Another cadence. Another outburst of unity.
     At an event with Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney, a crowd roared, "Four more weeks! Four more weeks!" This chant, uttered four weeks before election day, called for the defeat of Biden and Obama. In a crowd of ten thousand, most people were strangers to each other. By reciting together this spoofed up chant, they experienced unity.
    While in the womb, the first sounds we detected were the rhythmic thump-thump-thumps of our mothers' hearts. It's no wonder that the first bonds we made--our first tastes of unity--were with our mothers.
     Rhythm is primal. Rhythm is fun. Rhythm turns many into a one.    
    

Bathroom Diatribe

     Dirt cheap motels are costly in aggravation.
     A clerk assured me the room was far enough back from the road. Traffic noise wouldn't be a problem. In spite of my skepticism--the road was a stones throw away--I took him at his word and forked over a cash payment. He handed me a key, a real one, not one of those plastic swipe cards.
     I entered my room, closed the door, and heard a rumble of cars.
     The clerk had lied to me.
     To drown out the clamor, I turned on a ventilation fan. The thing was a clunker. Instead of white noise I got more noise.
     My impatience grew.
     I carried toiletries into the bathroom. The sink was tiny.  Hardly any space for personal items. While placing my stuff on the console, a toothbrush slid off the edge.
     Splashdown. A different kind of floater bobbed in the toilet.
     Boy was I pissed off. I won't repeat my choice of words. My wrath was directed at the motel for its skimpy allocation of space, and at that scumbag clerk for suckering me into renting this dump. At least I had the presence of mind to keep my anger to myself. Deep down, I knew the fault was mine.
     When reacting to screw ups, it's easy to point a finger of blame at others. Consider this quote from a person long forgotten:  'When you point the finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you.'
     Using two fingers, I removed the toothbrush from its wet embrace.

Curves Beat Straight

     S-turns galore. Downshifting on steep grades. Pickup trucks riding my butt.
     While navigating the back roads of southeastern Ohio, hills and curves broke up the monotony of my driving. So did peeks at small towns and autumn foliage. 
   There's a metaphor here. By taking on challenges in our lifetimes-in a sense following roads less traveled--we invigorate ourselves. 
     If we avoid challenges--choose safe and predictable freeways--life becomes monotonous.

Midnight Rambling

     "Popcorn! Popcorn!" shouted two boys standing outside a church in Ohio. Bags of popcorn balanced on their heads, competing with a breeze. The popcorn was being sold to fund their Boy Scout troop.
     Watching them evoked a memory.
     I joined the Scouts at the age of eleven. It was awkward being the youngest boy in the troop. None of the kids were from my school grade level.
     My first outing was a weekend trip to New Hampshire. The troop visited a camp near Mount Monadnock.
     Upon arrival we disembarked from a bus. Nearby, another troop of scouts watched us. Some of them hassled us with snide remarks.
     Later a prank was hatched. Some of our boys conspired to sneak up and cause mayhem to that other troop. Our chaperones and senior patrol leaders were unaware of the plan.
     One of the ringleaders asked for a volunteer to stay awake until midnight, then wake the conspirators up.
     I took on the job of clock boy. For a couple of hours I lay in a sleeping bag, fighting off sleep as other boys snoozed.
     The winching hour arrived. I woke up the boys. We slipped out into the night. Flashlights led us down a road.
     Nearing the target, we turned off the lights. We crept forward on our and hands and knees. Some  boys held knives with their mouths. Back then, the television show 'Combat' was popular. The boys were mimicking actor Vic Morrow.
     We came upon a collection of canvas tents--the kind that shelter at least four people. Rope guy-lines extended all over the place.
     Blades sliced through rope. Tents collapsed. Angry voices were heard from within them.
     We hustled off.
     Needless to say, the other troop was outraged. During the next morning, their adult chaperones confronted our chaperones.
     "It's horse sh--!" one of them repeated to our leaders. He was referring to our midnight raid.
     Bad vibes were boiling over. The men from both troops devised a solution to restore harmony to the campground.
     That solution was a wrestling match. Both troops chose a single boy--a big kid--to represent them.
     The two boys went at each other. As they rolled around the dirt, all of us other boys cheered them on. After a spell the men put a stop to it.
     From that moment on, both troops got along with each other.
     I was no longer a newbie trying to fit in. The clock boy had earned some acceptance.

Pig Racing

     This photo was taken on a day off from covering the presidential candidates in Ohio.
     Pig races are similar to presidential races.
     Crowds gather and cheer for candidates. They do the same for pigs.
     Candidates make speeches. Pigs squeal. Either way, they both get attention.
     Pigs writhe in mud. Candidates sling mud.
     Some candidates drop out of races. At this piggy race, one of the competitors stopped running before making a turn on the track.
     Candidates make speeches inside a enclosed buffer, guarded by metal barriers and Secret Service agents. Pigs race behind metallic fences. 
     Some political campaigns, like pigs, play dirty.
     Candidates thrive on attention and getting their pictures taken. They're a bunch of hams. Pigs are hams too.
     Candidates promise to 'bring home the bacon.' Pigs are the bacon.
     Forget the Republican Party. Never mind the Democrats. Hooray for the Swine Party!

Clippity Clop

     I  banged a uey. That's how people from Boston, where I come from, describe a U-turn.
     My situation was urgent. Well, sort of. I wanted to position myself for a photo. A horse and cart would soon pass by a collection of pumpkins at a farmstand.
     I'd seen Amish people in this area of Ohio. It's not cool photographing them up close. But it's okay taking photos of their buggies.
     Amish society emphasizes 'Gelassenheit,' a catchphrase for humility, modesty, and an aversion to self promotion. What a refreshing change from our culture where assertiveness is celebrated over meekness.
     Several buggies passed by.
     Then a different model of buggy approached. Unlike the others, this one didn't have a storm front. An elderly Amish couple sat on the bench.
     They were visible.
     Clippity clop. Clippity clop. The hooves of their horses got louder. I stood on the other side of the road.
     The man's beard hung close to his belt. He wore a broad rimmed hat. A bonnet covered his wife's head. Their faces were etched with character. No doubt about it, this photo would look better as a tighter composition. Forget the pumpkins.
     Should I take the photo? Sure, the couple was recognizable, but I wouldn't zoom in on their faces. The horses would be included too.
     A lens rested in my hands. Not any old lens. The sucker was big--a photographic howitzer. It gets noticed.
     Clippity clop. Clippity clop. They eyed me. I watched them.
     Clippity clop. Crunch time.
     I didn't raise the camera.
     The man waved. I returned the gesture. We went our separate ways.
     Was the old timer conveying more than a greeting? Was he thanking me for not taking the photo?
     By posting this entry, am I publicly congratulating myself for my decision? If so, am I acting contrary to the spirit of Gelassenheit?

Body Language

Sometimes truth is elusive.

Last evening was hectic. In a span of one-and-a-half hours, I drove to three locations in Cincinnati, Ohio. At each place I photographed voters watching a televised presidential debate between President Barack Obama and his challenger Mitt Romney.

During the wee hours I edited images and uploaded them to news outlets.

On the following day, up and down the radio dial, commentators remarked how disengaged President Obama had appeared. Some people objected to him facing downward too often when not speaking.

While listening this these discussions, I decided to review my images from the previous evening. Did I have photos of Obama looking down?

Turns out I did. The photo above is one of them.

During a normal edit, I don't select unflattering photos such as people blinking, touching their noses, yawning, revealing odd expressions, and yes, looking down. But during this second round of editing, Obama's demeanor had become a topic of news. This photo, a juxtaposition of Romney looking animated and Obama looking disinterested, could illustrate that topic.

I ran the image through Photoshop and prepared to uploaded it.

Then I paused. An ethical question arose. Did the photo capture a moment when Obama was deliberately looking down? Or did the image reveal a fleeting moment of irrelevance?

I could not answer that question. The photo was not uploaded.

Well, not for a while. Later I visited the website of a news organization. They were running a slideshow of photos depicting the president's lackluster demeanor from the debate. One of the photos was nearly identical to mine. It might have been the same moment captured. A photographer in the debate hall had snapped the photo.

I changed my mind. The moment did indeed capture a truth. The image got uploaded. 

Yellow Lines

     On a drizzly Friday afternoon I drove to a library. Lots of parking spaces were available. To avoid getting wet, I hustled from my car into the building.
     Two hours later the rain had stopped. I strolled back to the car.
     A sheet of paper was inserted between the windshield and a wiper blade. Someone had written me a note.
     I lifted the paper. The words were fuzzy from wetness.  Here's what the message said, although I can't remember the exact wording:
     Dear Out of State Visitor, In Minnesota we park between yellow lines, not across them. Please be courteous the next time you visit. Have a nice day.
     Yeah right.
     I looked at the parking lot. The place was pretty much empty.
     My reaction was indignant. Was this snippy message a reflection of the Germanic / Scandinavian culture prevailing in Minnesota? Those Nordic folk are known for their orderliness. And for their conformity.
     Later I chilled. My attitude changed. I realized that by ignoring those yellow lines, I was scorning a code of etiquette. 
     Nowadays I double check rather than double park. 

Hallowed Ground

The fallen lay three or four deep in some places, and, with but a few exceptions, they were shot in and about the head…. With much labor a detail of Union soldiers buried the dead by simply turning the captured breastworks upon them. Thus had these unfortunate victims unwittingly dug their own graves. - Union Soldier

     The most ferocious fighting of the Civil War happened at this spot, the Bloody Angle at the Battle of Spotsylvania.
     The dark earth behind my hand is the remnant of a Confederate breastworks. Union forces assaulted the position from the field in view. Hand to hand combat ensued. The line did not yield during hours of attacks. Eventually the Confederates withdrew.
     I stood here with a sense of awe. A plaque described rifle fire so intense that an oak tree toppled over. Other trees were shredded. They once stood behind me.
     As I read the plaque, tapping sounds distracted me. By coincidence, oak nuts were falling on the ground where that tree once stood. My wonderment increased. For one century-and-a-half, Mother Nature has been restoring the damage.

Bird Watching

     Eleven thousand people poured out of a stadium. Traffic clogged the roads. A campaign rally with President Obama was over.
     A contingent of Mitt Romney supporters held signs toward the exodus of cars. Most of the Obama backers smiled. Some countered with their own campaign signs. Others pointed thumbs down.
     But not everyone in the cars reacted with civility. A few people flipped birds and launched F bombs at the Romney crew.
     I wanted to photograph middle fingers juxtaposed against Romney signs. For compositional reasons I stood on a chair. A camera rested in my hands.
     No middle fingers stabbed the air.
     After a spell I stepped down on the pavement. One of the Romney backers indicated that a middle finger was being wagged. I raised the camera too late. The moment passed. 
    I got back on the chair. Nothing happened. I got off the chair. More obscene gestures happened when I wasn't looking.
     My camera never captured a middle finger in the act. But the incident did offer an insight into human nature. When I--or better said, my camera--was in view, the middle fingers chilled out. This lull in one finger salutes hints that people who hurl obscenities know their behavior is wrong. They do possess a capacity for shame.

Mixing Politics with Prayer

      A prayer to God and a Pledge of Allegiance. That's how presidential campaign events begin.
     When a minister or priest leads these invocations, I bow my head in reverence. But all too often my head snaps back into position before the prayer finishes. This reaction happens whenever a clergyman asks God to grant an election success to a candidate.
     These supplications for victory happen at least fifty percent of the time. Clergymen ought to keep political bias out of these prayers.
     The photo was taken during a prayer at a Paul Ryan campaign rally. I can't remember the preacher's exact words, but he requested divine guidance for all the candidates.
     My head remained bowed for the duration, well, after taking the photo.

Sign Fatigue

     I'm overdosing on signs and shirts.
     At presidential campaign rallies, messages appear on signs, on clothing, and on souvenir buttons. This hodgepodge of props includes busts of candidates embroidered on T-shirts.
     Images depicting props serve a purpose. They enable viewers to determine what's going on.
     But after a while, props become redundant. They compete for attention with other elements in photos. Too many photos with signs and T-shirt messages strain the eyes.
     Yesterday I photographed a rally with President Obama. Twelve photos were uploaded.
Only two of these images depicted scenes without signs or Obama shirts in them. That percentage needs to change.
     Redundancy is common at most jobs. But in the creative arts--and that includes photojournalism--redundancy diminishes creativity.

Seige Mentality

     Saturday night and the motel parking lot was empty and dark. Its location is downtown in a city that's seen better times. Boarded up homes stand behind a line of trees.
     I should have turned the car around. But I was tired and looking for a bargain. In this part of Ohio, motels jack up their already high rates on Fridays and Saturdays. This fleabag joint keeps the rate steady at $39 per night.
     While I waited for the desk clerk behind the plexiglass, a shady looking man loitered outside. After a couple of minutes he walked inside and drew near.
     "Hello" I said.
     He didn't reply and headed down the hallway.
     I asked clerk why there were no customers.
     "We've got 'em," he said. "They're monthly. They're out back."
     "But I don't see any cars."
     "They don't own cars."
     "Oh."
     "Have there been any problems here, you know, safety issues."
     "Not recently."
     At least the guy was being honest.
     My room has a door facing the parking lot and another door facing the hallway. The locks are rinky dink and the chains flimsy. There are no sliding bolts. To calm my worries, I placed a desk against the door facing the parking lot. The refrigerator in the room now rests against the other door.
     I parked the car across the lot; that way, nobody will know what room has an occupant. But keeping the car away from my room makes the car vulnerable to theft.
     I've made a couple of forays to the car for things I forgot to take in. During each trip, a dog has checked me out, darted through a hole in a chain link fence, and ran away. I don't know the species. It's s tiny animal, the kind that looks like a hot dog. A Dachshund perhaps? It's hard to identify in dim light.
    I whistled at him but could not entice him back. Too bad. Petting a dog would have been nice, given this grim setting.
     After getting my stuff squared away in the room, I shut off the light and peered out the window. I needed to check on my car. To my surprise, the dog stood on the pavement near my door.
     As if on cue, the animal squatted and took a crap.
     It's been four hours since that incident. I've been working at my laptop and uploading photos. I just looked out the window again. Three more cars in the lot.
     Neighbors! Fellow travelers.
     I'm feeling a little better about this place.
     Tomorrow morning, I'll need to watch where I step when I open the door.

Morning Update:
          A silhouette passed across the brightness of the window drape. A  brushing sound
accompanied this movement. Somebody was sweeping the pavement. Was that turd being
cleaned up?
     I opened the door and encountered an older man bent over a broom. He was washing the
walkways in front of the doors to each room. My sense is that he's a long term resident performing a labor for room deal.
    "What's up with that dog?" I said.
     He told me that nobody knows where it lives.
     I asked him to explain the lack of customers on a Saturday night.
     He blamed the slowdown on sports. The Ohio Buckeyes football team had played a game. As a rule, people stay home in droves to watch Buckeye football.
    We talked pro sports. He said the Cleveland Browns suck. Lots of people in this part of Ohio follow the Pittsburgh Steelers. 
     As we conversed, I realized the man hadn't noticed the dog turd. I didn't point it out. Why ruin the vibe by suggesting that he go clean up dog crap?
     Minutes later the perpetrator of the turd showed up behind the fence. The dog was acting skittish again. It watched me taking its photo. I think the dog wants a friend but is too spooked to trust anyone.

    The clean up man wished me safe travels.
     In the office, I returned the room key--a real key, not one of those plastic cards--to the proprietress. She refunded my five dollar deposit. 
     I told told her I'm traveling often in Ohio. She said she'd give me the same cheap rate for a better room upstairs if I visited again. Her personality was engaging.
     My experience at the Siege Arms Motel (not the real name) demonstrates something about human
nature. Once we make connections with people, our opinions of a place change for the better,
even at a run down motel. I've become acquainted with a clean up man, an owner, and a feral dog.  Anything that eases the burden of loneliness on the campaign trail is worth pursuing.
     During my next visit, I'll sleep better.

Creeping Tyranny?

 

'Big Brother is watching you.' - George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

     A camera aimed down at me while I idled at an intersection in Virginia. It's the camera in the middle of the photo. As I looked up at that dark circular spot--the eye of a municipal government--discomfort swelled up in me. I took out my own camera and fired back.
      I am a law abiding citizen. There's no rap sheet with my name. But a record of good citizenship did not shield me from this government surveillance.
     Red light cameras are showing up all over the place. Proponents cite public safety to justify their use. Is our society's obsession with safety chipping away at our freedoms?

Nothing Sweet About Luxury Suites

     Look at the rapt attention on the face of the man in the photo. He's a delegate listening to a speech during the Democratic National Convention. His concentration is typical of most people late in the evening of a convention; that's when marquee speeches are delivered.
     What's not visible in the photo is a luxury suite located nearby. There, guests stood in clusters, shooting the breeze and nibbling on food. Their din of conversation and laughter got so loud that delegates in the normal seats glanced their way with disapproval.
     The luxury suite people were clueless of the distraction they were creating. What explained their insensitivity? Was liquor being dispensed? Was it the free food and party atmosphere? Was it the physical barrier separating them from the normal seats?
     There was a time when arena seating joined together people from all economic groupings. This mingling of rich and poor was good for our society. Nowadays at ballparks and arenas, wealthy people and businesses buy their way out of mingling with lower classes.
     The segregation of luxury suites represents a step backward, not forward.

Greed and Folding on the Campaign Trail

     
     While in Charlotte to photograph the Democratic National Convention, I experienced bad and good sides of human nature.
     Motel owners jacked up their rates. For example, a motel that normally charged forty-five dollars per night asked for one hundred-and-seventy. No way I'd pay that much.
     I found a low budget motel willing to charge its normal rate. But with a catch. The owner required me to call him late each day. He needed the daylight hours to book the rooms with suckers willing pay usurious rates. If he filled the rooms, I'd be out of luck. As it turned out, not many fish took his bait. He accepted my lower payments.
     One night a woman appeared at my door. She said, "What are you doing in there all alone?" I told her I was getting ready to sleep, adding "I know what's going on and I'm not interested." Hearing that, the prostitute departed.
     Some parking lots near the convention arena charged thirty dollars per day. But not all. One lot situated farther out charged five dollars. That place got my business.
     Inside the convention arena, a standard sized bottle of water cost $4.50. I drank from water fountains.
     At the end of the second session, the temperature in the upper seats had gotten hot. Thirsty people mobbed a concession stand before leaving. A man walked over to me with a dazed expression. He told me the concessionaires had hosed him for $7.50 for one bottle of water.
     Greed on top of greed.
    The good side of humanity revealed itself inside a laundromat. I asked a woman, a fellow customer, if she'd keep an eye on my clothes. Would she be willing, later on, to transfer my clothes from a washer to a dryer, and feed some coins into the slot? In return for this assistance, I told her I'd pay the cost of drying her own clothes.
     This arrangement would enable me to go somewhere for lunch, retrieve dry clothes, and get to the arena before the convention proceedings resumed.
     The woman agreed to the deal.
     When I got back to the laundromat she was gone. I walked up to the dryer. My jaw dropped with
amazement. Inside the dryer, my clothes weren't only dry, they were folded in a pile.

Pillow Pilferage

     One pillow and several towels gets stolen each morning.
     While I checked out of a low budget motel in Georgia, the owner told me that thievery by guests is rampant. He added that at a second motel he owns in Florida, with pricier rooms, the ripoffs aren't as prevalent.
     The cost per room in Georgia is $39.00. The motel in Florida charges over $70.00.
     Why the discrepancy in rates of theft? The owner cites a difference in the 'quality' of the people living in the two regions. He described the people living near his Florida motel as honest. He said their standards of living are higher.  He said that people living near his Georgia establishment are more than poor in comparison, they're deficient in moral values.
     To underscore this claim, he revealed to me that when he sleeps on the premises of his Georgia motel, he keeps a pistol in the room.
     The owner's morality claim got me wondering. Does a lack of moral values contribute to a lack of income? To quote Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, 'Character is destiny.'

Convention Fallout

     Four days and twelve hours of sleep.
     Photographing last week's Republican National Convention in Tampa was draining. I became so deprived of sleep that I found myself cutting in front of TV cameras, stepping on people's toes, not moving aside right away when asked, and getting lost in hallways.
     The photo above depicts the grand finale.
     On the day after the event, I woke up early with one hour of sleep. In nearby Lakeland I photographed a presidential campaign rally featuring Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan. In my stupor of exhaustion, I got careless and leaned a monopod with a camera and lens against a fold up chair. Moments later, a media person grabbed the chair. My photo equipment crashed down on asphalt.
     I started to cuss the person out then stopped in mid sentence, realizing it was an accident. My anger should have been directed at myself. Placing camera gear in a precarious spot was inviting disaster. The repair bill will cost me hundreds of dollars.
     On the next night I slept for ten hours.
     It's been years, if not decades, since I uttered a profanity at someone. Why the outburst?
     Someone once told me about a wife who was always clean with her language. In her
later years she became afflicted with Alzheimer's disease. To her husband's shock, she began
cussing a blue streak.
     I wonder if there's a beast of profanity lurking within us. We do our best to keep this creature
locked in, but every now and then it escapes.

Love is a Powerful Word

     Demonstrators and riot police squared off outside the Republican National Convention.
     Standing in lines, the cops revealed no emotion behind their facial shields. Their cool demeanor was almost robotic.
     A woman strolled from one cop to another. She held her fingers in a peace sign. She said to each officer, "Loving you."
     Subtle changes appeared on the faces of some cops. They didn't smile at her, but their expressions softened a tad.
     What other word except 'love' could have evoked those reactions?

Mirror Image

   
     Photojournalism isn't only about taking photos. It's also about conveying information with captions.
     I walked around the floor of the Republican National Convention hall in Tampa, where the
Republicans were gearing up for the arrival of delegates on the next day.
    A workman was wiping a reflective surface near the seats for the Florida delegation. I took
his photo then asked him who he was voting for.
     He identified himself as a supporter of Democratic President Barack Obama, who is seeking
re-election. I asked him to explain his support of Obama.
     The man said, "Because he's a black guy. That's about it."

Peeking Tree

      'As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty (degrees) below (zero) spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly, it was colder than fifty below....'  Jack London - To Build a Fire

     One of the great aspects of a Jack London adventure story is a combination of authenticity and nuance. He didn't only write about the Yukon region of Canada, he experienced it during the dead of winter. 
     I too am penning an adventure novel. It's set in the southern Appalachian Mountains during
contemporary times.
     For the purpose of research, I spent a couple of days visiting settings in this novel. One such location is a cemetery nestled in a remote part of Georgia. In one scene in the novel, a boy hides in the woods adjoining the cemetery.
    A tree with two trunks caught my attention. It stood along a line of brush.
    I imagined the boy peeking through the narrow space between the trunks.
    Seeking authenticity and nuance, I pushed aside some branches and moved behind the tree. When I did so, I came upon a dumping ground. Plastic flower pots and artificial flowers lay strewn about the forest floor. This debris was not visible to anyone strolling among the headstones.
     I stood on tippy toes to see through the trunks. My view was lousy. The crack wasn't wide enough. More height was needed to get my eyes beside the wider part of the crack. In a change of tactics, I positioned a flower pot upside down beside the tree. I stood upon it.
     The pot crackled and shattered. I keeled over and almost fell down.
     Undeterred, I tried again with a sturdier flower pot. It sagged but didn't collapse. I peeked through
a wider part of the crack. At this height the view was better.
      Here's a coincidence: One of the headstones next to the peeking tree belonged to a dead person
whose last name was Peak.
     The boy in my novel will soon find himself tottering on a flower pot while peering through a crack between trunks.
     That kind of authenticity and nuance could not have been possible had I conducted my research with an internet search engine. For a novelist in fact-finding mode, boots on the ground beats the heck out of eyes on a monitor.

Yellow Barricade

     Imagine spending eleven hours in a school bus? Not a moving bus, a parked one.
    Last week I photographed President Obama's campaign rally in New Hampshire.
It happened on a city common. Buses were parked in tight lines along the edge of the area.
     Nobody got transported by these buses. The sole purpose of these buses was security.
They blocked the line of sight between the president and anyone outside the event. They
acted as a deterrent to the unauthorized entry of vehicles. I'm no expert on these matters,
but I'll surmise that these buses would act as a buffer in case of an explosion.
     I walked by the driver (in the photo) during the late afternoon. She was tired and bored.
The  job required her to remain on or near the bus except for trips to the bathroom. She arrived on site at 7:30 AM. She anticipated leaving at 6:30 PM.
     During the president's appearance, she was not allowed to open the windows facing the
common.
   I recall a story about vice president Harry Truman in 1945. He got an urgent message to
go to the White House. He and his driver got in a car and drove there. No security protected
him en route. No motorcade cleared the way. He waited in traffic like anyone else.
     When Truman got to the White House, he was informed that President Roosevelt had
passed away. So it was not vice president Truman who had driven over, it had been
President Truman, even though he hadn't realize it.
     Why has the world become so dangerous that bus barricades must surround our president? Can we ever go back to an age of innocence, when it was safe for a president to hop into a car and drive somewhere on his own?
     I believe it's possible, but not anytime soon.

Waterfowl or Waterfoul?

 
     A pair of swans occupy a marsh near my home. My affection for them grew when their babies hatched during the spring. (Above, an adult sits on a nest containing newborns.)
     When I mentioned these swans to my sister-in-law, a bird expert, she wasn't happy. She told me these birds are aggressive toward native waterfowl. Ducks and other such birds have been forced away from this marsh. In short, these Mute swans are damaging the environment.
     Mute swans were introduced to the United States during late 1800's. The owners of mansions along the Hudson River brought them in as lawn decorations.
     Until recently, the environmental threat from these swans was acute in Chesapeake Bay, far away from my state. Chesapeake Journal reported that 'Mute swans rip the (aquatic) grasses out by the roots, day in and day out, in increasing numbers...  These grasses are critical to support other life in the Bay and its tributaries.'
     How sad that something beautiful is harmful.
     What's to be done?
     Maryland began managing these birds, a euphemism for shooting them. Problem solved. They spared a few of the birds and prevented further degradation of the habitat.
     From a rational standpoint, it's easy to agree with such a policy. But how would I react if the swan in that photo was targeted by a shooter?
     Jonathan McKnight is a natural resource official in Maryland. He told the Journal: "But on some level, you have to wonder about human beings – the most invasive species of all – naming other species as invasive, and managing them. I’d feel better about it if we do a better job of managing ourselves."
     At first I reacted with agreement to his statement. But upon reflection,  I wondered if invasiveness--foreign species muscling out local species--is consistent to the ways of nature.
     When God created the world, did he envision it changing through evolution? Are invasive events a part of evolution? And when God created mankind, did he anticipate us impacting--and being invasive--to the geography of the world? One could argue that our invasiveness isn't really invasive, rather, it's a natural condition.
     Is cutting down trees to create a cornfield an invasive behavior? No, because if the field goes fallow, the forest will grow back. Does introducing European Mute swans to the United States represent invasiveness? Yes, if the result forever alters the makeup of nature.
    Even though God allows us to shape our environment, and do invasive things, does it mean we should do as we please to our environment?  
    By introducing a species of animal to an unfamiliar environment, we might be messing around with God's blueprint. If so, is taking measures to restore the blueprint justifiable?
     
  

Key to Happiness?

Are people who practice a religion happier?

I met some devout Mormons during a trip to Utah last June. They seemed more grounded than most people. While strolling around Salt Lake City and a suburb, I saw a greater percentage of nuclear families hanging out together than in other parts of the country. These families exuded happiness.

A newspaper in Salt Lake City reported that 'Utahns continue to be less likely than the average American to smoke, abuse drugs, die of cancer or give birth as a teenager.' In Utah, Mormons are a majority. And lots of Mormons are devoted to their faith.            

Later in Massachusetts I photographed devout Catholics honoring Our Lady of Fatima (see photo). At the conclusion of the event, attendees donated one dollar to obtain a flower carried with the statue. These folks, members of a parish of Portuguese ethnicity, also seemed more grounded than most. 

Modern culture, with the distractions of television and the internet, offers us less fellowship.
When was the last time you sat on a jet and engaged in a long conversation with a stranger?
Chances were, that fellow human being--and you--paid more attention to an electronic device.

Religious people are happier because churches, synagogues, and mosques provide real fellowship, the face to face kind. For too many people, that kind of socialization rarely or doesn't happen.

Egos in Check

   
All I could see was her face.
     My niece, a high school junior, played saxophone during the performance of a youth orchestra last
Friday night in Boston. She sat near the back of the stage.
     She knew, during three weeks of practice, that few people in the audience would see her. She
understood, as did her fellow musicians, that none of them would showcase individual talents.
     Nowadays there's so much emphasis on self expression. It's refreshing to watch talented kids
check their egos at a stage door, wear the same black and white outfits, and perform as a team.