With cold weather bearing down on us two nights ago, I decided to put foam covers on the outside faucets to help keep them from freezing, since it was the first really cold night of the season. My friend Dan Marsh noted on the phone that when he tried the same thing that very evening, his terrier Leo immediately chewed it to pieces. I replied that Hawken the Irish Wolfhound could certainly do the same, but I would still put the cover in place. What could I lose?
With the cover snugged over the faucet and the heater set on high in Hawken’s doghouse, I went to town and covered the coldest Parade of Lights in memory.
It warmed up quickly yesterday, and I had some of the afternoon off, which is often the case during basketball season when I work a split shift. By late afternoon, I noticed the water pressure was low, then a few minutes later that Abby and I both heard water running outside. Uh oh.
I scampered out into the back yard to find it flooded, the foam cover in tatters, and water spraying into the air from the faucet. I though to myself, “It’s 4:30 Friday afternoon, so I have 30 minutes to find a plumber.”
Looking closer, though, I was relieved to find the water was spewing from a tap valve I keep screwed onto the faucet for filling Hawken’s water bowl, and the faucet itself was undamaged. It also happened that I had another on in the garage, which I screwed on, stopping the deluge.
I gapped a big piece of the foam cap and took it inside to show Abby, and when I held it up, without missing a beat she asked, “What did he do now?”
Our community, greater Ada, has been supporting their Ada Cougar football team this season more than usual, since they finished strong and charged into a Cinderella scenario with their eyes on the gold ball in the Class 4A championship game last Friday night against undefeated Heritage Hall at Choctaw High School.
Sadly, despite a deep gut check by all the players and a huge fan presence, Heritage Hall prevailed in an epic defensive battle for a final score of just 14-0.
The season didn’t start great, and it initially felt like a “rebuilding year,” with a new coach and some inexperienced starters, but the Cougars got better and got lucky, winning their district, then winning, usually in the fourth quarter, excellent playoff games against Elgin, Oolagah, and Bethany.
In the end, Heritage Hall was just too big and too talented for our scrappy Cougars. Sports is a fickle mistress.
Seasons like this are rare. Earlier this year, the Ada Lady Cougars had a similarly heartbreaking run at the basketball title, and we were all just as invested emotionally. (The next night, the Latta Panthers won their state basketball championship.)
Ada fans know that the Cougars have claimed 19 state championships, five of which I have covered. The 20th seems repeatedly out of their grasp.
Seasons like these and games like Friday’s are at the heart of what I love about being a photographer, and being a part of a great community.
No one will deny that A Charlie Brown Christmas, which Abby and I watched last night, was right on the money about Christmas being trivialized and commercialized. It’s easy to imagine the corruption of this beloved holiday as a latter-day event, A Charlie Brown Christmas was first broadcast in 1965.
Commercialization of things we loved as children is never new in a capitalist/mercantilist society. The only thing to do is hold in your thoughts what is truly meaningful about Christmas. For me, in all honesty, Christmas is about photography and not much else.
One thing about Christmas that irks me to the bone (how’s that for a mixed metaphor?) is how utterly crappily-made Christmas stuff is. Fake trees, toys, garland, lights, decorations, etc., are all cobbled together with the frailty of an injured baby squirrel. The margin must be incredible; do you think $1 worth of Christmas decorations cost even 1¢ to manufacture?
I think about this because for the second time in seven years, I am having to remove the lights on a pre-lit artificial Christmas tree because the wiring and rigging is so flimsy that when I plugged this one in today, none – NONE – of the lights came on. No amount of jiggling or twisting or plugging-and-unplugging of bulbs made any difference. It’s dead.
The commercialist answer, of course, is to buy a new one, but you know what? I already showed up once with my money. I’m not buying another $129 piece of plastic crap.
I took yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving, off so I could cook. Last week I found a nice light+dark boneless turkey for Abby, and bought two Tofurkys®, one for the office potluck and one for me for the actual holiday. I baked Abby an apple pie at her request. We also had asparagus, stuffing (the subject of an office debate Tuesday as being properly called “dressing”), and broccoli rice casserole. Except for her Abby’s gravy, I cooked it all.
We sat through a couple of movies and napped. I walked Hawken the Wolfhound. The Chihuahuas stayed in our laps.
I have waxed romantic about burning my brush piles in the past (here, here, here, here, here, and here), and last night was just as romantic and meditative as ever. The weather was calm and cool.
The pile was a secondary one I made from branches around the pond, so the pile was on the dry center of the pond. You can make up any joke you want about my pond catching fire… I certainly did so last night.
One thing about listening to music last night: I was really chasing it. I had my finger on the “next” button of my iPod Shuffle, and as a song came on, I would skip it in a second or two, trying to find the right song for my mood, which changed as soon as I let a song play.
I thought of everyone and everything. If you are reading this, I was thinking about you.
“Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat.” (the burden of proof is on the one who declares, not on one who denies)
Criminal conviction by public opinion, usually through the media, and more recently through social media, is one of the most dangerous aspects of 21st century society. It feeds into a network of rage and powerlessness that makes people into a bloodthirsty mob.
Why? Because “police say XXX abused over 70 children.” Did you know (and I am guessing you did but don’t care) that no one is guilty of anything because “police said so.” It takes more than that, because police are fallible and can make mistakes, can be too eager to believe what they want to hear, and are as easily corrupted as any other human beings. Most importably, it is because the Constitution, the foundational document of our nation, says so.
Periodically, society goes through strange, self-induced, self-sustaining, and ultimately self-destructive waves of bullying disguised as justice. If you don’t believe and behave in favor of their conclusions, you are the enemy, and advocate the target of their outrage by proxy. It’s not enough to be silent. If you don’t condemn their enemies to hell, you, too, are the devil. Trends like #ICantBreathe, #blacklivesmatter, and in the last few weeks, #metoo invite you to comply or be cast out.
A Facebook thread on the ironically-named “Friendly Atheist” page recently called me as “asshole” for suggesting that everyone, including an accused child molester, is entitled to due process. Their argument was that, “He’s charged with 160 counts, and that’s good enough for me. He’s guilty as far as I’m concerned.” Dangerous. Dangerous.
I don’t participate in any of these recent social media/social justice trends for several reasons…
I don’t let popularity or peer pressure make any decisions for me, good or bad.
I don’t let the internet or the people around me label me as anything, since they don’t know me. It’s one of the stupidest games groupthink can invent: “Hey, that’s guy’s not wearing a Holocaust ribbon. He must hate Jews!”
I have first-hand experience with a trend I was bullied into accepting, satanic cultism, that turned out to be demonstrably false and debunked. At the time, though, I felt a lot of pressure to accept it and the thousands of claims by women who said they’d been molested and raped in satanic rituals. In the end, that whole scene was an example of mass delusion and mass hysteria, and many lives were ruined by it (see link for an example), for absolutely no reason at all.
So I don’t wear Colin Kapernick shirts, I don’t use #ItWasMe, and I have no intention of apologizing for being myself, even if I made mistakes. Honestly, a bloodthirsty social justice cadré hates me for my race and gender, and already blame me for all that is wrong in the world.
Also, free speech: Aside from being guaranteed by the law of the land, it is actually fairly difficult to exercise free speech. If you say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people, even jokingly, even speculatively, you could face complete ruin. On the other hand, if you say things that are universally insensitive and yet are in certain situations with certain people, even genuinely terrible things, you can still prosper.
At this point, we are going through another period of mass hysteria, certainly about child molestation and sexual harassment, but also with the inclination to believe one thing with one ear and despise it with the other, not really knowing anything about any of it.
I have half a dozen angry rants halfway composed in my drafts folder. I am very sure all this anger is bad for me, especially for my teeth, which I grind when I feel outrage.
So, what’s going well in this mortal coil?
I walk Hawken the Irish Wolfhound every day, and twice on days when I have time. The experience is good for both of us, and adds nearly a mile to my already active lifestyle.
My health is fine, and though my wife has underlying health problems, she’s doing okay too.
My newspaper is using my images like never before, thanks to a vacancy on our staff leaving us a little short on content, our decision to stop using irrelevant content from around the state (which our readers don’t like), and the fact that I shooting as well as I ever have.
Also at work, I am scanning and publishing old photos from the film era, which has been nothing but fun.
I am teaching well lately. I just last night I wrapped up another beginner session last night.
The days and nights of November are beautiful.
I don’t like to dwell on troubles, since it doesn’t help. Politics, crime, injustice. I can vote, and that’s about it. I need to remember to breath, and stop grinding my teeth.
Hawken the Irish Wolfhound has slain another gopher.
Meanwhile, I’ve been baking pies for Abby. You can tell when I make pies because I make a happy face with the extra crust.
Finally, Tuesday is Halloween. I have been making related pictures, but none better than at the recent Mummy and Son dance, where I photographed a mom dressed as a hot dog and her son a mustard, a mom as a burglar and her son as a State Trooper, and this image of an astronaut son and his moon mom…
Readers might recall that three years ago my media cohorts and I were treated to a “media ride” on the Experimental Aircraft Association’s 1929 Ford Tri-Motor. The “Tin Goose” was in town again this week, and we took the usual media ride.
It was fun, but in all honesty, as a pilot, I’ve flown a lot of airplanes, and done a lot of crazy fun stuff in the sky, so puttering along in the world’s slowest airliner wasn’t exactly a thrill ride. Still, it’s always nice to be in the sky, and fun to meet up and do something unusual with my fellow media friends.
It’s fall on the Patch, and the weather goes between stormy and sunny, cooling off day by day.
I plastered Abby’s truck with mud at the family reunion two weeks ago, on the improvised road between Aunt Judy’s and her son Donald’s place. I personally think four-wheel-drive trucks are happiest covered in mud, but Abby wanted it clean again, so I fired up the power washer Tuesday and got both our cars clean.
The last few evenings have included amazing skies I photographed while walking Hawken the Irish Wolfhound.
Tonight while walking Hawken, I came across the Nipps, Mike and Joyce, the next door neighbors who bought Abby’s first mother-in-law Dorothy’s house, and their granddaughters Hope and Harmoni. I confuse their names because the next next-door-neighbors dogs’ are named are Hope and Harley. The girls were super-excited to play with Hawken, who is getting more comfortable with people.
As darkness arrived, the Nipps built a fire and girls roasted sticks. It was a nice time.
Finally, the LL Bean hiking shoes I’ve had since 2005, which I’ve been holding together with glue all summer, were finally completely used up, and I sadly threw them away.
I saw a post on social media recently about the “dangers” of vaccinations. The post included the word “shocking” in the title, and contained unattributed “facts,” and major errors, including misidentifying the FDA as the “Federal Drug Administration.”
I am a vaccine proponent, and here’s why…
I am old enough to know polio and smallpox victims. Polio and smallpox have been eradicated by vaccines. Young people are inclined to forget just how terrifying and destructive many of these diseases were. Read about smallpox here (link), then tell me we didn’t need to vaccinate it out of existence.
Mumps and measles are making a resurgence, thanks to the anti-vax crowd. These are very dangerous diseases that were unheard of for much of my life because my generation came right after the period in which they made a lot of people sick, so we understood the risks.
Even if the illness-to-prevention ratio was 1000:1, it would still be worth the cost to protect a huge majority from serious illness. It is colossally selfish to abstain from risk at vastly increased risk for everyone else.
Vaccines increase herd immunity, slowing or stopping the progress of serious illness in society overall.
Diseases for which there is yet to be a completely successful vaccine like HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, or malaria are responsible for millions of deaths every year.
Vaccines are one of the seminal breakthroughs of the 20th century, and they have saved literally millions of lives and prevented untold suffering.
Before you start cackling about the “flu shot” “giving you the flu, maybe you need to try to understand that “flu” in vaccination terms is influenza, a dangerous and very specific viral upper respiratory infection. The “flu” is not that snotty, miserable cough most of us get in November, nor is the “flu” a gastric or intestinal malady.
Finally, it is difficult to reconcile a society that is often eager to blame an outside cause, fewquently the government or “big business,” for their problems: My child is disrespectful, distracted, and not very bright because of an unseen, unreported, unverified chemical from the doctor (insert chemtrail reference here if you like), not because of extensive sugar consumption, extensive inactivity, extensive electronic entertainment, and extensively indulgent, lazy, gullible parents.
I told my wife Abby I wanted a picture of me playing tug-of-war with Hawken the Irish Wolfhound, since it’s his favorite thing to do with me, and since he has grown some since our last photo session.
Before we could photograph us, Abby asked me to put a bandana on him, and we chose one of his U.S. flag bandanas. Putting one on him is an epic battle for me, since he thinks it’s a chew toy, but Abby is apparently a dog whisperer, and had no trouble at all.
It was a fun photo session that included Abby trying to “ride” Hawken for a photo but finding him too tall to mount, and Hawken stealing Abby’s water bottle to keep as a toy.
Afterwards I took him for his second walk of the day.
In other news, it was cold enough to put sweaters on the Chihuahuas last night. They love their sweaters, and come running when I bring them and offer to put them on.
Also, as readers hopefully saw on my teaching blog, Abby and I attended her family reunion last weekend, and shot a bunch of senior pictures for Abby’s great niece Teddy, with great success. I will post reunion photos on the travel blog shortly.
I don’t consider any of this significant because, aside from an increase in 13-related mischief and mayhem as part of a feedback loop/self-fulfilling prophecy, there isn’t much about the number 13 that interests me.
I thought about all of this as my wife Abby and I arrive at our 13th wedding anniversary October 12. We exchanged vows in Utah’s iconic Delicate Arch in Arches Nation Park on a perfect morning in 2004.
This entry’s title, “Worky Thirteen,” refers to the fact that luck represents about 13 percent of the success of a marriage, and the remaining 87 percent is work, patience, trust, intimacy, work, indecision, mistakes, laughter, tears, work, heartbreak, elation, connection, and work.
I have never worked so hard at anything in my life, but I have never reaped more reward from anything in my life.
You can see the complete trip report from our wedding here (link.)
There have been thousands or millions of opinions rendered since Sunday night’s mass shooting in Las Vegas. Virtually all of them have been vehement pronouncements of unassailable “truths”, such as, “This was an act of pure evil,” or, “this guy should burn in hell,” or, “we need gun control now,” or, “guns didn’t do this, a bad guy did it.”
They’re all wrong. I say this with a sense of irony, because I don’t know the right answer.
The problem comes from the obvious contradiction of “why,” which is a rational question asked of an irrational act. The easy, and useless, answer to “why” is that he was crazy or evil. If you found out that he was a white supremacist or an Islamic jihadist, it wouldn’t render his actions any less crazy or evil.
Until we can stop one-dimensionally hating the Las Vegas shooter (and all his ilk) and try to understand him, we are doomed to see him again and again. We can’t just write off these guys as “pure evil” without figuring them out. We have to shed this childish, “Why did the bad men fly the planes into the buildings, Daddy?” attitude.
Also along this line, at least one Christian leader blamed the shooting on our behavior, connecting religion, and therefore their god, to it.
“There is ‘violence in the streets,’ Pat Robertson said, because, ‘we have disrespected authority. There is profound disrespect for our president, all across this nation. They say terrible things about him. It’s in the news; it’s in other places.'” ~WP
One of the biggest obstacles to understanding irrational, seemingly evil acts, is our unwillingness, often terrified unwillingness, to admit we have that potential to go crazy or descend into evil ourselves. We all know it’s there because we all feel intense, blind rage at times, but many of us never really look in the mirrors of our souls.
Here are some additional observations about the current state of affairs…
Most people are not moral. Most people are self-serving.
Most people see the world in terms of a five mile radius and a 30-day billing cycle.
Most people who claim to believe in god do so because they think it will serve their causes, not because they honestly feel he is real. The rest believe it because they are told to do so.
Most people want money more than anything else.
Almost all people who type “prayers” or “praying” into comments on social media are notpraying.
Professional athletes kneeling during the National Anthem is meaningless to me because I neither care about the opinions of professional athletes nor do I think they should be viewed as role models or heroes.
Most people are scared to death of almost everything every day, and though they would agree with this statement, they would say that it is “not me.”
Finally, there is a looming monster far more frightening than the wild card of angry lone nuts: North Korea. If you think 58 dead and 530 injured is a tragedy, you have forgotten the promise of the cold war: annihilation “like the world has never seen before,” at the hands of people far crazier and more evil than an angry nut with some AR15s.
Photos were added to this entry in September 2017.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the café culture. Artists and Bohemians like Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac seemed to lead lives of densely-layered creativity. For similar reasons, I’ve always been interested in getting together with fellow writers and poets, to share and compare and express. One result of these interests is the formation of various writing groups over the years: in 1980, in 1992, and in 2000.
So when I was recently invited to join a social media group called Open Mic Nyte, I didn’t hesitate, and in June 2017 I attended my first session.
Though many people recognized me as Richard the news photographer, I told them I was just Richard.
One thing Open Mic Nyte co-founder (along with Steve Brogdon and Lisa M. Pyre) Sterling Jacobs emphasized is vulnerability and its value in situations like this; the willingness to be emotionally vulnerable is indispensable in expressing yourself.
I recently updated this entry to reflect my ongoing participation in this event. Watch this space for more images from Open Mic Nyte.
When things got a little too serious, I decided to be the stand-up comedian of the night. I read my Wildfire poem (about my mower) and told four jokes. Everyone was glad for the levity.
Abby and I spent Sunday at the 2017 Oklahoma State Fair. Readers might remember that she and I did this last in 2014. Abby loves the fair, particularly the draft horses, so we attended again.
In the morning, we watched the llama show, then the donkey show.
The llamas were surprisingly beautiful. The donkey show was very amusing because the animals were stubborn and awkward.
At midday we got a bite, then rode the 155-feet-tall Sky Eye Wheel, the world’s largest traveling Ferris wheel. There is something inherently romantic about riding the Ferris wheel with your sweetheart.
I bought Abby a funnel cake on the midway, which she had never had. When I got it to her, it was still hot, and we both ate it. She said it was, “better than doughnuts.”
We saw both classes of draft horse pull competitions, which was popular and engrossing. Abby and I found ourselves rooting for the animals to succeed. Several of the teams managed to pull sleds loaded with more than 11,000 pounds.
Finally, we spent the night in Oklahoma City’s Bricktown so we could go to a medical appointment Monday morning.
Our riding mower has been overworked this season. It was a wet spring and a wet summer, and I mowed a lot. Even at the start of spring, the blades in the John Deere lawn tractor needed to be sharpened or changed, but the actual mowing always took precedence.
Finally, a dry late summer is upon us, so I managed – after about a week and four tries – the remove the deck from the mower to clean it, repair it, and replace the blades. It turned into an ironic and physically stressful event that involved three of us pulling back a spring to reattach a tension bar, and three others of us trying to remove a stubborn blade bolt, then finally welding a bigger bolt onto it so the three of us could put our strength into removing it. Lastly, we cut off the nut with a grinding tool.
My right hamstring is sore. Apparently I am right-legged, at least when I do repair work.
The fruits of my labor may come about tonight if my repairs were successful and I am able to mow. Or, if I did it all wrong, I may check myself into the yard work insane asylum.
Update late in the day:
After a considerable amount of self-induced frustration, including including looping the engine-to-deck belt around an extra wheel (hard to see in the tangle of belts and gears under the mower), I fired her up and she mowed well. My right hamstring, on the other hand, is quite sore from the work.
With just a few days of summer remaining, the patch is starting to change. After a very rainy June and July, it’s been a dry late summer, and the grass is turning brown. The trees, though, are healthy and huge, and the pasture is high.
I walk Hawken the Irish Wolfhound every evening. He weighed 135 pounds at the vet 10 days ago, and while he is a handful to walk, it’s good for both of us. Abby comes outside some and helps train him.
“I knew you would love an Irish Wolfhound,” Abby told me last night, “but I didn’t know you’d love him this much.”
Max, our smooth coat Chihuahua, eats like a normal dog, but Sierra, the long coat, is a piranha. Watch her stalk Max as he finishes, then clean both bowls of anything left. I made this video of them this morning…
Last night I finally muscled the deck off the riding mower, and I now need to repair it and replace the blades. Fortunately, it is dry out and the grass isn’t growing much.
At work, my seasons are in full swing. It’s week 4 for high school football, and district matchups are about to start of baseball and softball. All the kids know me and are glad to see me, and I am shooting well.
Abby and I just watched Malcolm X, the 1992 Spike Lee Joint. It’s style summoned some very close-to-home memories from that dark year, so I dove into my journal.
I like to imagine these notes are like Kafka’s or Camus’, but they sometimes sound like they came from a high school girl.
These pearls only scratch the surface of what it was like for me that year, but it’s a good start…
• Return to me, and return to me what you have taken.
• Have you ever noticed that it’s the strong who think the strong should survive?
• Part of me wants her to be happy, and part of me wants her.
• I can see you in your navy peacoat, white scarf, snow melting on your glasses, under the street light.
• Sarcasm chasm.
• And yet, today, I failed to hold anyone close, tell anyone I love them, laugh, cry, have fun. What the hell am I doing?
• Tears always require imagination.
• It’s funny how the most boring people I know find me among the most boring people they know.
• Those who seem to be hiding something are usually hiding the fact that they have nothing to hide.
• Slow dance and mean it.
• Home is a moment.
• Before I go, I’d like to 1. Be famous 2. Get rich 3. Feed the world 4. Marry. Don’t be ridiculous. Who’s gonna marry me?
• If I leave, there’s no chance anyone will want me to leave.
• I’d rather eat cereal than hallucinate.
• Alone. What a wonderful word. Sometimes it’s all that needs to be said.
• I don’t want what you have. I want what you are.
• Today was made of tears.
• Misheard lyric: “The dummy between your legs.” Actual lyric: “The damage accumulates.”
• I hold myself tight because no one else will. Not even you.
• (An exhaustive list of women I dated or wanted to date, along with their best and worst characteristics.)
• I stand still and time passes through me.
• Love is an acquired taste.
• Slow-dancing with my imagination.
• “I’m really glad,” she said, not knowing how much it meant to me and how happy I was the hear her say it, “that you started coming over on Friday nights.”
• There is no place in heaven or on earth better than in my arms.
• She chants and she cries and she holds this night as sacred as I.
• We rise to the levels of strength and bravery that our lives demand.
• Somehow it means more to have someone observe than I am lonely than it does to merely be lonely.
• Most people are made up of their bad habits and broken dreams.
• How does it feel? It feels like I am in a pressure chamber, and it’s all pressing on me, making me smaller, harder. Sometimes I feel like I will disappear completely. Right now, as I sit hunched and write backhanded and yarn tearfully, I remember than no matter who or where you are, you are not thinking about me.
• Don’t go. Stay. Don’t stray.
• The future is up for grabs, and the past is up for review.
• I looked at myself in the cold, harsh, judgmental light of that damned mirror and saw so much of myself I had to look away.
• Read me like a book. I dare you.
• I can still smell her on me, the smell of perfume and tears.
• Her whole life has left her unprepared for the kind of openness I offer.
• 3:13 am. You awaken mysteriously to the sound of my voice calling your name. You hear in me my need, my gifts, my love, my life. You sit up and look around. All seems as it should.
• I sit by the window and listen as the wind chimes play the loneliest song ever written.
• Her soft voice touches me with its illusion.
• The words loomed large when she said, “I love Richard.” Never mind that the rest of the sentence was, “because he always brings cookies.”
• Maybe I was tired, or maybe it was the music, but I swear I could hardly bear the next moment.
• You keep me alive by needing me in your life. Telling you who I am is who I am.
• And you, whose caring ends the minute you walk out that door…
• Even if you have nothing to hide, don’t hide.
• The opposite of hurt is hope.
• The train to yesterday leaves tomorrow.
• Tonight the windy mist does a disappointing job hiding my tears. Miserable weather.
• When I’m with you, I’m as unlonely as I ever need to be.
• The future is our only choice.
• Bachelorhood: the freedom to joylessly masturbate to the uninspired pornography of my imagination.
• “You’re one of the most obvious people I’ve ever met.” ~M
• “Do they abandon you, or do you drive them away?” ~F
• Peace doesn’t come from what you do, but from who you are.
• If there is a god, I want to look him in the eyes. Is that the idea behind mirrors?
• Message from girlfriend on answering machine: “Meat loaf. Pot roast. Yankee pot roast. English pot roast. T-bone steak cut from the side of a cow. Round steak. Rib eye. Fillet mignon. Fried crab. Oyster on the half shell. Pork ribs. BBQ beef, dripping, glistening with sauce. McDonald’s Big Mac. Ooo, I have a deep voice. Hamburger meat, nice and lean and frying in a pan forever and ever. Chicken noodle soup. Beefy vegetable soup. …uh… (BEEP).”
• “Part of your heart you only use when you’re in love.” ~J
• A single wish: don’t let it end in tears.
• I give because I need to give.
• She cried.
• There have been hours beyond darkness in which I was totally alone.
• Good men make mistakes.
August 15, 1992: My first flying lesson.
• You awaken. The pillow is cool, but for a moment it seems like someone is there with you. It’s me.
• Silence wraps around me like a boa constrictor.
• There is nothing inside my heart that is outside my reach.
• Cool night. Footsteps on the stairs. Clouds witness my tension as I wait for Darla or Lee or the last person I’ll ever see.
• Fire and wind from the sky laugh at my frail heart as I sit in the unwelcome darkness and miss your smile.
• Missing her comes in waves. Soon they will sweep me away.
• Dressed in black, I walk the night, not among the shadows, but as the shadows.
• Sometimes it feels like if you were to cut me open, my anger and pain would flood the world.
• “Swirling toilet of despair.” ~Aria
• I have blurred visions.
• The trouble with sex with M is that you’d have to get along with her for at least a whole day, and I can’t imagine being able to do that.
• The chocolate of truth
• Perspective: use it or lose it.
• If I believed in god, I’d hate him, but my disbelief deprives me of that luxury.
• When the New Order comes, anyone uttering the word “codependent” will spend six months in a reeducation camp.
• “Hello, Richard. I just wanted to tell you that life is a tragic and terrible struggle that is made harder by the fact that as a race, we are all tragically flawed. See you this weekend. Bye.” ~David, on my answering machine
On the morning of December 20, 1992, my flight instructor signed my logbook and got out of the airplane, and I flew solo for the first time. In addition to the first giant step to becoming a pilot, it was a symbolicly high moment in my personal life. My 1992 was over.
I admit to being at least a little giddy about being handed a brand new iPhone 7 Plus by my newspaper this week. Although I didn’t ask for it, many on our staff had experienced shortcomings in the iPhone 6S in our hands, and yearned and lobbied for the next big step up.
Though neither tablet nor laptop, the “phablet” (phone+tablet) has versatility in its favor. It is a jack of all trades, including the basic need of being a phone.
Readers, particularly of more than one of my blogs, might realize that I already own an iPhone 7 Plus, and am the carrying two nearly-identical phones around every day.
Of note for this new edition to my photographic and journalistic lexicon is the camera in the 7 Plus, which is very capable. In fact, just an hour after getting set up on the phone, I made a couple of very nice images for the front page of our paper with it.
At this point it’s a mistake to say, “Oh, well if the phones are so good, why do we need cameras or even photographers?” That’s the way a 28-year-old MBA thinks, and it’s not the route to success or greatness. As tempting to say as it is that a phone made this picture, that is not the case. A photographer made this picture with this phone.
Faithful readers of the Giant Muh know how down I’ve been this week about some of my fellow photographers being laid off from their jobs at The Oklahoman. I was taking stock of this last night as I drove to my final assignment of the day (which I actually assigned myself), the Pontotoc County Free Fair.
As I worked and thought about my photographer friends, I thought about how grateful I am to have this job, and how much fun I was having doing it. People around me were happy to see me, and I was getting great images.
Then this morning as I was walking up to the Roff softball field to photograph a game, the Tupelo activity bus rolled past me and three of the softball girls yelled, “Hi, Richard!”
Also, I won the lottery. A $25,000 scratch and sniff lottery ticket was sold in Ada, but my winnings were more modest. Now the real work begins: how to invest my $14.
Last May after I covered the Byng Pirates state championship game in Edmond, Oklahoma, I went by the offices of The Oklahoman, the state’s largest newspaper, and visited for a while with my longtime friend and fellow photographer Jim Beckel. He told me about the paper’s early-90s move to a huge, expansive and expensive facility on the Broadway extension, which for years we called “the Taj Mahal,” and the paper’s move a few years ago to a much smaller facility in the center of downtown Oklahoma City.
The move to downtown represented a cascade of downsizing at The Oklahoman, and today we learned that 35-year veteran photographers Steve Gooch and Paul Hellstern were laid off. I was a little stung by this news, though not surprised.
Steve and Paul are brilliant photographers, and I am sympathetic with their plights. So many of their photographs are like so many of mine, and I was once laid off, in 1988, so I am feeling particularly empathetic.
In my opinion, in a world of billions of not-very-good photos every day, photojournalists provide one of the last sources for truly great photography.
Finally, my friend Tracy Nicole Holman passed away today after a lengthy illness. She was young and beautiful and I was always glad to see her.
The last thing she posted to social media was, “Eating a piece of candy found in the jeans that had a run through the washer…. I’ll live, right??!!”
I am feeling very sad that she is gone. She was just 31.
News-followers might recall that the last couple of days have been dominated by news of Hurricane Harvey, an originally uninteresting tropical depression that ended up making landfall at Category 4 near Corpus Christi, Texas. As a possible consequence, our skies the last couple of nights have been a little more turbulent and a little more beautiful.
After work last night, I took Hawken, our eight-month-old Irish Wolfhound, for his evening walk. It was cooler than August evenings usually are around here, and between the green pasture turning gold and a particularly synergistic confluence of music on my iPod, I decided to take him around the perimeter a second time.
After washing out his water bowl and giving him a big drink, I decided he needed to be photographed. Though he is 130 pounds of puppy, he believes himself to be a lapdog and wants to be constantly in contact with us, so it is difficult to photograph him without assistance. Still, I found a way, though it involved at least one giant swath of dog saliva on my camera.
As the evening matured, I paused to watch the sky. It reminded me of the sky we saw here in Oklahoma in 2008 as Hurricane Gustav made landfall and skirted past us to the east.
I’m not saying there is a hurricane over us, and it is not forecast to come this way, but the atmosphere is all connected, and the sky often tells me about wildness in the sky far away.
Recently, social media, particularly Facebook, has devolved from its customary shallow, vapid self into a sewer of fake news, angry lies, and complaining. As a young friend of mine commented recently, “I hate how political it all is.”
Here, then, is a list of things I want to stop doing on Facebook…
Getting involved in political discussions of any kind. No one is enlightened in any way by my opinion, so when I give it, I am either a sycophant or an idiot, but not a scholar.
Trying to be clever. As cute as I think I am sometimes with my “orange you glad it’s not a banana” quips, it just adds to the nuisance chatter, and gives me follow-up notifications I don’t particularly want to see.
“Liking” stuff I don’t like to show that I saw it. Yes, I know Facebook added some additional styles of acknowledgment, but they all say the same thing: I saw this. No one really cares if I saw it.
Caring too much about who reads my stuff. This closely parallels the whole industry’s craving for success and money through counting clicks. It’s a tail-chaser.
Clicking on click bate. As temping as it can be sometimes to read, “12 things that will make you smell better,” it is seldom useful, and wastes my time.
Being hesitant to delete items I don’t like because other people have liked and commented. I need to realize that Facebook is so transient and impermanent that no one will care or even notice when I delete stuff from my wall, and that it is their responsibility to preserve their digital lives, not mine.
Putting my pithier thoughts on my Facebook wall instead of here. I need to make better notes and write longer, better pieces for my blog.
What do I want to do instead? Write. This blog is ideal for my kind of expression, and since I moderate comments, I can stay out of the “yes, but don’t you think” banter that doesn’t go anywhere.
Yes, I want to write more here on The Giant Muh. I will still share it to social media, but even there I will try to be diligent at deleting combative comments. It is my hope to continue to be creative, inventive and positive.
As I wrote five weeks ago, we are experiencing an uncharacteristic wet period. Here on the patch, we’ve had four inches of rain so far this month, and some parts of Oklahoma have gotten 11 inches or more. Add to that the fact that it’s been unseasonably cool, and overall, it’s been a very peculiar summer.
I’ve been struggling with the bitterness of politics in recent days, noting that our nation and its morally bankrupt leadership is nothing new. Leaders have known since antiquity to wash the people in fear and violence and gluttony to keep them in slavery.
To that end, Abby and I watched the excellent 2012 movie Lincoln yesterday. I am caught in the middle ground of being amazed that our nation once debated the morality of owning other human beings, and being completely unsurprised that a “Christian Nation,” as today’s alt-right likes to chime, still harbors an element which doesn’t understand right from wrong.
However, you may purchase male or female slaves from among the foreigners who live among you. You may also purchase the children of such resident foreigners, including those who have been born in your land. You may treat them as your property, passing them on to your children as a permanent inheritance. You may treat your slaves like this, but the people of Israel, your relatives, must never be treated this way.
The Bible, ladies and gentlemen.
It is with this between my ears that I work outside on these cool days, trying to keep up with a forest of grass in the yards and pastures, feeling angry with the people of our land, and so very happy with the trees and wildflowers and sunsets of that same land.
Summers are shorter. When I was a kid, they seemed like three long months of building dams in the creek and eating Cheez-Its. That might still be true for a handful of reclusive nerds, but if you are into anything at all, like athletics or student publications, you had about ten minutes of summer vacation.
My summers are short in terms of activities, but right now, the top of August, is very slow. That will come to an end shortly; my first high school sports media day, Ada softball, is tomorrow, after which it is, in effect, fall.
This August is being unseasonably cool. There are no 90ºs in the current forecast. I’ve been taking advantage of that by working outside. With decent rainfall, mowing is a repeated necessity; keeping the grass spurs in check is extra-important since I am walking Hawken the Irish Wolfhound every day.
My efforts over the years to shape our small patch of the world have paid off. Trees we planted years ago are huge and healthy. Flowers are blooming. Grass is green.
A buddy asked me the other day if I had posted anything on my site. He hadn’t seen anything. The answer was that yes, I had, but just a couple of items. I expect that he hadn’t seen them because, like a lot of us, we use social media as site readers, expecting to see links to our favorite stuff in our feeds. Recently, though, several people had indicated they aren’t seeing my stuff consistently, which doesn’t surprise me.
I see less content in general in the summer. The optimist in me hopes this is because people are outside.
So, what’s going on?
Michael and Thea recently moved from Norman, Okla., to Oklahoma City, to a larger house, and to a location closer to their works. I’m happy for them, but I don’t admire the “interstate culture” that involves constantly using interstate highways every time you need a loaf of bread. My role in their move was to use Abby’s Nissan Frontier pickup to move a new dining set and a new huge-screen television from the store to their new home. The Visio television was interesting: it is a 65-inch flat screen with the option of using a phone app as the remote control.
I had a big 48,000-mile service on my Nissan Juke, including oil, transmission fluid, air filters for the engine and the cabin, tire rotation and more. Props to Ada Nissan for getting the work done quickly, and for lending me another Juke, no charge.
My wife Abby and I finished the quilt squares her aunt Judy asked us all to make for the next family reunion. The whole family was asked to decorate these squares, which Judy plans to make into a giant quilt and raffle off at the reunion in October. Abby and I took our squares – with pictures of family stuff – to Duncan last weekend, where we had lunch and fed the deer.
My push lawn mower has decided to be vexingly inconsistent. I was certain 10 days ago I was on the verge of buying a new one, but when I cranked it the last time, it started on the second pull. Ghost in the machine.
I cranked up the power washer and washed my Juke and Abby’s Frontier, which always re-reminds me how much more we love our vehicles when they’re super-clean.
I just finished teaching another intermediate/advance photography class. We had a great time. At one point, one of my students asked, “Is there and advanced advanced after this?” which I consider very flattering.
One of my reporters and I covered a story about a firefighter who delivered a baby by the side of the road recently, and we both noted how cringingly stupid tv reporters’ questions are. “How does it feel to deliver a baby like this?” It’s like being punched in the groin, Sylvia. “Is there anything your want to say to the firefighters who delivered your baby?” Yeah, perv, get out of my coochie.
Max the Chihuahua, who is now completely deaf, dug out of the front yard for the first time in a couple of years. I was very proud, though, when I caught up with him, that he followed me back to the house without a leash or picking him up. Hawken the Irish Wolfhound is off the charts lovable. Sierra the Chihuahua is fine, and eats her breakfast and dinner in about three seconds. She’s also been eating a lot of sh!t lately. Bad girl.
My wife Abby spotted some nice whole wheat sub sandwich rolls at Wal Mart the other day, so much of this week’s dining has been in one iteration or another of sandwich.
After dinner tonight, I tried to devise an apparatus for removing webworms from hard-to-reach branches of trees on the patch. Every Oklahoman knows these ugly parasites that weave thick, sticky webs on hardwood trees while consuming all the green within. The webs are tough enough that the birds can’t get to them, so I decided to fashion a stick with a metal tool on the end – a shelf bracket, actually – that would allow me to stick-twist-pull to remove the mess from the branches I could not otherwise reach, and it worked pretty well.
Later when I was mowing near the old walnut tree, I came across a lovely, funny stand of mushrooms that I’d never seen before, and photographed them.
Also, today was the Stratford Peach Festival, and while the local farms didn’t have much to offer, I was able to secure some from nearby Sallisaw, which are quite tasty. I bought a very large bag of them and in addition to eating them fresh, I’m sure Abby will make a cobbler.