Atypical serious face

Is there such a thing as love at first sight?

Psychologists at Syracuse University claim that it takes only a fifth of a second to fall in love.  Elvis Presley told us that “Wise men say, only fools rush in…” Whatever. All I can say is “I can’t help falling in love again.” Thank you, Elvis.

Since my last blog in November, there has been something missing around the homefront, despite squawking, talking parrots and Earl, the girl, who has slowed down enormously since Lester departed this earth.

We joined the Triad Golden Retriever Rescue Group just days after Lester’s demise, but only half-heartedly. There have been many goldens up for adoption, but not one seemed just right until we received an email a week ago asking if we were still in the looking stage for a new, young dog. There was just something in the tone of the email, a hint of excitement, that made me respond, “Just maybe.”

The next day, last Saturday, we drove the 40 minutes to Greensboro and met “Charlie.” The connection was instantaneous.

We have now had Conway (aka“Charlie”) for four days and he already makes us laugh and slow down to pet him, and speed up to play with him. Although it’s only been four days, we already love him, because in his goofy golden way, he demands it.

He’s so tall, we don’t have to bend down to pet him, so long that he’s been described as a Georgia freight train, and so strong that we’ve been knocked into furniture and walls as Conway shows his enthusiasm for life. All of that just feels so normal.

Lots of people have told us that having a new dog perks up the older one. We’re not sure about Earl’s opinion of this upstart, but she’s observing the new jolt of energy and joy at home. Earl is counting the days until she can teach Conway how to swim, when the pool temperature reaches 60 degrees or so. We are reveling in the joy a puppy, albeit it a two year old, can bring us, as a hint of spring is in the air.

Daffodils

Staring at the Pool

2 year old gawkiness

When I found Ralph, a half starved freezing cold nearly hairless Irish setter, and brought him home, we found that he was indeed a canine of the ‘60s: he had hallucinogenic dreams and thought he could fly, from second story windows.  He and Carter made great barking music together.

Next was a biter, Celeste, and we had to hide her from the front door because she would great visitors with a cute expression and wagging tail,  and then chomp.  Celeste was named for Queen Celeste in the Babar books, but she wasn’t regal at all.

She was followed by Porter (Wagoner) and Dolly (Parton), another stray. Porter liked to break out through the front door, and it was said that he was the creator of a cute litter of puppies in the next neighborhood. Dolly was a lovely golden with a wonderful personality, but poor dog, she suffered from seizures her whole life with us.

It was in summer of 1999 that we found Lester (Flatt) in Davidson Country (home of the infamous Sheriff Hege, of the pink jails). A wise friend told us to pick a pup from the litter with a laid back personality, and not the friendliest and most aggressive one. North Carolina summers are hot, and Lester, 6 week old pup that he was, was sleeping in a cinderblock. Literally, in the hole. We knew he had to be ours.

As a youngster, Lester loved Shark, our grand dog who often came to visit. Lester would try to clamp onto Shark’s chocolate lab side, much to our chagrin. We took Lester to obedience school, where he was trained with a very well behaved pit bull. Lester would attack the pit bull with great energy, while I hid my eyes and my heart pounded! After I got over my fear of this strange training, I realized that teaching Lester not to jump was hopeless.

And jump he did, mostly into his beloved swimming pool, as many times in a day as we would throw the ball. Lester and Earl lived to swim.  They would let the grandes climb on their backs and travel, like dolphins, to the other end of the pool. Over and over and over.

A very young Vivi and Lester, engaged in a ball game

Swimming with dogs

Tennis, anyone?

Pearly gates are calling

Lester at his best

We knew as summer waned that Lester was hurting, but as long as he could swim, he was enthusiastic. How we dreaded autumn!

If you go back in this blog to last February, I wrote the love story of Lester and Earl (the girl).

November is a cruel month. Yesterday, after 11 and a half years of energy, bliss and joy, Lester left this earth, but only after surveying his yard one more time and his beloved swimming pool.

Winter has struck this household early.

Stupid me. I thought an actuation was the count number of pictures in files on my computer. Not so. So, in trying to sell my camera, I inadvertently gave the wrong “actuation count.” The guy who “bought my camera” has informed me of the error of my ways, and has asked for $550 back from our agreed upon fee. Right now I’m in limbo waiting to see if he wants the camera, or wants to return it to me.  That camera was an extension of me. To him, it’s just a machine, perhaps a defective one in his eyes. He has until Wednesday to decide my fate. I feel so empty.

I love photography, I loved that camera, I have loved the promise of digital photography and the learning curve it takes to be a good photographer. I loved the fact that with a digital camera, I could take all the pictures I wanted to take. There is no film.  I could just delete the bad shots. But now I’ve learned, for every shot I’ve taken, especially the bad ones, I must now pay the price.

I am struggling to rediscover the art and beauty after this most clinical of weeks. I have a new camera, and as I took some shots this morning, I felt a need to ration them. But just for a while. Why?

Last night we bought two new trees, a Nutall Oak that will grow 100 feet and far outlive me. The other tree? It’s an apricot, with the most beautiful blossoms, giving the first promise of spring after a very long winter. The tree, still lying sideways in the truck this morning, just beckoned me to photograph it. And so I did, perhaps 100 times.  A tiny bit of the beauty and joy photography brings to my life, returned.  I only wish that the new camera will have the soul of the oak tree, and the longevity, too. I do know that it can capture the beauty of the apricot tree,  but with decreasing actuations.

With a touch of Topaz Simplify

So…what to do about it, with a week of summer vacation to go before teaching, for each of us? The beach, Sunset Beach, here in our home state of North Carolina beckoned to our long term memories, and amazingly, there was a house, a small bargain house, just waiting to be rented at the last minute.

The instant we got out of our car and smelled the salt air and felt the penetrating sun on our backs, we knew that we had done the right thing. The familiarity after ten years’ absence has been amazing. All of the trips over the years to exotic and foreign places have been remarkable, but we had forgotten about the value of being close to home.

Stairway to Heaven

Sunset Beach Pier at dawn

Pier with Egyptian design

Gone fishing

Sunrise at Sunset

Marsh grass in back of our house

Sun Worshipper

Of course, we miss our family of old when Sage and John came with us, and sometimes brought their buddies here. We have reminisced about the shared dinners and the used up hot water, but right now we’re reveling in working on course syllabi and catching up on books and emails and camera manuals without any responsibilities. Best of all, after a summer of new beds every few days, we’ve totally relearned how to relax.

We CAN go home, and we did. North Carolinians tend to explain away their summers by apologetically saying, “We’re just going to the beach this summer.”  JUST the beach?

Our boat left at 12:15, allowing us time until the 1:30 opening time on Inner Farne to cruise around seals and the other uninhabited islands in the Farne group. I thought I was so smart with my camera loaded with a 400mm lens, albeit not a great birding lens. We even carried my tripod, a big pain. I should have known, as I looked around the boat, that other people had the same idea. There was a golden couple, the most attractive travelers I’d seen, armed with huge Canon cameras, hiking boots and warm looking parkas. They were Australians, on an 8 week holiday in England and Turkey. The economy must be better in Australia than in the States, I concluded quickly to myself. But, they sure look like they know what they’re doing, I decided.

After circumnavigating the less significant islands, seeing the begging seals and noticing the smell of guano of the seagulls and razorbills, and guillemots, we finally approached Inner Farne. There were four or five other boats in the harbor, but still no alarms were going off in my head. “Wear your hats, everyone,” the boat captain warned us, as we approached the dock.

A view of the cliffs from the boat

The handsome dock hand

An incredibly handsome dock hand greeted us, and told us to be careful not to step on any just hatched baby chicks on the walkways. The nesting terns were in the middle of the hatching season. That was an understatement. Babies were everywhere, as were their stressed and divebombing parents, who aimed directly for our heads and expensive camera equipment.

Tern chick

Hatchlings emerging

Protective parent hovering over the nest

Tern dinner

It took 30 seconds to realize that a major photography workshop (s) were/was going on there on Inner Farne. There were huge tripods and camera lenses covered in camouflage that must cost $10,000! Pride goeth before a fall, I realized, and how insignificant and amateurish I am. I couldn’t even figure out where to try to aim my camera, what with 100 photographers in a very small space, and baby chicks underfoot, and shrieking nesting terns crashing against my head. My husband quickly disappeared, and I wondered if he’d been knocked out by a stressed bird. In fact, when I finally found him, he claimed to be cold, and I began to notice that a blue sky was turning to no color, and then gray at the horizon. At least we aren’t dealing with summer midday sun, I thought.

Wandering up the path, after enduring aerial assaults constantly, there was suddenly a sort of clearing, and then the puffin area! What comic relief. I even tried to ignore the man with the huge lens and a Nikon Professional shirt. I wondered who he is…someone really famous?

The Sigmund Freud model

Very quickly I realized that setting up the tripod would take time on those rocks, and I had forgotten the hex wrench and the foot on my lens was loose. It wasn’t a good time to have an argument with my spouse, who goes through life trying to fix things, especially since the clock was ticking and I only had half an hour left. So, hand held it was going to be, despite his loud protestations. Besides, I didn’t want Mr. Nikon Professional to even notice me.

The island was basically stone, but it was covered with weeds and there were small holes everywhere, which was shelter and egg hatching ground for the puffins.

Sand eels for dinner

Three Little Puffins

Group conversation

Odd Man Out

The weeds became beautiful over the hour or so we were on the island, and the Queen Anne’s Lace and thistles and chicory provided color in an otherwise colorless environment. Most amazing of all was a small church on Inner Farne, an ancient church, with beautiful strained glass and carved pews. What a juxtaposition of nature and culture in a tiny hostile place!

Church on Inner Farne with mist coming in

An unlikely place for stained glass

Ancient church

The guide on the boat over said that a banded puffin from Inner Farne had shown up in New South Wales, Australia. Is that possible? Had I been a bird on Inner Farne, I probably would have looked for a new house, too, what with the overpopulation of avians.

Looking back, I would have done things differently, specifically I would have tried to isolate the puffins more successfully, since a whole field of puffins gives the viewer a difficult time of where to look. I would have changed lenses to my 70-200 midway through, since getting up close to birds wasn’t a problem. Ha! Hardly! They got REALLY close. I would have worn a hardhat, and I would have changed apertures with great abandon. It was an amazing experience.

Just before we got back on the boat, we had to walk through the minefield again of terns. My husband acted totally unfazed by a particularly aggressive tern, and even stuck out his hand and thumb in an uncomplicated gesture showing his lack of fear. I realized at that moment that Billy was missing Homer, his African Grey parrot.

Hat's off to this experience

I have no problem with this

Napoleon did this

There must be something intellectual about this

Oh dear. If Joni could see this...

Head scratch

Homer plays this game with me...

Farne Island sentinel

The trip back to the mainland was shrouded in grey mist, and as we closed the doors of the rented car, the skies opened up. Didn’t the birds find cover in the driving rain?

I decided early on at the wedding to focus on hats and head coverings, particularly because the bride wanted all of us to wear them. Some English hats are enormous, and I’ve always been in awe of the Queen and English ladies at horse races who manage to keep hats on their heads, despite the obvious inclement weather so much of the time. One can hide a multitude of imperfections under a wide brimmed hat. So why is the new trend the fascinator?

Because we were going to the Ironman first in Idaho, and then directly to Kent, I realized early that I couldn’t manage a full sized hat, baggage, and 50 pounds of camera gear. Internet saved the day, and you can imagine the jubilation I felt when I realized that there’s a place in Royal Tunbridge Wells  called Felicity Hat Hire. The day before the wedding, armed with my dress, we visited Felicity’s, and it was an amazing experience. The saleslady put on a pair of white gloves, and began putting whipped cream creations on my head.We left Felicity Hat Hire with a beautiful hat box, 25 British pounds ($$$) lighter, with the promise that the fascinator would be returned early Saturday morning. I only regret now that I didn’t buy one!!!!

So, here are some fascinators from the wedding in Kent. Don’t you want one, too??????

Now, just to be fair, here are three full sized hats:

This mom provides shade for her 3 week old baby!

Amen.

Fiona, the bride

Champagne reception

Mum with her large hat

The wedding was beautiful, held in a castle in Penshurst, Kent, England. The bride is gorgeous, the groom is handsome, and the bridal party spectacular. The English folks we met were warm and humorous. The wedding began at 2:30 in an ancient church, and when we left at 11:30, the band was cranked up and was still very loud. There was no sign that the wedding would ever end.  Perhaps it hasn’t! We agreed that it was the most memorable wedding ever (good thing, since my files aren’t included in my computer’s memory!).

A Fascinator (aka Terminator)

Perhaps the most fun part of my phantom photography was photographing women’s hats, particularly fascinators. Instead of everyone wearing a huge hat, the new trend is toward a frothy  creation worn on top of one’s head, usually held by a headband kind of thing. I even RENTED one myself at a store just across the street from our hotel. My heart is broken that I can only show you, my faithful reader, one, rather than  the collage I was going to create for these pages. Most fascinators have some sort of feather or spiky effect, many are translucent and have bows or fruit or other embellishment

There were several kilts at the ceremony

and they made me laugh for hours and hours. I certainly hope that they become a trend here in the United States, because we could use some frivolity these days.

Move over, Gatsby

If EVER you have the excuse to travel to England for such a celebration, for heaven’s sake go! And if you take shots, and use Lightroom, be certain that you’ve backed up to your external hard drive. I’d do it all over again, even without the shots.

Anyway, when I was called upon to behold Sage’s accomplishments of last weekend, two thoughts came to mind.  The first is not maudlin, the second is.

My first thought was that at the age of 13, Sage came home from school and said something like this: “Dad, it’s not fair: in PE class, if you can jump 12 feet you get an A, if it’s 10 feet, it’s a B, if it’s 8, you get a C.”  I said “Life isn’t fair.  You weren’t meant to jump 12.”

Obviously I was wrong.  She just jumped the equivalent of 15 feet.

I was taught by my father never to say “I’m proud” because “Pride goeth before a fall”, said my Dad.  So I have never said that to Sage, nor about Sage.  However, I am the following: amazed, choked up, incredulous, baffled, stirred, even shaken, with apologies to James Bond.

The second thought comes from a rather obscure Country Song.  Here are some of its words:

If life is like a candle bright, Death must be the wind; You can close your window tight, But it still comes rolling in.

So I will climb the highest hill, And watch the setting sun, And pray that I won’t feel the chill, Till I’m too old to die young!!

Chorus: Let me watch my children grow, To see what they become; Lord, don’t let that cold wind blow, Till I’m Too Old to Die Young.

As I sign off from this, my one and only blog, I want to express gratitude to fate that I got to see what my children became.  It is all wonderful.

Billy Hamilton, father of Sage.

Tranquil state two days before the race

Splash!

Roiling

Peeling off the wetsuit

Wes's shot of Sage starting bike competition

Sage whizzing by the girls

Finish Line after 13 hours!

After days of anticipation (and months of preparation for the athletes) yesterday’s dawn brought the start of Ironman 2009 in Idaho. Our only daughter was a couch potato in her teens, and it’s mind-boggling to see the transformation of the kid we we’ve always known to an analytical athlete, conditioned and nutritionally savvy. Still, as a mom, I was worried as I watched the sea of swimmers (2,000 plus!) crowd each other into the water, especially as the main PA announcer started talking about the 2 hour 20 minute cut off for the 2.4 mile swim in 65 degree water. I teared up several times. Fortunately, I was busy with my camera and enjoying Rick and Terri, who had traveled a long distance to experience the Ironman, too, after watching the bicycle part from Terri’s mom’s cabin for the past 4 years or so.

As the swimmers were off, the sea was alive, the way it might be with a swarm of string rays or roiling fish. There was no discerning who was passing by, because of the sea of red caps-the men, and white caps-the women, but it was interesting when each athlete came out of the water, and either turned right (they had completed two laps) or left (there was another lap to go!). I was worrying as a mother will about Sage, when I heard the magical words through the PA announce Sage’s name as having finished, and I frantically tried to fire off some shots of her going up the right hand path.  By now my hands were shaking, and the tears came anew.

Next was a ten minute transition of changing clothes and peeling off wet suits, before the 112 miles on the bike. The transition teams (wonderful volunteers) slathered sunscreen on everyone, and off each athlete went again.  Wes, our son-in-law, began checking splits on the computer, which was tracking Sage’s ankle chip. The wonders of technology! He knew when it was time to pack up the girls and watch for mommy, so off we went to Sis’s cabin right by the side of the road, just before the equivalent of Boston’s Heartbreak Hill, longest and hardest spot for the bike event! About 20 minutes after we arrived at Hayden Lake, Sage whizzed by, smiling and waving! This was her second lap of the bike experience, in her opinion, her worse event. By now things were looking encouraging even for the skeptics among us.

We came home for a while, managed to choke down dinner, and it was time to go watch the finish in the misting rain (and 50 ish degree temperatures). Again, the computer split time told us great information, and Wes, intelligent mathematician that he is, did a great job of calculating where to be and when. It was magical to see her come down the final shute, like watching for a loved one coming off the airplane at the airport after a long absence.

Afterward, Sage said that she felt just like she did when she finished the Boston Marathon. Amazing what great training and discipline can do for a person!

Looking at my 400 plus shots, there was a huge amount of joy yesterday, and yet, some of the faces reflected such disappointment and agony and exhaustion that those are a big part of the images that will remain with me. Teamwork, an Ironman is NOT (except for the families involved) but self-discipline is certainly tantamount to a successful experience. Today I’m more tired than Sage! I’m relieved and she’s matter-of-fact. Our couch potato is no longer a couch potato, but a real Ironman(woman). Amazing!

How I love photography…of all kinds!