Not so much…
Month: May 2017
Spring Concert
Fishing
"Do you think I'll catch a Clownfish?"
We were eating breakfast when this question came up. A typical Sunday morning: breakfast around half-past eight. The Girl off to choir practice at quarter past nine. The boys off to Mass about an hour later. That morning promised to be our normal, comfortable ritual. The afternoon, though, promised adventure.
"No, son. Clownfish live in the ocean. They're salt water fish."
"Plus," added L, "they live in reefs."
It only took him a few minutes to get the hang of it, and for a while, he was casting beside the Girl as she practiced with her new archery set.
A few bites later, he had another thought. "What if I catch a shark? I'll have to be strong if I catch a shark."
"I don't think you'll catch a shark."
"Oh, right. It lives in the ocean." He thought about things for a few more moments, then added, "All the fish I know are salt water fish."
Planning for the afternoon fishing trip really began on Christmas Eve, when our children following Polish tradition were opening their presents. Our neighbor, who goes fishing often, had bought the Boy a beginner's rod and reel set, complete with a small tackle box. He was thrilled, and he was even more excited when I found a casting weight in my old tackle box downstairs and explained that he'd be able to practice casting in the backyard.
A few days ago, when our neighbor was packing up his gear and hitching his boat to the truck for a morning fishing trip, the Boy informed K that his rod and reel were, in fact, for nothing. "They're not for decoration," he explained. And so she told me when I got back home that afternoon, "You must take him fishing this weekend."
I haven't been fishing in probably close to thirty years. I can't remember ever going fishing with my father -- not because I asked and he refused. Fishing was simply not something we did in my family. My mother's brother was very much a fisherman, and during one visit, he gave me a handmade graphite rod with a very sturdy reel with a tackle box filled with every imaginable worm-like, grub-like, and fish-like lure one could imagine. I was twelve, I think. I probably used it no more than half a dozen times, if that many.
In thinking about taking my own son fishing, I had a whole list of concerns. Some were reasonable: what's the best type of bait to use at this lake when fishing from the shore. Some weren't: what if I can't remember how to tie a hook? But with muscle memory, that latter worry disappeared. But the bait? When I saw the lake, I realized that it really didn't matter: we weren't going to go onto one of the fishing piers because the Boy, having no practice casting with an actual hook, might cause disaster. (In fact, he caught my shirt once, but fortunately only my shirt.) Since the lake was so shallow with a gentle slope out to the deeper water, I knew he'd never cast far enough from the short to catch anything, so we tried a number of lures.
He caught nothing but my shirt. But he begged to go back tomorrow after school.
Saturday of Work
In a lot of ways, today seemed like a typical May Saturday. Coffee, eggs, a chat with Babcia. The morning sun made the backyard glow. It all appeared typical.
But the weather -- it's Polish summer here. Today I don't know that we ever broke into the sixties, and if we did, it was just barely. Add to it the chance of afternoon rain, and given one of my major chores of the day, the day scheduled itself. Morning work had to be the mowing.
As I was cutting the edges before transitioning to the long, almost hypnotic straight lines, a bit of motion in the deep grass caught my eye: a fledgling was hunkered down in a patch of tall grass. I cycled back and forth, nearing the bird, and I noticed that mother was near, flying in when I was away, taking off again as I approached. I knew I'd have to move the bird, and I worried a bit about how that might impact the situation. Since I always wear gloves when mowing, thanks to eczema, I didn't fear the old thought of transferring my scent to the bird and somehow making its mother reject it. I'm not even sure if that happens. I was just wondering whether the mother would find it if I moved it too far.
First I it near one of the round planters in the yard, but I knew I'd have to move it again when I neared the end of mowing. The second time, I moved it over to the corner of the house, to a patch of grass that I never manage to cut because I don't have a working weed wacker. Each time, mother bird had no problem finding the baby.
Yet I knew it was doomed. The second time I relocated the baby, it fluttered out of my glove and plopped straight down: no chance of it flying back to its nest. And with two cats in the yard, I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them made a natural discovery. "Wouldn't it just be better to put it out of it's future misery?" I wondered. Yet how could I do it? I could think of no quick and painless, and besides, who was I to say that it didn't stand a chance of survival.
Thankfully, the Girl was away at an amusement park with her school chorus. Had she been there, I would have had to fend her off and deal with her eventual frustrated sadness when I would have tried to convince her that, no, we couldn't take it into the house and try to raise it ourselves. That would be a sure death sentence.
When I walked back to empty the grass catcher, though, I saw that the chick had disappeared. Where it had gone remained a mystery for the rest of the day. Mother bird still fluttered around here and there, but I couldn't figure out where the bird was.
And as I type this, I find myself wondering if mother bird has nestled up to the chick for the night to protect it and comfort it. And I'm glad I'm not a bird parent facing that impossible situation.
Still More Playing
So I've gone all in -- Lightroom all the way. I've been importing photos all evening, and in the process, I've learned a thing or two.
First, the number of photos was actually a little surprising. When it was all said and done, over seventy thousand photos over a span of eighteen years, with most of them being over the last thirteen years or so.
Second, the spread: most years, I was taking around three to four thousand pictures. In 2013, the number jumped up six thousand pictures. In 2014, it was just under ten thousand. And in 2015, I topped ten thousand pictures. Not sure why that change happened, but it's stayed roughly in that range since then. In 2017, I've taken almost three and a half thousand pictures, so it seems to be down this year. Of course, we're going to Poland this summer, so it will likely shoot back up.
Of course Lightroom is not just a photo organization tool, and so I've spent the evening playing with some of the old photos I imported.
Sometimes, I do very little, like al ittle darkening of spots.
Before
After
Sometimes, I like to try to give it an edgy feel.
Before
After
And every now and then, it's been fun just to push everything to its limits: pump up the colors, the contrast, the clarity -- everything.
Before
After
More Playing
I put it off as long as possible — that’s how I explain it to myself. But push came to shove, and I finally began playing with Lightroom. What a tool.
Before
After
I especially like the highlights on the trees to the left. I think I went a bit overboard with them, but the idea is good.
Tuesday Evening
More honeysuckle.
More Polish lessons.
Re-processing
Been playing with a few older photos in Lightroom.