Washington Monument

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For the first time in a month of Sundays, we were going to a high falutin’ French restaurant and I was excited.

My wife and I were in the “city that never sleeps”.    That’s right, Washington, DC.  Because, “how could they sleep at night?”

My cousin and his lovely bride of a few years were treating my wife and I to a very enjoyable weekend in this exciting city.  The last time we were in DC was in 2010 and they were getting married.

Reservations had been made at Bernaise, a classy little French* restaurant near the Capital.  The interesting thing about this French restaurant was their specialty…French Fries.  Really, no joke French Fries at a French restaurant…go figure.  Well they just call them fries,  the French is implied.  The award-winning chef likes to serve his fries, or frites, with steak.

Now I like a good steak and spud as well as the next redneck Irishman** that settled in them eastern Kentucky hills, but come on, at a French restaurant?  I want something French, like snails in fancy sauces.  I compromised and ordered some frites as an appetizer.  I must say, those were the best fries I had ever eaten.  I knew they would be good since packs of ketchup did not accompany them.  Now I wish McDonald’s would give out packets of terragon with their fries.

We also had a memorable meal at Menomale in the Brookland neighborhood.  We ingested some very tasty Napolese pizza.  This was way beyond Papa John’s “better ingredients”.  I never realized that there is a certification that pizzerias have to abide by to serve Napolese pizza.  I will supply this educational information for you at this time so I may qualify to apply for some type of grant to purchase plane tickets to try more pizza in the birthplace of modern pizza, Naples… Italy not Florida.

From http://pizza.about.com/od/Neapolitan/a/Neapolitan-Pizza.htm

An authentic Neapolitan pizza has a crust made from a dough that is made with highly-refined Italian type 0 or 00 wheat flour (read more about flour types), Neapolitan or fresh brewer’s yeast (not dry yeast), water, and salt. The dough must be kneaded by hand or with a low-speed mixer and formed by hand, without the help of a rolling pin. The dough is topped with raw, pureed San Marzano tomatoes from Italy; fior di latte, which is mozzarella cheese made from cow’s milk, or mozzarella di Bufala, which is mozzarella cheese made from the milk of water buffalos, usually raised in the Campania and Lazio marshlands in Italy; fresh basil, and extra-virgin olive oil. The ingredients must be all-natural and fresh. The pizza is baked for 60–90 seconds (baking time cannot exceed 90 seconds) in a minimum 800°F stone oven with a wood fire.

 

I took this photo of the Washington Monument on a day my wife and I were rambling about.   There was a caretaker mowing in the shadow.  He kept mowing and would not leave, probably a junior congressman from some insignificant midwestern state, supplementing his income because he hasn’t figured out how to “not sleep at night.”  I waited as long as I could because I knew my internal wife-is-getting-impatient meter was expiring and I was out of excuse coins.

I darkened the shadows during processing to hide this dedicated servant in the black obscurity, ala “Deepthroat”.

Incidentally, the most excited I saw my wife the entire weekend…when we emerged from the subway station at Dupont Circle,  looking for a nice breakfast bistro,  and we spotted Le Kreme d’Krispe .  Oooh La  La.

 

Footnotes were added to give this a look of educational material to further add to my ruse of getting grant money.

 

*In my neck of the woods, we say “Franch”, which explains why I always get Ranch dressing when I order French dressing.

**I feel that this term is politically insensitive, therefore I am leading a charge to keep Notre Dame from opening a community college branch on the banks of the Licking River. So far it is working.

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

 

 

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Indiana Farm in Winter

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Last night I was so proud of myself.

I entered into the world of uber-technology…I watched a movie on Netflix.  Now this was not just ordinary Netflix, like anyone can do by getting movies in the mail.  No, this was on my newly installed AppleTV Netflix with it’s own remote control device and onscreen menu.  I wish I was a little more nerdy, so I could have appreciated what was happening.

Excitement was building as I looked over from the deep cocoon-like encumbrances of my recliner to my wife, whose eyes had seen enough of the day, or enough of me, by 9:00 PM.  She was on the express train to Nod.

At the very moment when the basis of all human knowledge and entertainment was liberated from the fortified stronghold of her clutches (she gave up the teevee remote), I knew I could watch anything available to me from filmdom’s bounty. But alas, as if I had an HBO or Showtime free weekend, there was not much there to hold my interest.

In the midst of an eastern Kentucky January, the sun is about as rare as a good movie on the menu I was perusing.  So I was looking for something light and comedic and cheery to help coax me from the precipice of seasonal affective disorder.  So naturally I decided to watch a little Swedish film noir with subtitles about dealing with those pesky, lovable scamps called Nazis.  This lively romp takes place in the late 1930’s when Sweden was trying to stay neutral as Germany came a callin’ on Finland.  For some reason, no other colors were added to the winter blues.

I took this photo of an Indiana farm in the midst of winter last year.  I like the loneliness of the barn in the field.  I like the feel of desolateness.

My wife and I went to Indiana this past weekend to see our daughter and our Hoosier son-in-law.  My son-in-law, whom I love dearly, complains that I only take pictures of Indiana that look dark and dreary.  Since he moved my only daughter to Indiana, I say “One man’s happiness is another man’s sorrow”.

He did not need subtitles to understand that message.

 

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

 

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Kellacey Falls

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I went to ask my dad for directions to Kellacey Falls in northern Morgan County, KY.   I hadn’t been there in a little while and I knew there was an intersection where I either had to go straight or turn right.  Given my past results on taking true and false tests in school, I did not want to leave that decision at fifty percent.  It always seemed like I gave (or guessed) the wrong answer much more than half of the time on those tests.  I am a statistical marvel, or as my wife says, “It is a marvel at how bad your sense of direction can be.”

My 86-year old father was a rural letter carrier in Morgan County for close to thirty years.   He went past Kellacey Falls every day he delivered the mail.  After getting directions from him, I turned to leave and hurried to the door for I knew what was to come…

“Don’t you dare go by yourself.  Call your brother!”

I did not get to the door in time.

With my 58-year old head hung low, I left that same house feeling as if I was ten years old again.  I knew I had to call my 62-year old brother for security.  Sometimes things get pretty rough going through Tom’s Branch and Dehart.

On the drive out to Kellacey Falls, I was glad to have my brother in the car with me.  It had been too long since we had been together, just the two of us.

My dad called me on my cell phone, which is a marvel in itself, to see how we were. It had suddenly occurred to him that  he had sent both of his sons out into the wilds of Kellacey.  He shuddered to think that not just one of his sons could fall over the edge of the falls, but he could lose both of us.  Our foray into adulthood and past midlife still did not give him the confidence in our ability not to fall off a cliff.  Little did he know that I fell just a few short minutes previous to this adventure, trying to navigate a one-foot step at my house, falling gracefully to the gentle clutches of Mother Earth.  Also little did he know that my protector was at one time on his belly, in the mud, peering over the 200-foot rock ledge proclaiming how high we were.  Some passers-by may have thought “high” had a different connotation.

A picture like this took some planning.

I ordered a remote control device for my camera just for this photo.  I put my camera on my tripod and fully extended it.  I used a 7 mm fish-eye lens.  I set up a step ladder on the edge of the falls and wedged my tripod between the step and the pail shelf (yes that is what it is called, I looked it up).  The tripod with the camera is now extended out over the cliff, so I put a concrete block on the lower step of the ladder to weigh the ladder down so the weight of the extended tripod would not cause this setup to tumble over the edge of the cliff.

At one point, when I was close to the edge, I felt a little tug and looked down. My older brother was holding on to my belt loop…my protector.   Dad knew what he was doing after all.

Of course my protector wasn’t holding on to anything else.

If you like this picture, you can see more of my photos here.

 

 

Posted in Appalachia, eastern kentucky, Landscapes, rural, scenery, waterfalls | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ghost of Tybee Island

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Winter is coming……sigh.

I feel like that mighty oak that stubbornly refuses to drop its leaves, desperately hanging on to autumn, somehow thinking that if he never drops his leaves, winter won’t exist.

Every year I refuse to admit winter is coming.  I don’t put my outdoor grill up.  I don’t put the garden hose up until it is solidly frozen.  I don’t clean the filter in the furnace.  I keep my short pants and short sleeve shirts where they are readily available. My wife mistakes this as procrastination or worse yet, laziness.  She is probably right, however since I am writing this, I will use my own self-awareness evaluation.

I look out the window and I see the leaves in my yard covering the grass…sigh.  The only tree in my yard that is hanging on to its leaves is a small sapling that has grown to adolescence in my gutter.  You can see the above analysis from my wife as to why it is still there.

Sometimes I battle winter by thinking about the beach, which is why I am using this picture.  I took this timed-exposure of myself dancing on the beach at Tybee Island this summer.  It was our last night on the beach and I wanted to get a shot of the lighthouse at night.  Big Surf Daddy (as some may recall, my beach alter ego) took over.

Big Surf buries himself deep within during the winter months.  Madam Zelda would not be able to channel him to the surface even with the most cooperative séancers at her disposal.  He has never experienced darkness at 5:00 PM or snow on Halloween.  He has no idea what flannel sheets feel like, or what a comforter is.  He thinks snow cream is some sort of cocaine smoothie.

This is a  picture of  Big Surf’s last night of consciousness on Tybee Island.

I am sure he is already sending threatening texts to Punxsutawney Phil about his forecast.

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

 

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Country Church

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Before you read any farther (or is it further?) please be warned about my mood.

Lately, my mood has been 3D…dark, dreary, and dank.  According to the Urban Dictionary,  the stoners use dank to describe something of high quality.  So in that vernacular, my dark mood has been really dank, man.

There are many reasons that I can contribute to this blue melancholia, none of which by themselves should contribute to my glumness.   Basically, I have always been a pretty happy guy and never worried about much, though no one ever accused me of being an optimist or no one has ever called me “Sunshine”.

Lately, things have changed in my psyche.

I feel  I have been struggling to free myself from the tentacles of life’s encumbrances.

I have been asking myself many questions during the self-analysis sessions late at night and early in the morning when my body is refusing sleep.   Sometimes at work, I find myself  on Freud’s couch, slipping into a session (some would say spacing-out) only to be brought back to the present tense by the other person in my presence slapping me to see if I haven’t been body-snatched.  How long does post-tornado stress last?  How long after your kids get married and leave the nest does it take to emotionally stabilize?  Will life in the sixties be worse than the fifties?   Have I misinterpreted how the peace of God is manifested in our lives?   Can I really be this selfish?   How much is a house in Tuscany?   Is there any chance my body will feel better as I get older?

I took this picture of a country church in Rowan County, KY on Rt. 519.  This church has since moved to a new location.  I was drawn to the shot by the shadows thrown on the church by a large tree.  The shadows remind me of the struggles that await us as we exit the church doors into Satan’s realm.  Lately I’m not so sure that some of the shadows haven’t crept inside.

I mentioned tentacles before and it seems like these shadows represent those tentacles that encumber us at times.

I  don’t have any real reason to feel this way.  The all-powerful God, the Lord, and Creator of all knows me and still loves me.  I have a wonderful family that has grown recently.  I have learned to like fish and kale and other good foods that will keep me living for a hundred more years.

My vacation is coming  and my alter ego will soon be taking over and Big Surf Daddy refuses to be encumbered by life’s tentacles.  When Big Surf shows up my days will be dank again…man.

If you like this photo, you can see others here.

 

 

 

Posted in Appalachia, black and white, Churches, eastern kentucky, Religion, rural | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

J. Geils

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I stood outside Wetherby Gymnasium feeling all grown up.   I could smell the excitement, the freedom, an occassional whiff of Smashburgers from the Dairy Cheer across the street and dirty denim.  There was also a strange smell, like burning rope, but not any kind of rope I had smelled burning before.  There was also the smell of what I remember Crosley Field smelling like when someone spilled a beer.

I was fourteen and it was the spring of 1972.  I was waiting  to see Rare Earth in concert.  This was to be my first true rock concert.  I rode to Morehead with a friend who was a junior in high school and was way too cool to be spending time with me, a lowly freshman. We came to the campus of Morehead State University to meet my brother.  He was a freshman at MSU and was living the dream, eating out three times a day, letting his hair grow out, going to rock concerts, and hanging out with college girls.

On this particular night, I was like my brother…living the dream or whatever you would call a 5 foot, 120 pound, near-sighted bantam standing amid a massive horde of college students.  Oh, and I did not have a ticket.  My brother, in his new  college wisdom, told me I would not need one.  He said when the doors open, the crowd moves so fast through the openings, the ticket takers don’t even try.

I felt the mass moving.  I looked up and all I saw was afros and beards and pony tails moving slowly against a cloudy sky.  Then a strange feeling came over me…I was floating.  I looked down and saw my feet were not attached to the earth anymore.  I was being carried by this throng toward the doors and all I could think about was staying upright.  This was my first experience with festival seating for rock concerts.

My feet never hit the ground until we were past the doors and inside.  At this point, it looked like a sprint for people with  no sense of direction.  We went everywhere.  My little group settled in the seats on the side, awaiting one of the hottest rock bands of the day.

There was rain in the forecast, but I don’t think cataclysmic gulley-washer was ever mentioned…for it came one…a big one.  Water filled the hallways of Wetherby Gymnasium so fast, I thought I was seeing animals coming in two by two.  But it was just the football team.

Some of the more chemically engineered students were body surfing out in the halls and concession areas.

There was some concern as to whether the band would go on due to all the water in the building.  Evidently the electrical engineering department was among those crossing over to chemical engineering that night  because there was going to be rock and roll as soon as the water receded enough to find the outlets.

All the water in the building activated my little bladder, so I had to go find the restroom before the band took the stage.  As I pushed through the men’s room door and headed past the urinals to the stall ( my bladder was not only small but also shy), I could see in my periphery there were other folks in the restroom.  I recognized the faces of Rare Earth from their album covers.  Their dressing room must have flooded because they were in the men’s room with all of their stuff.   And now Rare Earth was listening to me pee.

As I washed my hands, I kept waiting for some big security hoss to pick me up and gently urge me to through the door.   It never happened.  And as I took my time soaking up the moment and gazing in the mirror of the newly inhabited Rare Earth dressing room, I could see the images of the band watching this little imp at the sink who dared to interrupt their pre-show meditations.  Alas, no one said a word to me except the mass of black hair squatting against the wall.  As I made my way out, I recognized the conga player, Edward “Guz” Guzman and we made eye contact.  He said to me, and I’ll never forget, those important words,  “What’s happenin’ man?”  I surmised he did not want an answer.

I regaled my friend and brother with my latest escapade when I returned to my seat.  Rare Earth came on stage shortly and did not disappoint the water-logged throng.  Miraculously, no one was electrocuted…not by electricity anyway.

I took this photo of another concert I attended at Morehead State.  This time as a photographer for the university when I was a student.  The J. Geils Band came to Morehead and this shot of J. Geils is one of the better ones I snapped that night.  It was also lead singer Peter Wolf’s birthday and he brought out a bottle of champagne and poured into the waiting cups of the crowd near the stage.

There was a different type of mass movement that night.   The campus police moved to the stage but not because they were fans of the band.   At the time Morehead was a dry town and they did not appreciate the way Mr. Wolfe was passing out birthday wishes.

I think the electrical engineers were called into duty that night, because someone pulled the plug quickly.

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

 

 

 

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The Thumb Sucker

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I look out my window into the back yard and see the tire swing and it reminds me…

My son stood at the end of the aisle and waited for his bride.  She would  be escorted by her father, who was having a difficult day.  I sympathized with him.   I had to give my daughter away to another young man waiting for her at the end of another aisle about six months ago.

As I stood there looking at my thumb-sucking-son-turned- young man,  waiting for his bride, and hoping my lovely wife would pick an emotion and stick with it for at least the next few minutes,  I thought about that tire swing in the back yard.

No, this is not a sappy story about me pushing my little son in the tire swing as the sun sets over the hill and having all those memories come roaring back.

That tire swing reminds me of all the selfish times raising my son when I wanted something for him that he  didn’t necessarily want.  You see, that tire swing was for pushing and swinging…just not the way you see in all those arthritis medicine ads.  It was for a batting drill or exercise that would make him into a major league hitter or at the very least a college recruit.   I had read an article about a very good major league baseball player whose father put up a tire swing in the back yard and had him swing his bat into that tire swing over and over and over.  It supposedly helped him develop a more powerful hitting stroke.

My son tried it one time, after much pleading I might add.  He handed me the bat after a few swings and said ,”Yeah this is great dad”.  I never saw him near that tire swing again.

I would like to say that tire swing was the only foray into my self-coaching/fantasy of Tiger-izing my son.  I have used gadgets and drills and exercises on my son in various sports that I’m sure would have been the next parenting self-help guarantee for the success of a child into the world of big time sports.  Only one thing was missing…a child that wanted to do the various drills, exercises, and gadgets.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed spending each of these moments with my son and daughter, who also was pushed by me to learn the ABC’s (Anything But Cheerleading).

I always felt as a parent, it was my job to expose both my son and daughter to things that would benefit them.  I exposed them to sports, music, arts, travel, and even stocks.  Now I am by no means an expert in any of these areas.  Sometimes my mistake was pushing them too hard.  I did learn however that there comes a time when the pushing needs to stop.  Usually it was when there came resistance.

Sports should always be enjoyable.  Music should always be enjoyable.  I realized  if my son or daughter loved something enough to want to continue to get better, they did not need me pushing them.  They needed me to encourage them or just simply give them a time to rest or a distraction.  Sometimes we parents put too much pressure on our kids to do something with their lives that we want and not necessarily what they want.

I even came to grips with my daughter being a cheerleader and even came to embrace the benefits of young girls performing as a team in front of a crowd.   However I never came to grips with the uniforms.

My son loved to participate in sports and he enjoyed playing many different sports and still does, but he found things in life that were more important to him.  And for that I am thankful and proud of him.

This is a picture of my son when he was about twenty-months old.  He sucked his thumb for comfort and it helped him deal with things that small children have to deal with.  I always loved this picture of him.

Two weekends ago, my son got married.  He married a loving, bright, beautiful young lady that is full of life.  She will be a wonderful wife and I am glad she is now a part of my life.

I am leaving the tire swing up…I can push the grandchildren in it when they come to visit, provided my arthritis is not acting up.

If  you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

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Fishing Boat in Bod Me Limbe, Haiti

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I recently returned from at trip to Haiti.   I was with a wonderful, caring group.   I met most of them at the airport in Philadelphia as we were boarding to fly to the island of Turks and Caicos.   From there we would fly to Cap-Haitien, Haiti the next day.

It takes some time for me to process what I experience after a week in Haiti.

I took this photo one morning on the shore of a small fishing village called Bod Me Limbe.   It is on the northern coast of Haiti.   I added warm, yellow light in processing to give it an exotic look.   I took this just before I threw up, either from my anti-malaria antibiotic or from lack of sleep or from some voodoo curse…take your pick.

Haiti  is challenging.   I don’t accept challenges very well.   The Haitian people make the challenges worthwhile.   They have the best smiles I have ever seen.   The people of Haiti live difficult lives but you wouldn’t know it by observing them.   They move through their days with ease and grace.   Oh sure, you can see the poverty and unsanitary conditions every where, but that is their lives and they deal with it….every day.  

During the times I have been in Haiti, I try not to view their country through the judging eyes of an American.   I try to use some sort of non-biased vision and try to understand it all a little better.   Even now while writing this, I still can’t put in words how I feel or what this latest experience has taught me about Haiti.   Let’s just say, I am not ready for a position in the State Department.

One thing I do understand, while in Haiti, you will see things and experience things that normally you would not see or experience.

Ironically, one experience came from a group of Americans that weren’t part of our group.

We shared our compound in a very rural part of Haiti, outside of a village called Jacquesyl, with another American team that was doing healthcare work.   They invited us over to their house for some fellowship and camaraderie.  They did mention that there might be some singing.

At one strange moment, someone called out a number from of a sing-a-long book.  The next few moments were quite surreal.   It was a most perplexing experience.  I still am having a hard time dealing with this in my seemingly rational consciousness.

At one moment in time there was a room full of very white Americans sitting in a house in the Haitian wilderness singing “Black Magic Woman”.

I’m sure at the exact time of this occurrence, Carlos Santana was somewhere in the throes of intestinal distress.

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

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Tee Shot on the Sound

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I instructed him carefully, “Do not leave the car.  I am going to go in and call my friend and I will be right back.”

He was my eight year-old son and we were on our first road trip together, an odyssey to watch the Detroit Tigers play a game in old Tiger Stadium.

The Tigers were in the midst of playing their final season in the glorious old park on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull.   This wonderful concrete, steel, wooden, and lush green old lady began her life in 1912 as a twin to Fenway Park in Boston.  They both began life on April 20.

I love old baseball stadiums.

I took my wife on a trek to Cleveland Memorial Stadium to watch the final opening day.  We were dressed like we were scaling the Matterhorn.  Alas, it wasn’t enough.  The breezy, 45 degree day chased us in the seventh inning.  I felt like I had  just given up a three-run double and watching the aged manager emerge from the dugout as my wife looked over at me through misty blue eyes and asked me for the keys. (Now before I go any further, I want to be perfectly clear.  I am not, in any way, comparing my wife to Tommy Lasorda). I had kept her there too long.  Her eyes were misty, but not because of sadness at the thought of leaving the game early.  She had just endured another “I can’t believe you’re still here” blast of arctic wind slapping her in the face.

On another occasion, my brother and I ventured to the south side of Chicago to watch a game in old Comiskey Park in her last summer.  We could see what was to be the new US Cellular Field being constructed just above the first base-line grandstand.  It reminded me of the rich old man parading his young paramour in front of his aging wife.

My wife was reluctant  to let me take our only son to Detroit.  She was afraid he wasn’t mature enough to look out for me.

After I pried him loose from her unusually strong clutches, we were off.  He still had hug indentations on his body and they didn’t disappear until we crossed the Ohio River.

I decided to stop in Moraine, Ohio to call my former college roommate.  This was where I made that fatal mistake.  You see, this was before I recognized how incomplete my life was without a cell phone.  I stopped at a convenient store where I spied a pay phone.   My decision-making was flawless… until I saw there was no phone book.

At this point, my wife’s intuitive feelings began to materialize.  Like Nostradamus on the cover of  The Star, her predictions began to unfold.

I left the car running and told my son, “I am going to lock the doors. So stay in the car and DO NOT GET OUT. ”  My son interpreted these instructions as any male in my family would.  “Get out and lock the doors.”

As I was coming out after looking up the phone number, I met him coming in.  Of course he did not turn off the engine and put the keys in his pocket, but he did manage to lock the door.  My wife was right.  He was not old enough to clean up my poor decisions.  He couldn’t even think to call the police.

I took this picture of my son two years ago while playing golf in Nags Head, NC.  This is a beautiful golf hole bordering the sound.  I have had many memorable days with my son, a lot of them involve a golf course or a baseball stadium.  I have been thinking a lot about days  we have spent together lately, for next month, he is getting married.  His fiancee is a wonderful young woman.  He has chosen wisely.  He will have an entertaining life with her.

I just hope she likes going to baseball games and playing golf with me and my son.  My wife says she is mature enough to take care of us.

If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.

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Wrigley Tunnel

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We were racing up the steps to the platform.   I knew it would be close.

My wife and I were trying to catch the subway in Midtown Manhattan to go to Battery Park to ride the Staten Island Ferry.

I had been to New York City one earlier time in my life, at a student convention.   This was my wife’s first trip to the Big Apple.    She had on a pair of shoes that were more fashionable than comfortable.    I had some experience on my previous trip with subway doors closing unexpectedly in my face.  I was trying to relay this bit of valuable information between my gasping breaths as I was climbing stairs about ten feet ahead of my lovely wife, who I know was shooting gamma rays at me out of her eyes ala Gort in “The Day the Earth Stood Still”( the good one in 1951 not the Keanu Reeves one).

I ran up to the train, as if waiting would keep the doors open.   The doors to the subway train closed on me faster than a Budapest housewife greeting a kilt salesman.   I turned to see my wife hobbling up the stairs to the platform.  My gentle reminder was met with a  not-so-gentle-use of English phrasing.    We sat in silence for thirty minutes waiting for the next train as I shot gamma rays at her stylish shoes.

My previous experience with mis-timed subway doors was on the previous trip mentioned above.    My buddy and I decided to skip the lectures one day and catch the train out to Aqueduct to watch some horse races.   After a typical day at the track where we both donated money to the state of New York, we headed up to the platform to catch the train back to Grand Central Station.   I went onboard to ask if this train would get us to our destination.  When I was told to catch the next train, the doors closed and separated me from my buddy, who was smiling and holding up the subway map.

As the train pulled away, I could sense the pity he had for me as he was kissing the map.   I was struck at the shock in the eyes of the New Yorkers.   Apparently they had never seen anyone actually guffawing on a train platform.

I have had some really good experiences on trains.   My wife and I traversed parts of Italy on trains and though we were oblivious to what was going on, we were having the time of our lives.

I wish train travel was easier in the United States.

This is a photo of the Wrigley Tunnel.   It was built a few years after 1900.   It had to be built before 1908, the first year of the Morehead & North Fork Railroad.   Otherwise, the trains would have come to an abrupt halt outside of Wrigley.

I took this photo on a cold January morning on the west side of the tunnel to get the sunburst shining through the tunnel opening.   I liked the effect of the fish-eye lens to capture the starburst and long shadows through the tunnel.

The Wrigley Tunnel sits west of Wrigley in Morgan County, KY.   We are lucky that Rt. 711 runs through this tunnel.   It is still being appreciated for its history and connection to a time long ago.   I would have loved to have ridden the M &NF line from Morehead to Redwine.

I bet they wouldn’t have shut the door on my wife limping to the train in her new pair of Parisiennes.

If you like this picture, you can see more of my photos here.

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