Molly Bowes

"Ladies in Waiting"

2010-03-01T13:32:00.002-05:00

My grandfather enjoyed cameras. His diligence in posing his subjects - sunny face front - meant that his signature photo is the one with his shadow in the foreground.

This picture is of one of my favorite places: the view from my parents house. A friend of my sister's once took a picture of this same scene and entitled it, "Ladies in Waiting."

The camera was a mint green Imperial Mark XII Flash that is among the cameras my grandfather collected over a lifetime of photographic developments.

Route 66, Albuquerque, New Mexico

2010-02-22T20:20:00.010-05:00

The Silverton-Durango Train

2009-07-27T20:03:00.000-04:00

Fiesta Days Rodeo, Durango, Colorado

2009-07-26T20:16:00.001-04:00

Summer Sames....

2009-07-08T17:32:00.002-04:00

Not this summer, but it could be.

Caroline, circa summer she had bangs.

April Showers....

2009-04-16T18:33:00.003-04:00

The sun finally showed today but not after the rain, wind and cold had its way with buds and bird nests. These white, spidery flowers found their way into a water fountain, so Brady (one of my home schooling kids) and I snapped them up.

It's A Longest Road to Tipperary, Part II

2009-04-03T11:44:00.014-04:00

The car has been generally fine. The "check engine" light came on during the second day. Joan and I looked at each blankly and agreed on a course of action: "Pay it no mind."

We explore the coastlines of Sligo - Yeats country. It is almost five and Joan asks if I have seen Yeats' grave and want to stop.

If I loved a poet it would be Yeats with his bee loud glades and faeries taking children by the hand. Yeats’ poetry is breathing but he is not, and rather than stop and look at a headstone, I ask if we can go on and stop at what is one of my favorite places in Ireland: Quirke’s Butcher Shop in Sligo town.

Joan started visiting Quirke's when she was a student at Trinity in 1985, and she remembers that the shop is on Wine Street. It is about twenty past five when we finally find the street but the lights are still on in the shop. Joan drops us at the corner and drives off to find parking.

The door is open and

Michael Quirke is at the butcher

block carving away while a young woman leans on the counter and listens to him. Walking into his shop is a bit like stopping at one of those tourist spots where an audio runs on a loop while waves of visitors come and go. There is no break in his monologue - and really never is: he moves from one customer to the next story with the gracefully affability of a man who is truly happy and inspired in his work.

Michael’s father was a butcher before him. As a child, Michael would “whittle wee figures” at his school desk.

"I'd be having ta hide them in me desk from Sister Bernadette. See, Sister Bernadette didn't think much

of me whittling, or of me." He props one foot on a stool and one hand on a hip while laughing at the memory. "I was on the tele here once and the next day, one of me low babies mates - ah, ye see: ye's American's be saying 'grade school' or 'pre-school' or the like - me low babies mate, Ursula, popped round while passing the shop to say hello. 'Ye remember me Michael Quirke? I sat next ta ye in school. Ye were always making figures at yer desk. I remember Sister telling ye, 'This will not do at all, Quirke. Ye won’t get anywhere. Ye won’t make anything of yerself.' And now I see ye on the tele last night.' "He laughs again and brushes his hands across his vest.

There is a photo album on the countertop, which is cluttered with books and articles about Irish history and mythology. He flips through the pages to show us a picture of himself with Seamus Heaney.

“I’m famous ye know,” and in a low voice with an arch of an eyebrow: “I really shouldn’t be talkin’ ta ordinary people ye know.”

Michael shows me a picture of himself as a butcher, “proof” he says, that he initially did follow in his father’s footseps. Even though there is still a spray of blood visable on the tiled walls of his shop, Michael carves only wood now - figures that incorporate the mythological stories of Ireland.

"Ye see Ireland has two things going for it. Chaos and

women. Invading countries had little luck against those

two foes."

Our stop at Michael's stretches past an hour. All I need to do is pick up a wooden figure and he'll delve into the story of Cuchullain battling a giant, or Lena and the Swans, or Fionn McCool sucking his thumb. One hand grasps the figure like it is an apple he is about to take a bite out of, while the other hand traces the symbols he has carved into each figure.

*

When our three to five hour trip stretches into the

seventh hour, we text Rob & Mike to let them know

that they should eat without us. The phone beeps with

a return message: “Where the bloody hell are you?!"

It is our first time driving at night and this makes us aware of the importance of automobile lighting.

We can't find the interior lights, so I periodically hold my iPod at an angle and squint at the map.

And it is not long after sunset that we realize how, with amazing consistency, oncoming cars flash their lights at us.

“But I don’t have my brights on,” Joan frets while turning knobs as another car flashes us.

We pull over and Joan stands in front of the car while instructing me to flip the lights through the various

settings, of which there are at least three. When she is satisfied, she slides behind the wheel and we pull out onto the road where we are promptly flashed by another

car.

“I think you need to be more proactive,” I suggest.
“What do you mean,” she says.

I figure it is like that thing some people do when they haven’t seen someone else in a while. “Oh, I’ve gained so much weight,” you’ll say, pointing out your flaw before the other person can, and then feeling that the other person will be more forgiving if you look a little “mend” than you used to.

A car with only one headlight passes us, the one weak beam hitting a high note at the last moment in a pathetic effort to scold us.

“Try flashing them first.” She doesn't take my advise, for some reason. Cars continue to try to politely tell us,

"Yer fecking brights are on."

Joan eventually assumes the tact of promptly flashing her lights back at people.

The direction to the hotel seems unusually well marked. Up until the roundabout. Where - perhaps in an effort not to appear too pushy - there are signs that imply that Hotel Castleconnel is 4k away and in whichever direction you fancy. I suggest one exit and Joan takes another. The road is straight and dark.

“I think we missed it.” After about a mile, we approach a sign that says, “Castleconnel,” which is half veiled in black cloth.

“No,” Joan ventures. “There is a sign...”

“It is the other way.”

“You think?”

It is almost ten now. We circle round the roundabout and I point to the exit I want her to take. Sure enough, within a hundred yards there is a sign with an arrow directing us to the hotel, a congratualtions of sorts, a pat on the back for passing the test.

We are laughing.
“How did you know?”
“Because I know how to read Irish road signs. The first one is a red herring. A test. If you figure that out and get headed back in the right direction then they figure fair play to you and show you the real sign.” Another car flashes its lights at us.
“OK, little missy,” Joan conceeds.

It is seven past ten when we find the hotel and it only takes us a few more minutes to make obligatory lost loops around the parking lots, guest houses and stray cats before we find the main hotel. We don’t bother to park but pull up right in front, blocking the door. We are elated to be there, and it shows in our comments.

“Molly, I’ll give you five euros if you unload the car....”

“With our luck, they stopped serving dinner at ten.”

But Irish luck is with us: dinner actually finished earlier at nine thirty. Now we don't have to feel like we just missed it.

The front desk tells us that the kitchen will make sandwiches for it.

Around eleven, we are settled in the bar in leather couches with drinks and a plate of sandwiches. Because the three of us don't usually eat meat, we quickly finish off the cucumber sandwiches, and are still hungry enough to find the meat sandwiches appetizing. We peel off layers of meat and eat butter between two small slices of white bread.
"I don't know about you, but I think the bread and butter without the ham is better than the bread and butter without the turkey."
"Hmmmm. Yes, I agree."

It is two pints later and two a.m. when I call it a night. I go to our hotel room but neither Joan or mom responds to my knocks. I trek down the hall, down the stairs, through the doorway, down the hall, up three stairs, through the door and down the main staircase to find the Polish guy who is on over night at the front desk. I ask him for an extra key but there is none, so we make the journey up the stairs, through the door, down the hall, etc. with him following me. It seems to take an awkward forever.

When we pass a reddish stain on the carpet I consider making small talk by asking him if the hotel reminds him of the one in The Shining. But the cultural and language barriers make me think that would be even more awkward, so I say nothing.

Joan is sitting up in bed, light on, eyes half open when the Polish guy lets me in our room.

Its a Longest Road to Tipperary, Part I

2009-03-31T20:03:00.016-04:00

*blogging is somewhat touch and go as far as reliably uploading pictures and stories before the next adventure or the need for at least 4 hours sleep happens. Will try to add pictures as soon as possible.

Sitting in the large and empty lounge of the Castleconnel Hotel, otherwise known as the Castle Oak House Hotel. The hotel is large, estate-like, ornate and empty, and I half expect Jack Nicholson to come down to the pub at any minute to emote some of his stir crazy energy on a Corona.

Discussing traveling from one end of the country to the other in one day with an Irish is a bit like discussing your plans for space exploration.

"Limerick? A long trip. And fer sure now, there isn't much there," offered my cousin Philip.

We have great plans for making great time, and figure that we should be in Limerick by 4 pm at the latest. We leave Bellarena around half eleven with Joan driving and me playing DJ with the iPod, listening to what has to be the saddest song ever, The Town I Loved So Well, as we pass through Derry.

There is a shift-in-your-seat uncomfortableness to the sight of a union jack flying in a town square or at bridge curbs painted in bars of red, white and blue. It is a bit surprising that instead of a feeling of melting pot diplomacy, one feels indignant and annoyed at what (probably unfairly on my part) seems like a need to advertise authority in a place with such a history of trauma. Road signs marked "Londonderry" alternately have the "London" or the "derry" obscured with spray paint.

We cross into Omagh and stop at the first pub we come to for a break. "The Hogshead" is inviting and empty, except for the affable publican who waits on three men at the bar. The men's conversation is pretty loud and I have a feeling that they are swearing every few words, but the combination of their accents and their alcohol makes it unclear. When the bartender approaches our table, Joan asks about the best route to get to Limerick.

"Limerick?" He stares out the window with a confused smile on his face. "Ah no, I wouldn't be able to tell you that. And ting is, stop anyone on the street and their tell you the same thing."

Getting an idea, he tells us to hold on a minute and quickly heads to the bar to ask the two older gentlemen what they think. After they get over the initial shock associated with the idea of a person wanting to go to Limerick, there is a lot of back and forth and lively debate. "Watch them say, 'Go to Dublin first,'" Joan whispers while watching them. The publican returns.

"The gentlemen suggest you go to Dublin first."

Joan thanks him but says that we aren't going to Dublin first, so the publican suggests that we inquire at the Information Center because surely, someone there will know how to get to Limerick.

The publican is dropping off our food when Joan returns and so he asks what Information suggested. When Joan says that Information suggested a route via Galway, the publican lights up. "Right. Hold on a moment now. Got a bit of a bet going." He returns to the bar and there is animated whispering before the oldest man turns on his stool to look at us in disbelief.

"What is this now? Which road they be telling you to go?"
"They said to go to Galway first," Joan yells over to him.
"Galway?"
"Yes," I yell back over, "She said, 'You'll go via Galway. If you're smart."

The publican is bent over laughing and our man on the stool is on his feet and at our table in a few seconds.

"Hold on now and I'll tell you," he says pulling up a stool and inviting himself for a seat. "I don't know about that. Sure it'll be all day if you go to Galway first." He has a point: all roads actually do lead to Dublin and there is no direct north to south road. Going to Limerick via Galway looks shorter on the map but there are many towns and single carriageways along the route. As Joan and I have discovered, we have to several laps around and through each town in order to get turned around the way we came and actually see a posting for the route we need. It is all about confusing any invaders who arrive via Viking ship and then rent small Japanese cars in order to explore and then conquer the country.

Our man stays purched on his stool at our table, shaking his head and truly troubled by what we have told him, one hand on his hip and the other tracing an imaginary map on the table top.

"Sure, you should go to Dublin. If not, ye's should stay in Donegal fer the night. It is a terrible long trip."
Everyone is laughing and wishing us luck when we finally leave the pub.

We were to meet Rob and Mike at the hotel for dinner around six. Mike is Michael Coffey, the son of Jim Coffey. The story we all know is that Jim Coffey and his brother (my grandfather) Jack Coffey, were members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood during the 1920's in Limerick. Their jobs were primarily to hang out in the pub and eavesdrop on British soldiers and report back to the other members of the IRB, many of whom were doing the same thing, some of whom were reported to take the occasional Black & Tan up into the mountain for a last walk. While walking home one night, Jim and Jack encountered some British soldiers along the road who had been drinking and who recognized the two brothers as spies for the IRA. Jim and Jack were told to stand against a haystack, and it was only through providence in the form of the appearance of the soldiers' superior officer that Jim and Jack kept their lives that evening. Soon after, it was decided that Jim and Jack needed to leave the country. A coin was flipped. Jim got Australia, Jack got America. It was the last they would see of each other.

While visiting my sister Sarah during her 1998 year abroad in Australia, my mother tracked down a man by the name of Tony Baines who apparently knew her Uncle Jim. With little hope and several previous dead ends, she scheduled a last minute visit with Tony at his hotel, The Dolphin. When my mom pulled old photographs out of her purse to share with Tony, Tony smiled and pulled the same photographs out from his desk. He put mom in touch with Jim's elderly widow, who then put mom in touch with Michael, Jim's only son who lost his father at the age of five. Mom and Michael would eventually meet in Ireland in 2005. When they see each other during this trip, Michael will hug his closest living relative Helene and keep her safely tucked under his arm in a hug for several minutes.

Elizabethtown

2009-03-31T18:46:00.026-04:00

After breakfast, Mom, Joan and I make our last drive to Magilligan Point. We collect sand for my niece, Madeline Jane, and I think about my
grandmother Jane collecting mussels with Aunt Mary there at low tide many, many years
ago.

Around "half ten," we call on Elizabeth. It takes her awhile to answer the door but we wait patiently on her doorstep knowing she is
home and just working somewhere in the house. When she answers the door she is smiling and wearing her apron.

"Wait a minute ye see - I was jest dun at the shop," she says and steps aside to urge us through the door.

"We thought you were sleeping in Elizabeth."

"Ah no. Come in here ye now an set a wee minute while I get me jumper on."

When she returns she has several framed pictures wrapped in brown paper to show mom.

"Ye see this one hare. Does any ye's want it?" It is a picture, one side showing Pope Benedict, the other side of Pop John Paul. At the top it says, "Bless This Home."

"Elizabeth, don't you want to keep it? After all, you can never have too many pope pictures in your house."
"Ah now," she laughs, "I have three already at the top of the stair and no mere space."

Elizabeth walks the short distance to the cottage with us so I can take some pictures. The cottage is the thatched one on Seacoast Road in Bellrena. It was home to the thirteen McPoyle children, although not at the same time. My grandmother, Jane, was one of only two children to emigrate and she knew her youngest siblings (Sarah and Mary) primarily through letters and a few dear return visits. Elizabeth's father, Philip, and mom's mother, Jane, were brother and sister. The house became part of the British National Trust when upkeep became too much for Sarah and Mary, who lived without electricity and running water until their eighties. The home has since been modernized: gone is the pile of peat that Sarah and Mary used to cook their meals and heat their home., and there is now indoor plumbing and other homes built right up to the edge of the property.

Elizabeth didn't know the man who now lives there, but after a couple of knocks on the half-door we made ourselves as home outside and took a few pictures (logistically a bit challenging since the man has two very modern forms of transportation parked right in front of the cottage but we did alright).

I took a different route back to Elizabeth's afterwards so I could take a few pictures of Binevenaugh. It was there that I probably amassed a wee bit of bad karma for the day when I tried to give a lost passerby directions.
Man In Car: Sorry, I'm looking for the wee road that is jest after the bar on Seacoast Road?

*it is worth an aside here to point out that the way that the Irish give directions is problematic even for the Irish; using landmarks vs. actual street names is visually more interesting but sometimes impractical, such as when Aiden O'Donnel's old brown cow decides to switch fields and therefore can no longer be found at the corner where one must turn to go to Dublin rather than Cork
.

Man In Car: Sorry, miss? The wee road?

Me: (Imagine here an Irish accent a la Madonna, but after she'd only been in the other country for about 3 days): There used to be an old bar just there - the Oasis - but I think it is gone now.

MIC: Ye see I don't know. I'm a social worker and my directions say, "Turn on the wee road jest after the pub." But I can't find the pub.

Me: The Coastal Road splits about another 2 kilometers down the road. Could that be it?

MIC: Ah no - I don't think so.

We go back and forth for a bit like this - me throwing out landmarks I can think of because - in this situation - I actually am the one in the know and for all he knows my funny accident is from watching too many American sitcoms. But I am useless and we eventually laugh at his situation and he drives off.

Before we leave, Joan hugs Elizabeth.

It has always been evident that Elizabeth isn't the hugging kind. She is the kind that loves by inviting you through the door, by showing you her grandchildren's school pictures from St Anthony's, by offering you a framed picture
of the pope because she already has three in her house, and by fixing you a cup of tea, putting extra butter on your potatoes and insisting that she buy you a glass of stout at The Point Bar.

Elizabeth accepts a hug from Joan. Then mom hugs her and that is it. Elizabeth is in tears, pushing mom away and waving us off while she waves us goodbye. I don't get to hug her at all and it bothers me a bit because the way she sets her kitchen table and fusses over meals and says, "Oh aye" now reminds me of my own grandmother who died when I was ten.

She stands at the door until we drive away.

And she is still there waving when we drive back by a second time because we actually went the wrong way the first time.

"Driving" - Belfast to Derry

2009-03-29T18:53:00.013-04:00

Joan and I are taking turns and mom either deserves sainthood or an oscar, because other than the occasional, "Whoa Nelly," or "My, that looks like quite a turn coming up," there is little other commentary coming from the back seat.

I think we both have our pluses and minus. Listening to the Pouges definitely seems to encourage Joan to drive faster. And we did become intimately acquainted

with a hedge row once when a lorry was

bearing down on a single lane road, but I think that was a good thing. I tend to hug more to the center line (danger: oncoming traffic), while Joan tends to hug more to the curb (danger: a somewhat lopsided but entertaining few moments while we proceed down the road with two wheels up on the curb). I think I proved my worth today in making quick U-ies mid "single carriageway" when we were headed in the wrong direction or needed to back track to pet donkeys in roadside fields.

We've only had one run-in with the law, and we initiated it, so I don't think it counts. Belfast city center is a bit like downtown DC on the weekends; everything that thrives on the government is shut down on Sundays. We had a rough time finding a place to have breakfast. For one because we didn't wake up until 10:30 -

we got hit with Europe's "spring forward" and lost yet another hour of sleep, and also stayed

up too late encouraging mom to watch all of "School of Rock" on RTE 1. So not only did we miss mass, but free breakfast as well (I'll leave it to the reader to determine which is the bigger sin, but mom says it is OK to miss church when you're on vacation.)

The overnight guy at the Park Inn hotel's reception desk was thrown when I asked about eating.

Me: Know any place we can get brunch?

Guy:

Me: Brunch. Or lunch. Or breakfast.

Guy: (looking at a distant spot on the

horizon): Uh...breakfast....

Me: Yeah. Something to eat.

Guy: To eat....maybe Wetherspoons? Just around the corner.

Me: Wetherspoons? You mean the place that was all over the news yesterday?

Guy:

Me: Because there was a riot there over the Poland-Northern Ireland football match and

the police had to close down the block?

Guy: (Staring at spot on the horizon):

Animated Shift

Relief Guy with Bleached Hair Who Breezes on the Scene: Yes. She is right. Weatherspoons. Riot. Chairs through windows. Police everywhere. OMG. No. Go to Ormeau Street. Fabulous cafes. A-dor-a-ble. Get an Ulster Fry. Go right, then left, then right again. Avoid the blood pudding.

Joan drove. We were lost after the first "right then left, " but spotted two police officers leaning into a

window of a

car next to the upcoming stop light. "I'll ask them."

As we slowed to a stop I noticed these were not the benign looking billy club weilding, funny hat wearing Gardia of the south, but fully kitted-out northern officers with bullet proof vests and guns. And they seemed to be giving the once over to a girl behind the wheel. Maybe we shouldn't bother the nice men after all. But we were stuck at a stop light, and I couldn't get my window back up, and the red haired fellow was already eyeballing me over his shoulder while his partner dealt with the driver.

In my best "I really don't mean to bother you" whisper I leaned toward him and said, "Sorry, sorry - Ormeau Street?"

He looked at me once, then back to his partner, and then leaned in towards me and whispered, "Don't ye think ye better be putting on yer seat belt there first?"

While I scrambled to get my seat belt on the light changed and I only got a glimpse of him laughing to himself as we pulled away. We never did find Ormeau street and the Ulster Fry.

Dublin Airport Tour to Drogheda

2009-03-27T15:47:00.055-04:00

The sun is shining on this our first day of our island holiday. Oh, no it isn't. Ah, yes it is again.

After the 6 hour flight, during which Ms. Hegan celebrated her last year as head cabin attendant for Aer Lingus (applause all around), we headed to the passport desks.

When we reconvened at baggage, Joan expressed her humored dismay that mom's and her passports were stamped with a 30 day limit, vs. the usual 90 days.

At that point it ocurred to me that I should check what my passport said since I was in a different line than they were....

After having spied a just illuminated "ALL PASSPORTS" light, I managed to be first in a new line. I would have stayed put had I known that my passport agent was having a not so good passport agent day. I later decided that it must have been because someone moved him from his prefered spot in a damp basement with a naked lightbulb, single metal chair and instruments of torture, to his current and rather pedestrian spot in a passport booth where he struggled to really shine.

"Good morning. When are you leaving."

"Oh. Uh, April. 6th."

"Why are you here."

"Visiting family."

"What family."

"Oh. Uh, family in Tipperary and Derry."

Incredulous look: "No - who is this family."

"My mother's cousins?"

Staring at me with the stamp poised over my passport: "When are you leaving."

Next to "Permission to Remain in the Country until" he scrawled: APRIL 6.

Joan compared the rental car desks to the New York Stock Exchange - hands waving, people shouting, general chaos and malay as the next wave of tourist passed their way. We had a successful time pitting them against one another - Joan working the Hertz guys while I played hardball with Budget.

Minus 70 Euros later we had scored our beauty bargain: a lovely gold Nissan Something That Begins With An A that I found in the parking lot after only 23 minutes of walking up to each one in the fleet and clicking the unlock button. (Once I even got myself completely settled with mirrors and seat adjusted before realizing the key didn't work and someone had just accidentally left the car unlocked.) I then spent the next half hour taking a not so leisurely ride around and around the airport while repeating "on the left, on the left" to myself as I navigated roundabouts and traffic cones. I

finally had to use a "bus only" lane and my hazard lights in order to get back to Mom and Joan so we could load the luggage.

Out on the M1 headed north, lorries barred down on me in the

rear view mirror as the wind blew the

daffodils flat against the fields. Lack of sleep is apparently an amazing sedative because mom clutched nothing on our drive and even offered that I was doing, "a very good job" with my driving.

We arrived and got settled into hotel number 1: Scholar's Townhouse Hotel,an old CB boy's school in Drogheda (DROCK -HEH -da). It is no longer a boys school, however there is one next door. Over breakfast Joan kept looking up from her plate of fruit with an anxious look to ask, "Doesn't anyone else hear screaming children?!" We didn't - and thought she was hallucinating (triplet flashbacks now rising to the surface with some distance) but turns out she was right - recess was on next door and a game of football was going on in the school yard.

We settled into the one of our two rooms. Mom got into her PJ's and tossed a bit and smiled at us occasionally while we all waited for the other room to be ready.

Downtown after the naps. Through the smallest allowable alleyway for our vehicle to get parking. Our man at the lot was quite understanding about our not having any money yet. "Ah not at all. Ye's pay when ye's come back."

In line at the BankLink, a snapshot of the butcher, and then a side stop at an art gallery with a personal tour of sorts from the security guard:

"Ye see, some of this is surreal art, and some of it is realistic, the difference being some is real and some is...is...."

"Surreal?"

"Yes. Exactly."

The whole town seemed torn concerning where to recommend for dinner in that there didn't seem any place to recommend ("Ah, no, ye'll not send them there..."), and we finally took the advise of the cashiers at Boots Pharmacy: The West Court Hotel Pub. Which was kind of nice, other than the big screen TV's with VH1 "The 80's" videos that completely mezmerized Joan, and the large group of teenagers that came into drink, refused to leave and told the manager, "We'll finish our focking drink so fock off." When Joan and I said, "We didn't know you had live entertainment tonight," the waiter didn't laugh.

A nicely dressed 20-something young man passed our table tsk-tsking, and - in what I guess was an effort to relate to three yanks - knowingly said, "This would never happen in the Bronx, right?"

A drizzly post pint walk up uneven sidewalk found us facing a locked car park.

"But it says on the door, "parking, night and day." Joan would repeat this with several times while we laughed until we realized there was a "no" at the front of the phrase - at which point we just laughed more.

Suleman to the rescue with a 6

euro, 4-block cab ride home. "I didn't know we were riding in a Mercedes," Joan laughed as we said goodnight to our money and his smiling face.

Back at our hotel and snug by the fire in the pub.

The manager tells me the best place for internet

reception is "in the bar" - how lucky.

We settle in leather chairs for our nightcaps. Nana settles into a big leather couch. Joan checks the progress of her Brownie troupe's Girl Scout Cookie sales online. I stare at the tumbler of Jameson's I got in place of the hot toddy that I ordered. I wish I was the gal who tossed back her whiskey neat with a bang of the glass on the table, but sadly I am not. It takes me 45 minutes and Joan and mom's help to finish it.

Onto Belfast in the morning. The Troubles are supposedly past, but hard economic times may explain some recent flare ups by the IRA. Joan says Ireland's economy is the 2nd worst in Europe. The plan is to take a Black Cab Tour once we are settled. It will be my first time in Belfast since I passed through on a bus in 1993 and got my only glimpses of armed soldiers on bustling street corners.

Warmer Annapolis...

2009-02-05T21:02:00.000-05:00

Snow Praying

2009-01-30T15:43:00.005-05:00

I used Google Earth to try to find a field in the area near my work that is a crossroads of major highways. A huge field showed up on the screen, less than two miles from the office. When I arrived at the "field" I discovered it was actually a memorial garden. These prayer posed hands were my only stop as the snow turned to rain and then rained as hard as it could.

Annapolis, First Snow

2009-01-28T13:09:00.001-05:00

The WWII Memorial and the Naval Academy Bridge with Annapolis in the background.

hOpe....

2009-01-28T12:34:00.006-05:00

January 19th was a holiday - Martin Luther King day. The wind was icy and the streets of Baltimore were quiet - virtually deserted. But on the corner of Lombard and Commerce, vendors were busy setting up their stands.

A hot chocolate vendor nodded at me and shivered against the cold.

"What time is Obama supposed to get here?"

He smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together, "I think around four. There is already a line a couple thousand deep a few blocks over."

I checked my watch. 9:43 am.

"Wow. Well, good luck today."

"Thanks. You too."

Temperatures that day wouldn't get above freezing. The crowd was estimated to be 40,000.

Reindeer Games

2009-01-28T12:31:00.002-05:00

"oh oh it's MAGIC...."

2009-01-24T11:09:00.013-05:00

Along the old slave road route from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, Tanzania, 2007.

Remember the days when everyone crowded around the camera to wait while the picture magically appeared? There are still times and places where that happens, and they don't have to be in a far away land.
*
I have to develop the film from my grandfather’s old Brownies. Each "click" of the camera is thoughtful. Valuable. There are only 12 exposures. I debate whether I should try to develop them myself. I can't send a picture to the digital "trashcan" if the exposure is wrong. I can't show my nephew anything on the screen when pulls the camera towards him and says, "Let me see." We have to wait. And anticipate. And hope. And there is a kind of Christmas Eve magic in that.
*
That word - "magic" - is part of wonder and joy of photography. The "magic" that happens when you place the paper in developing solution, or lean against the counter and pull the prints out of the envelope, or stand with family and friends and watch an image appear. Solidified in time and space as is. No “delete” option next to an LCD screen. No Photoshop or Apple laptop within the walls of one's clay and wattle made home.

The "hope" that this one turns out alright. The satisfaction when it finally does. The acceptance when it isn't perfect and it still has a place in a photo album or on the refrigerator door.
*
The "magic" and "hope" of photography is somehow linked to the chance encounter with a meaningful moment. It is the difference between listening to your favorite song on your iPod, vs. hearing it on the radio. One is choreographed gratification. The other: kismet.

Along the old slave road route from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, Tanzania, 2007.

Dandelions

2009-01-15T20:17:00.001-05:00

How It All Starts (or "How Sibling Love is a Contact Sport")

2009-01-07T12:09:00.007-05:00

You just want a nice family picture...

...something is said...

...it takes a moment to sink in...

...someone says something back... and....

...contact.

The Birthday Party, Strawberry Fields

2009-01-03T13:11:00.006-05:00

This Little Kitten Lost Her...

2008-11-16T11:39:00.006-05:00

This little kitten lost more than her mitten.

Yowling shadow darting under the parked cars at the New Carrolton Metro stop last night. It took several minutes of trying to pinpoint her echoing cries and peeking under vehicles to finally spot her in the wheel well of a car, crouched on top of a tire. As soon as she spotted me moving in her direction, she jumped down from her spot and ran under the rows of cars.

After 10 minutes of her running back and forth among cars, and me kneeling on the ground next to various vehicles calling "here kittykittykitty," I changed tactics. Simultaneously summoning two dusty years of acting training and setting aside personal dignity, I attempted to "be the mother cat" by yowling back and shrugging off the sideways glaces if passersby with a weak "there's a kitten" explaination. She actually responded fairly quickly to the noises I made, allowing me to momentarily feel like Caesar Molly, Cat Whisperer. Her meows sounded almost hopeful as she crept out from under a station wagon. But one look at me and she realized I certainly was not her mommy, and ran off yowling again.

One lady passing by gave me a bag of left over french fries to use in an effort to tempt her out from below the cars (note for anyone who finds herself in a similar situation: lost cats are not endeared by having cold potato products chucked in their general direction). Sadly, she said,"There is a black and white one around here too."

After 30 minutes, I was very late for dinner, my pant knees and hands were wet and dirty, and I was on the verge of convincing myself that maybe Kitten was better off were she was. I got down on my hands and knees one last time and caught sight of her two cars over hoisting herself up into the wheel well of a black SUV. I snuck behind the vehicle, flattened myself against the rear passenger side and slide along it until I could just see the top of the tire and her tail laying across it. I reached around for a one-handed grab, and she hissed and gave me four paws worth of claws and a couple of good bites across my knuckles in return, but I soon had her safely tucked inside my jacket. Within a few minutes she was calm and letting me pet her. After a few more minutes, she was happily perched on the car headrest and watching traffic as we drove to DC.

*These pictures are from my cell phone from this morning -an impromptu Take Your Cat to Work Day. At least she likes car rides. We looked for "the black and white" sibling but couldn't find him. We hope to get back and look again soon.

Kitten found a home on Saturday, November 31. She will be living with Sarah Bowes, Tim Frush, and James the cattledog mix (originally a stray from New Orleans who was hit by a car) in their home on Lombard Street in Baltimore. And "she" is actually a "he."

Marion Warren's Tobacco Photos

2008-11-16T11:11:00.010-05:00

While hoping to track down an original of Marion Warren's photo of the waitresses in the surf at Ocean City, I came across theses picture that he took of Maryland tobacco crops. I wanted to post them since it is a subject I like by an artist whose place based subject matter I find very inspirational.

"34. 1956 circa: For me, a photograph really succeeds if it can explain its subject completely. Here you can see the tobacco plant clearly in the foreground, that it is being harvested by hand and drawn by horses. There's the typical tobacco barn with its slats open for the crop to dry, and there's the farmer's house. Today, of course, there would be a tractor instead of horses. In fact, this particular scene no longer exists; the community of Annapolis Cove on Bay Ridge Avenue is now on the site of this farm. MSA SC 1890-02-14 "

"92. 1968: I rarely get more than two or three good pictures in a day, and sometimes only one. I was driving in Calvert County, on my way to photograph a cypress swamp (93), when I saw this tobacco barn. The lighting was perfect, and I quickly set up the camera. I debated about removing the Nehi bottle, but decided that it added the human element. I almost shot it both ways--with the bottle and without it--but I said, no sir, you don't chicken out, you shoot it the way you see it. MSA SC 1890-05-2500" From The Eye of the Beholder

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2008-11-05T13:32:00.008-05:00

Tobacco Barn

2008-10-28T16:25:00.004-04:00

"Step 6. Air cure the tobacco in the barn for about 8 weeks. This allows all the moisture to be released from the tobacco leaf. It will change color during this period." How to Harvest Tobacco

After looking at the pictures from this day, it occured to me that I'd never before seen a pale blue tobacco barn. Apparently, a painted barn was something more common among the Pennsylvania farmers, as opposed to the Southern Maryland farmers who didn't have the extra money to spend on the aesthetics of an out building.

Red - a color complimentary to the fall landscapes that are the backdrop to post-harvest drying period for the crop - is the most common color for painted barns. Blue, on the other hand, is a color more rare in nature. There is the blue sky, but that is the result of light that is absorbed by gas molecules and radiated in different directions. Blueberries are actually more purple than blue. And even the bluebird is rare and fleeting. So why is this barn blue? A statement? A lone hold out in a county that overwhelmingly turned away from its identifying crop in the 2000 Tobacco Buyout ("Eighty six percent of the 1998 eligible tobacco has been taken out of production forever for human consumption as 877 growers have taken Maryland's Tobacco Buyout by January 2005. This represents 7.80 million pounds of tobacco and 94% of the producers," So. Maryland So Good)?

What ever the reason for the blue barn, it is one of the prettiest among the many that dot agricultural landscapes waiting for a new life.

Tobacco Sticks

2008-10-28T00:30:00.002-04:00

"Step 4. Pierce tobacco stalks for stringing on tobacco sticks. Use a tobacco spear on the end of a tobacco stick and thread the stalks onto the sticks.

Step 5. Gather the sticks and remove them to the tobacco barn."

This was a "hit the breaks and do a U-y" picture. I have never seen a tobacco field in "mid-harvest" this way. Plus there was an amazing light with a deep blue backdrop that you usually get with the sun appearing during a storm. No storm this day though.

The light changed quickly this afternoon and by the time I took a close up of the tobacco clusters the clouds had already moved across the sun. I only took a few and saw that the moment had passed.

As I pulled my car back onto the highway a man on the opposite side of the road was getting out of his car, camera in hand.

Harvesting

2008-10-27T23:00:00.001-04:00

Step 3: Harvest tobacco leaves in the morning after the dew dries. This prevents the leaves from arriving wet to the curing barn. You can also pick in the afternoon when the sun isn't as strong.

The House That Jack....

2008-10-27T12:30:00.014-04:00

...first lived in when he arrived in New York after immigrating from Tipperary, Ireland.

After researching 1930 census information from http://www.ancestry.com/, my mom found information that indicated that a "Daniel Coffey" and a "John Coffey" were borders at this home of Frank and Elizabeth Conat of 10 Willow Place, Brooklyn, NY, along with their children, Katherine, Francis, Edward, and daughter-in-law, Margaret Hughes Conat.

While in NY for a few days visiting Michelle and Jeanna Bryner, I told mom I would look up the street and take a few pictures. "The house probably isn't there anymore, but if it is I'd like to see it," she said and - remembering her trip to see her childhood home in the Bronx where the cabbie wouldn't allow a lady to get out in such a place - added, "Who knows what the neighborhood will be like."

On the morning of my birthday, Michelle decided to call her bosses and ask if she could take a half day off from her job that she works from her apartment. "I see no problem with that, "said one, so we we off on the subway with our map of NYC to find Willow Place. After a stop at Starbucks, we walked the several blocks to a green-eye inducing neighborhood of stately brownstones and brick row houses on tree lined streets. "This doesn't look too shabby for a couple of immigrants."

Michelle and I took several pictures of the exterior before sitting on the curb across from the street so we could look at the houses, drink our coffees, watch owners with the dogs greet each other, and dream of owning such a home in such a neighborhood. I opened my cell phone and called mom. "Guess where I am?" I told her how easy it was to find the place, and how pretty the street was. She wanted to know if we went in the house - "No...I don't know if we should bother the people...they probably don't know anything about the original owners..."They wished me a good birthday and I told them I'd call them again later. When we stood to leave Michelle and I looked at each other and then at the house, and decided to ring the doorbell.

There were four doorbells. Surely any chance that one of the original Conat children still lived there decreased significantly when we saw that. Was there even a point to ringing the bells? We looked at the window boxes with casually manicured flowers and green leafy vegetables

growing from them and agreed: "Surely these are people who wouldn't mind strangers ringing their doorbell midday on a Wednesday to say, 'I think my grandfather lived here about 90 years ago.' You wouldn't know anything about that now, would you?"

We rang each of the bells starting with the ground floor apartments with the thought that the chance of someone being annoyed with our ringing his or her doorbell increased exponentially the more flights of stairs were between the person and the front steps. I pushed the first button. Waited. Should we leave? No, if it was me I'd be happy to help two young girls....Michelle pushed the second button. Waited. Maybe they are people who work from home and would be really made to be bothered? Then they just won't answer. I pushed the third button. Waited. I mean, what are the chances that they would know anything about the owners, let alone something about my grandfather.

It was the last doorbell that we rang that got any response. Heavy steps coming down the stairs, which definitely sounded like "Why those damn kids..." Then snapping open of various locks and bolts, undeniably to the tune of "Wait (snap) 'til I (slide) get my (chain rattling) hands on - " and the door opened a crack.

A small Korean lady in a pink sweater looks out at us. "Ah...yease?"

Just her opening the door was a sign to us this small middle aged Asian immigrant in sweats was the wise gatekeeper of all answers John Coffey, circa 1927. We both tried in various ways and various times to explain who we were looking for and why, stressing from different angles, "But he lived here, where you live now" as if we only had to find the proper words and emphasise to jog her memory and she would put her hand to her forehead V8 style and say, "Ah yease! The suitcase we found under the floorboards filled with pictures of green rolling hills, letters to "John Coffey" and the bottle of Tipperary Whiskey - that is who you mean!" But any way that we clumsily tried to explain what little of the story we knew (Michelle doing a great job improvising off of what I told her the hour before) she never stopped regarding us with her face cautiously tilted away from us and her hand on the doorknob. But really, she was as nice as she could be two to strangers who were standing on her doorstep in the middle of the day asking if she may have any clues about people who lived there almost a century ago.

The house is a co-op now, divided into four homes over eight years ago when the Korean lady moved in. She knew little of her current neighbors, and nothing of anyone named Conat or who may have owned the home before it became four smaller houses. We thanked her and she wished us luck, and we looked at the view from the front steps one more time before leaving, to see what Jack Coffey may have seen as he stepped out his front door to begin his life in America.

Stealing Home

2008-10-05T14:49:00.001-04:00

The 3rd base coach yelled, "Stay!"

Luke Ritter heard, "RUN!"

He made it.

Jeanna & Evan's Hurricane Hanna Wedding

2008-09-26T16:58:00.010-04:00

Jeanna and Evan threw their own little hurricane party in the backyard of Evan's childhood home. Who knew Hanna would blow all the way to Bucks Co. PA? Road closures, impending wind and rain, and hunger didn't stop anyone; we learned the back roads, Mr. Clark and his son-in-law built a roof over the reception area deck and secured blue tarps over and around it (something blue?) and I found a very friendly little "by the slice" pizza place across the river when painting nails and giggling brought on hunger.

And The Bride Wore Birkenstocks

2008-09-25T18:24:00.003-04:00

Just uploading pictures from Jeanna & Evan's wedding.

Will be posting more later but here is one for now.

Tilting at Storm Fronts

2008-09-14T09:20:00.004-04:00

NPR interviewed a Texas woman yesterday who - along with her husband - decided to ignore the mandatory evacuation and stay at their home during the storm. Although they had boarded up their house, the couple couldn't help but crack open their front door to watch what was going on outside. "...And there goes part of the greenhouse roof..." she happily relayed to the interviewer.

What is it about storms that makes us want to be a part of them?

I remember living in post-Andrew south Florida and the urgent excitement that was in the air as people collected their batteries, candles and gallon jugs of water for an impending hurricane. When the storm veered away from the area and downgraded there was a strange sense of loss as people removed the plywood from their windows and went back to their offices and rush hour traffic.

Maybe storms remind us of the primal battles that we once fought for survival vs. something bigger than ourselves. Something that had the power to unify people in one collective, under qualified, underdog mass against it, vs. against each other. A chance to battle a more worthy and exciting adversaries than rush hour traffic. Or an automated 411 directory voice that insists, "You said, 'McDonald's'" when you request the number for "library."

The picture above is of my friend Nathan "Weatherman" Weathington, who is passionate fly fisherman. The picture reminds me of how we are often drawn out into the weather with fascination and quixotesque flirtations when self preservation should tell us to take cover, go inside, or follow a mandatory evacuation.

Benjamin August Rudman

2008-09-04T13:10:00.008-04:00

The youngest son of Jacob. An inventor and statesman. A band leader with a wailing clarinet. A mischievous little bunny. "Benjamin."

What about "August"? Beside being the given name for young Gus's everywhere (a.k.a "somewhere"? Am I the only one who thinks the name can be used for those other than potential gas station attendants and orange cats?), "August" has a respectable history. The most prominent African American play write of the 20th century was an August. "Augustus" was also the name of Julius Cesar's adopted son who would rule in his place following his assassination. And then there is "Augustine" - the wicked saint and author of a very long book that I read in grad school. His younger days were spent in "loose living" (not my terms but http://www.catholic.org/ 's). His eventual conversion makes him "an inspiration to many who struggle with a particular vice or habit they long to break," as well as the patron saint of brewers. Interestingly enough, Adolphus Busch named his son "August" after teaming up with his father-in-law, Eberhard Anheuser, and starting a little brew company of their own. Since then, four boys named August have been born into the family beer business.

And then there is the month of August. Sleepy heat of late summer and last days of freedom before school starts again. This August snuck in just under the wire and exactly as predicted, on August 26th, 2008.

Hay Rolls, Virginia

2008-09-04T12:45:00.006-04:00

As I try to work on oil painting, I am also looking for scenes to paint. In late June I pulled the car over to take a picture of this pretty scene.

A friend of mine from New England once scoffed when I said how beautiful I thought the Eastern Shore of Maryland is, with the farm fields and grassy flats that led out onto the tidewaters. I think his idea of beauty was a snow capped mountain.

But as a Chesapeake Bay girl, the vertical and horizontal hues of blues and greens equal lovely to me. With a an occasional county road view of a jelly-roll hay bale and a quietly aging red tobacco barn.

"Home."

Angie & Ethan

2008-08-13T14:10:00.005-04:00

While we await the arrival of Angie's youngest son (any day now!), we look back to when Ethan was the only apple of her eye.

Drawing Buddies

2008-08-12T12:23:00.000-04:00

Carnival Bench

2008-08-11T19:33:00.009-04:00

Fishing for Wishing Stones

2008-08-04T15:33:00.000-04:00

"Find the Line between Attraction and Obsession"...

2008-08-04T13:30:00.008-04:00

Are you headed to the pool?

Yeah. Let's go to the pool.

Now.

Hurry.

Open the gate.

Open the gate.

Openthegateopenthegateopenthegate.

Where is it. I know it is here. At the bottom of the pool. Menacing monster of the deep with a tentacle tail of spraying water. Small humans who arrive in minivans wielding squirt guns. Slow, deliberate teasing of a sprinkler fanning across the lawn.

No water is safe from the awesome power of the...poodle/terrier mix...

http://www.scribd.com/doc/5972652/LBD-A-Love-Story-in-14lbs

Bocce Ball

2008-08-04T13:00:00.000-04:00

Mary McPoyle, Magilligan, County Derry

2008-07-21T21:13:00.004-04:00

Not long before picture was taken, Mary was still climbing Binevenagh to cut peat. She lived most of her life in the small thatched cottage in which she was born with her sister Sarah, making tea over the fire, smoking the occasional cigarette, and feeding guests persistent quantities of home cooked meals and tales of nighttime boat trips across Lough Foyle to Donegal in order to smuggle Free State butter beneath the folds of her skirt. She never married, although Sarah pointed out she once had a beau, "who gave her a pair of shoes as a gift," they laughed. But he had a habit for the bottle for which Mary had no interest.

So that was that.

The Science Project

2008-07-21T13:00:00.000-04:00

Waterpark, County Tipperary

2008-07-21T12:30:00.001-04:00

Maggie Moo

2008-07-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

Coastal Storm, SC

2008-07-19T22:58:00.003-04:00

Beckett Combs Radez

2008-07-09T09:56:00.003-04:00

Beckett Combs Radez joined big brother Jude, and mom and dad Michelle and Tyler on June 28th - 10 days early!

Myrtle Beach, SC

2008-07-07T19:50:00.006-04:00

Patterson Park, Baltimore

2008-06-22T18:18:00.005-04:00

Caroline & Bambi

2008-06-12T14:10:00.007-04:00

"Bambi" was my favorite stuffed animal when I was little. His spots have fallen off, his fur is worn away in places, and the stiffness of his legs has given way so he resembles his newborn self, splayed limbs and nose inches away from his new found friend, "Flower," the skunk. My parents bought me a replacement at some point - a brighter, more alert version of my careworn buddy. But as we all learn about true love, newness is no replacement for comfort. Whenever the nieces and nephews forget their stuffed animals while sleeping over at Nana's and Papa Joe's, Bambi is on a nearby bed or dresser ready to fill the space between cheek and pillow.

LaxSplash, Baltimore

2008-06-02T16:31:00.016-04:00

Three days of round robin lacrosse games. A mix of competitive intensity (sideline coaching, 6 year old body checks and a few tears), and the simpler times of being a kid (competitors chatting about Pokemon cards during a break in play, picking dandelions, half time orange slices and post game pizza).

Kenya Pictures...

2008-05-29T17:10:00.005-04:00

Twisted Sixs Tattoo Cafe

2008-05-27T12:36:00.002-04:00

Black Dog

2008-05-27T11:53:00.009-04:00

From, "LBD: A Love Story in 14 lbs."

One early spring day, we went to the Lowe's so I could scan the shelves for the right kind of light bulb. I heard a woman behind me laughing. 'A little black dog is running up an down the aisles!' Which sent me running up and down the aisles ('How did he get out of the car?'). I'd get to Gardening and someone who say, 'He's over in Appliances!' ('But I only left the window open a crack!') I'd get to Appliances and someone would say, 'I think he's near checkout.' When I saw him, he was at the other end of Hardware. He was running towards Building but saw me and changed directions, running in place against the concrete floor Scooby Doo style until he regained traction and was running towards me. Maybe in slow motion. Maybe with the sounds of 'Love Story' playing over the store speakers. Maybe I'm romanticizing this part. But I knew then that if he could try that hard to find me, then I could at least let him, and love him back. Which meant, it was time to name him. But it was too late.

I called him 'Flea,' because of the way he jumped high and just beyond grasp. But he didn't answer to that.

I called him 'Satchmo' - which my grandfather would forever call him - but he didn't respond to that either.

One day in exasperation, after he'd slipped out the front door and was running from tree to tree checking for squirrels, and I'd called him every other name I could think of, I called him what he was. 'Hey, you, black dog!' And he turned and ran and jumped all around me until I caught him in my arms and he licked my face. 'Hey, you. Black Dog.'

Check out LDB's "the b" newspaper and website story version: http://www.bthesite.com/archives/2008/09/pets-feature-a-tale-of-best-friends/.

The full version is available via this website (the story entitled, "LDB: A Love Story in 14 lbs." in the right handed column at the top of the blog, or go to http://www.scribd.com/doc/5972652/LBD-A-Love-Story-in-14lbs).

Caroline & Chalk Drawings

2008-05-27T08:24:00.000-04:00

Bonfire

2008-05-25T15:32:00.003-04:00

ReStore Warehouse, Durham

2008-05-24T17:03:00.001-04:00

Habitat for Humanity, Durham, Friday

2008-05-23T17:21:00.003-04:00

Habitat For Humanity, Durham, Thursday

2008-05-22T15:10:00.000-04:00

Habitat For Humanity, Durham, Wednesday

2008-05-21T15:48:00.001-04:00

The Helmand, Baltimore

2008-05-17T16:31:00.003-04:00

Old Farm House, Compton

2008-05-17T16:13:00.000-04:00

Caroline & The Kite

2008-05-16T13:33:00.000-04:00

Mother's Day, 2008

2008-05-11T15:38:00.000-04:00

Alumni Picnic, Part II

2008-05-03T08:41:00.000-04:00

Alumni Picnic, Children

2008-05-03T08:23:00.000-04:00

Lacrosse Clinic

2008-05-03T08:19:00.000-04:00

Alumni Lacrosse Game, Severn

2008-05-03T08:13:00.000-04:00

Lacrosse, Severn Girls' Practice

2008-05-01T07:36:00.000-04:00

Lacrosse, Severn Boys

2008-05-01T07:24:00.000-04:00

Foster House

2008-04-14T08:46:00.000-04:00

Beach with Jack & Maggie

2008-04-04T17:39:00.001-04:00

Easter Eve, 2008

2008-03-22T17:28:00.000-04:00

One of kids favorite things to do at Camp Run-A-Mok - in addition to bonfires and fireworks ("Screaming Witches!") - is to go to the beach. The jellyfish is one of Caroline's pictures; the jellyfish were all along the shoreline and Hannah headed the efforts to get them safely to deeper waters.

Spring Sunset, Compton

2008-03-17T15:51:00.000-04:00

Summertime at Camp Run-A-Muk

2007-08-14T09:03:00.000-04:00

Madeline Jane

2007-08-14T08:54:00.000-04:00

Castnet Fisherman, Dar Es Salaam

2007-08-13T16:52:00.000-04:00

Slavery Memorial, Zanzibar

2007-08-11T16:48:00.000-04:00

Dhows, Zanzibar, Tanzania, 2007

2007-08-10T15:31:00.001-04:00

Cattle Camp, Tanzania

2007-08-01T15:20:00.000-04:00

Fruit Vendor, Stone Town, Zanzibar

2007-07-28T16:50:00.000-04:00

Well hello, baby...

2007-07-15T20:16:00.000-04:00

Cargo, Lake Tanganyika

2007-07-15T15:08:00.000-04:00

Wildlife, Ngorongoro, Tanzania

2007-07-13T16:53:00.000-04:00

Gombe, Tanzania

2007-07-13T15:22:00.000-04:00

Grendel and family in the forest of Gombe, Tanzania (Summer, 2007)

Schools, Ngorongoro, Tanzania

2007-07-11T15:59:00.000-04:00

Bush Medicine Vendor, Arusha

2007-07-10T15:28:00.000-04:00

Those Fish Don't Stand A Chance

2007-06-10T15:40:00.000-04:00

Caroline in her fishing finery.

Easter, 2007

2007-04-17T18:08:00.000-04:00

Good Humor

2006-07-16T19:09:00.000-04:00

Kenya, Summer, 2005

2005-08-29T16:54:00.001-04:00

Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, Maine

2003-08-12T14:35:00.001-04:00

Monhegan Island, Maine

2003-08-08T20:11:00.000-04:00

The Birthday Dresses

2003-06-18T20:01:00.000-04:00

Two flat shirt boxes wrapped in bright paper and ribbon. Caroline seemed to know what the gift was even before she opened it to gleefully find handmade dress from Nana with strawberry buttons at the shoulders. Hannah also seemed to have a good idea what was in box before she opened it. She ripped apart wrapping paper and box only to pause in shock when she saw a dress laying within the soft layers of tissue paper. One tonsil revealing wail exposed the source of her disillusionment: "But I wanted a puppy!"

The Island School, Cape Eleuthera, Bahamas

2003-06-08T13:11:00.001-04:00

Talkeetna Mountains, Alaska

2002-07-29T14:27:00.000-04:00

One of the three "not raining" days in the 21 day day NOLS course. The views were saw were otherworldly.

Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland

2001-07-31T17:27:00.000-04:00

There is a scientific explaination for the creation of this awesome formation. For the moment, pay it no mind...

"...After working on the great bridge night and day for a week, Finn MacCool was tired. He needed to rest so that he would be ready to fight his foe, a giant named Benandonner. So he bought time (and, as it turned out, achieved victory) by a cunning ruse. Benandonner came to Finn's house, ready to fight Finn. But Finn and his wife fooled him into thinking that Finn was much tougher and stronger than the Scottish giant. This made Benandonner so frightened that he fled Finn's house without a fight. He ran all the way back to Scotland across Finn's bridge, destroying it as he went. And today all that is left are the polygonal columns of Giant's Causeway and Staffa (an island off the coast of Scotland with similar rock formations)." From St. Louis Public Library

Derry Sunset, Northern Ireland

2001-07-01T17:00:00.000-04:00

Teegan & Jennie

2001-06-12T14:31:00.000-04:00

Addie

2000-07-21T20:17:00.001-04:00

Addie is almost all grown up now. But once upon a time it was fun to make bubbles in a soapy pot used to wash Old Bay away after picking crabs...

Michelle & Tyler, October 9, 1999

1999-10-09T20:51:00.000-04:00