Another Snow Day…they’re endless:

Wood, wire and nails to hold life:

The Chicken Coop

The Coop

 The weathered planks are colorless, a pasty gray if you had to assign them color.

The cold handle is flaked with brownish-red rust running from metal to wood.

The wire fence is much the same.

Both freezing to the fingers touch with winter’s whips of death.

The enclosure is of no use without something live to hold.

The place of small hearts beating with no room to run brings sadness.

With each crashing swing of the sledge, I feel lighter with faith.

And miles to go before I sleep:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost (1923)

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Happy New Year:

The new year begins in a snow-storm of white vows. 

 -George William Curtis-


The Clouds that Float into Life bring Beauty:

Snowflakes are kisses from heaven.

 -Author Unknown-


Creatures of the Yard:

Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.
-Henry David Thoreau-


The Acoustic Crunch of Leaves:


-Pablo Picasso-


Delicate Balance:

A delicate spider web carries the weight of nature's balance.

A delicate spider web carries the weight of nature's balance.

The days run together some weeks faster than others. 

I have yet to determine weather I’m comfortable with the time frame. It could mean moving closer to an exciting new future.  It could mean a missed opportunity for an exciting new future.

It’s been two or three days since I saw the fragile fawn in the back yard.  We see many, and I cherish the experience each time.

Normally mom or a sibling is within nuzzling distance but there was something in this baby’s eyes that made you understand it was alone.

As it grazed through the freshly-cut grass you could see that its thin legs were wobbly but not the tremble of a newborn, it was walking with a limp.  As a spectator to nature, it makes me very uncomfortable to witness illness, injury or death.

I understand that nature is a balance and at this point in our lives more delicate than ever.

The strong take care of the weak and the weak become stronger.

When the startled fawn found its legs to clear the three-foot rock wall at the edge of the yard and scampered into the timber, I felt better.  It was likely for my well being and not the fawn’s.

I choose not to watch, “Old Yeller”; most of the production of “Bambi” and will excuse myself when the flying monkeys share the screen during the “Wizard of Oz”.

It’s just about balance.

The Cabin:

Much can be said about simple design and construction.  Maybe just a reflection of life?

Time will tell how long it can carry the weight.

Time will tell how long it can carry the weight.

For a few weeks I’ve watched the sun penetrate the depth of the golden-green moss covering the cabin’s roof that sits just on the east side of the road.

Sitting quietly, suffering from generations of unforgiving weather and neglect the structure struggles with the added weight, its shingles, rafters strain down to the rock foundation.

It’s silly to think of something that has no pounding heart as being capable of feeling, but there is something about this cabin that leads you to believe it has seen plenty of life.

It’s just tired and deserving of rest.

The whitewash surrounding the doors and windows offers no beauty and little protection these days.  It no longer glosses over the imperfections of neither nature nor man leaving a rough, worn surface for all to see.

The inches of thick carpet is speckled with dry leaves and twigs, more arriving each day with the blowing wind.  The hemlocks, pines and thick brush start to crowd its space as if to reclaim land that was once theirs.

Behind, a sixty foot tall tree trunk grows westward. It has its sights set over the roof’s peak, angling for the middle, as if it only knew where to place the final blow.

Now it’s left only to time and the discretion of nature. 

This is the cabin’s widow-maker.

The Back Yard:

A pattern of lace, the ferns grow at the edge of the tree line.

A pattern of lace, the ferns grow at the edge of the tree line.

Just reading in the back yard…

It is towards the end of the first graph, but I’m uncertain if you can call anything that meanders past three inches a graph?

“My suggestion to newspapers everywhere is to give the public a reason to read them again.” stated the editor.

Thank you Graydon Carter, Editor of Vanity Fair in “Editors Letter” for speaking the obvious in the July 2009 edition of the magazine.

Many of us in the newspaper business for maybe way too long have been singing the praises of magazine quality work both in words and photographs but in an industry where publishers and editors are afraid to buck the trend and put quality first and hope readers and more importantly advertisers will come…we have dug our own grave.

Was that  video you introduced this past month?

Now, if that sounds a bit bitter, looking deep into the dark depths of my soul…it is.

This past Friday I stumbled past a thirty-year personal best which I never really gave much thought to until Saturday.

I have been unemployed for two months and a day.  That is one day longer than I have ever been out of a newsroom.

Technology has made it much easier these days to both reject and face rejection.
Rusty with work of the past.

Rusty with work of the past.

Back in the day (old folks use that a lot) you had to mail a bulky portfolio laden with photographs or story clips.

I collected the rejections for a period of time, one of my favorites from an editor in Spokane, Washington.  “You would be better off as a milkman rather than a photographer.” he noted.

I always enjoyed the honesty in such a reply.

Where the deer hide and the turkeys wait for the rain to stop.

Where the deer hide and the turkeys wait for the rain to stop.