I admire the talents and skills of tradesmen. I have yet to successfully master even home projects, let alone profession endeavors. Those who know me best have come to expect any home project trusted to me starts with a substantial purchase of tools that I either don’t have or can’t find. That’s followed by the purchase of anything suggested as a possible fix by anyone at Home Depot, Lowes, Ace Hardware, or True Value—usually all of them. Eventually that’s followed by summoning a true highly-trained/highly-paid professional to undo or restore my project. Folks have a difficult time believing that I actually was a trained aircraft electrician at one point in my life. I think I was a pretty good troubleshooter, just never co-ordinated enough to always do a professional fix, especially in tight spaces. Not to digress too far, but one night I actually partially burned the hair off my head leaning too far into the electrical panel on the side of a B-57 bomber.
I still remember some basic electrical theory, but not enough to reliably or effectively fix much of anything. I recently encountered two very similar electrical problems and actually diagnosed and fixed one on my lawn tractor while turning the other over to a true technician. My lawn tractor suddenly stopped in the middle of mowing with no lights or gauges or anything else. The other problem was on my sister’s van as she made her way through heavy traffic here from York on Interstate Route 78. She also had no lights, flashers, or anything else. That problem I am trusting to a professional.
All the equipment on my lawn tractor was recently checked out and, in fact, it sports a brand new battery and only a few hundred hours on the hour meter. The tractor is a rather simple design and I very quickly went from component to component. All seemed fine. The components were functionally sound but nothing worked.
The diagnosis—the tractor wasn’t well grounded. Our lawn is rather bumpy to say the least. One of those bumps dislodged the electrical ground necessary for all electrical components to operate. My tractor is now back in commission and is generating a steady stream of grass clippings, but the lesson lingers. I realize that like the tractor, no matter how effectively I may appear to function, if I am poorly or inadequately grounded some unexpected bumps in my life can bring everything to a halt. Hopefully, I won’t be in such a hurry to move beyond “basic grounding” into life’s “important stuff.”
The lessons just keep coming.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Crop
The question is simple, direct and impacting—the kind that makes me wonder why I’ve never pondered it. The unexpected question popped up in a small group setting and totally out of context of any of the other discussions. Although I am far from their situation, I suppose this is how pageant participants spotlighted before an audience must feel when confronted with that specially prepared “bomb” of a question. My mind races for a concise answer (and escape) as all ears tune expectantly for my answer.
The question: “Why do you take pictures?” My answer, now forgotten, is one that I hope will get me safely back on the sidelines and out of “the line of fire.” However, the question lingers in my mind.
I am inaccurately, in my mind at least, accused of being a photographer. I have the privilege of knowing some photographers and know that I don’t fit that definition even though I often sport a camera. To me, the difference is like comparing a Sunday afternoon driver to Mario Andretti. I usually get where I am going but lack the training and expertise to do it expertly with confident professional precision and skill.
I am by my own definition “a picture taker.” I have tens of thousands of pictures on my computer to prove it. I have lost more pictures with a simple but painful computer hard drive crash than most folks take in a life time. Others only see a small fraction of what I take but if my camera(s) were cars with odometers I would be destined to “turn it over.” (For you younger folks with digital odometers, that’s a term used with old mechanical odometers maxing out and starting over from zero.)
Aside from a few shots capturing the stunning beauty of the Grand Canyon, a majestic ocean sunset, or Niagara Falls, ninety-nine percent of my pictures are of people. Not the common, stiff, posed shots that more orderly folks favor. (I think of those shots as today’s version of the past century’s old antique tin plate shots.) I do take those obligatory posed shot for folks when they demand it but also sneak in some extras of the folks as “they really are.” They’re the ones I treasure.
God has given me a “love for people” that has grown to addictive proportions. I just like ‘em—all kinds: good and bad, felons and addicts, challenged or not, along with folks with no visible problems. I am intrigued by all humanity. I see “beauty” in people that they often don’t see in themselves. It is not lipstick and six-pack abs, but based more on the look I see deep in their eyes. Those looks seem to reflect the deep inner person and especially their heart and that’s what I am anxious to discover. I relish hearing the phrase “I really do look good” when I show folks their pictures. More importantly, they seem to understand that I look for and have spotted something special in them.
Even though I have a 12 power optical zoom buried in my small pocket point and shoot camera, I seldom capture the perfect shot I envision. Something always seems to spoil the picture. Most people would delete most of my raw pictures. My secret is computer-based software editing. Nothing sophisticated like Photoshop (which I own but have yet to master), just simple free downloadable software like Picasa. With a few clicks I can see a background gem and salvage something out of a messed up picture. (A confession: I have, on occasion, stretched a picture to make some—mostly female—folks appear taller and lest robust!) I can do simple light enhancements and automatically fix things like contrast. However, my most utilized function is the “crop” function. If I find something redeeming (and I usually do) in a “bad” picture, I cut out the “good” and create a new picture with that good part. The “bad” parts that draw many people’s eye to the flaws are left behind with no remaining distractions. Some would consider that cheating, but I see it as selective focus and one that has been invaluable for my life’s outlook. I still hope for Utopia, but I am learning to crop a good picture out of many messed up scenes. It’s kind of fun and helps me see things that others appear to miss, especially in the world’s humanity that I‘ve grown to love. I highly recommend cropping.
The question: “Why do you take pictures?” My answer, now forgotten, is one that I hope will get me safely back on the sidelines and out of “the line of fire.” However, the question lingers in my mind.
I am inaccurately, in my mind at least, accused of being a photographer. I have the privilege of knowing some photographers and know that I don’t fit that definition even though I often sport a camera. To me, the difference is like comparing a Sunday afternoon driver to Mario Andretti. I usually get where I am going but lack the training and expertise to do it expertly with confident professional precision and skill.
I am by my own definition “a picture taker.” I have tens of thousands of pictures on my computer to prove it. I have lost more pictures with a simple but painful computer hard drive crash than most folks take in a life time. Others only see a small fraction of what I take but if my camera(s) were cars with odometers I would be destined to “turn it over.” (For you younger folks with digital odometers, that’s a term used with old mechanical odometers maxing out and starting over from zero.)
Aside from a few shots capturing the stunning beauty of the Grand Canyon, a majestic ocean sunset, or Niagara Falls, ninety-nine percent of my pictures are of people. Not the common, stiff, posed shots that more orderly folks favor. (I think of those shots as today’s version of the past century’s old antique tin plate shots.) I do take those obligatory posed shot for folks when they demand it but also sneak in some extras of the folks as “they really are.” They’re the ones I treasure.
God has given me a “love for people” that has grown to addictive proportions. I just like ‘em—all kinds: good and bad, felons and addicts, challenged or not, along with folks with no visible problems. I am intrigued by all humanity. I see “beauty” in people that they often don’t see in themselves. It is not lipstick and six-pack abs, but based more on the look I see deep in their eyes. Those looks seem to reflect the deep inner person and especially their heart and that’s what I am anxious to discover. I relish hearing the phrase “I really do look good” when I show folks their pictures. More importantly, they seem to understand that I look for and have spotted something special in them.
Even though I have a 12 power optical zoom buried in my small pocket point and shoot camera, I seldom capture the perfect shot I envision. Something always seems to spoil the picture. Most people would delete most of my raw pictures. My secret is computer-based software editing. Nothing sophisticated like Photoshop (which I own but have yet to master), just simple free downloadable software like Picasa. With a few clicks I can see a background gem and salvage something out of a messed up picture. (A confession: I have, on occasion, stretched a picture to make some—mostly female—folks appear taller and lest robust!) I can do simple light enhancements and automatically fix things like contrast. However, my most utilized function is the “crop” function. If I find something redeeming (and I usually do) in a “bad” picture, I cut out the “good” and create a new picture with that good part. The “bad” parts that draw many people’s eye to the flaws are left behind with no remaining distractions. Some would consider that cheating, but I see it as selective focus and one that has been invaluable for my life’s outlook. I still hope for Utopia, but I am learning to crop a good picture out of many messed up scenes. It’s kind of fun and helps me see things that others appear to miss, especially in the world’s humanity that I‘ve grown to love. I highly recommend cropping.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Fluke
A gorgeous red sunrise reveals brilliant shades of deep green and transforms the muted grays hiding the flat New Jersey coastal pinelands. As the sun grows to a molten orange orb, it gives a foreshadowing hint of the intense heat soon to accompany it. Today, I hope, will be what my kids grew up anticipating as a treasured “family fun day.” Limited resources and a demanding hands-on family business never lent themselves to an extended “real vacation” that many others enjoy. Instead, we explored everything that could be reached and savored within a day’s drive whenever the opportunity appeared. Sometimes we pushed the envelope and commandeered part of the preceding night to make it fit.
I so, so much miss my kids and those memorable times. This morning I’ve been granted a partial reenactment. My now-married daughter’s visit from the Indiana parts of the Chicago ‘burbs has set the stage. It’s the ideal opportunity for a father-daughter excursion since her husband is off on temporary duty in Texas and my bride is with her siblings in upstate New York.
Our mission of choice is to try our hand at salt water Fluke fishing. We are destined to depart soon on a 98-foot party boat called the “Gambler” based in Point Pleasant, NJ. My daughter is what, in deer hunting circles, would be known as a “meat hunter.” She fishes primarily for food over sport. She inherited her taste for fish from her mother. The captain and the mate of the Gambler don’t realize how deftly I’ve slipped the responsibility for satisfying her seafood cravings to them. After a hearty pier-side breakfast, we’re breaking the protective boundaries of the breakwater and are venturing into the choppy Atlantic Ocean.
Soon the ship’s horn signals that it’s time to thread some strips of squid onto the hook and start fishing for Fluke. A big ten-ounce lead sinker takes the bait swirling down about thirty to forty feet to the ocean’s floor below us. The gentle sway of the drifting boat coupled with escalating temperatures makes sleep deprived me yearn for a nap. So much for that wishful thinking.
Soon a cry of “fish on” resounds followed by similar cries from other areas of the boat. The instigators are hungry but pesky inedible Sea Robins—a nuisance fish that are the “horse flies” of the depths plaguing serious fishermen. Occasionally, a Fluke (a supposedly larger cousin of Flounder) or a Sea Bass is pulled up over the rail. However, the intended purpose of our trip—legal Fluke over fifteen inches—are elusive. Finally my daughter breaks through the barrier with a “beautiful” twenty-five inch Fluke. Even if it may be ugly to others, it’s beautiful to her because she views it as four beautiful filets.
As I stare at her prize now imprisoned in a five gallon plastic bucket, I find the Fluke’s architecture (I guess anatomy is the right word) intriguing to say the least. Occasionally it reveals its white underside but mostly it displays a drab camouflage brown upper color. That camouflage now is useless and actually highlights the flat fish in this pristine white bucket. For those not familiar with Fluke and Flounder, the underside of those fish are actually what we humans would call our right side and both little eyes stare from the left or upper side.
My daughter shares a tidbit (later confirmed by the mate) that Fluke are actually born “normal”—swimming vertically with eyes on either side of their heads. Over time their right eye transitions over their head to join the other eye on their left side. Once their small beady eyes (and their focus) have completely transitioned, they never swim upright again and they are relegated to swimming on what was their right side. They hide on the bottom as opportunistic “bottom feeders.” I ponder and wonder if they even fathom the transition that took place.
Now as I write, this Fluke has long since become a tasty meal for my daughter and wife, but it continues to be a contributing life’s lesson for me. Thank you, Mr. Fluke, for your sacrifice that permitted me to relive a cherished father-daughter activity while providing a savory meal for my ladies. I am especially grateful too for the multiple life applications you’ve provided. They’ve strengthened my resolve to not slide (even though I sometimes slip) in my desire “to walk upright.” I don’t want to inadvertently permit a subtle transition to a one-sided focus and adopt a life lying on the “bottom.” I am sure Mr. Fluke has more lessons to share but that’s it for now.
Note to those of you who have inquired: Yes I am still “writing” but I have had an extended period of what I think professional writers call “writer’s block”. Maybe it’s a good sign that I may be improving!
I so, so much miss my kids and those memorable times. This morning I’ve been granted a partial reenactment. My now-married daughter’s visit from the Indiana parts of the Chicago ‘burbs has set the stage. It’s the ideal opportunity for a father-daughter excursion since her husband is off on temporary duty in Texas and my bride is with her siblings in upstate New York.
Our mission of choice is to try our hand at salt water Fluke fishing. We are destined to depart soon on a 98-foot party boat called the “Gambler” based in Point Pleasant, NJ. My daughter is what, in deer hunting circles, would be known as a “meat hunter.” She fishes primarily for food over sport. She inherited her taste for fish from her mother. The captain and the mate of the Gambler don’t realize how deftly I’ve slipped the responsibility for satisfying her seafood cravings to them. After a hearty pier-side breakfast, we’re breaking the protective boundaries of the breakwater and are venturing into the choppy Atlantic Ocean.
Soon the ship’s horn signals that it’s time to thread some strips of squid onto the hook and start fishing for Fluke. A big ten-ounce lead sinker takes the bait swirling down about thirty to forty feet to the ocean’s floor below us. The gentle sway of the drifting boat coupled with escalating temperatures makes sleep deprived me yearn for a nap. So much for that wishful thinking.
Soon a cry of “fish on” resounds followed by similar cries from other areas of the boat. The instigators are hungry but pesky inedible Sea Robins—a nuisance fish that are the “horse flies” of the depths plaguing serious fishermen. Occasionally, a Fluke (a supposedly larger cousin of Flounder) or a Sea Bass is pulled up over the rail. However, the intended purpose of our trip—legal Fluke over fifteen inches—are elusive. Finally my daughter breaks through the barrier with a “beautiful” twenty-five inch Fluke. Even if it may be ugly to others, it’s beautiful to her because she views it as four beautiful filets.
As I stare at her prize now imprisoned in a five gallon plastic bucket, I find the Fluke’s architecture (I guess anatomy is the right word) intriguing to say the least. Occasionally it reveals its white underside but mostly it displays a drab camouflage brown upper color. That camouflage now is useless and actually highlights the flat fish in this pristine white bucket. For those not familiar with Fluke and Flounder, the underside of those fish are actually what we humans would call our right side and both little eyes stare from the left or upper side.
My daughter shares a tidbit (later confirmed by the mate) that Fluke are actually born “normal”—swimming vertically with eyes on either side of their heads. Over time their right eye transitions over their head to join the other eye on their left side. Once their small beady eyes (and their focus) have completely transitioned, they never swim upright again and they are relegated to swimming on what was their right side. They hide on the bottom as opportunistic “bottom feeders.” I ponder and wonder if they even fathom the transition that took place.
Now as I write, this Fluke has long since become a tasty meal for my daughter and wife, but it continues to be a contributing life’s lesson for me. Thank you, Mr. Fluke, for your sacrifice that permitted me to relive a cherished father-daughter activity while providing a savory meal for my ladies. I am especially grateful too for the multiple life applications you’ve provided. They’ve strengthened my resolve to not slide (even though I sometimes slip) in my desire “to walk upright.” I don’t want to inadvertently permit a subtle transition to a one-sided focus and adopt a life lying on the “bottom.” I am sure Mr. Fluke has more lessons to share but that’s it for now.
Note to those of you who have inquired: Yes I am still “writing” but I have had an extended period of what I think professional writers call “writer’s block”. Maybe it’s a good sign that I may be improving!
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