HIATUS EXCUSE

Laziness is doubtless partly to blame for my longest-ever blogosphere hiatus. Plus the excitement of impending (any day now!) first-time grandfatherhood. Also work—both writing and the start of the cottage's every-room-from-the-floor-up renovations, necessitated by our pre-Christmas flood. 

Then, too, some portion of fault surely lies in the general torpidity I annually seem to go through at the onset of hot weather, which happened hereabouts when, in a couple of weeks, we went from spring's last snowfall to temps in the mid-80˚s F. 

And finally, if I'm being fully honest, some measure of this temporary silence comes from the introspection occasioned by the May 10 passage of yet another birthday, and the dispiriting summing up of my life's genuine worth. Do I really, ever, have anything to say?

All contributed to my blogging interlude…as least for the first half-dozen days. 

But my absence beyond those initial few days has been due to accidentally having taken a rather sizable (3-1/2" x 3-1/2") chunk out of my left lower leg—a flesh-bared, skin-flapping, bleeding, oozing, owie severe enough to prompt quick trips to an Urgent Care facility and an After Hours unit in the hospital across the river from the cottage.   

In case you're wondering, I can be so specific about the injury's shape because it came from the rough-sawn end of a 4" x 4" which, as any carpenter will tell, has a finished dimension of 3-1/2" x 3-1/2". Actually a rather handy size for an injury, since a 4" x 4" non-stick absorbent pad fits nicely, making for a neat bandage. I highly recommend taking this into consideration when planning your own future gashes, gouges, and lacerations.

Because healing has required me to keep my damaged leg elevated to the horizontal, I've spent every day—and night!—in the recliner. Walking/hobbling has been kept to an absolute minimum. No sitting upright with both feet on the ground or floor. I can't do the bed because the injury is on the outside of the leg, between ankle and calf; the first night, when turning over in my sleep, I scraped off the bandage and completely reopened the wound—awakening to pain and blood. Can't sleep all that well in my recliner, either. A choice of the lesser of two evils. 

I haven't been at my desk or on my computer for nearly two weeks. Moreover, I'm technically incapable of writing much beyond a dozen or so words via my iPhone. Siri, faithful helpmate though she can be, fails when it comes to extended dictation. Thus, no desktop Mac, no chance of blogging. 

Yesterday afternoon, however, I hobbled out to the front deck and spent a few wonderful hours in the chaise lounge. That's when I made the from-a-distance backlit photo (above) of a few fading irises along the edge of my driveway. And in just a few minutes I'll check my wound, which is very slowly beginning to heal, to see what amount of drainage/bleeding this first sitting-at-my-desk session has instigated.

It's really, really good to be back.

CAPABLE TO A POINT

Consider today's post a sort of photographic corollary to yesterday's confession regarding the challenge of trying to capture decent images of fast-moving northern rough-winged swallows as they erratically swooped and twisty-turned while feeding above the pool near the cottage. I made much of the difficulty of the task involved, given the decided limitations of my bird-in-flight capturing skills.

Gail, bless her heart, dear friend and faithful Riverdaze reader, thought I was merely being humble. Alas, I was not. I wish that were indeed the case. Modesty would have been an easier path than truth. But I know I'm technically capable only to a point. 

So here's visible, irrefutable proof of my admission's genuine honesty—two shots of the same turkey vulture as it recently circled over the yard. Notice how nice and crisp the images are—subject's eyes sharp, detail in the feathers? Should one desire a poster-sized print of either, suitable to mat and frame and hang on the living-room wall for friends and family to admire, they'd easily enlarge with no loss in quality…though why anyone would be possessed to do such a thing is beyond me.       

Still, their image quality corroborates my point: if the subject-in-flight is big enough, close enough, and sufficiently slow-moving, I'm a "get'r done" camera-totin' whizz! Should refrigerators or school buses sprout wings and take to the sky, I'll nail those shots. Guaranteed!

Zippy little swallows? Luck and dogged persistence are my only real hope. A man must recognize his limitations…

        

CHALLENGING SWALLOWS

I don't claim to be a hot-shot bird photographer—or an expert photographer of any sort. I get by, but I'd classify my overall abilities as generally adequate and occasionally lucky. What might be mistaken for talent is more often the result of perseverance and a blithe willingness to shoot a hundred images of something in order to get one that looks half-way pleasing. Being a perfectionist doesn't help, but shooting digital allows me to indulge such a personality quirk for no additional cost other than time…which was not the case when I used to shoot film.

Birds-in-flight photos are, generally speaking, harder to achieve than more static shots of, say, a titmouse perched on a maple branch. The really skilled action shooters smirkingly refer to such images as "birds-on-a-stick." In my photo files, respectable pix in this latter category probably outnumber acceptable images of the former sort fifty-to-one, and that might be an optimistic estimate.

I mention this because I've decided to try and come up with some decent images of northern rough-winged swallows feeding over the pool in front of the cottage. The two shots I've posted are the best of my first-round efforts. I shot nearly a hundred exposures to get these—and while they are okay, they're certainly not great, especially given that they simply show the birds in flight, and not in one of their obvious contortionist feeding positions as they swoop and dive, zig and zag, zooming about gleefully snatching emerging aquatic insects.

     

Northern rough-winged swallows in action are a tough capture—at least for me. Not quite as challenging as bats, but challenging enough—fast and erratic. I think I can do better, but it may take awhile, like a year or two. So I figured I'd stick these up for now, in case my idealized swallow image proves to be a will-o'-the-wisp.    

 

CHILLY SUNDAY

According to the National Weather Service's website, currently hereabouts it's 56˚F and raining. I'm looking almost due west…at a near-cloudless blue sky all aglow with a bright and shining setting sun. Nary a drop of rain in evidence anywhere. I know it's probably the weekend crew holding down the office—but bless them, I do wish that instead of relying entirely on their instruments and various space-age technologies, someone would take a look out the window before they post their latest report. 

On the other hand, I'll not quibble about the temperature. It is cool, has been both yesterday and today, and 56˚F sounds about right. 

I've been fiddling with my computer most of the day. It started acting up a week or so ago—and while it isn't getting any worse, it isn't getting any better, either. Nothing I do seems to matter. So I'm afraid a service call is likely in the near future, and maybe a new computer. 

As usual, I'm conflicted. I love technology and I hate technology. It's great when it works, frustrating and sometimes almost crippling when it doesn't. Maybe those folks at the National Weather Service are having computer glitches of their own. 

I think I'll go eat a piece of dark chocolate. Maybe two.

LUSTY, LOVELY MAY!

"For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May."

—Thomas Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur         

What a marvelous day for beginning a new month!

There are multihued warblers flitting among the treetops, tree swallows wheeling and swooping above the Cottage Pool, and a rowdy gaggle of mallards and Canada geese up from the river and keeping a wary eye on one another as they share the scoops of cracked corn I tossed out earlier.

The sky, a dazzling oceanic-blue, is spattered with puffy white clouds, and a king's ransom of honey-gold sunshine is streaming down. 

Who cares if the temperature is only 55˚F? 

Not me…and not the Carolina wren who's been filling my morning with song from his perch on the deck rail. Or the young groundhog, recently waddled forth from his snug burrow on the driveway bank, to sort through the latest scraps of leafy greenery, vegetable peelings, and bits of fruit I've left for him on the compost heap.

It's been years since I've seen a decorated Maypole; decades since I've witnessed a group of boys and girls actually weaving those bright ribbon streamers as they circled one. And about the same length of time since I've heard about anyone having gone a'mayin'—though when I was growing up, on this first day of the month, it wasn't at all uncommon for country folks to head for the woods and fields with a basket under their arm for "bringin' in the May."

Given the schedule, work, issues, and general nonsense I've endure these last couple of weeks—chilly temps or not, going for leisurely tramp in the woods this afternoon sounds like a pretty dandy idea.         

     

HAPPY EASTER!

Christ has risen! 

He has risen, indeed!

Happy Easter from Riverdaze!

MY FATHER'S BIRTHDAY

Today is my father's birthday. He was born in 1908, on a humble farm in the rugged and hauntingly beautiful mountains of eastern Kentucky. 

Dad would have enjoyed this day…it's sunny and warm, and everywhere spring is bursting at the seams with birdsong, dozens of wildflowers, and the vernal season's emerging greenery. The river is full and a bit discolored, but I'll bet my father would be thinking about us going bullhead fishing, and perhaps gathering a mess of dandelion greens to cook with our supper fillets afterwards.

God, how I'd love to do that with him one more time…. 

I fear to imagine where my life be without Dad's unstinting love and wise guidance. He taught me to value and live with courage, honor, and compassion; he introduced me to the beauty of nature and the delight of outdoor adventures; he gave me the freedom and encouragement to follow my calling; and he led me to realize that a worthwhile life needs a spiritual center.

The older I get, the more I treasure his hand in my raising. 

Dad loved me with all his heart. I never doubted that fact for a single moment, even when we were at odds over something. And I always did my level best to love him back.   

It has been nearly thirty-one years since my father passed away. Time has barely dulled that pain's sharp edges; the aching void remains. There's not a day goes by during which I fail to think of him—to wish I could show him something or ask a question.

Yet more than anything, I'd like to be able to simply put my arms around my father, give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and tell him how very much he meant to me.

To say, "Happy birthday, Dad! I love you, always. And I know, too, that God never blessed anyone with a better father…a gift for which I'm so very thankful. "