It bloomed, and here we are, delightedly.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Remember Ryan, Too!
Intrigued by the verses inscribed on the monument to honor the dead at the Perryville Battlefield, I surfed the Web for reliable sources. I discovered that Abram Joseph Ryan (1839-1886) wrote one quatrain consisting of two lines extracted from his poem "The Sword of Robert Lee," and that Theodore O'Hara (1822-1867) wrote the other three quatrains. No doubt that the people who erected the monument in 1902 chose the words for the relevance and emotional gravitas of their day.
Both men seemed interesting. Project Gutenberg has a copy of a tribute to Ryan written by John Moran. The Catholic Encyclopedia notes that O'Hara "wrote little of special merit" except the poems from which came the quatrains inscribed on the Perryville monument, "The Bivouac of the Dead," and a second poem that became popular, "A Dirge for the Brave Old Pioneer."
Both men seemed interesting. Project Gutenberg has a copy of a tribute to Ryan written by John Moran. The Catholic Encyclopedia notes that O'Hara "wrote little of special merit" except the poems from which came the quatrains inscribed on the Perryville monument, "The Bivouac of the Dead," and a second poem that became popular, "A Dirge for the Brave Old Pioneer."
Father Abram Joseph Ryan.
Theodore O'Hara
The area of Lexington in this picture taken from the air shows
the undulating hills that reflect the countryside in Kentucky
where battles were fought during the American Civil War.
One way to Perryville, the (nail-biting) curving Highway 68.
Old trees grace the hallowed grounds of the battlefield.
[ . . . ]
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had cause so grand,
[ . . . ]
From "The Sword of Robert Lee" by Abram Joseph Ryan.
[ . . . ]
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
their silent tents are spread,
and glory guards with solemn round
the bivouac of the dead.
[ . . . ]
From "The Bivouac of the Dead," by Theodore O'Hara.
[ . . . ]
Nor shall your glory be forgot
while fame her record keeps,
or honor points the hallowed spot
where valor proudly sleeps.
[ . . . ]
From "The Bivouac of the Dead," by Theodore O'Hara.
[ . . . ]
Nor wreck, nor change, or winter's blight
nor time's remorseless doom,
shall dim one ray of holy light
that gilds your glorious tomb.
[ . . . ]
From "The Bivouac of the Dead," by Theodore O'Hara.
The monument in May, 2012, on a foggy day.
Rest in peace, dear fallen.
Monday, June 4, 2012
The Contrast of it All
Diminished saturation to black and white, increased exposure levels, and decreased contrast levels during post processing in the digital darkroom using Aperture. Shot with Nikon D7000, ISO 100, 105mm f3.2 - f3. Fun!
Photography has become a part of my gardening. There is so much gardening to do!
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Peace Hybrid Tea Rose
Friday, June 1, 2012
Poetry: Eroding Time
Eroding Time
Gradually, the setting sun changed the colors of the Parthenon
its marble changing from ancient gold to glorious gold
the softness of its edges made smooth by time,
by air, wind, fire -- acid rain, smog, and climbing tourists.
Still, on the plaka the busy people continued selling trinkets
laughing with and at themselves and especially at visitors.
Some spoke to others into cell phones, "Don't worry, I know."
One shopkeeper quarreled with me, "No photos. Go away."
A shopkeeper's daughter pointed to her father's jewelry,
sparkling diamonds and gold on display, "The artists thread
the gold and then weave it into this necklace," she said.
"This is cool stuff here." She sounded mainstream American.
Near the church a plump woman in a red dress folded a silk
tablecloth. "Buy it," she said, and then shoved it in my arms.
"My husband dead. My children small," she told me,
her Greek brow furrowed, turning toward the setting sun.
Gradually, the setting sun changed the colors of the Parthenon
its marble changing from ancient gold to glorious gold
the softness of its edges made smooth by time,
by air, wind, fire -- acid rain, smog, and climbing tourists.
Still, on the plaka the busy people continued selling trinkets
laughing with and at themselves and especially at visitors.
Some spoke to others into cell phones, "Don't worry, I know."
One shopkeeper quarreled with me, "No photos. Go away."
A shopkeeper's daughter pointed to her father's jewelry,
sparkling diamonds and gold on display, "The artists thread
the gold and then weave it into this necklace," she said.
"This is cool stuff here." She sounded mainstream American.
Near the church a plump woman in a red dress folded a silk
tablecloth. "Buy it," she said, and then shoved it in my arms.
"My husband dead. My children small," she told me,
her Greek brow furrowed, turning toward the setting sun.
 |
| Selling on the Plaka, Athens, 2008. Nikon D2xs, f7.6, 1/250, 100 ISO, 200mm. |
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Cayenne on Figs and Peaches, and Tomatoes, Too
Squirrels do not share our fruit, even in bountiful crops. We heard that they do not like cayenne pepper. In an attempt to have some produce this year, we sprinkled cayenne pepper on some of our growing fruits.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Poetry: Waiting for the Green Light
Waiting
for the Green Light
West
on misty Scott Street
I
waited alongside buildings
still
standing, still in use
since
the oil boom of the 20s.
Warm
pockets of spring air
lifted
strands of my brown hair
like
a caress for having lived
through
another North Texas winter.
Scott
Street bends across an old bridge
walked
by people who have left the bars
tossing
their Red Draw over its rails before
turning
straight on Iowa Park Road
following
the train tracks rumbled upon
by
the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe.
Like
the Mesquite plant
I
bloom green every spring
just
after the last freeze.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Just Ahead in Archer County
Friday, May 18, 2012
Singular Parking at Love Field
Flying on the downwind into Love Field in Dallas. Nikon V 1, 10mm, Auto.
They signaled us to park our Bonanza under the roofing at the front door of Business Jet Aviation.
Nikon V 1, 10mm, Auto.
What usually parks under that roof . . .
I have written on my "bucket list" to park my Cherokee 180 under that roof, too. Someday . . .
Nikon F2, Lomography Color Negative 35mm film, ISO 400, f5.6, 50mm.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Smile!
 |
| Nikon F6, original color photograph post processed in the digital darkroom. |
Update:
Fair Warning
OK, Now let's be very clear about something you posted on your photo
blog.
I left my 1974 silver Jag in Berlin when I came back to the states in 1985
(mostly a money issue, but there it stayed).
If I EVER see you driving the Jag around town, you will find
yourself sitting on your you-know-what in the middle of the street and I
will be off for a fun afternoon on the interstate (till the cops catch
me!).
You have been warned.
later,
Gene
p.s.
I loved the shot of the squirrel tail in the flower
garden.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Some Things Unfolding
Nikon V 1, 10mm, auto, minor cropping during post processing in the digital darkroom.
Monday, May 7, 2012
The Mayor's Flight in the Jenny
The Call Field Aviation Museum flies the Jenny once per month. In April, piloted by David Martin, she took up a passenger, Mayor Glen Barham. Nikon F6, 35mm, and Velvia.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Wind Sheer Plus Turbulence Plus Students in Aviation
Hadn't felt wind sheer as I flew or experienced its effects in the Scissortail until today. Aloft at 3,500 feet, I dialed up Flight Service on 122.0 to ask them for the altimeter at Gainesville, my destination. Reason, the AWOS recording did not clearly specify the reading at Gainesville, making me unsure whether it measured at 29.85 or 29.95. This seemed important to me at the time, a stickler for my altitudes, particularly when I'm on final to land.
The fellow at Flight Service clarified the measuring for me, and then warned me of the PIREPs in the area, that other pilots had reported turbulence. My ears perked up at the pilot reports, but I felt that I would do okay, since the wind blew right up the runway at my destination, strong as it did, and I could land safely, as I had before with the winds gusting at twenty-two knots into my nose.
On final to Gainesville, everything seemed fine. Then, my starboard wing lifted up, my nose skidded leftward, and I amazed myself with the calm way I handled the wind sheer. I gently brought the Scissortail's nose down, turned slowly but surely back toward the runway, and said to MyMrMallory, "Honey, that was a gust," as if he did not already know.
But the gust had lifted my plane up so that I found myself higher than I wanted as I approached the runway. The turbulence continued to toss us as I descended, much like a butterfly in the wind, and my stall light lit.
"Ah, the stall light came on," said MyMrMallory.
"Yeh, I'm going around," I said, as I lowered the nose, powered up the engine, and reduced flaps.
Perhaps anyone else would have landed, but not me, not today, not in this unusual wind condition. I am a neophyte, after all, and take precautions. On another day, I would have landed nimbly.
So up we flew back into the sky. The unusual flight did not end as we left Gainesville, for Sheppard's tower hosted students, and with them a certain unpredictability that can seem either hilarious or nerve-wracking. At thirty nautical miles from their airspace, I checked in but was summarily checked out; so I checked in the given frequency and was sent back to the first; kind of like a ping-pong ball.
"Sheppard approach, Cherokee 47 Romeo, 30 west, inbound."
"47 Romeo, contact 133.5."
"Sheppard, 47 Romeo."
"47 Romeo, contact 118.2."
"Sheppard, 47 Romeo."
"Cherokee 47 Romeo, state intentions."
MyMrMallory rolled his eyes. In view of the confusion, I asked MyMrMallory to take over the radio work. And he did, testily. He has little patience for the students. Soon the controller's voice came back over the radio.
"Piper 7 Victor, turn heading 320 degrees."
Silence.
He repeated, "Piper 7 Victor, turn heading 320 degrees."
Again, no response.
"Piper 7 Victor, do you copy?"
"Are you calling Cherokee 47 Romeo?" asked MyMrMallory, an indignant tone in his voice.
"Uh, affirmative, 47 Romeo turn heading 320 degrees."
"[Deleted]," said MyMrMallory. "They never get the call signs right."
And then, it just became too much for me to bear. All the turbulence, the memory of my right wing lifting up and turning my plane, I felt frightened, and I said, "You have the flight controls."
"I have the flight controls," said MyMrMallory. And I rested my sweaty palms on my lap, finally looking out over North Texas and noticing for the first time during the flight how green it all looks right now after all the spring rains. Still, with all the beauty beneath me, I felt like a dog limping home with her tail between her legs, head hanging down in sadness. I don't fly enough, I recognized, and would not have flown by myself today, in this wind, and that is why I have an experienced pilot in my right seat. I can still fly an airplane, and can still remain safe by having a pro in the right seat to help me land. And there is still Sheppard and all its T-6s and T-38s to watch and avoid, and the students in the tower with as few hours as I have in aviation, or fewer. Recipe for danger. In my sadness I felt grateful that MyMrMallory would fly with me.
"47 Romeo, cleared to land 15C."
"Cleared 15C," and so we began our turbulent descent toward the runway.
Just at the point where we were not quite ready to touch the wheels to the ground on account of the strong winds, the controller told us to "Turn right at Golf and hold at 15R."
Through clenched teeth, both hands grasping the yoke, MyMrMallory, focussing hard on controlling the tossed-about plane, replied to the controller that we would "Turn right at Golf, hold 15R."
But the controller's voice came back, "47 Romeo, read back instructions."
"Right on Golf, hold 15R," repeated MyMrMallory, grimacing, focussing, sweat dripping into his eyes.
At that point I began to wonder if I should take over the radio, but instead held back as the controller's voice came on again.
"47 Romeo, did you hear instructions?"
"I just read back," said MyMrMallory, turning the yoke windward as our wheels touched down, squeaking and gently on the runway. How impressive! I could not have landed more beautifully myself!
"47 Romeo, read back instructions."
"Right Golf, hold 15R," screamed MyMrMallory.
Silence.
"You have the flight controls," he said, as we rolled down the runway, and so I took control of the Scissortail, mainly to push the brakes with my feet and turn right on taxiway Golf and then stop short of 15R.
Our attempts to reconnect with the student did not yield results. Mostly, we became concerned that somehow we had lost radio contact. Switching to the ground frequency, though, brought another voice, who instructed us to hold while two T-38s took off on 15C. The voice later explained that apparently we "stepped on" each other as we communicated with the tower, not surprising but slightly unusual, and just a part of a very unusual flight.
"Let's forget about today," said MyMrMallory. "It was unusual."
But I will not forget today, for I will remember the difficulty of it and the grateful feeling I had to have taken off with him in the right seat.
The fellow at Flight Service clarified the measuring for me, and then warned me of the PIREPs in the area, that other pilots had reported turbulence. My ears perked up at the pilot reports, but I felt that I would do okay, since the wind blew right up the runway at my destination, strong as it did, and I could land safely, as I had before with the winds gusting at twenty-two knots into my nose.
On final to Gainesville, everything seemed fine. Then, my starboard wing lifted up, my nose skidded leftward, and I amazed myself with the calm way I handled the wind sheer. I gently brought the Scissortail's nose down, turned slowly but surely back toward the runway, and said to MyMrMallory, "Honey, that was a gust," as if he did not already know.
But the gust had lifted my plane up so that I found myself higher than I wanted as I approached the runway. The turbulence continued to toss us as I descended, much like a butterfly in the wind, and my stall light lit.
"Ah, the stall light came on," said MyMrMallory.
"Yeh, I'm going around," I said, as I lowered the nose, powered up the engine, and reduced flaps.
Perhaps anyone else would have landed, but not me, not today, not in this unusual wind condition. I am a neophyte, after all, and take precautions. On another day, I would have landed nimbly.
So up we flew back into the sky. The unusual flight did not end as we left Gainesville, for Sheppard's tower hosted students, and with them a certain unpredictability that can seem either hilarious or nerve-wracking. At thirty nautical miles from their airspace, I checked in but was summarily checked out; so I checked in the given frequency and was sent back to the first; kind of like a ping-pong ball.
"Sheppard approach, Cherokee 47 Romeo, 30 west, inbound."
"47 Romeo, contact 133.5."
"Sheppard, 47 Romeo."
"47 Romeo, contact 118.2."
"Sheppard, 47 Romeo."
"Cherokee 47 Romeo, state intentions."
MyMrMallory rolled his eyes. In view of the confusion, I asked MyMrMallory to take over the radio work. And he did, testily. He has little patience for the students. Soon the controller's voice came back over the radio.
"Piper 7 Victor, turn heading 320 degrees."
Silence.
He repeated, "Piper 7 Victor, turn heading 320 degrees."
Again, no response.
"Piper 7 Victor, do you copy?"
"Are you calling Cherokee 47 Romeo?" asked MyMrMallory, an indignant tone in his voice.
"Uh, affirmative, 47 Romeo turn heading 320 degrees."
"[Deleted]," said MyMrMallory. "They never get the call signs right."
And then, it just became too much for me to bear. All the turbulence, the memory of my right wing lifting up and turning my plane, I felt frightened, and I said, "You have the flight controls."
"I have the flight controls," said MyMrMallory. And I rested my sweaty palms on my lap, finally looking out over North Texas and noticing for the first time during the flight how green it all looks right now after all the spring rains. Still, with all the beauty beneath me, I felt like a dog limping home with her tail between her legs, head hanging down in sadness. I don't fly enough, I recognized, and would not have flown by myself today, in this wind, and that is why I have an experienced pilot in my right seat. I can still fly an airplane, and can still remain safe by having a pro in the right seat to help me land. And there is still Sheppard and all its T-6s and T-38s to watch and avoid, and the students in the tower with as few hours as I have in aviation, or fewer. Recipe for danger. In my sadness I felt grateful that MyMrMallory would fly with me.
"47 Romeo, cleared to land 15C."
"Cleared 15C," and so we began our turbulent descent toward the runway.
Just at the point where we were not quite ready to touch the wheels to the ground on account of the strong winds, the controller told us to "Turn right at Golf and hold at 15R."
Through clenched teeth, both hands grasping the yoke, MyMrMallory, focussing hard on controlling the tossed-about plane, replied to the controller that we would "Turn right at Golf, hold 15R."
But the controller's voice came back, "47 Romeo, read back instructions."
"Right on Golf, hold 15R," repeated MyMrMallory, grimacing, focussing, sweat dripping into his eyes.
At that point I began to wonder if I should take over the radio, but instead held back as the controller's voice came on again.
"47 Romeo, did you hear instructions?"
"I just read back," said MyMrMallory, turning the yoke windward as our wheels touched down, squeaking and gently on the runway. How impressive! I could not have landed more beautifully myself!
"47 Romeo, read back instructions."
"Right Golf, hold 15R," screamed MyMrMallory.
Silence.
"You have the flight controls," he said, as we rolled down the runway, and so I took control of the Scissortail, mainly to push the brakes with my feet and turn right on taxiway Golf and then stop short of 15R.
Our attempts to reconnect with the student did not yield results. Mostly, we became concerned that somehow we had lost radio contact. Switching to the ground frequency, though, brought another voice, who instructed us to hold while two T-38s took off on 15C. The voice later explained that apparently we "stepped on" each other as we communicated with the tower, not surprising but slightly unusual, and just a part of a very unusual flight.
"Let's forget about today," said MyMrMallory. "It was unusual."
But I will not forget today, for I will remember the difficulty of it and the grateful feeling I had to have taken off with him in the right seat.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Asclepias viridis (Milkweed)
Flowers have interesting histories. For instance, the white-flowered milkweed (Asclepias viridis pictured here) provided for wiks in candle-making by humans, and goldfinches employed the strands of the plant to line their nests. For more interesting histories and to enjoy further information about flowers, take a look at Geyata Ajilvsgi's book, Wildflowers of Texas, ISBN 0-940672-15-4.
 |
| Photo taken in Jack County, Texas, at the Christie's country home. Nikon F6, 50mm, Portra 400. |
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