First Marathon

 First Marathon 

The year was 1984 and Bob was entering his first marathon at the age of 61. I was 29 at the time and did not think for a moment he couldn't finish. Since 1979 Bob had been running in races from 5k's to half marathons, usually winning his age group depending if Norm Fernee or Fleetwood Fesmire, his rivals, showed up. It was the inaugural Jacksonville Marathon, a flat course from Mandarin and Orange Park back to downtown Jasksonville.

A group of nearly a dozen Lake City Runners Club members anticipated the January event on the flat course, hoping to run a Boston Marathon qualifying time. Leading up to the thirty degree cold morning, we had used the Roy Benson and Jeff Galloway training plans, taking our long run to Wellborn via Lake Jeffrey, tapering we hoped without burning out and hitting the twenty one mile wall.

I did not qualify in my group that first marathon, missing by over fifteen minutes in around 3:06. I did not hit the wall. Bob ran just under 4 hours and I think qualified. On the wall in his trailer was the framed 8x10 framed finish line photo with a beaming Bob, both feet off the ground, both arms raised, joyous. It was one of the crowning moments of his long life of 93 years.

Spring

 Spring has now unwrapped the flowers, Day is fast reviving, Life in all her growing powers Toward the light is striving; All the world with beauty fills, Gold the green enhancing; Flowers make glee among the hills, And set the meadows dancing. Through each wonder of fair days, God himself expresses; Beauty follows all his ways, As the world he blesses; So, as he renews the earth, Artist without rival, In his grace of glad new birth, We must seek revival. Praise the Maker, all ye saints; He with glory girt you, He who skies and meadows paints, Fashioned all your virtue; Praise him, seers, heroes, kings, Heralds of perfection; Brothers, praise him, for he brings All to resurrection.   From the Methodist Hymnal, the words from The Oxford Book of Carols.

The left

 The futility of finding common ground

Rise

 Resurrection 

Hinds feet to high places

Hope

 Hope

Is this the opening 

we awaited

or is this the closing

we anticipated

I had a home in Doodle Land

 Doodle Land

Johnclarestokes

Can I find the place

the boys memory traces

beneath the creaking steps

where the doodle bug slept

til time for slipping slant in

sand the wandering ant

swatting yellow flies feeding

them to the ants soldiering 

not wandering from the well

marked line where larvae dwell

to emerge to choose the single

file or the cool dark dwelling

of the doodles wild.

Can I find the time 

the boy held the line

to mark the row where

the acre peas would grow

with the old dego hoe

keeping at bay the weeds

imaging himself a Yellow Jacket

halfback like Walt defeating Sneads

to hear a father call him back

from the field of dreams to the task

of making this earthly garden the

best this Wakulla soil ever knew.

Can I dwell for just a spell

to trace again that sweet smell

wafting from the off plum line kitchen

of morning bacon and pancakes

waking the boy on the top bunk

awaiting the call so he could jump

to dress and load the brown vest

with the four ten shells 

to fell the chattering bushy tails

down by the old drainage pond

the aroma of spent shot heavenly

to a boy always hungry for

the wonders doodle land could bring.

For whom the Bell

 Oh to dwell in a Bell

to be in the mists

where the clear water 

exists 

Itchetucknee

Bret

 Palmetto Trail, Big Shoals

It was mid April of 2011. Riding along the Palmetto Trail, I abruptly came upon a Forestry Service worker in his truck with bulldozer. He said, you may want to hurry on, we are about to do a controlled burn. I agreed and then something inside said, take his photograph. I asked if  he would mind if I took a quick photograph. He said it was OK. I took it, thanked him and moved on. On June 20th, 2011, Brett Fulton and Josh Burch were killed in the Blue Ribbon Fire in Hamilton County. Upon comparing newspaper photographs of the two men, I realized that I had taken one of the last photographs of Brett. The photograph now hangs in memorial at my friend Rick Bringger's Firehouse Subs in Lake City, Florida.

Tyranny of too many

 The tyranny of too many

It was to be a simple hike downstream along the Suwannee on the Florida Trail, to primarily photograph wild azaleas and anything else that inspired.

Upon returning and going through the 100 or so frames, barely any moved me. It was probably due to the fact on my left shoulder was the D850 with 28-80 lens, on my right D3500 with 11-16, in my right pocket the GoPro Hero4, in my left iphone6a.

Upon each scene I’d mentally envision with which should I use. Some I’d try all four. I think the too much thinking hindered. A friend spoke of other photographers work being more technical, hers more artistic. I’d say yesterday I was caught up in the technical and not the single camera with lens simplicity. The artistry suffered. 

Next time I’ll only venture out with three options, then two, then one. If still I’m technical, then none. I’ll just walk and in my mind envision artistry. Those will all come out perfectly.

The lean

 Against the lean years

We filled our barns with grain 

Then came the latter rains

Bountiful was the land

We just didn't understand

How we were still starving.

Purple dazs

 I sat among the once so young

The stranger I had become

I sighed of days beneath the shade

Where in the summers we laid

Cat Stevens and our world wild

Tea for Tillermen served with a smile

Lovers among the trees we stayed

Jimi told us it was all purple shade

The old landmarks they still remain

No one recognized them all around.

Someday they shall wonder who

High in the old oak scrawled

The love of these two.

Where she sat

 Where she sat

It happens near ten after ten

When the sunlight streams in

Accentuating every fold

When a glimpse of gold

Subtle at first illusion 

Then a  fully formed intrusion

By ten eleven she is gone

The folds return alone