Buck Moon of July

In the yard due to the many trees, the moon does not get high enough before after ten PM. Per my usual custom, I was out around midnight, waiting patiently for the airplanes to instersect the moon. To my chagrin, the jets passed in their flight path to the North of the moon. Had I waited until 3 or 4 in the morning, the moon would have aligned with the path, but I am not certain how many would be flying that time of morning. Giving in to the thought of not be successful, I snapped a few portraits with the moon in the background with the Canon S95. Set it on Shutter priority 8 seconds self-timer, flash minus two, cloudy sky WB,manual focus, 400 ISO....
This is the only straight flash shot. The others were taken without flash, but I used a strong flashlight to light the bushes, camera and myself in a blur.

The Cracker

The cracker, a pioneer backwoods settler of Georgia and Florida, has come to be known as a gaunt, shiftless person, but originally the term meant simply a native, regardless of his circumstances. Belief that the name may have been shortened from 'corn cracker' is given credence in Georgia, but in Florida it derives from the cracking of a whip. It is a name honorably earned by those who made bold talk with their lengthy, rawhide bullwhips in the days when timber and turpentine were the State's chief industries. Those enterprises involved heavy-haul jobs, with oxen the motive power, bullwhips to keep them moving, and the pistol-shot crack of these whips to signal the wearisome progress of the haul through the woods.  Cracking the whip became, in fact, an art and a means of communication-an art of making a noise without permitting the whip to touch the animals, and a signal system by which conversations were held across miles of timber barrens. Today the whip crack echoes through the pines only when cowboys are rounding up their herds, and at rodeos and barbecues when the crackers demonstrate their skill.
To be continued....from the 1939  Florida, The American Guide Series.

The Light Line

The Light Line
by john clare

Evening time
God hangs His light out
Upon the tree line
Wrings His clouds
In the lake
Places them back
For rain to make
Drying upon the tree line
He quickly gathers in His light
before night fall.

Two Step

Just returned from the Art League where I was able to give a presentation on my three favorite printmakers, Durer, Rembrandt and Whistler. We had dinner beforehand, then the Art League business, then my presentation. I had enough etched plates of my own to pass around to each table, giving everyone a hands on look. I think they were pleased. Herb, the VP said I should be the next President. I didn't mean to impress to that degree!
A poem I wrote about etching I read at the end:
Between the second acid bite
and the plates tarlatin clean wipe
An image of you came up
into the back regions of a forming thought
Spilling as acid into water
Causing a reaction
Boiling brew
Now you are embossed into my life
Pressed through and through
Mineral Spirits cannot erase my
ink stained impression of you.

They seem a little mad

This too was re-published to Facebook today again with little reaction. This was from Olustee with the quote, Like watching people dancing through an open window, they seem a little mad at first until you realize they hear the song that you are watching by Sam Wagstaff.
I again used HDR-like button on Picassa with the blur affect to throw the crowd out of focus and give a further sense of motion. Originally this was deliberately shot at a slow shutter speed to geve the feel of motion. This is another attempt to revist old photographs and give them a new appearance.
What are your thoughts?  Oh I forget, I am speaking to myself here.

Lovely little Rainbows

This hummingbird I posted today, to so so notice. But isn't everything lately? For the past several days I have patiently sat by the window waiting for the hummingbirds to come within photo distance. They seem to know when I am waiting and attempt to wait me out. I can see them up in the tree watching. Then for some reason, they swoop down, sit and sit. Go figure. I am shooting these on manual without a meter so I am often guessing exposure. The focus too is manual, giving my poor eyes often again, non crisp detail. The flash is set at an angle to them on a long cord, again on manual.
So when I do get a decent shot, I am pleased.

Art League

Tonight at 7pm at the Art League I will be speaking on the process of Intaglio etching, using James Abbot McNeil Whistler and Rembrandt as examples, along with my own etchings.
This is an etching of Whistler.

Horsey Rest

I am finding that by manipulating previously published images with HDR and the radius turned up, I can achieve a painterly quality that appeals to me. I do not know if others care for this look, but to me it infuses new life into otherwise mundane or overlooked photographs. New excitement for me!
When HDR first came out, I shunned it as too manipulative. But used with the proper subject, I feel it enhances, gives it a quality beyond straight forward interpretation. More of a fairy tale or fantasy like appearance. Of which I again....like.

The Upper Room

It was a privilege for two years of my life to enjoy living in two different upper room two-story homes. The first was the one shown in Monticello, the other was at Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky. In 1963 after living eight wonderful years in the little block parsonage in Sopchoppy, Florida sharing a bedroom with my two year older sister Paula Jean, daddy told us the town we were moving to had a large two story house. There were several two story homes along Rose Street in Sopchoppy, the Jones and the abandoned "haunted" house next door to us. Though told not to, I would often climb the rickety stair case and sit in the upper left room and peer down below at the seldom passing auto or person. When Robert Strickland, my best friend was along, we would usually play tricks on the pedestrian and moan like ghosts.
Arriving in Monticello in June as all new pastors did, my father to my delight assigned me the upper left bedroom all to my own facing East Washington Street. And there, just like in the Sopchoppy haunted house, I could peer down toward the majestic Jeffersonian courthouse the town revolved around literally.
With no air conditioning, the window was usually up as I would just sit and watch the somewhat quicker pace of this beautiful town. We only lived in the house a year for soon after my father arrived, plans were already underway to construct a new brick "one story" parsonage further down Washington Street. It was a sad day when we moved from Monticello to the duplex apartment in Wilmore, Kentucky.
It was in Wilmore in September of 1975  after living there two years earlier that I attended one year at Asbury College. And there, I had the great honor of living with the past President of Asbury, Dr.Zachary Taylor "ZT" Johnson in his two story home. This time I stayed in the upper right room, perhaps a good analogy as to my recent conversion in June of that year. Dr Johnson was a close friend of my father and while preaching a revival in Williston where we were located in 1975, Dr Johnson offered the room if I came to Asbury. Since my father and mother and sister had attended, it was an easy decision for me. Dr Johnson had recently lost his wife and we spent many a day reminiscing and traveling about, enjoying his company and wisdom.
Every boy sometime in his life needs such a home with a slick banister to slide down, with a closet under the stairway to hide in, high, spacious rooms to spread out train tracks and toys, a closer view of the stars and cars that travel below, a place to haunt the passerby.
The upper rooms I shall always hold dear.

There were giants in the sand...

Yesterday while sitting on the curb in front of the Methodist church awaiting the Williston July 3rd parade, I had time to look up that long hill of Noble. There, obscuring my view was a large sweet gum tree. The year was 1967 in the month of June, the month Methodist pastors throughout the country either packed up and moved, or were relieved to stay at their charge another year. In our case, we were of the number moving. As we pulled into the drive of the white painted parsonage just west of the stately yellow brick two-story church, I was a nervous 7th grader. Soon after settling in the house and the perfunctory meeting of the pastor-parish and parsonage committees, up walked two grown men with watermelons. I called out to my mother, "there are two men at the door!" They welcomed us to Williston and introduced themselves as twin brothers Bill and Jack Whitehurst, 7th graders. I was astonished. What town had we arrived in just south of Gad? If these fellows were typical size for the town, my fall prospects for football were dim indeed.
It was in that fall that I went out for the JV squad under the leadership of Coach Holder. It was a rarity for 7th graders to play except for the Whitehurst twins and Cousin Monte who were firmly in place on the line. Coach Holder though just could not ignore this skinny speedster from the hills of Kentucky and come the Trenton away game, called upon Stokes. My heart leaped. He told me to relay to Carey Chandler the quarterback the play, a fly pattern. I lined up wide right and upon hut,hut zoomed off toward the end zone. Carey let go a spiral that landed into my hands of which I dropped. I came to the sidelines dejected. I figured that was the end of my playing time. To my heart-thumping joy though, on the next series, Coach called my name again. The same play. This time as I neared the end zone, the pass landed and I held on, falling into the end zone for a touchdown. From the stands, I heard my late father yelling, Way to go John! It was the only game I ever recall him attending. Following the game as we ran toward the lockers, Bill Whitehurst kept yelling out as well, Way to go John!
He was my biggest fan! Two years later, when I should have been playing on varsity,our JV team under Coach Dean Chesser was playing the Williston Middle School at Devil Stadium. Younger than our mostly ninth grade misfits and rebellious team mates, it was a must win game for us. Wes Smith and his band of midgets put up a brave fight, little Lamar Stegall tripping me up as I tried my patent long end runs,  a blind Donald Fratey dropping my end zone passes with bless his heart Bill Griffis Jr holding onto the deciding touchdown pass. As we made our way to the bus, the first person to come from the stands and loudly congratulate me was Bill Whitehurst. For some reason, I burst into tears.
And as I looked at that towering Sweet gum tree obscuring my view, I recalled the fall of '67 my father and I planted it, of the times I hurdled it when coming home from church. And yes, there were giants in the sands of Williston in Levy County, Florida.
Harriet, Bill's sister said that today they are not large at all. I disagree. To me they will always tower  in my tearful heart of memory.

Williston July 4th parade 7 of 7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Williston July 3rd parade 6 of 7