I somehow got it into my head that sunrise was at 6:50 yesterday, so I wasn’t rushing as I drove to Sea Street Beach. It was obvious that the sky was full of color as I drove, but I still wasn’t thinking. It was the first morning without Ozzie, it wasn’t a normal morning at all. And I had been up at 3 AM, even that is a little earlier than my normal early rising. And I had had the thought that I wouldn’t have to rush for the sunrise, but I lost some time writing and thinking of Ozzie. So for whatever reason when I arrived this is what I foundI think that the shape standing on the closest rocks might be trash cans. I told myself I’d lop them out of the photo in editing. But when I saw the photos I saw them as a heart shape, and it was Valentines Day after all, so I left it as is. Funny how Mother Nature can perform for you even when you aren’t exactly on top of things. But later on I got my first ever phone call from Cupid, and the day got a little brighter after that.
When I have a reason to visit my hometown I always make sure to have my camera with me because I just can’t resist a drive through D. W. Fields Park. The scenery is beautiful in every season, and I know I can count on seeing swans at the very least. And yesterday I did. The swan in the photo above spent more time in this upside down position than upright. They are always so graceful, well, except for this one.
When I got out of the car with the tripod I attracted a crowd of birds. I suspect that people ignore the ‘do not feed the wildlife’ signs since the Canada geese formed a welcoming committee of sorts, and the gulls took to swarming in the air. They quickly realized I I wasn’t going to feed them and did an about face. I hated to disappoint them, but they certainly didn’t disappoint me.
I rode my bike through this enormous park when I was a kid. Generations of families brought their kids here to feed the ducks. Before it was illegal of course. And it looks the same now as it did then no wonder I feel the need to return.
A 60 degree day was all it took to get me out to the Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury, MA for what must have been the first time ever. I had an image in my mind of a quaint little bridge, but the reality was that it was very long, weather worn, and built for utility. There was a place to park, I was happy about that so that I could take pictures. I expected the bridge would be the main event, but I was immediately distracted by the little lighthouse I could see way off in the distance. The Gurnet Light I heard later. I hadn’t used my 600mm lens in a very long time and this was my opportunity. With the extender on the camera it was too much for me to focus sharply, and those photos turned out blurry. I was going to have to get closer. I saw that cars were traveling over the bridge, and even more exciting was that I could see them then taking a right and heading toward that lighthouse. The speed limit on the bridge was 10 MPH, and on the dirt road heading toward the lighthouse it was 15 MPH, so there was a lot of time to appreciate the view that kept changing as I drove. The ice that remained along the shore was melting and looked white and snowy. And the signage was interesting, advising you of the dos and don’ts of watching the Snowy Owls that visit in the winter. I wonder if they were there but nicely camouflaged. I’m in hopes of finding Snowy Owls to photograph while I’m here this winter. That would be the icing on the cake.
Kalmus beach was where I was headed for the sunset last night. On the map it appeared to be facing west, and it was in range of the restaurant where I was meeting an old friend last night. Re-meeting since it had been about 50 years since we’d seen each other. Both the sunset and the meeting didn’t disappoint. I walk around with a constant buzz in my chest these days. I like to think that my heart is literally warmed to be here after pining for home for a very long time. I could lament about the time I missed with these special people, in this place that I have always treasured as home, but I’m here now. And it’s the only place I want to be. In my younger years there were too many distractions, too many demands on my attention. This time of life is when you can savor just what you have, and how lucky you really are.
This last photo was taken after the tripod and camera had taken a nose dive into the wet sand. Face first, which was unfortunate for the camera with a lovely tulip shaped lens cover that stays in place and just folds and unfolds to allow the lens to zoom and retract. Sand was caked into all the nooks and crannies. I worked to get the sand out quickly since the camera would go to sleep on it’s own in a minute, and the lens cap would attempt to close. I took the picture in an effort to keep the cover open and buy some time. But it couldn’t close and I went to visit with my friend. When I got the camera out later it was closed. I will investigate further today, but first I need more coffee.
I’m not sure that anyone in my life has ever astounded me as consistently as my Aunt Millie did. As a very young girl I lived upstairs from my aunt’s ever expanding family. At that time I was aware of my aunt as a shadowy figure in the background, always tending a baby. In fairness to her I remember no parents at all from those days, I only remember the fun we kids were having. We moved away from that neighborhood, and then I got married and left my hometown, never to live in New England again. Time passed and the 70s and 80s happened, and I heard that my Aunt Millie had gone back to college and was now a teacher. Astounding. I heard about their family summers spent camping, or on ski trips, plus cross-country RV trips, and I found myself amazed again and again. By now I lived in MD and was happy to have my aunt and uncle as visitors as they traveled here and there. That’s when Aunt Millie really came out of the shadows to me. It was then that I really saw her, strong and opinionated (as the Nelsons tend to be), and it seemed as if I met her for the first time. I was lucky to have had a chance to spend time with her and Uncle Bob in the last 15 or so years. If circumstances had been different I might never have really gotten to know her at all. I’m glad I did. She died yesterday at 93, and she will be missed.
I read a blog post this morning and the blogger described her lifelong friend as having relocated from her failing body into much better accommodations. That just says it all…
Armstrong-Kelly Park isn’t the easiest place to find. The GPS couldn’t find it even when I entered it’s actual street address into it. I gave up on it the first time I tried to go there, but my sister directed me to it yesterday. We hoped for a nice picture of the holly tree that is planted there in honor of my brother-in-law, but we’ll come back in the spring to try that again.
My brother-in-law wasn’t a big man. He was small, actually. He was about my height and I out-weighed him all the years I knew him. He.was quiet. Worked all day and came home, had a beer and watched TV. There was no inkling of what a big man he actually was until he died. That’s when the crew from Bartlett Tree Experts took over the planning of his funeral, and the stories they told of his expertise at his job astounded all of us I think. They said that there was probably not a street on Cape Cod that hadn’t benefitted from his hard work. The story I remember best was about a homeowner who wanted a gigantic boulder moved from one side of his lawn to another. A Bartlett truck was on the scene, and the crew of workers were standing there trying to decide how they were going to accomplish this task when Neil pulled up. He got his winches and pulleys out of his truck and got to work. He had the boulder moved in no time flat, loaded up his tools and left the rest of the crew standing there scratching their heads. No, he wasn’t a big man, but he had a big impact on his little piece of the world.
This holly tree was planted to honor Neil for his 50 years of hard work for Barlett. He trained a lot of arborists in his day also, so his influence is still sending ripples out into nature. Such a quiet little man, who left a legacy behind him.