I believed that, upon my first visit to the ocean, that how in the world could the world be round?  Clearly, it was flat, with rather defined edges, at least on a calm day, anyway.  Sheesh, there it was, right in front of us all, my baby brother and my two older sisters and my parents.  There was the horizon, flat and straight as a Kansas sunset if I had ever seen one.  So, what kept the ocean from pouring over the edge and emptying out?  Dang, that was a tough one to get my young mind around.  Luckily, my dad had gone to a 1950's version of a garage sale and picked up a (nearly) complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica, so it was off to the books!  I found a lot of knowledge and a lot of solace in those well worn books.  Even if the answers as to why the small world of a small boy appeared to be flat, not to worry, it was really round!  Who would a thunk it?!

     It's the eleventh of September, ninth month, eleventh day, 2008.  7 years ago, I was paddling along in the lake that I grew up next to.  I was trying to find some anchor, as it was, to my life, as my former anchor was gone.
     That anchor, my father, had died a few days previous.  My brother called and left me a series of messages, each one worse than the last.  It was over, my father's life was called at the little hospital in my hometown.
     Of course, I dropped everything, the huge remodel I had undertaken, job, friends and life.  For the next few days life was a whirlwind of paperwork, meetings, arrangements and sobbing.  I stayed at my brother's home, our family home that he now had, and this was good for me.  Not much had changed in this wonderful old home.  Lots of glass facing northward towards the long meandering lake we lived on.  Thick red oak crowded the house, some over 200 years old.  Still verdantly green, the whole scene had remained unchanged for the decades that I could recall.
     The service was a tribute to my father's life, with hundreds in attendance.  Then, it was time to go home.  Time to pack up, leave this safe place and fly 1, 400 miles back to the Rockies and the place that I now called home.
     But, I needed to do one more thing before leaving, so I arose extra early in the morning to walk down the steps to the flat grey water that makes up the lake.  Slipping the silver aluminum canoe into the water, I slid into the canoe.  Grasping the old wooden paddle that was mine, but stayed at my brother's house, the smoothness of the bare wood warmed my hands.  The paddle effortlessly penetrated the calm water and propelled me forward.  The slapping sound of water dripping off the paddle was the only sound that morning as even the loons hadn't awoken.  The sun was thinking about breaking over the bluffs that surrounded the long, winding lake and the sky was morphing from purple to blue.  No clouds were in the sky that morning.
     And so, I completed a lap around the lake.  A lake that I knew every cove, bay, giant weeping willow and marsh.  I circled the lake as I contemplated the circle of my father's life.  A life of 71 short years, but a ton of living packed in those short years.
     I felt ready as I slipped up next to the old wooden dock, pulled the canoe out of the grasp of the water, tipped it over to keep rain and debris out, and then trudged back up the stairs.
     As I walked into the living area of the welcoming house, my family was seated around the TV.  I noticed that they were all arranged just as they had been 30, 40 even 50 years ago.  My mom was on the corner of the couch nearest the kitchen, just as she had been so long ago.  Poised to get up and stir something, take something off the boil or serve something up.  My brother was prone on the floor, chin in his hands as if time had stood still.  Sisters were in the chairs they had laid claim to so many years ago, but the chairs had changed, but not their ownership.
     My brother looked back as I walked in and just pointed at the television, saying nothing.  The screen showed over and over again the planes impacting the tall, silver towers, erupting in a ball of flame followed by smoke.  Then, the first tower fell.
     We couldn't believe our eyes.
     This tableau played out repeatedly, my ears barely catching that all commercial flights were in the process of being grounded, then cancelled.  I called work, saying only that I wasn't going to be in for a while until I figured out how to get home.
     Home?  I was home.  This is the home I slept in, played in, grew older and move out of.
     A day, then another passed and the reality of all of what had happened was sort of sinking in, mostly.  Dad was gone, our country had been attacked in a tragically spectacular fashion.  What was next?
     Then, my brother simply said that I should drive back to Colorado in dad's pickup truck.  He noted, Dad wasn't going to need it anymore.
     And so, 2 days later I was back in the place I called home.  A roof needed to be removed, reinforced, sheathed and reroofed.  Windows needed to be put in, stucco needed to be applied.  What a bunch of trivia, really, I thought.  Pretty petty in the grand scheme of things.

     Today's homework was a graphic design, recreating ice carved into numbers or letters.  I chose numbers.  They reflect the freezing of time, yet the melting away of time in spite of all our best efforts.  Blue ice carved into 9-11.

     I have been asked both recently and in the past, do I do "something" to my photographs and images?   Hmmmmmmm.  But first, a funny story.
     I was showing some of the my images to some friends and one had seen many of them before.  She is a long-time friend and as wonderful as can be.  Someone in the group complimented me on the images and asked me about them.   My friend then interrupted to say, "He has a VERY expensive camera."
     Ouch!  But, she is a friend of mine, so I let it slide.
      Fast forward to a wonderful dinner party held by this self-same friend.  She clearly had slaved for hours, if not days in preparation and it showed as the dinner was absolutely fabulous, flawless and perfectly fine.
     I had dropped off a print for a mutual friend when this friend complimented our host on the wonderful dinner.  I couldn't help myself, so I said, "Yes, she has VERY expensive pots and pans!"  I got the skunk eye for a moment, the huge hug and a more huger laugh as she got it!  After all, that's what friends are for, right?
     So, yes, Jenni, and others, I absolutely do, "do something" to my photos.
     First, I see about 90% of them in my mind and what I want to put out there, what I want to express, what mood, feeling and emotion.  Then, I go to a certain place time after time, waiting for the light, clouds and subject to be what my mind has seen.  Then, my "VERY expensive camera" is as ready as I am.  The ISO is set for what the shutter is going to capture, the white balance is set for sun, shade, clouds or flash, the shutter speed is as fast, or, more commonly, as slow as is needed to capture tack sharp detail in what's not moving, and to blur the moving skies at the same time, the aperture is set to either isolate the subject and blur the background, or it's set so tiny that everything from up close to all the way to the mountains miles away remain sharp and in focus.  Then, whether or not to shoot in black and white, sepia, watercolor tones or full, rich color are decided.
     Finally, a handful of my images are the results of carrying my cameras everywhere, every time, so when something happens to present itself for that moment, that eye-blink of time, I can (sometimes) hold it in the camera for all time.
     But, ultimately, what happens most, is that my images do something for me.  They keep me sane in an insane world, they teach me to look for beauty, rather than wait for it to come knocking on my thick skull.  It teaches me to see things as they really are, as they might be, as well, in a different light, a different time or simple composition.
     On occasion, I and my VERY expensive camera are called upon to record in excruciating detail, life's tragedies.  Holding as steady as I can for a super-close up of the life-ending injuries, the rope marks, the cuts, abrasions, avulsions and more.  This is what the rest of my images save me from.

     It's fall here, what is it where you live?
     I had to get out of the car and stand and stare at the colors in the mountainside as I believe this is the peak weekend for the aspens.  They have turned gold with a vengeance, this year, covering the slopes from top to bottom.
     This meadow is an old grazing meadow called, Stein's Meadows as every year since 1947, the Stein family and the ranch hands would herd cows and sheep up to these meadows in the Maroon Creek valley for the summer.  Now, the land belongs to the National Forest Service and is protected from man, for the most part.  One can still hunt deer, elk and sheep here, which surprises many hikers in the back country when they encounter hunters or the hunted.
     So, I stood for a while and stared, then sat on this wonderful glacial erratic left over from when the Maroon glacial field meandered down the slope towards Aspen.
     A long time friend of mine who is a few scant years younger than I am and who grew up here in Aspen said it best; I can come up here every day and never see the same thing twice.  I can find myself sitting for hours just staring at the beauty that is my backyard.
     And, so, it's fall here, tell me what your trees are doing where you live.  Have they grabbed their yellows, golds and reds out of the crayon box and decorated themselves just for you?