We have passed the halfway point of winter, and the busy holiday season is behind us. This is what some people describe as the winter doldrums, and perhaps a few cases of “cabin fever” are setting in. For some of us, spring cannot come soon enough.
Memories are funny. With time, they can shape-shift and fade, but often they are instantly brought back to life by seeing an object I haven’t thought about in years, a whiff in the air of a once familiar scent, or the strains of a long-forgotten tune.
The holidays are over and the Christmas ornaments have gone back into their tissue-paper layers. The cow’s tooth, the clothespin reindeer, the crystal seahorse and the slender, antique tear drops were all packed away and sealed into their Rubbermaid totes.
You are three years old, sitting between your mother and father on an airplane. It is summertime and you are going to visit your aunt and your big cousin in New York. For now, Mami and Papi are your whole world.
With the exception of the feathered friends who ply our bird feeders (and the rascal squirrels that rob their share), it’s easy to believe that most other creatures have vanished into thin air at this time of year. Animals we often encounter in warmer months seem to be absent as we hike or drive in the Upper Delaware River region.
Those three words pop up frequently here in the Upper Delaware River region and have transformed the way I view art. While it may be perfectly fine to go to a gallery and stroll the halls making personal observations, getting a glimpse into the mind of the creator often puts a whole new spin on the subject at hand.
Two recent events are playing off each other in my mind.
Sometime in the early 1970s, I rented the Cessna Skyhawk from our aero club near where I was stationed in Germany. Although it was a little breezy, the weather forecast was good for that Saturday afternoon. I took my camera along, which was a Minolta 35mm film SLR at the time; I was hoping to get some aerial photos of some nearby landmarks.
No, I’m not about to fill an entire page with sticky, gooey, far-too-sweet, lighter than air nothingness. Or am I? Not entirely unlike the marshmallow crème, a “fluff piece” is a form of journalism, even though there are folks who would argue the point. And in fact, it’s what I do.
“To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again,” wrote 19th-century American poet, philosopher and essayist, Ralph Waldo Emerson.