Siesta Key

Sun

Breaking all the rules of the blog, here. Not one week, not one day at a time, obviously did not walk here from my house, not about Huntington harbor. Joan desperately wanted to look forward to a break, and I reluctantly agreed back in September, and in fact it worked out well. The other thing is that for the last two weeks I have been getting over a bad cold and faced an awful internet connection. So this is catchup.

Drove from Tampa airport totally wiped out, little sleep, coughing like a smoking addict, desperate to arrive yet afraid of what we might find. After all, on the internet every hovel is a castle; each new friend a prince or princess. But it all worked out, nice fifties-style room right on the beach, looking out on the Gulf. I sit here on the porch and (between coughs) hear the surf breaking endlessly on soft white sand.

Mon

Mid Florida need not be warm and sunny in January. In fact, it was in the forties and threatening rain. Embarrassed, I felt like a tuberculosis patient spreading plague to the neighbors.

Human nature being what it is, many ignore reality and will sit in shorts and even bathing suits no matter what the actual conditions because _ hey!_ we paid for this. By gosh it is Florida and we mean to get our money’s worth, even if it means shivering in the chair in shorts. Bah. Illusions.

Tue

People stream along Crescent Beach (#1 beach in the USA, proclaim the signs) constantly from foggy dawn until darkness after sunset. From the porch it looks like an old film of war refugees _ particularly since the average age of the sloggers is maybe seventy or more. The loop goes along the water line from the public access two miles away to the dead end of Point of Rocks, where it crashes into private property and reverses going back.

I admit that on occasion I have joined the long conga line and quite enjoyed it. The gentle break of the waves and constant rush of the wind with cries of gulls drowns out the intrusions of man and is very meditative. Of course, from another perspective, it is simply another endlessly boring grey moment at the vestibule of Hell.

Wed

John Ringling started a circus, lived on Fifth Avenue, and in his spare winter months built a Venetian palace in Sarasota. Joan pretty much hates the long, and usually boring, house tours, where guides always end up telling you more than you really want to know, more slowly than you would believe possible.

Yet this was a great day to spend a rainy day, even if I did scare guards and visitors with my ongoing hacks. An Art museum of old paintings is included, but the real star is the miniature circus, which I am really happy that I got to see. Look it up if you’re interested. My main question is what kind of obsession is required to bring such an exhibit into being.

Thu

Joan took this picture from near our porch on one of the few clear days. Yeah, we faced due west. Every night a gang of folks would gather outside at the picnic tables and drink wine and compare their mostly tiny dogs. Very convivial.

It’s not that we don’t have magnificent sunsets in Huntington. I can see them from the windows of our house in winter, and a short walk away the sun goes over puppy cove from our dock. Yet, you know, you’re paying for vacation so you pay more attention as well.

Fri

Two miles along the powder white sand is the public Siesta Beach, separated from the road by this wild grass and vegetation. The parking lot fills quickly on hot days, and over this rise you can make out the countless umbrellas, although you are spared the screams of the young children and the sight of people who think they look better than they do exposing vast amounts of ancient flesh.

Nevertheless it is all a happy and harmless celebration of being alive, hurts nobody and nothing, and perhaps represents what we should all strive more to attain. I’m not one to shrug off wisdom no matter how it may arrive.

Sat

Various back roads represent the old days before the march of progress constructed huge apartments lining the beach. One woman along this road said she had lived here for forty five years. I don’t know what kind of changes might have happened in that time.

Still, the fifties and sixties were not the true “old times.” One article claimed that originally Siesta Key was famous for being natively inhabited by every species of venomous snake in the continental US. And that’s not even taking into account infinite mosquitoes ….

Sun

All along Florida the back side of coastal islands are connected by the watery “intracoastal”, a canal used by countless pleasure craft. Originally built after world war one, to protect shipping from German U-Boats. I don’t think there was ever an enemy submarine within sight of Tampa but, well, I haven’t searched all of Wikipedia nor alternate web sources.

The main thing about the intracoastal now is that it has to justify its existence to the rich yacht owners. So drawbridges on crowded highways (including this one on Stickney Road) are raised every few hours tying up a heck of a lot of motorists while one rich bastard in a little boat with a big mast proudly sails from one end of the island to the other.

Mon

Obligatory shot of brown pelicans, almost as common as gulls. I think the locals are as amused at tourists taking their pictures as I am at visitors gleefully snapping shots of squirrels in central park.

On the other hand, they are big, graceful, fun to watch, and do dive into the waves to catch fish. I still find it hard to understand how they can they take off again from a floating position on the water. We are lucky to still have wildlife to protect. I am grateful to have been able to have seen it still holding its own in the world.

Tue

A ”pass” around here is any channel between islands that lets you navigate from the true gulf to the back bay, which is what is shown here. At the end of this picture and to the right is “Midnight Pass,” which leads to the otherwise incomprehensibly named “Midnight Pass Road” which is _ logically _ the road that takes you to that dead end inlet.

All water shots are inevitably beautiful. It’s hard to mess them up, here or in Huntington, or probably in the Arc tic. That, of course, is why a dumb amateur like me likes to concentrate on them. Water forgives a lot of lack of technique.

Wed

Florida has state parks, from what I have seen (and I haven’t gone to the everglades) none as grand as those we enjoy in the northeast. This is a sandy scrub, really second growth on what was a cattle ranch until the early fifties.

There is something fun about walking down desolate tracks like this, especially if you know exactly where you are because there are easy blue markers all along the way. On the other hand, I saw no wildlife other than a few grasshoppers and tiny butterflies. Joan and I enjoyed the respite from traffic and humanity.

Thu

On the other hand, the nanny state is a bit less intrusive here. Although, the last time I was at Niagara Falls, there were no fences preventing people from swimming in the river right about the falls _ and people and their children were wading right out having a grand old time. Idiocy is not confined to one region or another.

You can’t make it out, but there are people in the water, and, yes, it is a designated area with floats around. On the other hand, the “lake” is the size of a large hotel swimming pool. Maybe the sign is just here to give people a thrill _ I know I might do something like that if I were a bored ranger….

Fri

Point of Rocks is _ a point of rocks. The maps and brochures say it is great for snorkeling and wading to find shells. That assumes you can get to it, because the public tide-line beach ends at the bulkhead, and you have to wade almost chest deep to reach to rocks themselves.

There is always controversy about public/private ownership of shoreline. On the one hand, I know I like to be able to sneak in anywhere. On the other hand, I am often grateful when the rest of the stupid idiots like me are excluded. That makes it a problem that has no rational absolute answer _ like Einstein’s universe, the flat fabric of human rights is distorted by the presence of large amounts of wealth.

Sat

The dunes support (seasonally) dry dead grass and occasional flowers like this one. I love finding little patches like this, even if the flowers end up being as common as dandelions, even if they turn out to be invasive species. I have no idea how this falls, but it is beautiful anyway.

The interaction of man and nature is our proper study. Ignoring nature for our own desires and dreams and internal considerations is folly. Ignoring our vast emotional and logical human existence to pay homage only to raw environment is an affront to the universe that endowed us with our infinite capabilities.

Sun

Fittingly, a last near-sunset through the clouds as we move on to the next week. This may not be a classic sunset, but it is surely typical. How many typical ones have I ignored over the last year?

One reason I take pictures and try to write is for the discipline. Knowing, or thinking, I must do this forces me to confront each day and each moment in each day. So, I apologize for digressing from the pure form I have tried to follow, and hope you enjoyed this digression.

Clearly Cold

Mon-

Around here in the winter, a relatively warmer day will be cloudy or wet, while a clear day is almost inevitably cold. For all the blather about wind chill, I am one of the old school that worries a lot more about the actual, absolute degree. I, for one, do not stand around naked in this weather (nor any other) and don’t really care what the temperature would feel like if I did so.

Ice forms decorations on the infinitely varied tideline. A visiting New York conceptual artist could do no better. A New York conceptual art critic, on the other hand, might make a great deal of all this while seeking to enlighten you and me about the profound meaning of it all, and especially about the possible dollar value of the transient artifact, and even more emphatically about the importance of such critics to our world.
Tue-

Now is about a dormant as things get in this relatively mild maritime climate. Oh, there will be another month of hard freezes and deep snows, maybe the grass will brown a bit more. But surprisingly, as the days grow noticeably longer, there are also increased signs of growth.

Already I can see the tips of bulbs pushing up from frozen beds. A few pussy willows are almost open, and buds are noticeably swelling in some of the trees. These things become more and more obvious as each thaw reveals a bit more life. My problem is that I think because I see them happening that spring must be near. It is not.

Wed-

Snow arrived earlier than expected, with cold. This is around eleven on Tuesday, temperature about fifteen, wind driving the snow horizontally. The visibility has obviously been knocked down considerably. Believe it or not, there are still some of us old regular walkers and joggers out here, pretending we are as hardy as our ancestors.

When heading back into the gale, I was grateful to be wearing a ski mask to take away some of the stinging as the flakes were driven into my cheeks. Other than that I was incredibly warm, layered in wonderful modern materials. Being retired means I can totally enjoy days like this, since I have nowhere to go and nothing to do. The hard part, as it was all my life, is to make the effort to get out the door and experience the storm, instead of sitting on the couch listening to others try to describe it.
Thu-

When I titled the week, I foresaw the polar air and the blue skies, but not the snow in between. Well, we’ve got the blue skies and the frigid temperature and a blustery wind. So we can just sort of ignore all the snow on the ground.

I’m not along the harbor this morning because I hate walking in this. Oh, not the six degree temperatures _ my clothes can handle that fine. The lack of shoulders along the roads, and the anger of the drivers who must be out and about, make me feel I am doing some death defying stunt every time I venture past the end of our driveway. People have never been so independent of the weather, yet, no matter, they still resent any ruffle to their internal timetables.

Fri-

All these nights below ten degrees, the harbor is finally starting to freeze over. Looks like we may get a pretty thick cover this year, shifting and crushing, which means some of the folks who left
their boats in the water have lost their bet. But, of course, anything can happen.

This view makes it pretty obvious why no reeds survive upright by the end of the winter. Not even counting the snow and gales, the water does a pretty good job of pulverizing any organic matter on shore. It’s all very beautiful if you are dressed warmly and can appreciate it. Infinite diamonds sparking under a stark sky.
Sat-

Maybe the geese wonder what happened to the water, maybe they don’t care. I can’t get any closer because I would no doubt slide right down into a hole.

For eons, humans have attached their own thoughts and attributes to other animals, rocks, spirits and natural events. Scientists tell us it is foolish, but making stories is after all how we form our real world-view. I will let those geese think just what I think they should ….

Sun-

There is still some low-hanging fruit around for birds that are adventurous enough. When it gets below 10, you don’t seem to find many of the smaller creatures. Probably takes more energy to look for food than it is apt to provide.

It’s always nice to find some unexpected natural color in the landscape. Winter is brown and white and _charitably _ blue if we include the sky. I know, I know, dawn and sunset break those rules. Still, these red berries at midday are oddly comforting.

Normal Lows

Mon-

One inescapable consequence of global warming seems to be extremes in weather conditions. The storms have more wind and precipitation, the heat waves are hotter, the cold waves are colder, the droughts are dryer. Meanwhile, the tides inch upward, and nature reacts to all of this somewhat subtly but in a manner that we become aware of over time.

We should probably appreciate anything “normal” or “average” on the infrequent weeks when it shows up. This week, the meteorologists assure us, will be such a time. This clearing morning sky may not agree. In the meantime, I just enjoy what I can, happy for whatever pageant may appear.
Tue-

Sometimes, it strikes me how the world is changing even as I accept it each day. What I take for granted might be completely extraordinary a few years from now. How many people really noticed, for example, when the horse was replaced by the automobile? How many people my age, for that matter, were watching as great ocean liners and their city piers disappeared in the face of inexpensive air flights?

So I see this oil truck and _ well, perhaps that is in the same class. Not only are new homes becoming much more efficient and insulated, but oil heat almost everywhere around here is hanging on by a thread, since natural gas is cheaper, cleaner, and more useful. Will I miss deliveries? No, not really, no more than anyone ever missed the horse shit all over the street when animals were finally gone.

Wed-

Stone, plaster, stucco and tile all look more beautiful when wet. Coindre Hall can take on aspects of being a real French chateau, at least if you squint a little. Anyway, I enjoy the changes in the appearance of materials with the weather conditions.

A meteorologist on the news yesterday mentioned that our concern with weather is a recent thing _ from the 1800’s or 1900’s on. Before that, people only spoke of seasons, as in a “wet spring” or “cold winter.” It’s odd as that we were less and less affected by the daily vagaries of storm and sun we should become more and more preoccupied with them. Perhaps another example of perverse human nature ….

Thu-

Fog seems to be a kind of metrological confusion. Oh, yes, it is just low clouds _ common enough. And weather has no anthropological basis, confused or otherwise. But after all that _ well it seems the water just can’t make up its mind whether to drip or absorb into invisibility.

That brings out all kinds of responses from us. Mysterious, enveloping, beautiful, annoying. It’s hard
for me to make up my mind as well. Here our inlet seems a tiny replica of the Golden Gate, while dark pilings hold reality firmly in place.

Fri-

Solitary working boat in the harbor, not only surviving ice and cold but challenging it. At times, this area can be as picturesque as Europe. Of course, it’s all in the selection of the pictures and presentation _ but the Europeans know that too.

I try not to be dogmatic about photographs. The essential fact is that any image capture is untrue to our actual experience and vision. No matter how much you try to make it “realistic” it never can match someone on the spot. So tricks, like zoom or fuzz or color adjustment are simply playthings added to what is basically a lie anyway.

Sat-

Tiny red tugboat behind rusting orange crane, both unemployed until the spring. The feathery rushes somehow survive all kinds of wind and rain and freeze for months. They look a lot more fragile than they really are.

I can search for profound thoughts or follow logical trails to fantasy meanings, but often it is best to just let the mind clear. Not try to think of why or how or what it all means, but simply appreciate what is. That is not only this view but also the wind and temperature and sounds and contented feel of my musculature letting me wander along.

Sun-

As I walked, unpredicted drizzle turned into unexpected rain into unusual sleet into surprise heavy snow shower. Naturally, it all stopped as I reached home again. One of those days when you just have to grin and bear it.

Big fat flakes rapidly coating everything bring out the inner child, delighted that the everyday world suddenly turns so magical. Not just the images, but the cold patches landing on nose and lips, then melting. The hush that falls from any falling water absorbing ambient sounds. And the frisson of possible danger. It’s important to listen to that voice sometimes.

Winter Weird

Mon-

Had been planning to theme this week as “winter bound” _ it’s been hard to get out the house these last few days between snow and cold. But this morning when I arose it was 57 degrees out, the icicles were gone with most of the white cover and I hardly felt trapped in spite of the downpour. By midnight, we are supposed to be back in the teens. Should be an odd week …

Afflicted with a common disease of the age, I end up taking too many pictures and saving them. This is from the “archives” of a week ago. Although I sometimes make fun of those who rush from place to place snapping shots to prove their presence, I respect that doing something that will “save” an experience lends a focus to life, makes us concentrate, and can make us appreciate things more. Like these vines and branches, that I would no doubt otherwise ignore, which form a pretty tracery over the empty port.
Tue-

Strange little thaw leaves the turf frozen under a thin layer of mud. Signs of winter everywhere are clear enough. Looking north a kind of peach color breaks through saw-toothed clouds over the hundred-year-od lighthouse. Although the camera can’t really catch them, I love the infinite variety of soft browns in landscapes such as this.

Extreme weather does help us appreciate any breaks when we have them. It is easier to appreciate a rainy day in the fifties when it is sandwiched between a blizzard and sub-arctic howling wind. Our memories tend to be so short that after a week or less we take whatever wonders we encounter each moment for granted.

Wed-

We’re in the second of several days of below-ten degree weather, but this picture was taken before it settled in. My poor equipment and technique does not capture it adequately, but I love the green glow of lichen on old trees on damp days from here on through the summer. There’s something mystic and ancient about the rough chaotic growth.

Some might say _ well, improve your technique and equipment. I have become as fanatic as anyone concerning certain things during my life, and I now resist. There is a happiness in staying within self-imposed bounds, not becoming an expert, not devoting hours to something you like to do casually. My technique and equipment is totally adequate for my demands. Upping my demands would only complicate my life unnecessarily
Thu-

With the frigid temperatures, a skim of ice forms, mostly from fresh water layered on top. We have a lot of springs coming out of the hills along the waterfront, constantly trickling (or pouring) out of the sand. That drives the road crews nuts because the embankment under the blacktop keeps getting undercut and is always wet.

This boat probably won’t be going out today. I say probably because, like the rest of us, clammers can be crazy sometimes. If they need to get to their boat, they will, even if they have to chop their way. If you look closely, in the mid distance by the sailboat there are trails of a few who have already gone through.
Fri-

Hal Harzog wrote Some We Love, Some We Hate, Some We Eat concerning our odd relation to various animals. Geese seem to fill all the roles at once. We are capable of fervently holding immense contradictions, various parts of which we truly believe for minutes at a time.

Geese are an aggravating nuisance, fouling water and grass and crowding other waterfowl. Some areas have taken to capturing or shooting and turning them into human dinners or pet food. On the other hand, they are kind of beautiful and some of the little bits of nature we get to see up close. This particular group seems to think it owns the park, as it takes a stroll on the pond ice.
Sat-

Rainy slush turning to slick compressed ice under my boots and car tires. Sirens going wild in the background, no doubt someone thinking they could stop faster than this surface would allow. You can’t fight physics, and the physical properties of water at various temperatures are insanely amazing.

The little cabin-like house at the top of the “back hill” is not quite a remnant of much earlier days, but it does date to a time before the mansions that crowd rapidly month after month. Everyone is either building new or expanding their quite comfortable dwelling to the size of a big-box store. I’ve never quite figured out what they all see in it. Having more natural yard is infinitely more interesting than more square yards of carpet and tacky doodads. Well, the differences in people’s tastes are insanely amazing as well.

Sun-

Ice and tide have mown the seagrass, which now fully engages in its annual rest. Mats of grass and reeds either sink to the bottom to decay and nourish hidden chains of life, or litter the harbor shore. Except for drift, not much is going to happen until the subtle solar signals of spring signal rebirth (whew!)

Weather stays extremely variable, as indicated by the distant fog where the cold water meets very warm freakishly humid air. The only reason I can see at all is because the wind is whipping away the local soup, around the bend the fog is shaping into strange waves like some dry ice vaudeville spectacular. We have been assured (but not by nature itself) that everything will now return to normal and average.

Another Year

Mon-

Here in the middle of the Northern Hemisphere, the cycle of the seasons expresses almost perfectly the contradictions of being human. Each grand year brings a predictable pageant of nature, from brown emptiness, through bursting abundance, long growth, fruit and decay, and return to emptiness. Always the same, yet always different, and each year we ourselves change and get older.

Our brains, tuned to detect patterns, strive to find meaning in the random chaos that accompanies each solar day, lunar month, or natural year. But even though we gain control, much escapes us, and luck plays as much a role in the experience of our lives as it did that of our ancestors. All we can really do is marvel that we have had a chance to participate, for at least part of another grand turn of the wheel.

Tue-

As another numbered year slips past, it is well to remember that our existence has limits. In spite of evidence, we prefer to believe that we are part of some grand cycles: that our soul, or our works, or our memory will last somehow forever. No doubt each person “resting” here felt the same, though none of us know anything of them nor care to know.

Each day remains limitless in boredom or pleasure, and the days themselves are infinite in number. Or so it seems. These stones bear witness to the unfortunate fact that the end of another year also checks off another chunk of our allotment of measured time here on this planet.

Wed-

Fittingly, the new year starts with the first ice on the harbor. Here near the former tidal dam, fresh water seeps from the pond through the earthen dike _ in spite of centuries of being packed down by vehicles great and small. The fresh water, of course, floats in a layer on the salt, coats the rocks and freezes, and as the tide goes out, forms interesting patterns of light and reflection. In a few months, the grass will be sheered by the same general motions.

We are most familiar with the cycles of the year, and day, and (if we really try) moon. Rarely do we think much about other repeating events like the tide _ an odd kind of thing, with a complex rhythm twice a day, and strong influences from random factors like the weather. I guess we are too busy and have more important things to consider, but once in a while it is interesting to meditate on these simple oddities that make Earth what it is.

Thu-

Fresh snow cover with blizzard predicted later. The white obscures and covers most remaining signs of life, punctuating the hibernation of this season.

I tend to romanticize our connection with nature, but of course I am a complete hypocrite. I enjoy my warm house, well-made clothes, electricity, and hot cup of coffee in the morning. I like to observe from the comfort of civilization. Like Thoreau or Rousseau, I do not grow my own food nor make my own paper to write on. Sometimes I can imagine living as an aborigine on a South Sea island, but never as one surviving a New England winter in general, nor a blizzard in particular. We should experience our natural heritage, not endure it.

Fri-

The blizzard may have fizzled, but it is ten degrees with about six or eight inches of snow blowing around. Cold enough for me to s
tay in. Of course, this is normal weather in Montreal, and almost a heat wave in Quebec or Moscow.

Humans are natural animals, but the most incredibly adaptable on the planet. We can live almost anywhere, but the most amazing fact is that wherever we live we grow used to and regard as normal. I suppose if the species ever lives in space it will regard vacuum and airtight cubicles as the most comforting surroundings possible.

Sat-

An eleven degree sunset heading for a four degree morning. I admit I took this from the comfort of my bedroom window _ stayed in except for an hour or so clearing the driveway. I am at an age when I can fully appreciate being inside all day if necessary.

What keeps me in is less nature herself than human nature. I do not trust drivers who are inevitably high strung and angry when inconvenienced by ice and snow. They seem to regard anyone unburdened by the need to be doing anything useful as affronts to cosmic order. So I avoid the roads until the snow melts a bit, and life returns more to normal.
Sun-

Pre storm, but capturing the mood of the winter so far, looks like we could be in for quite a memorable one. Coldest temperatures in twenty years, more snow already than we have often had lately in months. A White Christmas was just a formality, since the storms set in before Thanksgiving.

Silver lining department makes me wonder if the really deep freeze will halt some of the obnoxious invasive insects that have been marching into our fields and forests. It would be nice if the flowers and trees and animals had a bit of a respite next summer. On the other hand, I expect it will kill off a few of the less hardy birds as well. Anyway, not much we can do except watch and wait.

Christmas Reflections

Mon-

Bright red berries in a tangled cluster of bare vines. A little color, fully natural. Most of the holiday decorations are artificial now _ lights, plastic wreaths, baubles of all materials and types. Nothing really wrong with it, stripping forests and bushes just so we can throw them out in a few weeks is pretty awful too.

A time such as this provides a moment to step out of our daily routine _ even if our daily routine is wandering about thinking of trees and birds and skies. There are other aspects to our lives that must be selected out when we do something a specific as writing a journal. This week it is all family and memories of people and times past. That is just as beautiful and strange as the vistas we inhabit now.

Tue-

Nice mixed message here. Holiday wreath, open water, fenced in beach with lock on gate. Our culture continues to have trouble with the idea of what is private, what is public, who gets what. But in the meantime, Happy Holidays anyway!

This far north in our hemisphere, regardless of the literary and metaphysical claptrap that encrusts itself on our celebrations, it is nice to have a simple cheery break, with lights and festivals and family. Unfortunately, our self-determined “great thinkers” try their best to ruin it for everyone by attaching grand meaning, when the real meaning is just _ enjoy those you love, and share your life with them fully!

Wed-

Not exactly a white Christmas, but a sprinkle of snow which has been somewhat unusual. One lonely bird echoes repeatedly over the frigid hush out here a 9am. Overhead a woodpecker is busy high in the bare branches. Almost everyone has some symbol of the season on mailbox or house or tree.

Curmudgeons of all types try to derail any festivity. They decry the commercialization of a holy time, they rant against the colonization of the West, they long for imagined olden paradises, they earnestly beg for future utopias. That all misses the point. We here today, fully human and lucky for it _ we should appreciate that fact every moment. If we happen to try to make a special effort when the natural world seems more cold and bleak than usual _ well that is to the credit of humans and their cultures. In that spirit, happy holidays to all!

Thu-

The clams don’t take holidays, so far as we know, but the clam market is often better when people do. So it is not only retail work that takes no pause. Fortunately, for me, this is simply an opportunity to observe something picturesque.

Traditionally maritime pursuits are either romanticized as lovely pursuits which place you close to nature, or horrible nasty necessary encounters with ice and storm. As with all labor, there is truth in both views. As with all our experiences, we can choose which we wish to emphasize.

Fri-

The Halesite Volunteer Fire Department is slipping _ usually the presents are in their sleigh (equipped in the back with a special rocket nozzle) are removed on Christmas night, since they should have been delivered. I guess the younger generation is again at fault.

This is the nicest part of the holidays, the short interregnum from Christmas Day through New Year’s. Most of the family obligations have been met, the tensions and hassles discharged for better or worse, and people can just relax with each other for a short while, each getting prepared for the year to come. The cares of the world will surely crowd back in quickly enough, but for now we just celebrate another year of existence.

Sat-

Lest you get the idea it is some kind of bucolic paradise around here _ this is a sample of what you would see if you look the other direction from some of my photos. Selecting what we want to see is nothing new _ Thoreau wrote Walden in what was basically a vacant lot with pond near a railroad surrounded by homes and farms.

That’s the point, really. The world is so rich and infinite that we can construct what we will make of it. You can choose to see the beauty or the ugliness, and even more than that, you have complete control of the lessons you draw from your selected experience. Sure, the little wreaths are tacky, but, on the other hand, it’s kind of neat that the town is at least trying.

Sun-

It’s always nice to have a bit of history hanging around, reminding us that there were people just like you and me doing just what we did in the immediate and far past. The easiest to recall that, of course, is by looking at the artifacts they have left behind.

In a way, decorating a house pleasantly for holidays is showing respect for the original builders and connecting their lives and deeds to the present. Keeping an old house well maintained and with respect to its original features promotes a valuable heritage, whether it is tens, hundreds, or thousands of years old.

Wintry Solstice

Mon-

Over the last few decades, winter solstice has been kind of a stealth arrival of winter. There would be a couple of cold snaps, maybe a snowstorm, but generally the days remained fairly benign. The shortest day of a year was a marker of the entrance to a cold season, but not an event in the middle of it.

My brain sometimes has trouble with the notion that seasons follow the sun events. It makes sense that the longest day should also be the warmest, for example, just as it seems intuitively obvious that noon should be the hottest time of day. But that is not so _ the earth continues to warm in July and August, as it does at 1pm. Likewise it cools after December 21.

This year, however, the local weather is definitely more in tune with my incorrect internal notions. This is Coindre Hall in the midst of a pretty decent north wind wintry blast.

Tue-

Although the harbor is clear, shallow puddles have frozen solid. The afternoon sun is bright, but dimmed by the atmosphere as it shines in from its most southernmost positions. Dead and dormant vegetation has not yet been broken or crushed by heavy storms.

We’ve mostly lost the abilities our ancestors had, to tell at a glance exactly what season it is. The clues are all around us, but they are clues that no longer matter as much to us as is our power on, is the gas tank filled, who do I have to please today. Perhaps our lives are just as rich or richer for the change, but every once in a while I wonder.

Wed-

Tiny bits of holiday cheer in the bright red berries. We become so used to plastic artificial excess that we discount the real thing when we see it.

Today is one of the times that photographs lie. The real joy of the day is in the bitterly cold air, the quiet breeze, the almost empty streets, and the happiness of being well clothed and warm and able to enjoy the sensation of walking and thinking. Vision is not all of existence, nor even most of it.

Thu-

As the latest snow covers the parking lot, the empty docks show that all the boats that are going to be put away for the winter are now safely on land somewhere. When you see anything like this, there has to be an assumption that the boat club has firm rules in place having to do with protecting the docks.

Everywhere else, a few boats are still in, some covered, some not having moved all summer. I always wonder what stories they tell _ death, disease, bankruptcy, old age or change of life? A motorboat is not an inexpensive toy, but there seems to be a constant stream of abandonment. Obviously, however, not the case at the Harbor Boat Club.

Fri-

Sure looks like winter _ but of course astronomical winter doesn’t start for a few days yet. I think I’ll just go with the testimony of my eyes (and all my other senses out here in a cold wind.) Whatever the actual date, this is a winter scene.

That’s one of the curses of our industrially-formed culture. We squeeze the hours and days and seasons into nifty little boxes, as precisely formed and labeled as our plastic food packaging, and ignore the fact that nature is really a bit more amorphous and ragged than that. In reality, even our own midday is often controlled by events rather than the clock. The only harm of living in categories is that we tend to observe even less than we usually do.

Sat-

This seems to be our local miniature version of Scuffy, the brave little tugboat. Every morning about this time it seems to chug out into the sound, and then chug back shortly thereafter. I would like to think the slant to the horizon in the picture adds to the drama, although we both know it is my fault for failing to hold the camera stea
dy.

Natural human reaction (and it is kind of weird when you think about it) is to wonder what the story is. Perhaps we have a drug runner in plain sight, or someone who just likes to keep the motor tuned, or an old captain who pursues memories, or a local gang dumping bodies or (what would be far worse to current sensibilities) ecologically damaging waste in deeper waters. Anyway, it can add a dash of romance to an otherwise normal day.

Sun-

Not sure about all these geese _ certainly not here all summer, maybe here all winter. A lot of them from somewhere, anyway. This little area attracts waterfowl because there is a constant spring seepage from the sandy hills providing plentiful fresh water along the shore.

I usually don’t get birds or other wildlife in these shots. Just an old camera, not nearly as capable as that on a modern cellphone. I would have nothing against a better device except that I notice that people who (in their middle age crisis or second childhood) equip themselves with expensive and showy equipment tend to concentrate more on what is available in the viewfinder than what is really around them. I guess people really seeing weed leaves for the first time and exclaiming over them as they take thousands of shots is a kind of aesthetic progression, but I have always tried to do the same thing without manufactured aids.

Weather Turning Winter

Mon-

From October until mid-December on Long Island is a confused, almost schizophrenic series of contradictory weather patterns. It may be very warm for a few days, then extremely cold, then chill down for rain or flurries. Week to week trends somewhat colder, but nothing really definitive seems to say “ok, now it’s time to stop fooling around ….”

Every year, right around now, there is a big change. The tiny waves have the color of the North Atlantic, the clouds get ominous, the temperature stays low, and every weather prediction is for maybe snow, maybe sleet, maybe rain. The dark days heading to solstice feed the gloom. Time for the winter overcoats and hats and everything else, and finally to forget about the autumn and look forward to spring.

Tue-

Low tide is beginning to have that bleak off-season look where the exposed sand bottom just kind of grades into the water, sky, and brown tress on the shore. Even the houses have lost their vibrancy, as all the flowers are gone and the festive outdoor detritus _ flags, barbeque sets, toys, whatever _ have been safely stowed away.

Winter is the most unchanging season of all. Oh, there are a few dramatic events like a heavy snowfall or deep frozen ice but for the most part each day resembles the last and the next far more than in the dramas of the other times of year. What I most dislike about the current consumer culture is that we have so willingly put ourselves into exactly this kind of gloomy timeless purgatory for work shopping and entertainment all year round _ one day after another, endlessly, all the same.

Wed-

Not a heavy snowfall, but enough to make a difference. The opposite shore is obscured by a heavy band of flakes, as the dock takes on a new coat of white.

A couple more of these, a week or so of desperate cold, and I am ready for spring. Ah, that’s when you know winter is really arriving. The thing about this area is that _ although not nearly as bad as say upstate New York _ the winter drags on long after you have experienced the thrill of seasonal change.

Thu-

I try not to use zoom too much, with a preferred aesthetic of art remaining within certain bounds for certain tasks. When something gets too fine-tuned it gets somewhat artificial. On the other hand, I know anything I decide to shoot is simply a fragmented selection of the real world, and as completely fake as can be. That is always one of the issues of art _ not that these photographs have much to do with art, I suppose.

At this moment the snow fell heavily, but that in itself is a misdirection, because before and after there was hardly any snowfall at all _ this was one of those long storms with bands of activity and other times of complete quiet. Nevertheless, at this particular moment, it was much like a blizzard, cold, driving, relentless and blotting out the horizon. I was happy to head back up the hill to our house.

Fri-

At this time of year it takes more than a few days of twenty degree weather to affect the relatively warm salt water in the harbor. Even here at the head of harbor, where inflowing fresh water floats on top for a while, there is no ice skim yet. The ducks, of course, never seem to notice anything.

All those boats will stay out there all winter, protected _ at least in theory _ from even the thickest ice by a system blowing bubbles all around the docks. I guess it works, but the air pumps can make an awful racket, polluting even the calmest crisp clear days.

Sat

Some snow evades the warm vapors for a while. Even where it melts rapidly, the damage has been done. Stalks are already starting to break and fray, by the summer most of this will form thick mats washed up along the shore. Well, to be fair, maybe most of it will get waterlogged quickly and lie rotting on the bottom. For now, there are lots of pleasant tonal contrasts.

Up the shore away, in a sheltered indentation, there are thousands of geese on the waterline. Surprisingly, although there seem to be quite a few birds of all kinds around, they are almost silent. Maybe they know something about what is coming that I don’t.

Sun-

Doesn’t look like much. Snowflakes barely screen the far harbor shoreline. But the strong winds and twenty five degree temperatures wake you up pretty quickly. The white coating is all new.

Only seven days until winter solstice _ at least my winter solstice, since I simplify it and always declare the sun at its lowest and shortest on December 21, regardless of what the newscasters tell us now. That doesn’t matter much, really, the nights come early enough for weeks wrapping around the actual turning point.

Open Waters

Mon-

The boat owners have mostly decided by now. They raise their left hand to test the wind and guess how hard and severe the winter will be _ will there be snow and gales, will the harbor freeze over, will it be a hard freeze with crushing ice floes. Their right hand opens their wallet and examines the cost of getting the boat out and stored and safe. Looks like everyone over in puppy cove is feeling flush this year.

Sometime this week, a working tug and dock will head out from Coney’s marina and pick up all the buoys to stack up on shore as well. Then there will be nothing but cold blue waves, and whatever goes on under them.

Tue-

No yachts on the sound today, even if you could see that far through the mist. Fog and reduced visibility are common now, with the various sudden changes in air temperature, and slower adjustment of the water. You might guess it feels warm out _ you would be wrong. For some reason, there is a real bite to the dampness.

It’s as if the world is waiting …. But no, that is just projection, a common fault of mine to throw my mood on things that have no mood at all. And one, to be honest, that is probably not at all shared by most of the population around here. December kicks off the mean season, when everyone has too much to do and is worried about family and fate. Aggravated drivers, angry pedestrians, upset children, all hiding their true feelings under masks of good cheer. Fun to watch, if I stay alert.

Wed –

Just grass and reflections with bare trees along the far shore. Off camera to the right crews are pulling up the buoys and heaping them on a barge to tow off to winter storage on pavement near Halesite. That will complete the transformation of this end of the harbor into a semblance of what it once looked like.

The grasses are a shadow of what they even were ten years ago _ might be pollution or sea level or global warming or nutrient overload or some disease _ nobody knows. But it’s clear they become less year by year, everywhere along the shore. These will remain valiantly waving beauty until the ice floes arrive and crush and cut them with rising and falling and pushing and pulling tides.

Thu-

Most of the floating docks have been either taken in and tied up on shore, or taken out to deeper water and anchored tightly for the winter. These float up and down on the tides, with chains or other fastenings wrapped around deeply driven pilings so they can slide freely. Unfortunately, deep cold weather freezes the spray and fresh water near the surface, coating the pilings and chains with ice, freezing the ice together. When the tide comes up, the pilings are slowly but surely ripped up with the rocking action of the waves.

Springtime a barge comes around and hammers in the pilings as necessary. But this costs a fair amount of money. And for the permanent docks built on the pilings, large damage can occur from twisting as the supports are never raised equally. Of course, it’s not all floating docks, in the winter frozen icebergs have exactly the same effect. In other words, the endless calm tourists often ascribe to the quiet cycles of nature on the bay are not quite so timeless as they might think.

Fri-

Collecting the buoys in the fog _ they lucked out this year since it is extremely warm. I’ve seen the crew out before with spray icing up the chains in a bitter north wind. I’m not really sure why these have to come out, but I like the fact that for at least of the year the waves are unbroken by artifacts.

Atmospheric effects can happen anywhere, I suppose, but near the water they vary constantly and change the landscape dramatically from day to day, hour to hour, season to season. The most difficult thing for me is to avoid the easy lethargy of looking out the window and deciding that some kind of weather or other should prevent me from taking my daily two miles. That is not only lazy, but also sets up a day when I fail to get my thoughts cleared and my head screwed on straight.

Sat-

The kayaks and small sailboats will stay stacked along the shore all winter _ unless some huge storm or tide comes along and destroys the racking, which as happened recently. I look at them less as intrusions than as interesting bits of color in an otherwise monochrome landscape. Obviously, there is not much contrast being provided by any boats.

An artistic eye has the ability to take things as they are and find pleasing patterns. If you train yourself in this way you can find beauty in rotting piers, iridescent oil slicks, and discarded roadside trash. It is impossible to make the world into something it is not, but there is always an open question concerning what it really is.

Sun-

Sort of like a vortex, the watercraft are swept off the surface from the inlet on in to the head of harbor. The outer area is cleared by December, some of the water in Halesite has active anchorage all winter. This reflects the likelihood of hard freeze and thick ice occurrence. Right here is about midway, mostly abandoned to the geese and swans and ducks that overwinter.

Baymen (as far as I can tell there are still no Baywomen) who do the odd jobs, go out for clams in the coldest months, and who are increasingly scarce, regard this time of year as calm before the storm. Well, actually storms. At some point soon it will blow hard for days, the temperature will be in the twenties, and spray will add to the misery of freezing fog even when it is not sleeting or driving snow. A hard life. Some call it rewarding, but it’s certainly not for the likes of a wimp like me.

Bare Branches

Mon-

A couple of weeks, a few big gales, some frosty mornings, all have harmonized to harmonize the vegetation and the sky. The season is now obvious at a glance, the cycle of rest and endurance has arrived. Time to pull out the winter clothes for those of us unable to simply hibernate and wait.

That, of course, is only true for anyone who still pays attention to nature. An awful lot of people, it seems, find that the roads are still passable, the stores are still open, work continues, and the outdoors continues as barely noticed background. After all, it is almost Thanksgiving! Christmas around the corner. New Year’s, Super Bowl, winter vacations line up in one long rush. Spring will arrive on a carefully orchestrated flight path which guides everyone through dark and cold with minimum inconvenience.
Tue-

Even without brilliant greens and whatever other colors flash in the foliage, a harbor is a visually arresting place. Ports along the New England coast have always shown that. The weathered old docks and the brilliant blues of reflected skies are purely elemental, in some ways enhanced by the lack of competition.

Now, of course, we get ready for the ice, which arrives later and later each year, if in fact it arrives at all. At some point, there will certainly be snow, but here the bad weather in November and December is usually gales, cold, and rain.
Wed-

The brutality of the season can make us instinctively recoil. The vegetation looks like its been murdered, and the looming clouds promise more of the same. It’s still relatively warm, but I instinctively clutch my collar tighter and hurry on.

Civilization is never more prized than now. I can visit this scene and then move on, happily back in a home that is brightly lit, warm, and with whatever food might strike my fancy. Those that wish to go back to primitive pre-industrial bliss are welcome to it _ the reason civilization exists with all its hassles is that most people are grateful to have options.

Thu-

Four hundred years ago, Thanksgiving day, this continent was all but virgin natural, unaffected by industry and the massive works of mankind. The waters were clear and swarming with wildlife, as was the land. A few tribes lived here more or less peacefully as far as we can tell, people just like us. No houses, more vegetation along the beaches, no docks, they were probably glad to see the insects leave, although maybe they grew used to the harsh winters and nasty mosquitoes.

I am a child of my times, and never wish to go back. I like modern civilization, although I sorrow at the stupid and unnecessary de
struction we are wreaking on our ecological heritage. I am grateful for all I have enjoyed during my lifetime, while concerned about how much our descendants will curse our name. This day, in particular, seems a moment poised between two worlds _ the Eden that once was, and whatever horrible wasteland the planet is being rapidly turned into.
Thu-

It would be nice to think the freshwater mill pond was filled with migrating waterfowl, but the birds on the water are just the local seagulls and geese who have acclimated to year round residency (although sometimes this time of year their instincts get the best of them and they fly a v formation up the harbor and back.) It’s actually already too late for most of the migrations. The small bufflehead ducks arrived from the north a few weeks ago, but they prefer the salty waves.

Nothing heroic in this picture. Just, as advertised, bare branches and brown leftover seeds. Even the leaves have already sunk to the bottom, beginning another cycle into organic detritus. You look at a picture like this and it is always hard to believe that in just a few months it will all be softening yellow and red and green once more. Most people up here, truthfully or not, will tell you they like the contrasts.

Sat-

The tide goes in and out twice a day regardless of the weather, although the moon and a big storm may exaggerate its effect. Unlike the leaves, the colorful kayaks never fall off their perches, and lend a festive note to the acid clear blue and sharply etched branches in this Canadian air.

Beauty, like happiness, is all in our heads, and not always foremost in our consciousness. There are many other cares and worries and chores that must be done. But if we need them, beauty and happiness are always there, somewhere, even if somewhat insignificant by Hollywood standards.

Sun-

Coindre Hall does look a little like a mad doctor’s laboratory, starkly rising amidst deadish trees on the crest of the hill. You almost expect bloodcurdling screams and the crash of monster feet through the underbrush. We could probably add to the drama with howling winds and tattered clouds racing across a full moon _ ah, but that’s just a story.

Humans like to slip stories into whatever they encounter. It helps us remember, and put things in perspective and just have fun where otherwise there might be none. Some would say the age of great storytelling is gone, that mass media has dulled our creativity into oatmeal but just walking around for a while can bring it all back quickly. Surprisingly, our stories often make us appreciate what is really there more than we would if we were just looking with a blank mind.