Chasing Light

Tuesday night following the men's meeting I was on my way home chasing the setting sun. It was a losing battle as I could never position myself for a good shot of the large cloud in a vivid red. This was a quick stop on the Tustenuggee Road and shot from the window. Fortunate there were no cars behind me. Cars behind me always test me as they are invariably in a hurry and do not understand why I am poking along.
It was a long trip from Ken's house on Pinemount, to 90, to Bascomb Norris, down 47, across to Tuskenuggee at I-75 on 47, over to Watermelon Park and home via Price Creek, all for this one quick stop shot. That's how it goes, chasing light.

Burning Daylight

I have been three days running riding the bike, trying to return since a layoff or practical quitting since the passing of Roger Sessler, who pretty much I could count on to show up for a ride. And they were not just the ten mile slow rides I am struggling through lately. Seventy and more. Up to Moniac in Georgia, just to see the pretty clerk. Down to Wellborn where we would stop for a drink and ice cream, catching up on all the store clerks lives.
When I first started out with Roger, he was patient, yet stern, scolding me when I followed too close, did not maintain a good draft, did not signal properly, was too abrupt in my moves, etc. He was not one to linger and go my pace, it was up to me to keep up, and he had no problem leaving me.
In the later years, it was Roger who was now the slow one and we would linger, waiting for him to catch up after struggling up a hill. I recall the Horsefarm Hundred's we rode, where I struggled to maintain his pace, falling out on the side of the road by mile twenty-five, hobbling through the ride alone. And to Rogers last century, him to struggling last with Teri Harty pacing him.
There are so many whom I miss, who no longer ride or are now too fast for me the slowing one. So I ride alone. It is best that way, for I often have to coast and glide along, catching my wind, adjusting my seat that is oh so sore, until hopefully the old muscles will respond and once again carry me to Moniac and maybe even another Horsefarm One Hundred this October in Roger's memory.

GracePrideDay

Vera of the church of the holy rollers passes out distracts

You are not cordially invited to attend, unless you fit in, the first annual church of the only way grace pride day parade. We will feature floats and marching teams mocking about everything we deem not worthy of our definition of what a true church is. We will have O'Steen impersonators on hand, smiling and squinting to the spectators, tons of cowboy church horses and riders, floats throwing money from the wealth church, folks handing out free healing cloths from the health church, a tongue speaking band accompanied by clanging cymbals, and on it will go...bringing up the rear will be the true outcasts, a great float of witnesses, certainly not members of our group, but nevertheless, the many,many not associated with Sturgeon or the impuritans or the fellows on our radio only waves or the Armenians or the catholic or the fundamentalists or the methodists or the presbyterians and even not the Baptists who do not see things our only way. Great fun! Plenty of Pride on hand. Plenty of mocking to keep you knocking on our door, begging to fit in.

Cowboy Church

The smug are at it again. Making fun on facebook of other churches. This time, the Cowboy church. Sure, they probably have Armenian ways, they are probably in "error" in many areas, but what purpose does it serve to mock them? To make fun of them?
I have been guilty of making fun of Joel O'Steen in an equal manner, using a take off on his philosophy of your best life now with, your best camera now. It's in good fun, I am sure, like these folks thing theirs is in good fun...but again, to the weak brothers, it only serves as a stumbling block, confusion.
Our pastor, Aaron Turner believes the cause of Christ is much better served by dwelling upon His love, his call, making people want Him, not spending time mocking others.
I too will try and be careful of what I put out there for all to see. Like I say, I am guilty as charged as well.

He was dear

Beginning August 11th, this photograph will appear hopefully in the Farm Bureau annual photo contest. It is one of those, judged on Facebook by the viewers likes, like that infernal Ken Rockwell contest. Just a heads up to watch for it and like, if you will.
Taken on the 30th in the cemetery off CR241, I forgot the name. I will return and get the information off the grave, who it was buried there.

Over the top

Tonight upon traveling to town to Winn Dixie, I detoured at Lake DeSoto downtown. I stopped to photograph the sunset, with a neat Aurora Borealis above the clouds. I realized the limitations I am up against using a sub par camera. I am just too lazy to drag the D3100 along which is much more difficult to achieve suitable exposure for me. Then there are the dust spots in the upper portion of the frame.
Today Carlton Ward posted his equipment he is taking on another extended photograph trip. Where do these guys get all the money to afford all this expensive gear? In sarcasm I posted on his page my Canon S110, two batteries and the little jobo tripod. I said, this is my Thoreau kit of quiet desperation. I am sure he saw absolutely no humor in it.
I just want one decent camera to carry. I do not need an arse---nal. Again...thou shalt not covet.
You can see the one photograph from the sunset tonight on my John Stokes page. My brother Lewis used it for his cover page.
Until then, it had gotten one like.
The photograph of the day for me though was of Kimberly Johnson taken at Olustee back in February. The light was grand behind her, highlighting her hair. I waited patiently for her to exhale in the cool morning, to catch her breath. Rhesa Collup called it steampunk. It only got ten likes. To say the least, I am most disappointed in the photographers, poets and artists that I have as friends. Seldom if ever do any comment or give insight or suggestions. They are too busy promoting their own daily work. Here on this blog as well. I go to the settings page and it shows one visit, maybe two. I wonder if its not my own visiting and so no one is even pulling the page up. Allow me to continue my chronicles of narcissism voyage...
On the John Clare poetry page, I posted what I thought was a good, thought provoking poem contrasting Eden and Sodom, our journey back to Eden, through the Son of Man. It got the usual one like from Melissa and that was that. I deleted it. 
On Fine Art America, I got the stats today and the same. One look from China. China? Good grief.
Neither of the two people who said they were going to order did. I knew that would never happen, but there was hope.
On a brighter note, I sold two note cards and a print last week at the gallery. That was $39 for the print and 2.75 each for the cards. I am on my way. Over the top. All downhill from here.

Realm of Pashtun

Too often my sarcasm enters and I am driven from the purpose. The purpose should be one purpose, to bring glory to the Creator of this realm.... The Lord God Jehovah. But, I stray from the path, seek adulation and self glory. I covet, I want all the likes, all the comments, all the attention. And when it does not transpire, I resort to the sarcasm, the bitterness.
I cannot tell myself often enough, that I had better get over it. Get over the fact that very few people will ever adulate you, give you attention, comment or even like. They are busy, busy with the very same task in their own lives. We are all in this struggle to draw the glory away from ourselves and onto the Great ONE.
So, if you find yourself here upon this blog, looking at these images, and you are wondering or even looking,
well, I am trying, as I have said many times before. I am no DM,CW,M or whatever you great photographers initials are...I am a jcs....always will be jcs....with the little canon, the low end nikon, trying...just trying to find a way to divert the jcs to the great JCIAM.

Thou shalt not Canon

These three photographs do not exist. I created them. I used the camera's image layering to combine two photographs into one. The moon was inserted into all three. Trickery to elicit a WOW!
It serves to illustrate my frustration. I covet. I covet other photographers work. Their equipment. In this case, a particular photographer on the panhandle who shoots with the venerable pro camera, the Canon 1Dx with the equally venerable pro lenses.
The other day a friend asked what camera do I use? I was almost ashamed to tell, as on their counter rested the Nikon D7000 with the 18-200 lens. Oh, the D3100 I said, and rambled off a series of apologies. They looked at me kind of half crooked I perceived. Oh.... entry level amateur camera.
I did not tell them that I do not even use that 90% of the time, but mostly the even lower Canon S100 point and shoot.
Oh, I know, its not the camera. But darn it, I find myself telling myself every time I see one of these masterful photographs....sure, sure...if I had that Canon or that Full Frame Nikon, I too would be cranking out daily works of art....
But I do not think so.
Some people are just born to be on the cover of National Geographic at age ten. Others, like me, will always be on the bottom of Parakeet Monthly. God is not particularly interested in photography so he has no problem toying with us, giving top of the line Canon's to jerks and clerics equally....
Like the talents...some hide them in closets, others turn them into 30x40 fully wrapped canvas gallery prints.
What am I doing with my little Canon S110 talent? The best I can dag nabbit!!!!!

Sopchoppy Journey

by John Stokes

The old man gazed long from the Sopchoppy bound Seaboard Air Line,
now bent, he once stood tall, wearing the stripes of gold from a distant time
as over black waters cold the steam train made its journey,
passing over the place as boy's they once swarmed to swim,
out to the moccasin infested rocks then on to the dock beyond.

The old man dreamed of dragonflies feasting above a dim football field,
a young boy tossing Dixie Cup passes behind home bleachers,
while on the field, Murray caught the pass, Coach Red Sanders
called the play for Walt with Bandmaster Birch preparing a halftime
with majorettes crossing batons in honor of Queen Spears court.

Stepping off the train he looked down the street for Revell's barbershop,
where the gold framed painting of the dogs playing cards was seen.
On the walls stained Stetson hats hung  from buck horns as tall tales
 of Grimes Bay bear hunts on frosty morns were told as the
wafts of Tonic Water on razor burnt chins mingled with cigar smoke.

But it was boarded over and closed. Gone too the rink over the river where
Mr Emory plucked his fiddle, gone even the Rudd's white framed house
by flowing well, torn down to make way for the Baptist Church, long
since split and moved west, only the lone Magnolia bearing witness to
where the old man once spent many happy times with Emory and Mary.

On the shady corner he stood in front of Florida Robert's frame home,
once a haven from the rising waters of the Sopchoppy river,
the half Creek town matron offering safety to the old man's family,
Ivory soap scrubbed, sunk out of sight in the quill-feathered guest bed,
the old tin roof holding back Hurricane Dora's awful dread.

He walked on towards Strickland's, unable to remember where
the pummy pile he played on towered, the cane juice boiling down,
the amber syrup forever held in comparison to Uncle Bert Roddenberry's,
he and Cora's mouthwatering cooking never quite matched,
the sweet taste only recalled, forever lost with their memory.

Back on Rose Street, he sat unnoticed on the wooden bench at Langston's,
closing his eyes, he saw Deputy Vause sipping from a Nehi out of the long icebox.
Looking across the street, he saw Randy and Nena entering the cafe.
At the Standard Station Johnny Bee pumped gas for Mr Beckton, the old sea captain
as Laurice gave a friendly wave to the Panacea bound passengers on highway 319.

Mingled memories rose like worms grubbed from Wakulla sands, swarming as
Yellowjackets upon Panthers. The final call from the station master stirred him
as he sadly boarded the evening return to Arran, Tallahassee and beyond.
Down Ochlocknee way the old Seaboard slowed to cross the river flowing south.
Arriving late that night, the old man disembarked and was soon forgotten.

To this day, they say if on certain nights you venture down to the dark waters,
while the moon is just right in it's rising, you can hear the faint whistle from the
old Seaboard Air Line lumbering its way to town, laden with the men in the golden stripes
staring long and contented out their windows, to the cheering from home bleachers,
to the beating of the drums, to the humming of Yellow Jackets chasing Panthers.

o death

Went down to the Gateway Funeral Home tonight at 5:00 to view Chris Pinner, Ron Pinner's son who died this week. Ron wasn't present. I signed the book, walked the line, gave my sympathy to Chris's wife and left.
I do not know if Ron came or not. I imagine this is a most difficult thing for him.
This evening the sky was again giving sporadic lightening. I was able to capture one streak. The one awesome streak I caught last week, the camera of all times was out of focus!
This photograph was taken standing on the road in front of the house, looking south over Mrs Bobby's yard and cedar trees. It is actually a composite shot, with the cedars lit by the flash and the lightening from another shot.
The Nikon D3100 at least has this feature, though not much else.
I suppose I am in post-camera purchase depression, the Canon S110 not taking night shots as I had hoped. I have yet to even set up the printer. Too expensive to send back. Stuck.
Down the road someday my set up would be a full frame type compact camera like the Sony RX100III, the current rave.
A Nikon D7100 or 610 full frame, with a 21 to 24mm equivalent lens.
For now, I contend with the two Canon's, the S100 and S110, both non-night taking camera's, the D3100 with all the dust spots in the sky.
But it doesn't stop me. I just drive what gets me around.

Little Man

I cannot recall the year nor the time Little Man first appeared. It was sometime in the late1950's, possibly past my third birthday in Sopchoppy, Florida in January of 1958. Thinking back, I cannot even recall if Little Man was a tangible being of plastic or a mythical figure.
I do know that Little Man was real. Intensely real. We would talk of things going on, things important to a person in his first ten years of life. The 1950's in Sopchoppy were those of a page from Mayberry. We lived directly across from the town swimming hole on the Sopchoppy River, a  tannin dark and twisting creek that snakes its slow flow to the Gulf of Mexico at Panacea. I stayed next door during the day with Mr Emory and Mrs Mary Rudd, two kindly people on a little farm right on Rose Street, the main road that ran through town with an occasional vehicle passing. I would lay on the front porch swing under the magnolia and listen to Mr Birch and the band practicing up at the School where my mother was teaching. My father was busy in his first pastoral duties at the Methodist Church since moving from Vicco, Kentucky, his first church out of Asbury Seminary.
Little Man played a lesser role in the earlier times with the Rudd's, as Mr Emory kept my imagination busy with the rats the traps caught from the night before, the matchboxes and Prince Albert Tins, his fiddle playing and his rocking me on his knee. Mrs Mary provided bread pudding made from the eggs we gathered around the yard.
Mrs Mary passed away and it was the first taste of death for me as the following evening we visited her lying in her bed in the front bedroom in a wake. It was soon after that the black maid Angeline came from Buckhorn to keep me at home. By this time, a year or two before entering first grade, I was able to roam the town with Robert Strickland and Little Man. He was always there, though we never talked much as Robert and I had so much territory to cover in a day. Eating kumquats in the tree in front of Roberts, forming a club in their barn, baseball at the Carraway's, soft drinks at Langston's Grocery, always the Sopchoppy river and the fishing and swimming, out to Maxi Lawhorn's past the bridge, with Robert's father to right the bee hives in Grimes Bay from a black bear and on it went.
It was the only home I remembered and I did not have the concept of moving. It came though after my second grade year. John Lloyd cried loudly when Miss Townsend announced that I would not be returning next year for third grade. It was at this point in the packing and the moving that somehow I misplaced Little Man. I do not know if it was an imagination shift of reality, or if he actually was lost. I do recall looking throughout the house and yard. Perhaps he was in the old haunted two story house next door. I did not savor going up the creaking stairs in search.
I never found Little Man. We moved to Monticello that June and it was awhile later, over at Hunter Dobson's, that he too I learned, had a little man. His I think was a German Officer. He offered me one of is little men, for he had an entire platoon. I chose a little gray soldier, probably German as well, standing at attention. We talked for awhile, but soon, our conversations grew less as this new town filled my days. The painting classes, the drawing with Wayne Lassiter during recess, the new found sports abilities in basketball and running, and a girl named Deborah, erasing my heart ache for Helen Roussey of Panacea, who I imagined sitting in her home, married with children at the age of seven, back in Sopchoppy. Little man beside me. Little Man never lost. Inside me all these years.
Someday I will return to Sopchoppy and see how Little Man, Helen and his family are getting along. 

Rock of Marry