I got to attend my nephew’s wedding along the Northern California coast over the weekend, but they didn’t have an official photographer. So Uncle Rodney kinda/sorta took over using his trusty ol’ iPhone. What a fun time! Navarro River and Mendocino were almost as charming as the couple themselves.
The moon is reflecting off the bottom of the pool. I look down to see up. Directly in front of me is infinity and I see the saints; John and Thomas, rising up from the sea. No, I’m not dreaming and no, the drugs haven’t just kicked in. This is me taking a late evening dip in the pool, atop a mountain on the outer edge of the Caribbean Sea.
We just passed a shrink-wrapped boat. What it’s doing in the middle of Nebraska, I have no idea. But there seems to be all manner of transport along this flat, gray, rainy Pony Express trail.
My daughter sits next to me napping on her “Hug this pillow until you can hug me” fluffiness, given to her by her new hubby. It’s sweet. Even though we’re traveling at a pretty steady clip, we’re not taking great pains as we drive across The Great Plains. Destination: Cheyenne, Wyoming and her next three years. Why oming? Her Air Force husband just re-upped for duty and she’s got a job working with older folks at the Veterans Administration. Her new life awaits her.Read More
Here’s a quick answer to a question I get all the time. A query comes in from Google with the search baby photographers near me. Short answer, I love photographing babies and have been doing it for 30 years, even before my wife and I had babies to photograph of our own. Read More
When our kids were younger, we used to play a memory game in the car to occupy their time. We’d start out by saying, “In my grandmother’s attic I found …” then each person would go around thinking of something new, in alphabetical order, repeating all the previous items. You’ve probably played versions of it yourself. It’s silly, but it went something like, “In my grandmother’s attic I found; an Arthur, a bongo board, chopsticks, a Democratic canvasser, etc.”
Strangely enough, all those things have actually been found in my grandmother’s attic. Though to be fair, it wasn’t an attic per say, but a cupboard or closet of her senior living facility out in Arizona.
The house has grown quieter throughout the day. A Sunday night after the holiday hears no more loud simultaneous conversations in bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms — all of which happen, inexplicably, on floors. My daughter’s friends seem to find our floors more appealing, more to their liking than our soft, comfy furniture.
One daughter is back at school, many states away. Next fall, the other will follow her sister West, just not as far. A loud, roaring quiet echoes through the emptying nest. One bedroom is now closed, vents shut, conserving the household heat. Soon we’ll have, what, three guest rooms. Come visit us; bring your friends, plenty of floor space.
Our dogs sense the silence and sporadically bark at December phantoms. There’s nothing out there, boys, Grinches and ghosts don’t show up till the 24th.
I’m reminded by a comforting wife that Christmastime will bring her parents, other relatives, our daughter back from the western prairie and until then we still get at least one lovely teen, her boyfriend and their entourage. And thinking about it reminds me that I’ve actually bought chestnuts to roast over an open Kenmore.
For now I’ll do my best not to act like the bears (grizzly, not Chicago) and hibernate.