Stuffed

It's The Lost Week, that disjointed period between Christmas Day and January One when this year finally runs aground, when everyone is finishing up vacations or waiting for a bowl game. Or simply for things to return to normal.

In our house the cats' beds are again in their rightful places, the noble little fir sits outside on the burn pile, and all traces of gift wrap and cupcakes have vanished (although there's an ample supply of leftover ham in the fridge).

For Christmas gift-giving to each other my wife and I limited it to stockings-only, but as Kathy noted, because something is in a large decorative sock doesn't mean it's cheap small.

And sure enough, there it was, in the stubby toe of hers—a pink iPod Shuffle.

After three decades of Christmases past I would never guess that item would be on her wish list—she likes pencils and pads, not gizmos! Uh-oh. When hints first surfaced I shot the idea down as too expensive—and immediately began an earnest search for one, only to discover they are immensely popular. Uh-oh #2. My last stop was the local Mac store, where I should have started and where the last Shuffle in town sat on a shelf, waiting, in the color I wanted. Thanks, Santa.

My Shuffle helps me tune out background noise when I'm on a treadmill at the gym, so I expect we'll make a great tandem (she'll cruise along with Sam Cooke, while I'll chase Eric Clapton). I'm amazed at the amount of technology Apple's put into this tiny device, and also by the packaging. Easy to open, stylish, and small. Very small. That's becoming important to me—I want my (our) possessions to be manageable. When you have more than you can keep track of, it's like having a party that's spun out of control.

A couple of times each year I play George Carlin's famous routine on Stuff, to keep that in perspective. You can view a 1986 performance at this YouTube link.
The language is mild by today's standards, but at a time when millions of children live in cars while heated storage units proliferate, his point(s) get stronger by the day.

I'm going to go clean off a shelf now, and wish you the Happiest of New Years.

A Healthier Photographer

Delicious baked treats—a variety of cookies, chewy brownies, and mini cheesecakes—appear out of thin air in our kitchen during the Christmas holiday. It happened again this week, as my wife moved deftly among ingredients, magic wand measuring spoons in hand. In past years the laws of supply and demand required a quick pace to maintain an equitable balance between the two—the shelf life of chocolate snaps, fruit drops, and snickerdoodles could be measured in minutes, not days.

But not this year.

The brownies, obviously baffled, stared at me from their colorful holiday plate, dwindling in number until only a single crumbling morsel remained. I didn't see it go. The little cheesecakes? Huddled in the refrigerator under wrap, waiting for Christmas Eve. AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, NOT A COOKIE IN SIGHT. What happened here?

I've given myself a gift of better health.

Most of us try, a time or two, to improve our diets, exercise regularly, and avoid foods* we know are bad for our health. But none of that comes easily—it takes time to be healthy, and we're in a hurry. And there's so much information to digest. Over- whelmed, we retreat toward convenience, especially at mealtimes. I've done that, too. But three months ago, after reading a book on nutrition and disease, I decided to try something different—I eliminated wheat from my diet.

Ever wonder why Santa Claus is a jolly round fellow?

Dr. William Davis will tell you—it's because of all those cookies! And bread, bagels, cakes, cereals, pasta—anything (and everything) made from "healthy whole grains." Wheat, in a word. There are other culprits that damage our health, he advises, but wheat is The Big One, genetically modified beyond count and never tested on humans to see how it might affect their health. Oops.

A cardiologist, Davis wrote Wheat Belly, 228 pages chronicling his experiences with wheat, the effects it has on our bodies, and real-life case stories drawn from the thousands of patients he's treated. His bias towards real food is evident (he points out the many healthy foods available that don't include wheat), but his tone isn't evangelical. I'll admit, I bogged down near the middle as he explained some of the body's intricate workings, but by then I was convinced of the truth of his arguments—and ready to experiment. What could I lose?

As it's happened: fifteen pounds. Frequent, insistent cravings. The subtle aching in my knees (after only ten days.) Yawning fits. The list goes on. In the process I've regained a sense of taste—an enjoyment for what I eat. Minus the aches, my gym workouts (moderate weights and cardio) are fresher and more productive. I wasn't significantly overweight when I removed wheat from my personal menu (although I didn't care for the view in my mirror), but the pounds came off quickly. I was, and am, amazed.

If you're looking for a great book for your favorite photographer I heartily recommend Wheat Belly. Here's a link to Amazon (the Kindle version is now out), or patronize your local  bookseller or library.
 

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*As a kid I loved the taste of Twinkies and that creamy center—we all did. But there wasn't any cream in it (it's white vegetable shortening). Here's a partial list of the other ingredients—enriched wheat flour, sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, vegetable and/or animal shortening (containing one or more of partially hydrogenated soybean, cottonseed or canola oil, and beef fat), dextrose, whole eggs, modified corn starch, salt, cornstarch, wheat gluten, natural and artificial flavors, caramel color, Yellow #5, and Red #40. Mmmm.

Christmas Spirit

Sunday Slippers

Wintertime here in the Willamette Valley is characterized by gray skies, gloom, and galoshes, and I'm happy to report we're meeting that standard today. Weather Underground claims we're experiencing "light rain mist," but as any Oregonian could tell them it's DRIZZLE. The dry, cold days that have dogged us this month may finally be giving way to Normal, and I'm ready for it.

It's the kind of day that suggests you slip on warm slippers, prod the fire in the stove, and watch cats sleeping while your wife finishes wrapping the last batch of Christmas gifts. Cradling a warm cup of coffee, I'm meeting that standard, too. Earlier I put out bird seed and grabbed the paper from its box, but I'll hibernate here at the computer for the remainder of the afternoon. I won't need a reminder that the shortest day of the year is approaching, but on the flip side of that thought is this: spring is a day closer.

Yesterday was mostly hidden by a dense coverlet of fog, another seasonal staple in the valley. We drove to my sister's home in Donald, 90 miles north on the interstate, and I was one of perhaps a dozen drivers keeping at or near the posted speed limit of 65. I'd sound like an elderly person reminiscing about how it used to be if I mentioned how stupid my fellow motorists were acting, so I won't. The state police did stop a few to remind them, though.

When we arrived I realized, again, that there are exactly two traditions I look forward to at Christmastime—the lovely way my wife decorates our home, making it special all over again, and the hand-made crafts my sister fashions in her own version of Santa's workshop. (Call it sibling pride, but I believe those other elves would be jealous.)

Their talents are complementary, and nowhere more evident than around the windows in our dining area. Fir boughs gathered from the woods surround them, accented by old Christmas cards, small stuffed animals, and dozens of crafted ornaments. Can you say reindeer? If Santa ever needs a replacement or two on his team, I hope he'll call.

My meager contributions to all this festivity are two-fold—I stay (mostly) out of the way and agree with everyone, and I'm in charge of the coffee brewer. We're not buying gifts for each other this year (we are doing stockings), so I'm even off the hook for wrapping (which I do enjoy). That leaves lots of time for my slippers, in front of the fire.

And anyway, I've already got everything I really need. Every day of the year.

Paraphrased

I photograph to find out what something will
look like photographed. ~Garry Winogrand

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And now I photograph to find out what
something will look like Photoshopped.

A Lot Like Life

At The Playground

I'm lucky to have a historic place to go to for photography. So when our portion of the Willamette Valley was cloaked in fog yesterday, I decided spur-of-the-moment to beat the blahs and drive to Thompson's Mills to look for pictures.

Morning temperatures were slightly below freezing when I left, but the highway was dry and clear, and uneventful. I stopped at the store in Shedd for a Snickers, and shortly afterwards was extending the legs on my Gitzo.

You already know, if you read this blog, that I've been photographing at Thompson's since this past summer. For me it is a playground, pure and simple. All that clanking machinery once run by hard-working no-nonsense people? Teeter-totters and swings to me. It's a place where recess never ends, because nothing I do there is work (although with the acceptance of my volunteer's hat I did agree to get a bit dirty. Maybe.)

Unlike the stubborn fog, my photographic spirits lifted quickly as I sought out new subjects. I hadn't expected to find an arcade game, although it had been in plain sight all along. I wandered the ground floor for hours that way.

Discoveries, like that candy bar, are sweet treats.