My feet are wet. (I know it’s not your fault; I’m not asking you to fix it. I’m just saying.)
“How did they get wet?” you ask. (I know you didn’t really ask; it’s just a rhetorical device. In another sense, I am again just saying.)
Thank you for asking. (Yes, yes, this is another rhetorical device. I remember what I was just saying just two sentences ago.) I was standing in a monster puddle on the street, doing an inadequate job of clearing out the gutter in heavy rain.
We don’t all age the same. The evidence is all around us: some struggle while others soar and it isn’t always easy to explain exactly why.
Of course the genetic lottery matters: through no fault of our own we can be saddled with creaky and cranky bodies at any age; through no virtue of our own we can enjoy robust good health from start to finish.
Of course the situational lottery matters: some get parental neglect, societal disadvantages, geopolitical turmoil; some get loving albeit imperfect parents, healthy communities, peaceful times.
Of course our choices matter: we can waste our lottery winnings, whatever they are, or we can make the most of them. We can do both at different times.
But at this time, for me at least, the lotteries have been played, the choices made. It’s too late to make big changes in my circumstances. What I have is one remaining degree of freedom: how I go out. Not that I’m getting ready for anything imminent, you understand, but as I always knew but now know-in-my-bones, we’re not guaranteed tomorrow and even today can be uncertain.
At a shopping centre near my home, all green growing things have been subject to roughly the same growing conditions. This fall, some are fading away. Leaves that in other years would have been a bright orange/red, this year are bronze at best.
But some are going out with a bang.
I don’t blame the faders-away, but I take some inspiration from the out-with-a-bangers. Do they have any input into their last action for this season? I don’t think so.
Do I? I hope so.
This is a tale of two yards in my neighbourhood.
One yard is a showcase. Green grass? Check. Edged and weeded flowerbeds? Check. Trimmed bushes? Check. Thoughtful plantings for visual interest in every season? Check.
One yard is a mess. Gravel ground-cover peeping out from under matted-down dandelion leaves? Check. Overgrown bushes? Check. Foot-high weeds in the gutter? Check.
These two yards are across the street from each other. The meticulous owners look out on the mess; the hapless owners look out on the showcase.
It’s such a glaring disparity in effort and standards that it makes me wonder whether I owe it to my neighbours to match their landscaping, exterior home maintenance, or holiday decoration. Meh. It’s not a great way to frame the question: Obligation doesn’t feel motivational. I have an opportunity, maybe, to give pleasure to my neighbours, just as they do for me.
This is not just a tale of two yards in my neighbourhood.
You might remember last year’s big announcement of a new category of posts: how-it-started, how-it’s-going. I had planned to follow up the inaugural post, which showed a bare garden in spring, with a harvest-abundance photo. It was not to be.
This year, I travelled at a different season and got the harvest shot all right, but minus the abundance. Edmonton had a hot, dry summer so the garden’s output was, well, subdued. Even so, I could still smell the dill.
I’ve tried haphazardly to get good shots of campfires and sunsets. My results? Mixed.
Campfires often bring the challenge of low light, and it can be tricky to capture the feeling of the flicker with a static image. Sunsets always bring the challenge of low light, and it can be tricky to capture the feeling of a horizon-scale event with a non-panoramic shot.
But none of that stops me from trying as opportunities haphazardly come my way. My latest attempts occurred in Calgary, on a deck with a gas flame surrounded by glass walls, and in a parking lot (the theme of the week). Both brought reflections into the picture. How could I resist?
As a culture, we value travel–New vistas! New perspectives!–and there’s certainly something about being in a different place to make me look at things–and things on cars–a little differently. Sometimes it’s enough to just be in a different parking lot.
There’s an artform here, I think, and I can imagine a serious photographer setting up shots for the greatest effect–selecting the “thing”, positioning the vehicle (heck, selecting the vehicle first), timing the light–and then printing the best resulting shots on huge pieces of canvas. It might even be fun.
Maybe next year. This year, I am content to enjoy these chance encounters, these ephemeral images, as the small miracles they are.
. . . but I did not pick the sunflower seeds.
I decided to take my own advice. Central Alberta has several sunflower farms: I visited two, one of which is primarily a family-fun centre and huge corn maze with parking for buses. I liked the other one, which overlooks the rolling hills west of Bowden.
Now, don’t you feel cheerier? I know I do.
And that might be it for sunflowers. Until next year.
I *knew* there’d be another opportunity to check out the teaching/illustrating skeleton at the physiotherapist’s, and so there was.
This first one reminds me of Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace — technically the first Star Wars movie (historically, as it were) and actually the last Star Wars movie I ever saw or ever plan to.
This next one evokes either an elephant (I mean, look at those ears) or–considered more narrowly–an anxious lobster (admittedly with an unusual set of tentacles).
Go, Blue Jays!
