Poltergeists and Such

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There are all sorts of names for mischievous spirits. Poltergeist has long been a favorite of mine. Perhaps, that is because of the smile the name brings me. When the  movie, Poltergeist, came out in 1982, my niece was a very small child and she called the spirits "poultry mice". I love both names, but admit that, in a pinch, I have to favor my niece's version.

Especially after the movie, I fell into the habit of blaming missing objects on the nature of these naughty spirits. I could just as well have blamed gremlins, pixies, imps, boggarts, brownies, hobgoblins, leprechauns, or even knockers—but the latter, only if we were in a tin mine. What mattered was that blaming a small impish spirit was more fun than simply admitting that I had absentmindedly misplaced something.

Soon after we moved in 2008, I told a story about the sad loss of the garden angel who had stood watch over our little garden in Shadow Hills. The Husband had made his final trip to gather the last of our belongings, and arrived there exhausted. A few weeks later, we discovered that St. Frances was not to be found. Somehow the angel never got packed. One of the angel's companions, a sweet garden fairy, and a treasured old branding iron picked up at a flea market were also missing. As is my nature, I grieved for some time.

It turned out that the new owners of our little house had assumed that the statue belonged to the property and that St. Francis had been left there intentionally that he might continue looking over the place. We didn't have the heart to insist on reclaiming the piece. Perhaps it was meant to be.

The branding iron and the fairy, however, continued to be mysteries that nagged at the back of my mind. The Husband insisted that he had packed them. I reasoned that the poltergeists felt they too were entitled to something out of all the upheaval in our lives.

Having been possessed by an urge to do some cleaning in the garage yesterday, The Husband, during the rummaging, discarding, storing, and sweeping, came upon something carefully wrapped in dusty bubble wrap. And, there she was. Our garden fairy. Out of hiding, at last. Returned, I reason, by the poltergeists, but, belatedly arriving in her new home. She has now taken her place among all the crippled angels that I rescued years ago from a garden shop we used to visit near the Ventura flea market.

If I squint my mind a bit, I can fathom the attachment poltergeists might form with a garden fairy. She might even have found the diversion amusing and joined in the game. Fairies are unpredictable, after all, and I like the image of our demure fairy cavorting with wicked little "poultry mice".

However, even though the fairy has been returned, those mischievous little devils are still hoarding the branding iron. Who knows? Perhaps, one day they will give it up, as well.  Let's face it, what use could mischievous spirits have for a branding iron?

I think I will leave that mystery unexplored.

Stories Behind The Stories

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And, now, that is the truth. Better late, than never.

I will share some stories about my recent tall tale. The details of my story were fabricated strictly for your entertainment; yet, they are remotely connected to facts. Just as nightly dreams so often are connected to real events, my fantasies relate loosely to actual events. They are my daydreams embellished with a bit of pure fantasy. Or, maybe fantasies built on daydreams. Something in one of these neighborhoods.

Because my brother lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina, I do frequently daydream about visiting him there. All my various health issues pretty much preclude such an undertaking, but I do daydream about it. In terms of new camera gear, I am dealing with a serious itch for a couple of things. However, I can say that no Hassleblad model has ever been on any list, so far. My list tends to include more down-to-earth items such as a G12 and a few more Canon L lenses for the 40D and 50D. Some days the daydreams revolve around a new wide angle lens; some days it is all about 300 or 400 mm lenses. Once again the connection with my recent flight of fantasy is iffy. But, if you are feeling generous, you might say that one was somewhat rooted in a real desire.

I had to throw in the mountain climbing because that is something that I never got to do. It is a common fantasy. While cruises have never occupied a great deal of space in my daydreams, who hasn't thought about how exciting it would be to participate in an African photo safari?

I have gotten a big kick out of the response to my tall tale. On the other hand, I am wondering if this is a sign that my primary calling in connection with the blogging world is spinning wild yarns. Yikes! That would be limiting.

Adventures

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I just got back from a brief vacation in Argentina where I managed to squeeze in a few days for mountain climbing in the Andes. Getting to the peak of Mt. Aconcagua was a major thrill. Man, it was cold, but well worth it for the view. I would have included photos here, but using the Hassleblad H4-D60 for the first time was tricky and I am still working on the files. One of the best parts of the trip was the interesting people I met. A lovely couple invited me to visit them next year at their villa in Italy. Of course I jumped at the invitation. I think I can squeeze them in between the cruise on the Mediterranean and the African safari. The time in Italy will be interesting, since I don't speak Italian. But, I will get along just fine. I'm sure my iPad has an app to help me with that.

Okay, I splashed cold water on my face. I did go to Bakersfield twice in the past week, I did see nice people, plus I may have climbed a few stairs. And, it is true that I don't speak Italian. But, the part about the Hassleblad is created out of thin air. Maybe it was the altitude...No, Bakersfield is down from here, not up. Furthermore, if there is a safari, it will be local—very local—and the closest I will get to that cruise is watching a leaf boat on cub lake.

Isn't it lovely that fantasies don't cost anything? And they can not be taxed. At least not yet.

By the way, in the interest of full disclosure, the picture is a bit of fantasy, as well. Pieces of truth put together to produce a moment that never happened. I did take the photo of the hawk and I took the photo of clouds and trees on the horizon, but the photos were taken on different days, in different locations and then there are, of course, the textures. Excuse me, while I resume my daydreaming.

Texturing Again

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A couple of posts with untextured photos and I am feeling a bit lightheaded. Fortunately, I had one from a trip to Arvin that I had worked on a couple of weeks ago. Phew! That was close.

As I grow more capable of getting outside to take new photos, my dedication to texturing may wane slightly. The process, for me, can be time-consuming. I don't always reach for the best texture. Furthermore, I usually spend some time experimenting with different layer combinations, tweaking color, adjusting blending choices, and painting masks before I am content with the results. Frequently, there is considerable stumbling around in the dark. Sometimes, it's a snap. I never know ahead of time.

I suspect that it will come down simply to a matter of being in the mood some days and not others. As much as I enjoy exploring a file in Photoshop to see what I can find, some days I am eager to move on to the next project and skip the intensive job that texturing is for me. On the other hand, I may get better at streamlining the process. Learning to more effectively predict what will work would help a great deal. Time will tell.

Broken Wings

If I walk out to the road and back, alone, the killdeer seems quite calm. Note seems. For all I know, her little heart is pounding frantically in her breast as she holds fast to guarding her precious charge. But, she doesn't budge off those eggs.

When, instead, it is a family walk—The Husband, Galen, and I, the story is quite different. Either mama or papa (we are never sure which) goes into the full protection mode. We see the apparently frantic bird skittering across the drive on those stilt-like legs toward the road or, sometimes, we are even treated to the "broken wing act".

Now, what predator could resist following an injured bird hoping, any moment, to pounce on the seemingly helpless prey that pathetically flails just ahead of you? Of course, as you follow the lure, you are being taken ever further from the fragile eggs. (We tread carefully and if the silly bird begins to approach the road, we turn back. We don't want her to dash out into the road and we don't want the eggs left unprotected for long.) Whatever the path of supposed pursuit, when you, the predator, have traveled a safe distance from the nest, the bird is miraculously healed and soars back over your head to the eggs.

We had not seen a killdeer nest on our place until this year. I suspect that they were drawn by the puddles in the circle portion of our driveway. Those puddles threatened to never dry. Because there are plenty of predators around here, I have been concerned from the beginning about the chances of ever seeing killdeer chicks. More recently, I am most concerned that these eggs are never going to hatch and the poor bird will not have her babies this summer.

I did a bit of reading and learned that killdeer chicks remain in the egg longer than most bird species and neither of us can remember exactly when The Husband first spotted the eggs. Meanwhile, The Husband has blocked off the circle so a visitor will not clumsily roll their vehicle over the beautifully camouflaged eggs. We are holding out hope for a little longer. However, we are certain that mama is rapidly running out of time. Nature is full of harsh lessons and disappointments. In spite of the sadness I fear for the expectant mother, I have enjoyed having our very own killdeer educating and delighting us on almost a daily basis.

Note: This post was scheduled for publication Monday morning. During Sunday evening's family walk, we noticed that both mother and father killdeer were in attendance. Mama seemed unwilling to leave the nest to lure us away from her eggs and Dad, instead, was handling guard duty. Hmm. That has not always been the case. Then, on a slight detour from our usual path, we found what was apparently one of the precious eggs, far from the nest. Panic. We had just seen a hawk close by only moments before.

The Husband marked the location of the egg so we wouldn't step on it while I went back to check the nest and see if, indeed, an egg was missing. Mom stood inches away from the nest, but was doing her best to lure me away. Dad came back to pitch in. There were eggs missing all right. And, in their place there were fuzzy little creatures in the nest. I didn't want to get too close for a good look at the newborns. But, I smiled and celebrated all the way back into the house. Mama killdeer knows how to play bird with a broken wing, but she won't have a broken heart. (Yes, I know birds don't have broken hearts; but, hey, that is part of me that is still a girl.)

Getting My Ducks in a Row

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Several days ago, we went down to Cub Lake to take ourselves and Galen for a walk. The ducks with their new chicks were the bonus for our effort. It was my first time in weeks to carry a DSLR outside the house and I felt I could only manage the 24-105 mm lens for any length of time. The result was that I had to crop these like crazy. Nevertheless, it surely felt good to have a camera in my hand. 

The brief outing whetted my appetite. The deer are moving about in the valley—mamas with their babies also; some hawks have been hunting in the field west of the house. It is time to be out and about with a telephoto lens.

I should be safe driving by the end of next week—the incision at the top of the palm is markedly improved and the thumb is doing rather well—working on strength and flexibility. Between the creatures close to the house and being able to wander around in the valley, I have hopes of some local exploration.

In the meantime, I am simply enjoying the fact that we are finally into a kind of Spring here. After a brief spate of hot weather, we are back into a cooling trend and, supposedly, we will see the upper 70's during this next week.

On The Run

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To some degree, the title is a literal reference to my recent life—on the run back and forth to Los Angeles and Bakersfield. There was a trip to have stitches removed and more than one trip for physical therapy.

However, the reference is mostly to my state of mind. Having had it up to here with recoveries from surgeries, I have been spending most of my time either curled in a fetal position deep in the caverns of my mind, or struggling—in vain—to outrun reality.

None of these activities is a particularly productive or enjoyable use of one's short time on this planet. Not surprisingly, I coincidentally discovered that I have absolutely zero aptitude for photography. Phhhht! Forget talent. It dawned on me that I am not even a decent craftsman.

Not only have I been wasting my time snapping away, while I drool on a perfectly good piece of equipment and roll my eyes like some deranged creature, I have actually printed some of this garbage and used valuable resources that surely could have been put to better use.

To compound matters, I have recognized that I am hopelessly old and feeble and will probably never again be able to do much of anything worthwhile. I have more aches and pains than Methuselah ever knew and it isn't going to get better any time soon.

Other than these few distractions, I have been fine. How about you?

Okay, if you aren't laughing by now, I am disappointed in both of us.

I wish I could have reappeared with a cheery post bubbling with stories about a wondrous holiday vacation trip and giddy about all the things I saw. In the end, I decided to 'fess up and admit where I have been.

No sympathy comments, please, unless you are willing to swear you have been there—and be sure to include a laugh line. All jokes, cheerful jibes, and ridicule will be welcomed with gratitude.

Her Evening Stroll

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She appeared to be aware of me on the other side of the glass, but certainly not in a panic. Instead, she stood calmly for a few seconds watching, listening, testing the wind and did all this with the fading evening light in the eye closest to me. I dared not move, standing there in the bedroom looking through the window. It was a sweet moment to savor. Yet, it was a brief one and she was long gone before I had had my fill of the visit.

We don't see many deer close to our house these days. I remember how ecstatic I was the first time a doe wandered almost onto our porch. But, that was in the days before we moved in and the house had sat empty while we stayed in Los Angeles trying to sell the property there. After moving in fences, horses, and even a dog with a bark that can split atoms, plus all the human smells with which we litter our little landscape, the deer mostly keep their distance as long as there is light. They still roam close to the house during the night. We know about their nocturnal visits by the look of the plants out front.

Every Little Bit Counts

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I hadn't even considered picking up the 50D with the 70-200mm lens since my hand surgery. I have stuck with the lighter 40D and the 50mm, or even the G7. Today, I felt that I could no longer stand the suspense and reached for the heavy equipment. Granted, I could only manage the camera for a very short time before taking breaks, but I managed to snap a few pictures before common sense won the day. 

You may be thinking, "why not use a tripod?" I tought of that for a fleeting second, then remembered how difficult it is to open a water bottle, or brush my teeth, and decided against it. My tripod is not state of the art, and I have given myself a couple of good pinches with it even when I was at my best.

I have begun to venture into creating my own texture layers and this is my first time to post an image using one of mine. There are a couple from Shadowhouse that are favorites and I know I will continue to use them from time to time; but, I can see myself enjoying my own creations, as well. 

All Wrapped Up

I thought I would would share this snapshot taken just before my debut in the boxing ring. Okay, you are right. I am not about to take up boxing. This is what my hand looked like when I left the hospital last week. While I am long past needing that much padding on the hand, I still have quite bit of dressing covering the stitches.

If you thought you spotted writing on my fingers and that they have a strange orange cast, you are right on both counts. Prior to surgery, each finger scheduled for the knife was marked, "yes"—no smiley faces, though.  The orange cast is from the antiseptic, not an out of kilter monitor.