Newtown

     Christmas is only a week away. I, as yet, have not really found the Christmas spirit. I don't do holidays well. I am the quintessential last minuter. Perhaps it is a holdover from my years spent in retail work. In general I trust that the spirit of the season will find me as the critical date comes nearer and it invariably does. This general feeling of ennui usually dissipates three or four days before Christmas Day. However the week before Christmas requires an effort from me to really overcome a derisive view of the overall senselessness of it all. Even the sentiment of peace on earth goodwill to all is functionally short lived. It seems that as soon as the season is over the self serving avarice of so called normal life returns. I have to wonder that our efforts at increased charity that is provided in the name of the season is misplaced. For the less fortunate in our immediate and global society, it seems to me that a taste of honey may well be worse than none at all. To my mind, the spirit of peace on earth, goodwill to all should not be confined to a few brief weeks in December. My seasonal battle with my inner Grinch has begun.

   Into the midst of my diminutive little battle to come to terms with the heightened  expectations and general hustle and bustle of the season  comes the news of a school shooting in a small town in Connecticut. How does one reconcile the celebration of the birth of the Prince Of Peace with such macabre violence inflicted upon the most innocent of our society?  I mean for all the hoopla, the decorations, the gifts, the abundance of rich foods, the hymns and carols, the folklore and  traditions who the hell are we kidding here? It is so easy to lose faith in the whole concept of peace and goodwill. Where the hell is the " great joy which shall be to all people"?
It sure as hell isn't in Newtown, Connecticut.

     So what is left? Not much. All we can do is  try to comfort the living and say our prayers for the departed. In the final analysis, what Christmas is about is hope. Faith and hope exist in mutual co dependence.  As hope grows, so does faith. When faith is shattered we can reestablish it  by nurturing that tiniest of a little spark within us which is hope. Ultimately, Christmas is a celebration of hope for a better existence for all of us on this planet.

     Maybe that's the reason that we always need to celebrate this season. To reaffirm our commitment to hope. In the face of all the conflict, suffering and unspeakable human tragedy,  maybe it's the height of naivety to  believe that humanity can exist with an all embracing spirit of peace on earth, goodwill to all.   Maybe.... But there's always hope.

   

      I'll close now. I have a tiny spark that needs tending.


   
                                                ...more later
        
    

       

  

Remembrance Day

     I went to the Remembrance Day ceremony held at our local Cenotaph today. It was a beautiful morning with sunshine and unseasonably mild temperatures, unlike most Remembrance Days that usually feature cold damp winds, snow, sleet, or freezing rain. How Canadian of me to start a post with what amounts to a weather report. But that's just it. I am a Canadian. On a day when we honour the courage and loss of generations of young men, who fought and died for the ideals which make this country great, it would be petty of me to make any apology for my heritage.

      My father served in the 2nd World War. I know very little of his experience. Like many veterans of conflict he did not talk much about his military service. What stories I did hear from him were not about the conflict but humourous anecdotes about jokes and pranks that occurred in the everyday life of a soldier. From what I've been able to ascertain from my mother after his death, he served as a navigator in bomber command and was injured when his plane, shot to hell, limped back to its airbase and crash landed. He was the only survivor. After returning home and recovering from his wounds, he served out the rest of the war as an army training sergeant.

     Like I said before, my father never really talked about the war. I can only suppose that he didn't want the horror that he faced visited upon his children even anecdotally. I suppose that in his mind, telling me about the war would have  defeated his purpose for serving. He did not want the next generation  to experience what he did.

     I am blessed. I have never been called to serve in armed conflict. But I am the son of a man who did answer that call. Out of love for me and my siblings  he took the horrors of that experience to his  grave. Today  I stood in the crowd and listened to the familiar aspects of a Remembrance Day service,  the prayers, In Flanders Fields recited by children, the haunting notes of The Last Post, the Benediction. I stood while wreathes were layed by community minded businesses and service clubs, by schools, by the legion, by any group that ever wore a uniform in service of their community and their country from the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides to the Fire and Police Departments. I stood with my neighbours in this little town. I stood in Remembrance of those who made the ultimate sacrifice so that I could enjoy a life of peace and security.  But, ultimately I stood in honour of my Dad. We will remember them.

    

                                    .....More later

Update 2, Of Deer and Sunsets

     Back in July of this year I wrote a post concerning a failed attempt to photograph deer and my subsequent return home with a nice sunset photograph. Sunsets, while beautiful, are somewhat ubiquitous, so much so that there is a specialised app on many digital cameras specifically for shooting them. When I worked in the camera shop there were so many sunset photographs that were printed in our little photo lab, that all of us working there became a little too inured to them. Unless your sunset photograph is ridiculously awesome, it will probably have little influence on anyone who has worked in the photographic industry. To that extent, in my earlier incarnation as a would be photographer, I would rarely bother to photograph them. I was looking for greater challenges (and to some degree still am.)

    Maybe it is just the saccharine sentimentality that comes with advancing age or the humility that is an inherent in both aging and major attitudinal change, but I now find that I love sunsets and sunrises. Yes, they are ubiquitous, but can be spectacular displays nonetheless. Strangely enough, I often get more appreciative comments from the posting of a sunset photograph than I do from displaying a picture that requires a great deal more photographic proficiency. Perhaps it is that commonplace nature of the sunset that is it's very strength. The uninitiated might not relate to the technical prowess required to create a good image of something like a full moon or a well balanced night scene, but everyone can relate to the visual beauty of a sunset. Therefore I have no qualms about taking and posting any sunset pictures. If people like 'em, so much the better.

     By the way, since this is an update about photographing deer as well as sunsets,  I did manage to get a nice shot of a doe and some fawns at a later date.

                                                        

    

        Oh, and the sunset on the way home was pretty nice too.

   

                                                  ...more later

                                                                   

Update No. 1

     Ok, I guess that it's been a while since I punched up anything here. Of late I have been suffering from a seemingly endless ennui where any type of writing is concerned. Perhaps it is generated by self doubt. I don' t want to sound whiny,  but I can't help but wonder if the words I punch up on this blog have any meaning or value to anyone other than myself. Of late I find it much easier to make some digital photographs and with a modicum of editing, present them to my online friends.  If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, a camera is the ultimate labour saving device for one who has a proclivity towards both the visual as well as the written arts. That being said, I suppose that I really should buckle down and produce something on this web page that may be of mild interest to someone, even if only to myself.

     What I propose to do is provide some updates to previous blog entries. So without further ado...

     In February of this year, I wrote a piece " For The Love Of Trains". It was about a childhood train trip I took with my Father who, as an employee of the railway, was working in the baggage car on that trip. At the end of that piece I wrote a bit about continuing the railway tradition with some rail trips I've taken with my son.

     This past summer was a good one in terms of rail excursions. We took two of them. One was aboard The Credit Valley Explorer. This an interesting little train that runs out of Orangeville, Ont. through the beautiful scenery of The Credit River Valley. It was a beautiful way to spend the afternoon and, during our stopover at Inglewood, Ont., I got to climb into the cab of the engine and relive a few memories. 





    

    





Greg aboard the Credit Valley Explorer

  



View from the cab, Credit Valley Explorer

 


The Credit Valley Explorer (only one coach long), Inglewood, Ont. Aug2012

       The day before our trip on the Credit Valley Explorer, we enjoyed a short excursion aboard a train on the South Simcoe Railway. Of all the excursion trains we have ridden, I have to say that I like the S.S.R. the best. Last year, during our summer adventure, we rode the train there for the first time. In planning our travels for this summer, I noted that the village of Tottenham is not far from the town of Orangeville, Ont. and, as the fare for the S.S.R. run is quite
reasonable,  ( It's a short trip of less than one hour) I decided to make a return visit.

     The South Simcoe Railway is a short excursion railway that runs out of the village of Tottenham, Ont. If you are looking for magnificent scenery, the S.S.R. will probably be a disappointment. The scenery is bucolic and pleasant but far from spectacular. However, if you are a train nut like me, the S.S.R. is a little slice of heaven. The station is situated within walking distance of a very nice conservation area that offers comfortable camping and swimming. The railway operates carefully restored vintage equipment and is one of the few railways that operates steam locomotives. On our first visit, last year, we got to ride behind no.136, a Rogers 4-4-0 built in Paterson, N.J. in 1883 for the Canadian Pacific Railway. S.S.R. no. 136 is one of the oldest operating steam engines in the world. She is a beauty.

South Simcoe Railway Steam Train, Tottenham, Ont. Aug.2011

Greg riding the S.S.R.



S.S.R. heavyweight coach "Beeton", Tottenham, Ont. Aug. 2012

      The coaches that the S.S.R. runs are heavyweight steel beasts that run on three axle trucks. Built in the 1920's, they are the real deal. No fancy seating and carpeted floors here. Air conditioning consists of sliding open a window and propping it up with a stick secured to the window sill by a short chain. There is the hint of some luxury with the beautiful wood trim and vintage glass lighting fixtures and, with their heavy steel construction riding on six wheels at each end of the car, they ride as smooth as the day they were built. This a real railway experience. Through the open windows you really hear the clickety-clack of steel wheels on rail. There is a slight breeze blowing through the window tinged with the smells of coal smoke and piped steam. And,  when she blows for the grade crossings, well to my ear, it is a note that would put any operatic contralto to shame.

     All my life's a circle. ( actually circles within circles connecting to other circles) Our 2011 trip aboard the S.S.R. completed a circle for me. The only other time I had ridden a steam powered train was with my sister and my Dad. He was the conductor on a steam powered train running excursions on the Ontario Northland Railway for the Cobalt Miner's Festival. There's a story there that I'll save for a future post. I guess that it's kind of a continuation of the legacy that I did a steam train trip with Greg. Curiously enough, the locomotive number on the steam train that I rode with my father was 137. On the S.S.R., Greg and I rode behind no. 136.

     This year, on the S.S.R. we got to ride in the baggage car. (completing yet another circle)
When I purchased our tickets for the train I noticed that they were for seats in the coach. Looking at the train, I saw that it featured a combine car. ( combination coach/baggage) I asked the ticket agent if we could exchange our tickets to ride in that car. She replied that she couldn't do it but if we asked the conductor, he might let us ride there. I approached the conductor on the platform and he agreed to let us ride in the baggage combine. All he asked was that we remind him at boarding time.

     When boarding time came, we didn't need to remind him. He told us to turn left at the top of the steps. All the other passengers were turning right for conventional coach seating. As the train pulled out of the station we found that we had the entire car to ourselves simply because we were the only ones who asked! It was pretty cool.

     Unlike last year, we didn't get to ride behind the steam engine. Steam engines are notoriously maintenance needy and the S.S.R. only runs them on the weekends. Our trip this year was on a Tuesday. Our power for this trip was a vintage diesel.  S.S.R. no. 703 is a GE 70 tonner built in 1948 in Erie, PA.  She doesn't have the panache of 136, but hauled our little train without a problem. Not bad for a little industrial engine after 64 years of hard use. The baggage combine was pretty cool. Combines were once fairly common cars often used in branch line service. They were versatile units (half baggage car, half coach) that were often tacked to the ends of local freight trains to provide passenger service to smaller communities. As such they often doubled as a caboose for the crew and carried spare parts and equipment for emergency repairs en route. They also carried their own heating system since their service at the end of  local freights precluded  access to the locomotive's steam heating piping.

     This combine car was kept true to its original form with the exception of some benches added to the baggage area for additional seating in excursion train service. It still had it's coal fired stove for heating. It still had a rack holding air brake hoses and electrical connection cables for emergency use. It even had rails still in place for holding mail bags although  railways haven't carried the mail for decades. Altogether a very interesting ride. We rode out in the baggage section but took seats in the passenger section for a more comfortable ride back.  



The official "pose with the train" photo, Greg and Dad with S.S.R. 703
Tottenham, Ont. Aug. 2012



S.S.R. Combine Car no.321 "New Tecumseth" Tottenham, Ont. Aug. 2012




Ridin' in the baggage car. South Simcoe Railway, Aug. 2012

 
 


The passenger section, S.S.R. Combine Car No.321 "New Tecumseth" We really did have the whole car to ourselves!
      

   

            Ok. I've probably given you more information about trains and railways than you could possibly want or need. I did however, want to post this piece as something of a follow up to my earlier one. Life goes on and no incident or anecdote exists in isolation. However, I promise that my next update will be a tad more concise.... or I  might just post a picture.

                                                      ...more later
    

Last Train Running, The End Of An Era

     There was news about a month ago of the provincial government plan to cancel the Northlander Train that runs between Toronto and Cochrane,  Ont. This week it was confirmed. The last Ontario Northland  Northlander Train will depart on Sept. 28th of this year. Once again our elected officials display an astonishingly myopic outlook when it comes to public transportation needs and the future of rail travel in this country. Countries all over the world have been pouring vast resources into upgrading their passenger rail networks and, surprise, surprise, the public has responded by returning to rail travel, as long as it is dependable and operates on a realistically convenient schedule. In Canada, it seems, the prevailing attitude is  " They're not taking the train. Let's not spend any money to improve and promote the service. Shut it down and let 'em take the bus."

     During my teen years and early adulthood, there were two trains a day in each direction between my home town of New Liskeard and Toronto, Ont. One was the "Night Train"  It left New Liskeard at about 11:00 at night and arrived in Toronto at about 8:00 in the morning. If I had the cash, I would book a berth in the sleeping car, and wake up the next morning just outside Toronto. More often than not, however, I would just recline a seat in one of the coaches and doze the night away there. 

     One of my  most memorable rail journeys was taking that train back to Toronto after spending Thanksgiving Weekend with my family up north. Because of it's nocturnal schedule, scenery was generally not appreciated much on the night train as it wound it's way through the absolute blackness which is night in the forests of Northern Ontario. However, that night there was a full moon. It was achingly beautiful. Every glance out the window was like a moonlit variation of a Group Of Seven painting. The moonlight danced on the rivers and lakes of the Temagami District and Northern Muskokas. Towering pines and massive rock formations were rendered in silhouette against an indigo skyline. It was my first glimpse of scenery I had missed in years of travelling on the night train. I must have been able to doze off for a few hours because the next thing I remember was the morning sunlight. By this time the train was passing throught the woodlots and farm fields of Simcoe County. There was a slight mist over the fields and at times, one almost had the sensation of flying as the train glided through the mist and the  early morning sunlight. Somewhere I have slides of that morning taken with my trusty old Yashica FX3. ( My first serious camera) I'll have to dig them out and share them sometime in a future post. Maybe it's just the saccharine memories of a greying middle aged man, but I  remember that trip as a delight of the senses. From the moonlit scenes to the misty morning sunlight, the rhythm and sway of the train,  the smell of fresh coffee and bacon in the dining car and even the brief chill and ear assaulting rumble as I passed through that no-man's land between the cars.

     Travelling on the night train was not always a pleasant experience. Sometimes you had to tolerate loud obnoxious drunks who had spent too much time in the bar car. The old steam heated coaches had a tendency to be either stifling hot or icy cold. There was also the inevitable endlessly crying baby or hyperactive kids running up and down the aisles. But on that October night,  about thirty years ago, she was perfection on rails.

     Like I said earlier, there were two trains that traversed the rails to the north back then. The original Northlander was a European train converted at the O.N.R. shops for use on North American trackage. Originally part of the Trans Europe Express, these trains were quite a novelty. One of the coaches featured compartment seating and could almost engender romantic thoughts of a European vacation in the Swiss countryside. The last coach in the trainset featured a control cab so that the train could operate in either direction with the locomotive pushing from behind on the return trip. Shortly after entering service, the European engine was retired and replaced with a good old General Motors diesel built in London, Ont. It was found that the European locomotive, while very fast, didn't have the power or weight to blast through Northern Ontario snowdrifts.. It was also found to be a maintenance headache with replacement parts either specially machined or imported from Europe. It was a beautiful train to ride though, very comfortable and surprisingly fast.

     The latest incarnation of the Northlander features coaches that were rebuilt for long distance service from single level cars formerly operated by Go Transit. These coaches ride a bit rough as they were never designed or intended for use on long distance trains. Also the trackage on Northern railways is notoriously rough from being heaved around in sub zero winters and sweltering hot summers. The seating is quite nice though with lots of leg room and leg supports under generously reclining seats. It's kind of like cruising in a Lazy Boy chair. As usual, the O.N.R. shop crews did an amazing job rebuilding  the usual second hand crap with which they get to work.

     The first time I rode the newer version of the Northlander, I spent much of the trip in conversation with an older gentleman named Omar. That's another thing about trains. They're like little rolling communities. You strike up conversations. You have meals in the dining car with absolute strangers because of the limited seating in your little rolling restaurant. Parents watch out for each other's kids. For the most part, people are friendly and helpful. I've never really experienced that mobile sense of community in any other form of travel.

     At any rate, Omar was an interesting fellow. He was a World War II veteran who had some interesting and scary stories to tell. Some of my earliest years were spent in a little hydro town not far from Cochrane and after bouncing some names back and forth we found that we had some aquaintances in common. He was a member of the Royal Canadian Legion and talked about how membership there was declining. Omar rode the train regularly because he was going for weekly cancer treatments in Toronto. He was thankful for the train because he couldn't imagine doing 14 hours on the bus each way for his treatments. After a pleasant and interesting chat, Omar went back to his seat in  the coach to rest. I didn't mind. My part of the trip was almost over. My brother was picking me up at Cobalt. As I was getting off the train, I quietly said  good bye to a tired but still wakeful Omar. I never saw him again. But I'm glad I got to know him.

     My last trip on the Northlander was with my son, Greg. He would have been about five at the time. We had been visiting my brother in Haileybury and  I wanted to travel back to Southern Ontario by train. Soon after we boarded the train, Greg befriended a little girl who was travelling with her mother a few seats up from us. Soon Greg and his new friend were happily chatting and playing and taking over the unoccupied seats across the aisle from me . The girl's mother came to check on her offspring and  I assured her that I would keep an eye on both of them and that her little girl was no trouble at all. Later I had to collect Greg from their seats as they were leaving the train at North Bay. My sister in law had packed a lunch for us and, after eating, we went to the club car for some drinks. There was a big screen television  in the club car and the crew had put on a cartoon movie for the kids. Greg happily sipped on his chocolate milk and watched the movie. I relaxed with a coffee and just enjoyed the passing scenery. After the movie, I bought two cans of Temagami Dry Ginger Ale ( Memories of my childhood. I was surprised that they still made it! ) and we wandered back to our seats. By this time my little boy was pretty tired from his adventure and soon fell asleep. I sipped on a ginger ale and relaxed as the train wound its way down the final leg into Union Station. I remember thinking, " What a civilised way to travel."  I had taken a five year old child over 300 miles without a single problem. Just happiness, peace and contentment. The rhythm of a train can give that to you.  
I was a little sad to rouse my sleepy son as the train pulled into Toronto. It was the end of his first train trip. I had taken that train trip dozens of times in various configurations. I guess I never realised how big a part of me it was.

                                             
                                              ...more later



    

     . 

  
   

This is not the Northlander. It's the Agawa Canyon Tour Train. The Algoma Central Railway is now owned by C.N. So just give the politicians some time. They'll probably scrap this one too.

This is the kind of travel experience we're losing. Forgive them for they know not what they do. After all, they're just simple politicians. You know...  morons.

On Artistic Expression

                                 

     In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that, despite my having spent a good deal of time as a practitioner of blues music, photography and writing, I fundamentally consider myself a student of the arts that interest me. My success in any of these artistic endeavours has been, at best, moderate. It would be supercilious of me to make any pronouncements from the standpoint of any great artistic achievement. However, I have played the game enough to have learned a thing or two. It is in that spirit that this post is presented.

     Probably the most overlooked question any artist or student of the arts can ask themselves is " What is art?"  When I have asked this question of various friends, many of whom were trying to succeed in some form of artistic endeavour, the answers were invariably long and convoluted. Virtually everyone appreciates art at some level and most people are involved, to varying degrees in some form of artistic expression to get their creative ya yas out. Yet, it seems that no one can provide a concise definition of the term.

     In  an effort to find some clarification on the matter, I turned to the word wizards of Oxford and my trusty, musty Oxford Reference Dictionary. Their definition is as follows; art n. 1 Human creative skill or its application; the branch of creative activity concerned with the production of imitative and imaginative designs and expression of ideas, especially in painting; products of this...Whew! ... Yeah, like I'm gonna keep that in mind when I'm wailing on a harmonica in some blues bar or clicking a camera shutter with frozen fingers on a frosty autumn morning! And that was just the first of five listed definitions!

     I had an "Aha!" moment when having a discussion with a friend about music. He described a guitarist he had heard as a brilliant guitarist but a lousy musician. Apparently, the guitarist my friend was describing was one of those wunderkind who could play a thousand notes a minute, or, as my friend described it " faster than the speed of good taste". " The only thing he could communicate with his instrument was how fast he could play it." As a student of the blues, I could really appreciate what my friend was saying. Blues is perhaps one of the simplest yet most expressive forms of music there is. The guitarist he described was all flash and no substance. The first part of the puzzle clicked into place. A highly developed level of technique was not enough.

     To be a creative person, one must first be a person of some humility. Artistic effort fails when one believes oneself to be greater than that which is artistically represented. For an artist to fully represent the power of the subject matter, he or she must first be, at least a little bit, in awe of it.  Granted, a degree of ego is also needed, if only to present the artistic effort to what one hopes will be an appreciative audience. It is all part of the great artistic balance or, as I like to call it, the working dichotomy.

     There is a dichotomy which exists in all forms of artistic expression. If one considers any work of art, it can be split into two distinct but equally important parts. Marshall McLuhan spoke of the medium and the message. In the world of the arts, that application is valid. Call it what you will, medium and message, technique and soul, style and story. It seems to be the common thread of all artistic experience. Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile would have been lost forever if it were not for DaVinci's skill in a) seeing it and b) capturing it. It is that sublime combination of soul and masterful technique that make it the world's most famous painting. I could go on ad nauseam listing other examples of great artistic achievement , but you get my drift.

     Thus, I have been able to simplify my definition of art. To me, art is the communication of concepts. The definition can be split into that fundamental dichotomy; communication ( style, skill, technique) and concept ( story, subject, song, emotion, point of view) . It also provides a paradigm for the very personal and subjective appreciation of the arts. A benchmark if you will, for answering that age old question, "Why do I love/hate this?"

     The great thing about this "Information Age" is the democratisation of all human expression. The terrible thing about this "Information Age" is the democratisation of all human expression. To that end, nothing has really changed. It just got bigger and more accessible. Including my ability to write and publish a post like this one. 


                                                ...more later



     " Serenity is the command of the sunrise"  -from a poem by Gregory Barker 2009

                  

    

Another Sunset

    Ok, so here's the story. Last night I went to a hillside spot on the edge of town to look at, and perhaps photograph, the sunset. In the field below me were deer feeding. I've seen them there before when on a similar sunset inspection tour. It seems to be a favoured spot for them. The sunset was pretty, but less than spectacular, so I tried to photograph the deer. I found,  to my disappointment, that even with my longest zoom lens,  they were too far away for a decent shot.

     On my way home from last night's sunset vigil, I scouted around and discovered another trail that would bring me much closer to the field where the deer were feeding. But, by that time it was almost dark and further photographic effort would be futile. My plan was to come back next evening.

     So tonight, the plan was to photograph deer. I left a little earlier than usual in the hopes of having decent light for my endeavour. After a quick stop at the Brown Dog Coffee Shop for expeditionary supplies, (in the form of a mocha java shake; damn they're good!)  I was off to photograph deer or scare the hell out of them trying!

     I took the lower trail and, as I suspected,  it brought me much closer to the edge of the field. I set up my tripod and longest zoom lens and waited... and waited ... and waited...

     I don't know where those damn deer were tonight, but I do know they weren't anywhere in range of a scruffy, middle aged, baseball capped, would-be photographer with a ten power zoom lens!

     On the plus side, the sunset was pretty nice. To paraphrase the Rolling Stones song, you can't always get what you want, but sometimes the consolation prize ain't half bad.

                                             ...more later

The Need For Creativity

      It's hot. As I write this, I've been listening to the radio and the temperature today is supposed to reach a high of over 40° C. with the humidity factored in. I swear that I hibernate more in the summer than I do in the winter. Lately, on my days off, I have adopted the Mexican tradition of a siesta during the worst hours of heat in the afternoon. Of course this leaves a lot of things left undone in my little world. I don't care. I'll catch up later. My job requires that I work in an extremely hot, dusty environment. On my days off, all I want is comfort and relief.

     That being said, I must admit that I am still enjoying my renascent interest in photography. I perform this activity during the early hours of the morning  and in the early evening when the temperature is cooler and the light is more beautiful. In recent days, I have acquired a fairly long telephoto zoom lens and have been using it to make some photographs of local wildlife.

     I'm not sure where I want to go with my photography. For now, I'm just enjoying making images again. In some ways, It's like riding the proverbial bicycle, you never forget how. I'm finding that I still need to come up to speed with the newer digital technology but it's all coming about with surprising ease.

     I guess that the crux of the matter has to do with my personality. I tend to latch on to any given activity and ambitiously pursue it to the extent that my expertise in that endeavour leads to it being a profession on at least a part time basis. This can be a good thing as well as a bad thing.

     Michelle Shocked once said  "Music is too important to be left to professionals."  I read that quote years ago in a magazine dedicated to acoustic guitar and I have to admit that it changed my perspective on music and indeed on all artistic endeavour. At the time I read it, I was enduring the diatribes of a friend who was espousing the belief that one couldn't call oneself a musician unless one was doing it on a full time basis. I guess that, in his eyes, anyone who had a day job was to be considered an amateur who shouldn't be playing paying gigs. It was an attitude that bummed me out until I realised how stupid and elitist it is.

     Part of the problem of pursuing any kind of artistic career on a professional basis is the requirement of consistency. Musicians function under an age old truism. " You're only as good as your last gig."  When I was playing in a couple of blues bands, a guitarist friend of mine paid me a kind of backhanded compliment. He said, "You're a good musician. On your worst night you're competent." I guessed that if I was competent on my worst night, on my best night I was brilliant! I wasn't really going to buy into the "brilliant" part but, ok, as a compliment I guess I'll take it.

     The problem with being a professional artist in any field is this requirement of consistency. Remember, you're only as good as your last gig. You've got to be consistently as good as your last effort. The problem is that any ideology that precludes the possibility of failure also precludes the opportunity for growth. ie. " Show me someone who never made a mistake and I'll show you someone who never made anything" ( or at least anything of interest or value )

     This brings me to my current situation. I'm a pretty good photographer. Having already marketed some of my newer images, I guess that I could be considered a semi-pro. I can invariably go out and make a clean, sharply focused, properly exposed, well structured photograph. In short, I can always bring home the so called " money shot ". What I need to do now is allow myself the creativity to experiment a bit more.  I now have the technology and capability to make images unlike anything I've produced before. The instantaneous nature of digital imaging allows for much more creativity. An SD card for my digital camera costs less than $20 and allows me to make a thousand or more images. For film, $20 does not even cover the cost of film and processing for a measly 36 prints. With digital, if a particular image is not to my liking, it is gone with the push of a button. With film, I pay the price for experimental shots whether they are successful or not.

     I guess that the final upshot of all of this is that I need to start thinking outside the box when it comes to my creative endeavours. I'm doing this for fun. I have a good job that pays the bills. What I need to do is just have fun making images that don't need to be pleasing to anyone but myself. A little more fun. A little less structure. Stay tuned. This might get interesting.

    
                                                         ...more later
                                             

 Another shot of one of my foxy friends. Taken with my new 75-300mm lens.

 This guy was pretty brave for a rabbit. As I got closer to him he was just sitting there. I would take a shot ...take a step... take a shot...take a step...This is the 2nd to last frame before he ran into the bush.

Morning At The  Dam                        Just a shot of one of my favourite places taken when the air was cool and the light was pretty.

On Father's Day

     Faceboook. Gotta love it. I was looking for something to provide me with inspiration for a new blog entry, and, sure enough, a friend on Facebook gave me the inspiration needed. Yesterday was Father's Day and,  when I browsed my Facebook page this morning, I saw the following post by a friend.

     " It's a sad day when your own son dosen't at least give you a call to say hi, how are you doing... I guess my son dosen't care anymore...  very sad... hope you feel tough!"  (sic)

     Wow! Parental guilt via social media! Mothers and fathers take note. Fire up those computers, laptops, tablets and smartphones! Shame your offspring on the internet! That little bastard forgot to call me on Father's Day! I'll show him!

     For the record, I spent Father's Day at my job. Sweating it out in a hot, dusty, dirty, factory. Tools at hand, doing my best to keep assemblies of steel heating , cooling, punching ,  cutting and ultimately creating the product that keeps butter on my bread. And loving every minute of it. I dig what I do and I get to do it with one of the coolest assemblages of people on the planet.

     But wait a minute. I'm a father. It's Father's Day. Don't I deserve to be recognized and honoured for all my sacrifices, kindess, love and care?  I came home from work yesterday and was sitting at the kitchen table surfing the web on my laptop. My son came in. He had spent the weekend with his mother's side of the family. The conversation went something like this. "Hi." "Hi Dad." "How was your weekend?" "Good."  It's Father's Day you know." "Oh....yeah. Happy Father's Day"  Me ( somewhat facetiously) "So what did you get me?" "I made you a card. It's at school. I'll get it tomorrow." "Cool."

     Ok. Maybe I should have been annoyed and disappointed that he forgot Father's Day. I even tried to foster those feelings within myself. But I couldn't. It's not important. My relationship with my son is kind of casual but we express our love and appreciation of each other in our own ways. We are what we are and we catch the joy on the fly.

     Me ( sitting at the computer playing with my pictures ) " Hey Greg. Look at this picture. Tell me what you think." "Wow! Cool Dad. Did you take that one?" Me ( with obvious pride) "Yup. That one's mine."  " I like it it. The colours are awesome." Yeah. It's a good one. Hey, who's the coolest photographer on the whole damn planet?" "You are Dad." "Thanks kid."

     I make my living as an industrial mechanic, but my skills with tools don't end at my employer's door. Overheard a few times to some of his friends with broken bicycles or skateboards with seized up wheels. " Let's bring it to my Dad. He can fix anything."

     I guess that the bottom line here, is that I know I am loved and appreciated by my son. I don't need a manufactured holiday for affirmation of my fatherhood. Like I said earlier, I catch the joy on the fly, and, if you keep your eyes and ears open, there's a ton of joy out there.

    I know that, in some ways, it's early days yet. I haven't yet had to deal with the relentless self involvement of his teenage years or the ridiculous arrogance of his early twenties. But I'm hopeful and reasonably confident that these issues will be taken in stride in a father / son relationship that is based on mutual admiration, respect, and love.

     In a way, indifference to Father's Day is a kind of back handed compliment. It is an indicator of confidence in a relationship that dosen't need a special day to be celebrated. He knows who I am and loves (tolerates) me anyway. For me, Father's Day is every day.


                                   ... more later
    

How Much Is Enough?

     Someone posted one of those little nuggets of philosophy on my Facebook page the other day. If you are a regular Facebook user, you know the type I mean. They usually have some trite little snippet of philosophy or, worse, appeal to some emotional issue that the person who posts it feels will help their cause. " Repost as your status if you want to end cancer." As if my reposting some little block that someone found on  a web page will cure cancer. My favourites are the ones that deal with family. " Repost if you love your mother, father, son, daughter...fourth cousin once removed..."  I love my family and am fairly certain of their feelings toward me. I stumble through life pretty much taking the bonds of any family structure as a given. If I don't repost, does this mean I have some deep seated unacknowledged hostility toward my family? Bring on the psychoanalysts!  Wait... Don't bother. I can get that online too.

     This one little blurb hit home for me though. It depicted an earth mover pushing garbage at a landfill site. It said "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell."  It was attributed to Edward Abbey. It applies to an ideology under which we, as a society, have been operating for far too long.

     What I despair of is a corporate / consumer culture in which, no matter what we have, we can never have enough. It's a relentlessly ongoing symbiotic relationship. The corporations can never have enough profit and to achieve that end they convince the consumer that we can never have enough stuff. 

     How much is enough? What I'd like to address here is greed. Pure, simple, despicable, greed. It's all around us. I am not writing this piece as the whining complaint of a "have not". In the interest of full disclosure, I have more than I need in most respects. As a middle aged man in the twenty-first century, I have more than I could ever have imagined in my youth. I certainly have the options for things of even greater magnitude in the future. For the most part, I am a very fortunate human. I have enough.

     I would suggest that whoever coined the term "retail therapy" is in dire need of therapy of another kind. We place so much emphasis on the acquisition of stuff that our perceived need for such acquisition is rationalized as a form of "therapy". I view it as an addiction and I admit to being a victim of it.

     One would have to be living in a cave to not be aware of the environmental issues that threaten every living organism on this planet. Yet, we blithely continue with our endless exploitation of Earth's limited resources. At some point we have to ask ourselves, " How much is enough?"

     What is worse, we send our armed forces into conflict zones not for any ideology based on truth, justice or equality, but for the preservation, and subsequent growth of an economic ideology which is unsustainable.

   What is required is a new economic paradigm based on the concept of sustainability, not incessant growth.

     Obsessions and addictions are destructive. I know from experience. I am a self admitted alcoholic ( 3 years in recovery) who once spent 30 days in a rehab centre. ( The best month of my life.) Why is it that a drug or alcohol addiction is considered socially unacceptable yet the addiction of the so called " one percent " to obscene amounts of wealth is allowed to go unchecked? If obsessions and addictions are destructive, why do we, as a society, turn a blind eye to an addiction that is destructive on such a massive scale? I think the reason is this. As a society, we cannot curtail the right to accumulate obscene amounts of wealth without accepting the fact that the rule would also apply to ourselves. In effect it is the annilhilation of the so called American Dream. In my opinion, the American Dream has become a nightmare and it's time to wake up and smell the coffee.  I have no problem giving up my right to acquire ridiculous wealth. ( I already consider myself rich.) All I want is a lifestyle that is abundant enough to be sustainable for myself and future generations so that we can live in peace, harmony and explore the vast potential of the human spirit.

     The time for change is now. It's up to all of us. If not us ... Who?  If not now...When?                                               

    
                                                      ...more later
    

The Case For The Camera

     A friend gave me the idea for this entry with a comment made on a social networking page. I had posted one of my photographs to a common web page of a camera manufacturer. In response to his comment about my photograph I jokingly chided him about his appearance on the web page since the page was sponsored by a brand he did not use. His response was as follows. " I am a picture taker. It's the eye that sees the picture, The camera that takes it."

     To some degree, I agree with the sentiments expressed in that statement. In my too long career working in camera shops, I had many occasions to express a similar sentiment to various customers. I had too many customers that wanted  " a camera that takes good pictures". I even went so far to ask one customer if he would go to a hardware store and ask for a hammer that hammers nails straight. Personally, I'm in the market for a guitar that plays beautiful music. Obviously the camera is only as good as the person behind it.

     However, in my renascent interest in photography, I have seen that opinion expressed ad nauseum on so many websites and blogs that it has become more than a little trite. Therefore, in this entry, I will play the devil's advocate and present an opposing viewpoint.

     On the most basic level, it is true that one does not need the very best of equipment and supplies to achieve creative satisfaction or even artistic excellence. I can remember sitting on the patio of a local pub with a dear friend who was lamenting that she wanted to do some artistic work but could not afford art supplies. An idea popped into my head and I went to the bar and came back with a couple of books of matches. ( Smoking was still allowed in the bars in those days.) " There you go. Art supplies." I lit a match and let it burn briefly before blowing it out. " Charcoal." I flipped open the matchbook to reveal the clean white cardboard inside. " Your canvas." To my delight and amazement she proceeded to make a miniature charcoal sketch right there at the table.

     To that extent, I can readily agree that the camera is merely the means by which a photograph is taken just as art supplies are merely the means by which a work of art is created and presented.

     However there is much to be said for the employment of high quality equipment and supplies. If nothing else they can go a long way to promoting the enjoyment of any artistic endeavour. Despite the novelty of the moment, my friend did not go on to pursue an artistic career based on matchbook sketches.

     In my teen years, I expressed an interest in playing the guitar and was presented one Christmas with an inexpensive instrument to get me started. Within a year the cheap neck on the guitar had bowed so badly that, unless one had hands like Schwarzenegger, it was virtually unplayable. It wasn't until years later that I purchased an instrument of decent quality that I could actually play long enough to make some musical progress.

     This overall philosophy of quality first can be carried to many facets of life. I make my living as an industrial mechanic. I could do the job with cheap tools but find it is easier and far more enjoyable to work with well made precision ones. Furthermore, tools that are well made and precisely machined are less prone to breakage providing me an extra margin of safety in a field where accidents can be deadly. I enjoy playing music and find that it is far more enjoyable with quality instruments that stay in tune and produce a more pleasing tone. I'm interested in photography and I enjoy having cameras with the potential to accomodate my creative aspirations. Why is it that our society encourages us to preserve our inner child, but makes enjoyment of our toys socially unacceptable?

     At its most rudimentary, photographic expression can be achieved by exposing a glass plate of photosensitive chemistry to rays of light focused by a pinhole in a shoebox that has been made light tight and immobile. The glass plate is then processed in a series of chemicals to develop, stop and fix the latent image.before it undergoes a thorough water wash to remove all residual traces of chemistry.The processing of said plate is done in complete darkness and thus a negative image is produced. The plate is then sandwhiched and exposed to photosensitive paper to make a contact print or is projected on to the photo paper with the use of light focused through a lens to make an enlargement. The photosensitive paper is then processed through a similar series of chemical baths under a red or "safe" light until a positive image is achieved. Once again a running water bath is employed to remove all traces of residual chemistry before the photograph is hung to dry or dried through electro mechanical means. I learned all this through practice and experience. Although I probably appear too smug here, I not only know how to take a picture, I know how to make a photograph. Big deal. It's a lost art. That and $1.25 will get you a cup of coffee.

     The reason for the above diatribe is to make the point that with modern digital technology, the microprocessor and digital pathways inside the camera do indeed go a long way toward the creation of the image. The alternative is to follow the above procedure in greater or lesser degrees.

     Finally, in further refutation of the opening statement, It is not the eye that sees the picture, it is the mind. Ansel Adams called it previsualization. It is the ability to see the finished work in the mind before the actual act of creation. In my opinion, it applies to almost all successful human endeavour, artistic or otherwise. To that end, the eye is just another link in the process chain. I remember a television program where Ansel Adams was being interviewed. The host of the program asked him how many shots he took before he got the image he wanted. Adams looked at the interviewer as if he were from outer space before replying in a perplexed tone, "One." When Ansel Adams made a photograph, he already knew what he wanted and what he was going to get before he released the shutter.

     I suppose that the final upshot of all of this is that photographers have always had  good natured rivalries about the equipment and techniques they use. Ultimately, what counts are the photographs that are made as well as the fun, learning and sense of wonder that goes into making them. However, I can honestly state from experience that a digital Canon T3i is infinitely preferable to a shoebox with a pinhole.

                                                      ...more later

  The Case For The Camera ( a bad visual pun)

Another Birthday

        I celebrated a birthday a few days ago and a birthday greeting from a friend on Facebook got me to thinking about birthdays and the passage of time. For the record and perhaps to provide some context, I am 52 years old as of March 21.

     For the most part, I am enjoying this stage in my life. There is a comfort that can be derived from a knowledge base that is the result of over five decades of experience. I became a father late in life and I often find myself thinking about this well of experience when showing my son simple things like how to boil an egg or an easier way to go from an "A" to an "E" chord when playing guitar. I suffer from no delusions of myself as a great musician or a world class chef, but there is something to be said for for the mass of little tricks that I've learned along the way. Conversely, I find that it only requires a little humility on my part to be open to learning from my 10 year old son. He has shown me more than a few helpful tricks in navigating my way through the world of cyberspace and computer technology.

     That being said, I have no problem with playing the age card when neccessary. For a living, I do mechanical work in the maintenance department of a local manufacturer. At one point our company had hired a young worker who had recently passed the examination qualifying him as an apprentice millwright. Though he had passed the exam, his practical working knowledge was minimal although his arrogance was at full capacity. At one point he made a comment when had to borrow a wrench from my toolbox to perform a certain task. It was something to the effect of " It's strange for a licensed tradesman to have to borrow tools from a layman." I replied " Not strange at all considering that I was working on machines when you were still pooping in a diaper." It was fun watching his face turn red. Fortunately, he was fired a few weeks later for various safety violations. Arrogance and a know it all attitude can be deadly when working around industrial machinery. Wherever he ended up, I hope that he still has all of his body parts.

     So, as I enter my 53rd year on this planet, I feel that I can take a degree of comfort in the lessons that I have learned along the way. However, I try hard to avoid complacency. If there's one thing that experience has taught me, it's that you can never have too much experience.

                                                  ...more later   

For The Love Of Trains



     It's mid winter and, as usual, I'm feeling a bit restless. This usually leads to thoughts of trains and rail travel. One of my great passions ( and I have many) is trains. I guess that I come by this honestly. My father was a conductor/ brakeman on the Ontario Northland Railway. Many of my earliest memories involve train trips. 



     At one point, my family lived in a little town called Island Falls. The town was built on the Abitibi River about forty miles north of Cochrane, Ont. It was a company town built by the Abitibi Power and Paper Co. to support a hydro dam built on the river. My mother was the school teacher, teaching grades 1 through 8 in a one room school attached to the community hall. There were no roads to the town. Everything was shipped in by rail. Eaton's and Sears Christmas Catalogues really were "Wish Books" in those days. Doctor and dentist appointments involved a trip to Cochrane, the nearest town of any size. Usually a hotel stay was involved as well before we caught the train back home the next day. High adventure for a child growing up in a bush town that its residents referred to as "The Camp".

     Later, we moved to a larger community, the relatively larger town of New Liskeard, Ont. This town was served by both the railway and a highway system and, although our lives were no longer dominated by the railway, it still played an important part in the history of my family. Throughout my childhood, most of my vacations started with a trip to Toronto on the train. From there, it would be another train trip to Stratford for the Shakespeare Festival, or a road trip to my aunt's cottage near Bobcageon or just some time in Toronto at the Canadian National Exhibition. There were also train trips aboard the Super Continental to Winnipeg to visit with extended family out there. During my teen years, I used the train to visit my older sister who was attending college in Toronto. When I left home and was living in Toronto myself, the railway was my connection home for Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations. It also got me home to attend the weddings of friends and family members.

     I have a powerful memory of the time my father took me railroading with him. I guess that I was about seven or eight at the time. The night before, he wasn't sure whether he would be called out on a freight or a passenger train. He had explained to me that if it was a passenger train,  I could go. I  remember him shaking me awake at about 4:00 in the morning. Three simple words, "You can come."  Soon we were driving through the darkness of an early morning in March. We were on our way to Englehart, the division point on the O.N.R. where we were to catch our train.

     The train was the Rouyn Local and my Dad was working as the baggage man on that trip. I remember riding in the baggage car with him. There was an old wooden desk in the car where he could sort out bills of lading for the various packages of express freight being carried. These, along with mail for the stations en route were sorted and put into cubby holes in a rack above the desk. This was long before the time when courier companies like U.P.S. and Purolator would come to dominate the express package business.

     I remember at every stop the station agents knew him and there was always a chat and a few jokes as the luggage and parcels were being loaded and unloaded. It felt like I was travelling with the King of the Railway and I was his kid!  Everyone treated us with kindness and respect.

     When we got to Rouyn, the engine was uncoupled from the train and put into an engine house where it would be serviced for the return trip. We walked to the engine house and talked to the engineer. He and Dad arranged for me to ride in the engine on the trip back.

     The railway maintained a bunkhouse in Rouyn at that time and, after a lunch of toast and eggs in the kitchen, we stretched out on the bunks upstairs for a nap. Before getting on the train for the return trip, we poked about in downtown Rouyn. I remember Dad buying me a Matchbox car at a little department store there. Toys received outside of Christmas and birthdays were a rarity in those days. I guess that's why I remember it so clearly. ( It was a metallic green Ferrari.)

     On the trip back, I got to ride in the engine. By that time, it was getting dark again. I remember the powerful headlight lighting up the way ahead as the train wound its way through the snowy forests. At a couple of crossings, I got to blow the whistle. The engineer was surprised that I knew the crossing whistle, two longs , a short and a long. Dad had trained me well. 

     At one of the stations, Dad collected me and I rode the last leg of the trip with him in the baggage car. When we got to Englehart, Dad had a coffee at the station cafe with the rest of the road crew. I had a chocolate milk and watched as the yard crew took our train away. The engineer bought a chocolate bar and slipped it into my coat pocket before we left. I remember finding it, badly melted, later. I guess I fell asleep on it while riding home in our `63 Pontiac.

     Of all the memories that I have of my Dad, that day on the Rouyn Local is the most powerful. Despite the fact that I lost him at a very young age, on that particular day, he made me feel like the most special kid on the planet.

     In later years, a friend asked me if I thought of my Dad very often. In total honesty I replied, "Every time I hear a train."

         
                                            ...more later




The tradition contiues. My son Greg  and I make a point of doing at least one train trip a year, usually during our summer holidays.



Port Stanley Terminal Railway, Port Stanley, Ont,   Sept. 2009





Agawa Canyon, Algoma Central Railway, Aug. 2010





South Simcoe Railway, Tottenham, Ont.  Aug. 2011