A trio of Thursdays

It has been said, generally tongue-in-cheek, that doing something more than once constitutes the beginning of a tradition! So, Thursdays ... a trio of them to date. After today I wonder if I can count on Thursdays to be set apart in some way. I hope so, but only (to quote Jon Luk Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation) if I make it so.

It all began on the 17th of July, a day on the calendar with nothing written in the square. Despite the oppressive heat our part of the country was enduring at the time, early in the week we proposed a field trip on that attractive unclaimed day and for several days we tossed around ideas of what we might do. By Wednesday evening we had settled on Redcliffe Plantation, a state historic site near Beech Island -- a drive of about an hour south of Edgefield, and a place associated with Tal's late wife's family. It was hotter than the hinges of hell, I promise, and I don't particularly like any of the photographs I made of the house and grounds. But, the magnolia grandiflora was in magnificent, fragrant bloom and I have several shots which pleased me, especially since the white balance was about right for a change. Thursday #1.

Early the next week I was invited on a field trip by a friend from the Art Association of Ridge Spring to photograph at a wonderful -- and ambitious -- location called the Daylily Depot near Ridge Spring in rural Saluda County. We settled on June 24th and it turned out to be a gorgeous morning. I had decided in advance to shoot macro and was delighted with how still the early morning was. As the sun rose and the temperature began to climb, however, a luscious but troubling breeze from across the cotton field began a lifting and swaying of the flowers and foliage that shifted my focus.

Kathy Eyster, a photographer from whom I took a class in macro photography at the annual photography retreat at Kanuga, taught us early in our breezy, and initially frustrating, week together during April 2009 that not all macro photography has to be of flowers. When the wind blows, she told us, one needs to consider photographing something that doesn't move. Now, why didn't we think of that? Fortunately, I did remember her advice, looking at garden sculpture, the depot itself and even a watering can's dented rose. Thursday #2.

Although today, Thursday #3, did not include camera work, the morning was extraordinary. Tal and I rose extra-early and were at the Vannland pond before dawn -- rods, reels, tackle boxes, insect spray at the ready. We caught and released fish to our heart's content. But, the real attraction was the location and simply being there. What could be better than the sight of an eagle soaring over our heads in the brightening sky, a beaver swimming across the pond in advance of the sunrise, the sea of tiny yellow flowers blooming on the surface of the pond at the water's edge?

I write about these Thursdays because they are powerful experiences that give my life extra meaning, adding to the ordinary cycle of yard and house work, of all the responsibilities I tend to make too hard and too heavy. Last fall on a whim I bought a book by Julia Cameron entitled "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity" (Tarcher, 2002). Then, a month later I actually dipped into the book and began the 12-week program.

Part of it was easy, especially writing the morning pages -- three pages every day no matter what. I can count the number of days I've failed to write during the past seven months on a single hand. Another essential requirement, the weekly artist's date -- solitary time, free time, frivolous time, however, was almost impossibly hard. During the initial 12 weeks I might have managed something that I could in good conscience call an artist's date maybe five times. Seeing the Ansel Adams exhibition at the Columbia Museum of Art, for example, or cloud-watching, for another. The task oriented part of me talks its way out of artist's dates with persistent determination and remarkable skill.

Each of the past three Thursdays would most certainly qualify as an artist's date. It appears a habit may be forming. Or a tradition. July 8th is coming up, a mere six days from now. I'll let you know what happens.

Advance notice

A two-engine, 32 car freight train went through Ridge Spring this afternoon while I gallery sat. I could hear it coming before it appeared, and, given the gallery's location -- off Highway 23 and slightly behind the Civic Center, I couldn't tell its direction until the first engine appeared directly across from the standing-open front doors, headed toward Columbia.

I never tire of the sound. My pulse quickens at least a mere bit at the first hint of a train's heavy rumble, of the faint far-off warning of the two-toned, almost discordant horn.

It's always been that way, my earliest memory of trains being summer vacations at my mother's parents' home in Milford MI. Hot, still summer nights in the upstairs bedroom, east-facing and overlooking the Atlantic and S Houghton Street intersection. How many trains tore through that little town each night? One, maybe two, I suppose. But, I remember it as the single most significant feature of Milford nights. That and sometime in the night the sticky sweat of that unairconditioned space giving way to a delightful coolness and a crisp sheet drawn up by morning. The gallery is unairconditioned, too. Hence, the standing-open front doors. Another connection, I suppose.

Until this summer and our Alaska excursion, the only trains I'd ever ridden were in metropolitan areas, basically buses on tracks, getting around San Francisco, Portland, going from Lafayette Hill into Philadelphia and from the Alexandria area to New York City and Baltimore. The extent of my "real" train travel had occurred only across Hungary, France, Belgium and in Great Britain where the schedule is convenient for the traveler and accurate to the minute, the experience in general one of remarkable hospitality. (Well, I might not include Hungary in that front, remembering now bayonet-equipped firearms toted by military personnel and confiscated money ...) Here on the east coast when distant friends have wanted to travel by train for a visit we've been required to be at the station in Columbia at 2:30AM to retrieve or to drop off, a schedule that doesn't count as convenient for anyone.

It's all romance, I know it is, this fascination. The tracks hugging the river under a towering cliff along the Hudson or the Columbia, that undulating line just under the horizon, likely some 100 miles away, on the Great Plains, the lonely whistle echoing through the hollows along the Appalachian Trail.

Someone is going somewhere, to interesting unknown places. I want to go, too.

An artistic endeavor

As of the first of the year I am a member of the Art Association of Ridge Spring. I know. A garden club and now this! An artist I'm not, but they let admirers into the group. And, a few even consider photography something of an art.

The AARS (no commenting on the acronym, please) was approached by Relay for Life in Batesburg to assist in a spring fundraiser. Simple wooden bowls, purchased at Wal-Mart, were provided and we (the real artists, specifically) were invited to decorate them. At the Relay for Life event the bowls will be auctioned.

I ended up with three to paint. Armed with art supplies from Wal-Mart (guess who's making the money in this enterprise), I spent Tuesday at the kitchen counter being creative and having unanticipated fun, graduating from muttering "damn bowls" to being pleased with myself. The AARS president (one of the bonified artists) had told us that we didn't actually need a plan or a design before we started. "Simply paint something," she said. "Then add something else. Sit back a bit and see what it needs next and so on." I expected, on following that advice, to end up with a hopeless mess -- times three. As it turned out I turned in three rather smart looking bowls.

Tal, watching this process, did suggest, though, that if I had a day job, I should keep it. Oh well ...

The last day of autumn

The day began with breakfast, a production including coffee, sausage patties from Cones Meat & Farm in Ridge Spring, a vegetable fritatta and English muffins with strawberry preserves. The conclusion of breakfast brought on a flurry of cleaning up after myself while Tal and his son set off on a fishing trip to a local pond. That soapy process took more time than making the mess and eating the (delicious) meal conbined. Oh well ...

Although this was almost the shortest day of the year, I luxuriated in the fact that the minutes and hours of the day passed slowly. I didn't look up to find it to be 3:00 in the afternoon, an all too often occurance. Instead, today was a day of doing one thing at a time -- the meal, laundry, restarting the guestroom television in advance of a Christmas houseguest, visiting with a former parishioner come calling, some filing and notewriting.

About the time Tal and Bruce returned, happy with their catch, it was time for me to depart for my three-hour stint in the Rocky Shop, Edgefield Regional Arts' pre-Christmas gallery just off the square. Foot traffic there was steady with lots of opportunity for conversation and some reading (the shopkeeper before me left her Sunday edition of The New York Times-- yum!). When I locked the door and headed to the car after 5:00, the evening light was so soft, the Christmas lights on the square and those in the still-open shop windows a offering a satisfying glow.

Ah, this is the way it's supposed to be.