I awoke to the ominous sound of thunder in the distance and rain pelting the rooftop. It was a bit disheartening as my son Ryan had purchased tickets to the Philly game. But it was still early and there were six hours until the 1 p.m. start of the ‘businessman’s special’. I left Lake in Wood around nine and headed east on the turnpike, and I could barely see the vehicles in front of me with the fog and stammering precipitation.

By the time I turned into his drive in New Jersey, the clouds were dissapating and the anticipation of an afternoon with my son rose with the clearing skies. By the time we were entering Citizens Bank Park it appeared that Thor and his felllow rain gods had left the building. To top that off, all seniors got to walk the bases after the completion of the game. That didn’t stir many emotions in my soul but going to a game with my son brought back memories of decades gone. I remembered my first game at Forbes Field in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. We sat behind the right field fence watching the great Roberto Clemente doing his basket catches as if they came natural. Yes, Virginia, you read it correctly. A wire fence in right field, to protect the bleacher creatures from home run balls. Nevertheless, things have come full circle when I listened to my son speak of taking his young son to a game perhaps next year, as he turns two. Where have the years gone, I said sadly to no one listening.

The day was great……almost. Billie Jean King was there and threw out the first pitch. The Phillies won the game with a walk-off home run by Hunter Pence in the bottom of the tenth. I like that guy. He’s a throwback, wearing his pants just below the knee, showing a lot of red stocking, adorned with stirrups. Funny how all things come around every thirty years or so. But the best was manager Charlie Manuel being thrown out for dropping the “F’ bomb several times on the home plate umpire. While jawing, I didn’t think his face could get any closer to the umpire. We had seats just behing the Phillies dugout and we were so close  that I could see the spit emanating from Charlie ‘s oral cavity and landing on the ump’s protected chest.

Ryan insisted I run to the field entrance down the right field line at game’s end. He said the seniors would line up like an army to walk the bases. I’m glad I listend to him as several thousand followed suit behind me. I walked in line with other from right field toward first base. I listened to others rant and voice the awe about doing this. They likened it to a bucket list item. I wasn’t that moved. Afterall, I’ve been on pro fields in the past, fortunate to be walking with celebrities. But then I spotted a used ball, lying near the dugout and I dashed out of line to retrieve it. I got back in line and touched first base.  Like the sheep being led to slaughter I followed many others to second and touched that base as well. It was then that I darted free of the ushers and as if I owned the field I headed to the mound with my newly found ball. I climbed the hill and stepped on the rubber. I hunkered down and peered toward the plate. Glancing over at third, I reared back, cocking my left leg high…….and hurled that sucker straight toward home plate. It was then, that security and others didn’t find my antics the least bit funny. I saw a taser gun out of the corner of my eye. Quickly my apologies spewed out. “I’m sorry, I’m just an old man needing a rush.” No taser, no cuffs, just a golf cart coming over to take me away.

I not only had a police escort but I was actually taxied off the diamond, out to left field, and delivered to my son, with head hanging down. And then he smiled and said, ” I knew you couldn’t just be satisfied to be like the others.” So it ended as ominous as the day had begun. But I’ll never forget that and my son and I laughed all the way back to New Jersey.

However, to give a better example of blurring your depth of field with a large lens opening (i.e. f/1.8) you need a long focal length to insure this. The other day I made an Italian torte. I thought that photographing it might give you a better sense of what I was trying to point out in the last post. For this photo I chose a longer lens, 85mm and shot it at f/ 2.0. You will see that only a hint of the pastrami is in focus, depsite the remainder of the subject being less than an inch away. Had I used a 35mm lens or even a 50mm I would have gotten this kind of blur on the subject. Hopefully this will help clarify using a longer lens with your wide open f/stop to achieve this shallow depth of field.

Another quest and a new job begins. Yes, we’re still whipping up meals at the Gnome Cafe and continually attempting our hand at new cuisine but age and weight have given way to another occupation. We’ve started walking as a primary vocation. We now walk to breakfast. For us, that’s a bit of a stretch. Ranck’s Resturarant in nearby Bowmansville is a one-way three mile jaunt. It’s taking us about an hour to get there and hopefully that will shorten over time. But the post office is along the route so this gives us a chance to drop off any parcels that need to go into snail mail. A light breakfast, perusing the newspaper, several cups of coffee, and exchanging banter about our lives takes up the second hour. Now comes the hard part. The returning three miles is all up hill. That’s taking a bit longer but as a trade-off we’re taunting muscle mass that the years have hidden with fatty cells. The learning process along the way gives rise to new discoveries. You see, I always take my camera, always in search of the next “best photo”. I love to shoot at wide open aperatures, almost always at 2.8 so I can blur the background. A simple example of this is the four-leafed clover that Robin spotted on the walk. (She can find one a day. I haven’t found one in a lifetime.)

This photo was shot at 2.8 with an 85mm lens.

You probably know by now that if you want to put the background out of focus in a particular photo, choosing a wide open aperture such as f/2.0 or f/2.8 is the setting you want. Then why is your background still in focus at 2.8?  There is more to it than just the setting. For that to work, you actually have to zoom in somewhat on your subject. So, if you’re using a wide-angle lens (such as 18mm, 28mm, 35mm, and so on), even at f/2.8, unless your subject is extremely close to the lens, you’re not going to get that out-of-focus background you’re searching for. In order to get that soft, out-of-focus f/2.8 background that you’re wanting, switch to a telephoto lens, and know that the tighter in your are, the more out of focus the background will appear. So, at 70mm, it’s going to look a little blurry. At 85mm, even more so, as long as you’re fairly tight in on your subject. Move back 10 feet from your subject, and you lose it. At 120mm, you’re getting nice and blurry backgrounds when you’re zoomed in, and if you zoom in to 200mm, the background behind your subject is a mirage of blur.

The past week had it’s highs, and then there were more highs. We celebrated Xavier’s first birthday. I’ve always thought I would be the a-typical grandfather, not that doting or needing to be physically close. However, when those little arms reach for me, when he lays his head on my chest, and then gently pats my back with a tiny, velvety hand, I’m wilted to a drooling pool of emotion. Erin, my sweet dear cake master, called upon her talents once again and provided the cake, an Elmo creation for her young nephew. A grandchild is a new kind of high. Watching your child interact with his child is a high beyond belief.

Robin’s birthday followed on Monday. What do you buy a woman who needs nothing? A day shopping for flowers and any lawn chotchkies and cheese that she wants. Flowers, plants, hangars, and potting soil were the choices on ‘her’ day.  After hours of hands in the dirt, she hung them neatly and ‘high’ from the front deck of the lake house, smartly accenting the place and adding colorful eye-candy that I so yearn for. (forgive my grammar inadequacies. I know ending a sentence with the word “for” is a non-sequitur, but I really don’t give a shit. 

Speaking of shit, it’s permeating the olfactory senses. The smell is pungent. I’ve started riding my bicycle again this week. I’m beginning a quest to re-invent the legs of a decade ago. I have a plan to trek an amazing distance for myself and I need to get them ready. More about that later. I’m into getting high on exercise again. But it’s spring, and the Amish are finalizing the process of what I refer to as shitting their fields. Sometimes its pig, oftentimes cow, but mostly the defacacies from horses are the choices to sprinkle the farm fields with fertilizer. You could be a blind, but all you have to do is smell to know its springtime in Lancaster county. As I pedal past acres and acres of farmland, I spot horse drawn manure spreaders, adorned with straw hatted youngsters, being pulled up and down the furrows, kicking the shit out of themselves.

Friday was 420. International pot day. Tokers are scarce in these parts. I had to find another ‘high’. So we commemorated the day with another kind of pot. We worked the cafe on Friday afternoon and evening. I had to provde a “special” offering for the evening. I made a ‘pot’ of Italian wedding soup, a ‘pot’ of New England clam chowder and another ‘pot’ of chili. I “smoked” 100 Baby Backed Ribs. That took most of the day to get them done to perfection. We served them with fries, homemade slaw, and beans for our patrons. Along with the ‘pot’ of soup, it proved a hit although I wasn’t quite pleased with the outcome of the ribs. I had to purchase the meat locally as opposed to procurring it at Sam’s Club. I find Sam’s to be the best and most tender of meats to purchase. Unless I can find a small local meat market with their own in-house butcher, I always opt for Mr. Walton’s place as they still provide the best and most tender of cuts.

Levon Helm passed away this week after succumbing to complications from cancer. Who in the hell is Levon Helm you ask and what does he have to do with me? It’s another one of those 7 degrees of separation. Levon was the drummer and sometimes lead singer of “The Band”. I was introduced to them eons ago while a freshman at the University of Delaware. I was hooked the first time I heard him croon The Weight.

My children are constantly reminding us to “go Green” and recycle. We do our best. But it’s as if this younger generation is the first to think about our environmental concerns. A young clerk in the grocery store the other day asked that I bring my own bags in the future as the plastic ones are not good for the environment.I felt a bit chastized when she retorted that my generation did not care enough for future generations to save this earth. She was correct. We didn’t know of the term, “the Green thing”, back in the day. Robin and I are both products of the 50′s. Back then we collected soda bottles and beer bottles to return them for a few cents each so they could be washed, sterilized, and re-used. Our milk came in glass bottles which were also returned, to be used for another day.

We walked up stairs because escalators were a scant novelty, usually only found in airports. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t start a car to drive just a few blocks. Our diapers were cloth and washed to be used over and over as the throw-away kind didn’t exist. Our clothes were dryed by the wind and sun on a clothesline, using solar power. My brother wore my hand me downs and Robin got her’s from her older sisters. The young clerk was correct as we didn’t know the “Green thing.”  We had only one TV in our houses, not one in each room. Our was the size of a magazine, not a screen the size of Wyoming. Our moms stirred and blended in the kitchen by hand, without the aid of electronic devices.  When sending a fragile item by mail, we crumpled up newspapers to assist in cushioning the package, not bubble wrap or styrofoam. I mowed the lawn with a push mower, now a gas-guzzling tractor. Health clubs were non-existent as we exercised all day long by working or playing from morning till the “street lights’ came on.  We drank our water from fountains when thirsty instead of a cup or plastic bottle. We refilled writing pens and razor blades instead of throwing them away when emptied. And yes, we still didn’t have the ‘Green thing.’ 

I rode the bus to my Little League games, others took the streetcar or just rode their bicycles instead of being taxied everywhere. Althought it was only 3/4 of a mile from home, I walked to school, Robin a bit further. We had one electrical outlet in each room of our house, not an entire bank to power multitudes of appliances. There was no computerized gadget signalling from outer space satellites where the nearest pizza joint was located.

I love progress. I like the amenities and gadgetry that science has brought to my life. But don’t ever think this older generation has no idea about conserving, recycling and saving. We just never put a color to what came naturally.

Well, that’s my plan, but then again, I’ve been saying that everyday since retirement began. However, I did discover an app just recently that has altered my line of thinking. It’s called Dash of Color . It can be found in your I Tunes App Store.  Downloaded it , sync in some of your previous photos, and begin to experiment and play. Since I only have the original IPAD I had to sync my photos from my laptop and then transfer any alterations of photos back to the computer for implemtation into the blog. Not being that computer literate, I quickly found that this one is a technology no-brainer. All I had to do was to plug the IPAD into the USB port and wait for it to sync.  I took this photo at Epcot, while strolling in France. For no reason but this other than catching my mind’s eye, this shot just had the “it” factor for me.  It was an array of pastels. I de-saturated it to black and white and utilizing “Dash of Color” app, I chose just one umbrella to revert back to it’s original hue. And oh, by the way, I learned another lesson. France is the only country in the world where friendliness is one of the seven deadly sins.

I spent the weekend in the company of fourteen women. Thanks to my son, I volunteered my services and time to the Gloucester County Kennel Club over the weekend. We settled into Lake in Wood earlier in the week, starting our summer stint of workamping. We opened the Gnome Cafe on Friday and welcomed back many of the local mainstays. However, I committed to assist the Kennel Club much earlier and Saturday and Sunday found me being welcomed into the world of tracking dogs in South Jersey. Ryan and I drove to nearby Millville after procuring sandwich trays, refreshments and desserts as his club was part of playing host to the judges  and entrants into dog tracking tests. After setting up the goodies, we went afield with a truck bed full of flags in varying colors to begin, “laying track”.

Head Judge Sue Ammerman

This is all part of the testing program to qualify a dog as a “TD”, (tracking dog). It begins by following the judges to a starting point and placing a flag into the ground. Then the walk begins to lay the track. Another flag is placed approximately 50 yards away to show direction. From there, the judges may take any directional point for another 100 yards. Place another flag here! Now a secomd turn, followed by a walk, and then another flag placed. The idea is to lay a course, or track taking a dog on a series of long stretches, interrupted by turns, veering to an ending point. From aloft, the course may resemble a chair or a stick figure. All along the way, flags are placed at turns finalized by two crossing flags signifying the end point or success for the dog. I then had to chart this course and make a map of my own for the next day trials. Six courses of varying difficulty were laid out on a magnificent farm that encompassed several thousand acres. So you can see why this venture took us a good part of the day.

Saturday’s preparation was followed by Sunday’s field trials. Five a.m. proved an early arisal to drive to the farm in South Jersey and prepare the final steps for the dog tracking. I had to make sure my orienteering skills were correct and trust the map that I made yesterday. Out in the field again,  I placed a sock at the starting flag. This sock I had to sleep with to transfer my scent onto for tracking. Now to walk to the subsequent flags, removing each one of them from the ground, all the while making sure my steps and distances were correct as the dog would follow this track without the assist of flags. After several hundred yards of walking and retrieving the flags I came to the final crossed two. There I placed a glove, one of which slept with me and the sock the previous night. Pulling the final two flags. I dropped the glove and proceeded back to the truck and onto the barn to meet with other track layers. This same process was done with the other five tracks as the sock and glove needed to be place, and flags removed all prior to three hours of the dog tracking to “season” the course.    By 8:30 a.m. my track was readied for it’s entrant. She was a middle aged Golden Retriever who had a few failures under her belt so I was a bit nervous for her success. She started slow but in a short fifteen   minutes she had her nose to the ground as I watched her sniff toward each turning point, making the shift and sniffing onto the eventual prize. She was followed by the judges and myself on the course and quickly came up with the glove I had laid at the end point. If she had failed, it was my job to walk the course with the dog and it’s handler, showing each direction and waypoint without the assist of the flags. This is the reason my handmade map was so important. I felt good that ‘my dog’ was successful after her earlier attempts. In the end, this Golden proved the only successful dog of the day. I felt a part of that accomplishment.I enjoyed the orienteering, mapping, utilization of compassing skills and but the ambiance of being  afield in such a bucolic setting. But the best part of the whole experience was making new friends,  and engaging with new people and coming away with smiles.

Ever since I gave serious thought about my life’s work, I had always dreamed of being a photographer for the National Geographic Society. Not having the fortitude or wherewithall to follow my dreams, I relegated to occupations that my parents thought more realistic. Today I signed a contract with the aforementioned, but more about that in a bit.

I began taking snapshots on a Kodak Instamatic, when I was nine. These were the days of yore when a square, blue, plastic cube provided all the flash your lens might need. In fact, they went by the name, Flash Cube. I toyed with this model until I had returned enough ‘pop’ bottles and washed enough cars to buy my first 35mm camera…..a Minolta Rangefinder.

It was used but I was in heaven. This one introduced me to world of “f-stops” and shutter speeds. I had never heard anything of aperatures or depth of field, let alone know much about them. With each passing camera, I began to process the information behind the concepts. By 1970, I had made a significant trade for my first single lens reflex. Again Minolta, but this time the SRT 101.

I traded it for my football jersey. I was a freshman and it was the 100th anniversary of NCAA football. Every jersey in the country that year was emblazoned with “100″.  They were collectors items but at the time I thought I’d have many more jerseys over the  years. At that time, the camera meant more to me than the jersey. How shallow and elementary of me to think that way. But it introduced me to interchangeable lenses and a vast array of teminology and experimentation. There have been dozens of little black boxes over the years, culminating at this point in digital and all things Canon. The microprocessor has changed the world as we know it. Minolta no longer exists, being gobbled by Konica at some time. The changes are perpetual. And today ,after fifty-one years that has taken me from snapping to composing, I signed a contract with National Geographic.

It’s only for a year. But I got a great deal. They’re giving me twelve full issues for a low price of $15. My first copy will be mailed next month. Have a great April Fool’s day.

We’ve made it to our destination here in Pennsylvania by weeks end but the other day I mentioned a visit with friends Joan and Tom. We met this couple while they were hosting at Red Gate campground in Savannah. Since then , they’ve purchased a home in Gainesville. Since we had to travel there for one last dental adjustment, we met Tom and Joan for lunch. They proceded to tell us about a venue in which they were volunteering. Apparently, when their precious bird passed last year, they were directed to a veterinary that offered post-death services, offered a host of other birds for purchase, as well as taking in exotic animals from people who for one reason or another couldn’t handle them. We followed them just out of Gainesville to a small farm just off the main highway. Imagine our surprise when we came upon a pride of lions, bengal tigers, white snow tigers, and a bevy of other wildlife living just outside the city limits. Although caged, I was able to get as close as possible to go eye to eye with the King.

The photo doesn’t allow for the enormity of this land turtle.

It must have been mating season as the peacock was strutting his stuff for all to see.

Just above him on top of an old shelter perched an albino peacock. Whether or not she was attempting to meld into the foliage or ignoring her male counterparts show, she didn’t seem fazed by us or anything else.

We spent about an hour as Joan and Tom showed us all the animals that they cared for in the volunteering services. It’s admirable what these two do for the animals that need some human care and kindness. Brutus wasn’t fazed much about the wildlife at all.

In fact he was quite bored. That is, until he spotted a cage of baby owls. The youngsters had to be kept separate from their parents for the males continually pick at the offspring, which could cause some damage. But when this little guy spotted Brutus, he poked his head out of the sock just to see what the hell was going on out there.

Thanks, Joan and Tom for a great afternoon.

The first time I got my hair cut by a barber I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. Dad took me down to ‘Johnny the barber’ on Bank St. In all the years of having Johnny cut my hair I never did know his last name.  And for years, there he stood, always wearing a short sleeved white smock, looking more like a chef instead of a barber. And I do remember crying on that first visit. From then on it became a love affair. And since then I’ve become enamored with original barbershops. Not the stylist’s swank venues of today. But the large plate glass windows that everyone could look through as they passed by to see exactly who was in the chair and what was happening. I’m a nostagic freak and the sight of a glass cylinder holding that bluish green gel surrounding a dozen combs brings a smile. The arm on the chair that was pumped to raise you to the right level. The strap at the side used to sharpen that straight razor. The little chrome box that spun out a handful of shaving cream, those are all trinkets that pique my interest. I loved going to Johnny’s.  And I’m not quite sure why.  I hated the hairs down my neck, despite the vacuum that always culminated the process, right before the the undoing of the clip and the lifting of the body apron.  I didn’t care much for the stick-’em that was applied to the front hairs , keeping them standing straight and pointing heavenward.  My dad only allowed me to get a crew cut. There was no other choice at that time. Perhaps my love of the place stemmed from the fact that Johnny always had the lastest of the Archie comic books. And I was more than enamored with Betty and Veronica.
When I was eight, the Andy Griffith Show debuted on our black and white 19 incher. The year was 1960. And despite Andy’s homespun philosophy, Barney’s gestapo antics, and Opie’s endearing demeaner, I found myself enjoying mostly the TV visits to Floyd’s barbershop. I loved that spinning barber pole. It was just like the one outside Johnny’s, except that his was colored. Yesterday, I met  Russell Hiatt, who was the role model for Floyd the barber. The shop still stands on Main St. in Mt. Airy, NC (there is no real Mayberry) and …..at a spry 88,  Russell told me that he has been cutting hair in this same spot for the past 65 years. He’d cut Andy’s hair, Opie’s, Wally and Goober, Gomer and just about everyone else in town. I was amazed with his stories, his longevity, and taken in by the nostagia of the shop. We chatted until a customer came in for a trim and took his attention away. It was a morning well spent. I felt like I was 8 again.