Categories
Insects outdoors Photography Places

Last call

I’m off tomorrow into the wilds of the Ozarks, into that part of the state new to me. There will, of course, be photos when I return, but maybe code, too, as I like to work on code when I’m in a hotel room — gives me something familiar.

Today, though, I went to the Botanical for another chance to get photos of the water lilies. Last chance, really, as the summer is waning and you can see this in the richness of the trees, and the activity of the insects. Particularly the insects, as the garden was ripe with butterflies today; so with yet more water lily photos you’ll also be getting yet more butterfly pictures.

Next time: code, I swear. And pictures of something different, I hope.

newmonarch2

Still, I don’t think I can or ever will, get tired of being surrounded by butterflies and water lilies. It’s like you’re in the middle of a cartoon drawn by a young child with a new box of Crayolas. Everywhere you turn, you see another bright splash of color.

ringlily

In the Spring, the insects are lazy, shy, and elusive. Today, though, you could almost reach out and hold them they were that close. But they were moving, constantly, which made getting a photo a little challenging. Now is the last chance for the bees to get nectar for the hive; the butterflies to store up energy to finish the migration; the dragonflies to, well, I don’t know why the dragonflies were frantic.

Not just the bugs, the photographers were out in force today, even at the 7am opening of the garden. Of course, the weather was going to be hot, and the sun isn’t that good for photography, but I must have ran into a dozen photographers within one hour. Most had tripods, a few were like me — just winging it.

butterbee

Today’s bright and busy activity reminded me of years ago when I would go to a bar, and the bartender or band would announce last call. The lights would come up in the place, and people would scurry about, making good on the last few moments before having to head out into the night.

This girl would run up to her friends and whisper something into their ears and they would giggle and leave; that young man would be writing a phone number down in a match book. Of course now everyone carries pocket computers and cellphones and numbers would be jotted down into some kind of electronic device, but it’s not the same.

Friends would come together and split apart, some for home, others for another party somewhere, yet others to go to breakfast. And not just a small breakfast, either. I don’t know what happens now, in this Atkins Diet time, but back then, it was large, it had eggs, and it had potatoes and butter. Mega-cinnamon roll was optional.

There was one place in Seattle that was famous for the after hour breakfasts they’d make: huge plate size omelets covering a bed of crisp, perfectly done hash browns, served with good, hot coffee–all accompanied by thick, buttered toast and real preserves. The place was small, and people would be lined up for a block to get in, it was that popular. We’d sit there and laugh about the night, none of us wanting it to end–caught up in that perfect moment that’s not quite morning, but not evening either.

cobaltbluelilygreen

I remember a morning just like that in Salt Lake City, walking all night with friends, greeting the dawn with outstretched arms. The last of summer, and summer’s golden light.

This is a good time of year. The roses and other flowers have started to wilt, but in doing so they let out their richest scent. The leaves are at their darkest green, just before they begin to turn. Birds are everywhere, no longer bound to nests or to mating, and free to fly, and sing, just for the joy of it. It’s warm, but we’re starting to get a cool breeze now and again. And of course, all those butterflies.

I did like to walk among them today. They’re not shy of you at all, unless your shadow falls on them and then they take off into the air. As I walked by the rows of flowers, butterflies would leap into the air behind and around me, as if I were a June bride. My last chance to be a June bride, really, as I’m of an age with the summer.

newmonarch3

Categories
Photography Places

Blazing sunshine

A two day trip to the Ozarks can seem like a week, and I mean that in a good way.

Sunday I drove down I44 to 63 and then eventually to a series of back country roads where the only company I had was the ubiquitous white pickups and motorcycle riders. The recent rains have saved the Ozarks and by the rich green color, I think we’ll have a good fall, at least in the hills. And I didn’t kill one creature as I covered the windy, hilly roads, which we can count a good thing.

Sunday ended up being hot and like other Missourians impacted by the high gas prices, I kept the windows down the the air conditioner off. I developed a habit of driving one handed, the other resting on my door, which I think makes me look rather wordly, especially when the wind is blowing through my curls and I’m wearing my Big Sunglasses. Of course I ended up with a truck driver tan–one arm burned a deep brick red, while the other is a pale honey color. Or dead fish, if you prefer.

Fish. Fish was the operative word this weekend, as everywhere I went I talked with people who told me stories or who fished. Can you imagine a better weekend?

I stopped first at Rockbridge Mill, arriving in the early afternoon under 90 degree sun. Few of the pictures came out but I got a couple: one of the mill, and one of a very lucky angler.

Rockbridge Mill

Success comes in wet packages

The water was low, which wasn’t surprising for this time of year and the drought we’ve had, but it was high enough for the trout to move, and as I got to the falls, a lady who was fishing had just pulled in what looked to be a monster fish. She was kind enough to pose for the picture, which was one of my favorite from the trip.

She said she’d gone out for a relaxing hour or two of fishing, but no sooner had she put her line in then a fish caught it, and she was finished in 10 minutes. She was pleased at catching the fish, but since the river is ‘catch and keep’, she had to stop at the point. I think she was disappointed at having success come too quickly. There are people who fish to catch fish; then there’s the lucky bastards.

From Rockbridge I followed more windy, hilly back country roads to Hodgson Mill. I had read it was under restoration, and was pleasantly surprised to see it fully restored. The sun, though, was just too bright and I really couldn’t get a good picture, and had to settle for a photo of the watercress growing along the spring.

Watercress and Waterfall

From Hodgson to Dawt, where the place was full of innertubers, but I had a monstrous headache by then, so I didn’t stay long, and headed to 160 to Branson.

I was lucky to have light traffic my entire trip, which was good because 160 is nothing but 35MPH corners, which can be fun to drive, but can also be exhausting at the same time. Happily Branson is odd enough and colorful enough to wake the dead, much less a tired driver.

What can I say about Branson? It is a town that is based on early tourism because of the nearby lakes, such as Table Rock lake. As it grew, though, it morphed into something really different: a town carved into the hillside above the lake, full of hotels and inns all decorated to a theme, full of shows. Each hotel, inn, store, has a videoscreen that displays bits of the shows currently playing. And neon lights, of course. It’s like Vegas, but without gambling.

I got lost twice, because I would be driving along, mouth open as I was blasted by all the videoscreens, and would miss a turn. When I finally got to the hotel where I was staying, Welk Resort, it was late afternoon and just starting to rain.

The hotel clerk was exceptionally nice, and when I told her I was out ‘milling’ she told me about the mill in use at the College of the Ozarks (more on this in a separate post sometime). As we talked, I could hear a tapping against the window and we were both surprised when we found ourselves in a monstrous storm. I quickly unpacked my car and in my room watched as we were hit with hail, and microbursts grabbed the poolside furniture and tossed them about. It was a really nice show.

I walked around downtown Branson for a little while, taking a few pictures. They don’t do the place justice. It is a one of kind place. I wish, though, I had grabbed a picture of the Peace Frogs Cafe. Next trip, it’s on my must see list.

I’ll cover the next day in a separate post.

Categories
Media Places

Bulgaria, Romania, …and Missouri?

The New York Times has an interesting story on the absolutely horrible movies that the Sci-Fi channel has been putting out every week. While I won’t say that these are the only reason I’m quitting cable, the are a reason to quit cable. Especially when I found out that Sci-Fi is marketing these movies at a specific demographic: women, 25 to 54 years of age. Not, contrary to popular myth, 14 year old boys; 14 year old boys who are, we presume, out breaking the law on a Saturday night rather than at home watching really bad movies.

No, women between 25 and 54. So much for Bridges of Madison County.

The article is a good read, though it does require login (if you don’t have a NYT login, email and I’ll send you a copy). My favorite quote from the article:

Shot on budgets ranging from $1 million to $2 million, Sci Fi’s movies are made in money-saving locales like Bulgaria, Romania and Missouri.

I’m sure I’ll eventually be offended by this…when I stop laughing.

(Thanks to Slashdot for the needed light moment.)

Categories
Travel

Footprints

This is for Maria, a fellow hunter of giant squid.

One day, not so long ago, I visited Los Angeles for whatever reason and since I’d never been there before I decided to do some sightseeing.

I rode a bus out to Hollywood to look around and when I stepped off, I found myself in a swirl of motion and sound—all simmering in heat from the sidewalks that it almost made me dizzy. I remember that the colors were red and gold and a bright searing blue, all fighting for space in my sight until I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and see white, white, an ocean of white–with maybe a little gray here and there, just to reaffirm I hadn’t died.

I moved along in a trance, pushing past people lost in their own moments; thinking I could start doing a tap dance right there in the street and no one would notice. I didn’t, though, because I hadn’t come all the way to Los Angeles to act like a fool.

I walked past Hollywood and Vine, but no movie director jumped out to claim me; I passed Fredericks of Hollywood, but the pink boas in the window scared me and I hurried past, thinking I could hear the slithering sound of a malicious snicker behind me.

I continued my walk, feet hurting from the hard, hot ground, when I spotted a Chinese building up ahead with a mess of people milling about, most looking down. As I made my way through the crowd, I kept looking at the building and all it’s intricate beauty, when all of a sudden I found myself on the ground. Yes, face first, knees dug into the unforgiving cement, and breath knocked out in one giant exclamation.

I rolled over to sit on my butt, and brought my knees up, rocking from the pain, tears streaming down my face. A nice old man wearing a straw hat and a Donald Duck t-shirt who saw me fall came over and asked in a gentle voice if I was OK.

I rubbed at my eyes to stop the tears because I’m an adult and big girls don’t cry. I laughed and said I didn’t know LA was going to have an earthquake just for me. He chuckled back and said, “Miss, that wasn’t an earthquake. You just stumbled over Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

He pointed down at the ground, and sure enough, I had stumbled over Arnold’s deep footprints–permanently dug into cement, preserved for all times…even against the clumsy stumbling of an out of town tourist like me. They were pointy shooed prints, too. Big, like the image I had of the man.

Somewhat embarrassed at my clumsiness–I can trip on lines painted on the road–I made my way to my feet and noticed that my pants were scuffed where I’d fallen down. The nice old man had moved on now that he was assured I was in no trouble. I decided it was time to head back to the hotel. Instead of the bus, though, I grabbed the Red Line back into the city.

It was still early and this was my only day to sightsee since I had work to do the next day. When I got to town I noticed there was another line that went all the way to Long Beach. Since I hadn’t seen the ocean, and my knees had stopped hurting, why not take it?

The ride seemed to take forever, but the train was comfortable, and the other passengers seemed friendly, sometimes even smiling at me when I would look at them. I rode to the end of the line, where the train let me out in downtown Long Beach. I squinted into the sun and headed west, figuring I’d eventually run into the ocean.

It was the middle of the week and in March, so there weren’t many people about. I walked on boardwalks where I bought an ice cream, and past the Queen Mary where I gazed in amazement at the size. and eventually the concrete capitulated and grudgingly gave way to sand. I looked at the cool water and the smooth beach, and decided then and there, to take my shoes off and walk barefoot in the sand. Maybe I’d even dip a toe into the surf.

I spent an hour walking slowly along, breathing in the perfume of the ocean and feeling the wind on my face. I did dip a toe into the water, I did indeed, and found the water so cold that I jumped back and then laughed at myself for being so silly. Gulls had hopefully followed my steps, and one in particular, an old dull gray lady who looked like she could barely fly, laughed with me. I wish I had kept part of my cone for her, but I had eaten it all.

It was getting late, though, and it was time to head back. When I turned around, I noticed my footprints in the sand, leading back the way I had come. Footprints that even now the tide was reclaiming; greedy lips of water licking their traces from the sand, as if the ocean liked my prints so well, it wanted to claim them for its very own.

Categories
Places

Don’t visit St. Louis

Normally I encourage people to visit St. Louis and Missouri, but I wouldn’t recommend this area to anyone for any reason for the next two months. The heat index hit over 100 today and should hit 105 tomorrow, and it’s still only June. Add this to a growing and worrisome drought and extremely poor air quality, and you have the fixings for an unpleasant time.

We’ve been turning up the temperature on our air conditioner to equalize between the inside and outside a little better. Now when you go outside, you stagger from the heat. Well, I stagger from the heat.

I need to put some shallow pans of water out for our growing group of squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Even the cockroaches, which I discovered when I was out taking moon shots. There were these largish long dark spots moving around on the sidewalk in front of the house, and when I got close, they scattered madly, most going into the cracks in the sidewalks. When they’re not in the house, they’re kind of cute.

I’ve been down and out the last few days with severe headaches and feeling a bit peaky, but plan on getting out tomorrow and Sunday. The St. Louis gay pride event, Pridefest, is this weekend and I’d like to attend to provide support, as well as get some photos.

Ah well, into each life a little ozone devouring polluted heat filled sunshine must fall.

update

As Charles noted, a major explosion and fire downtown hasn’t helped. Those poor firefighters.