Category Archives: Family

Portraits in Suburbia

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It’s that time of year again:  graduations.  I have begun to divide my life into stages by the kinds of events we celebrate.  Long ago, it was our own graduations and those of our friends.  Then it was weddings.  Next, it was baby showers, followed by divorces (well, that wasn’t usually a celebration).  Then there were second marriages (and occasionally third).

Now, I seem to be participating in the same cycle of events one generation removed.  Because I have friends in many age groups, these events continue in waves depending on how old my friends are.

The high school graduations of my friends’ children started ten years ago.  Those were followed by weddings, and a few baby showers (although babies seem to be coming later and later in people’s lives).

But, this time, it’s my nephew who completed high school.  This event led to us taking Tisen on his longest road trip ever.  Fortunately for us and for Tisen, my brother’s family is willing to accommodate Tisen so he didn’t have to stay in a kennel.  I’m not sure either one of us would have survived the separation anxiety.

The other unintended consequence is that I gained a couple of new models for portrait shooting.  It’s a good thing my nephews were unwarned of my intention to shoot some portraits or I might not have seen either one of them during our visit.  However, I managed to get a few minutes of their time before they got too impatient with me.  What is it about the men in my family that they can’t sit for more than 10 minutes to let me practice portraiture?

They might have been a little intimidated posing next to my strobe on an umbrella stand–I don’t think either one of them has ever posed in front of an umbrella before.

I had fun trying to create some more dramatic lighting by casting shadows with the light.  My youngest nephew seemed to think the lighting was a little too dramatic, but he played along patiently anyway.

Tisen, never one to pose in front of a flashing umbrella, spent his modeling time discovering the joys of the ‘burbs.  I believe the thick, green grass right outside the door was a first for him.  At home, he can cross an asphalt parking lot to find a small patch of grass or walk to the park to roll in a short, spongy variety of grass.  Before he came to us, I doubt there was much grass in his life.

Unleashed and let out the door in the heart of an Indiana suburb, Tisen seemed at first confused and then overjoyed by the large yard to play ball in.  Although there was no fence, Tisen stayed well within the invisible confines of the property lines as if he was  afraid he would get lost if he got too far from me in that endless expanse of grass.  I am now worried he will resent returning to his urban life.

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Learning from Dogs

Posted by dkrashb on

Having recently restored an old archive of photos, I rediscovered a collection of photos of our mastiffs. I re-lived not only the joys and sorrows of having loved and lost these gentle giants, but also of the things I learned from shooting them.

They were my first high-contrast subjects. Their fawn colored fur and their deep black masks gave me exposure fits. After losing their eyes a thousand times, I learned how the spot meter setting worked. Of course, then I was forever over-exposing their light fur.

They were also the subjects that drove me to want a DSLR instead of my PowerShot G3, which was a pretty awesome point-and-shoot for its time, allowing me to take full manual control of the settings.

But looking at my dogs through the G3 view finder made me miss. The closer they were to me, the bigger the problem. If you couldn’t use the LCD, you were just guessing as to what you were going to get. Since I couldn’t use the LCD during rapid-fire shooting, I often missed.

The photos in this collection were all taken with the PowerShot G3 (except the one of Tisen). During one of these shoots, I did a long series of rapid-fire shots with Katie (the only mastiff I ever heard of who loved to fetch). Going through them rapidly looks like a movie of a giant dog romping on a deck.

I also did a rapid-fire series of Bogart. In his series, he turns his head about 45 degrees and then turns it back. That’s pretty representative of their personalities. Bogart was a mastiff through and through–excellent judge of character, laid back, gentle with children, subtly protective, and excellent at the “down” command. Just don’t ask him to get back up.

Katie was more of a lab trapped in an over-sized body with droopy jowls. She wanted to play ball all the time. She wanted your undivided attention all the time. She was as hyper as hyper can get in a mastiff. Unfortunately, her body betrayed her personality (or maybe it was the other way around) and her knees and elbows could not handle her desire to chase, spin, and retrieve her ball. She spent a depressing amount of time restricted from playing at all.

Tisen often reminds me of both our mastiffs. He has the laid back but protective temperament of Bogart. But he also has the fierce neediness of Katie. I sometimes call him Bogart by accident when he does something Bogart-like. I often tell Tisen he’s the best boy in the whole wide world–something I used to tell Bogart as well. One day, I spontaneously completed what I used to say to Bogart and Katie: “And we’re the luckiest people in the whole wide world because we have you.” I started to tear up. We are the luckiest people to have had three such amazing dogs in our lives.

Relapse with a Bounce

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I had to quit cold turkey.  It was tough, but after I got through the initial withdrawal, I discovered there were endless subjects to shoot besides the Chattanooga riverfront as seen from the North Shore.

The toughest step of my recovery was having to go through my photos and delete about 7000 images to free up drive space.  I think 5000 of those images were of the Chattanooga riverfront.

But then yesterday, I was walking in the park with Tisen.  I was going to go for a bike ride afterwards, but the clouds started rolling in and, well, I skipped my ride in order to shoot.  I guess we could call it a relapse.

When I started gathering up my gear, I peeked out the windows to discover a double rainbow forming in the East as the sun cruised toward the Western horizon.  I rushed to find a good view and get setup, worrying that I would miss the rainbow.

As it turned out, the brightest rainbow remained visible for the entire 45 minutes I was shooting.

The second rainbow never did get very bright–it just sort of hovered on the edge of visible.  It’s visible in the second image if you look closely.  As much as I love seeing rainbows, I find I enjoy shooting clouds more.  Perhaps because it’s difficult to get more than one perspective on a rainbow, but the clouds continually shift and create new images for you.

I’m not sure where my fascination with clouds started.  When I was a child and my family went on long road trips, if there were clouds, we would amuse ourselves by finding complex and, often, outrageous shapes in them and trying to get everyone else to see what we saw.

Every time I fly, I hope for cloud cover.  I love looking down on clouds–especially when there are thunderheads or other masses of clouds that look like some sort of special effect created by hollywood.  Of course, when I’m in a plane, I wish they were just a special effect!

As part of studying for our hang gliding rating, we learned a little bit about clouds and how they can help predict the weather–a life and death issue if you’re a good enough hang glider pilot to stay aloft for hours (my longest flight so far was about 4 minutes–makes weather changes sort of a non-issue).  We learned hang glider pilots look for big puffy cumulous clouds as a sign of thermals. From the look of things, the thermals were in full force.

I vaguely remember a dream I once had of falling through a cloud.  In my dream, the cloud was soft and warm–as if it were somehow slowing my fall.  It wasn’t the kind of fall that makes you wake up before you land; it was the kind of fall where you know you will bounce.  Perhaps I already knew that thermals were pushing back underneath?

Big Dog in a Flash

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Today, a mysterious brown box showed up outside our door.  I hadn’t ordered anything and yet a package arrived.  The address was hand written like maybe it came from someone we knew.  It was addressed to both my husband and me.  When Pat came home, we opened it together.  It turned out, it was a gift for Tisen!

Tisen’s very thoughtful grandma sent him his own dog friend!  This is not just a little squeaky toy to add to his collection.  No, this is a life-sized stuffed dog that’s so incredibly soft, I tried it out as a pillow.  It makes a great pillow.

Since Tisen was at puppy daycare when we opened the package, we set Big Dog up on the couch with Lion.  When Tisen came home, he ran to the couch, grabbed Big Dog and threw him on the floor, snagging Lion in the process.  I guess he thought Big Dog had no business playing with Lion.

After a while, Tisen started carrying Big Dog around, which was pretty amusing because Big Dog is about the same size as Tisen.  Eventually, he settled down on the couch with Big Dog and discovered just how comfy a pillow Big Dog makes.

This gave me an opportunity to get a little portrait practice in.  Having just gotten my new flash before leaving for Columbus last week, I hadn’t tried it at home yet.  Interestingly, when I use my monolights (which can only be turned down to 1/8 power), Tisen gets up and leaves.  With my flash on an umbrella stand and turned down to 1/64 power, he seems to actually pose for me instead.  I could be onto something.

One of the challenges of properly exposing Tisen is that he is black and white.  As you can see from the last photo (taken with my iPhone), the whites tend to blow out and/or the blacks get clipped.  This is fine for an iPhone photo, but not really what I’m shooting for (a pun!).  I started with the umbrella on the white side of his face first because the black side of his face was in lots of ambient light.  Then, I tried speeding up the shutter to exclude the ambient light and moving the flash to the black side of his face.

One discovery from this experiment:  pleather makes a very bad background for shooting with a flash–the glare makes it pretty obvious that a flash is in use.  That said, you should now be able to tell which of the photos were taken with ambient light only and which of the photos used the flash on the umbrella stand.

Tisen was not too concerned about the glare.  He was just happy to have something soft and cushy to snuggle with.  He decided he liked Big Dog so much that when we went out to pick up a pizza, Tisen grabbed Big Dog for the ride.  Here’s a video of Tisen with Big Dog for your enjoyment.

Loitering and Licorice

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A friend of mine recently said to me (roughly):  there is something about a walk by a river that makes all right with the world.  I understand this.  There is something inexplicably soothing about walking by water.

I am reminded of walking by the Scioto River with my grandfather when I was very young.  I remember walking down to the river with him and stopping to get licorice along the way as if it was something we did often together.  In reality, it probably happened only once–we lived three states apart.

We walked slowly together, talking very little.  There was something about Grandpa I liked.  I have so little memory of him that it’s hard for me to remember exactly what it was.  Something went quiet inside when I was around him.  Like I needed to listen very carefully for something important.

When we stopped at the grocery store, the plastic packages of licorice hung from metal rods pointing at me, demanding my attention.  I will forever associate black licorice with my grandfather–he was one of the few people I’ve known in my life who would go out of his way for it.

With our brown paper bag full of licorice, we made our way across the busy road I was never allowed to cross on my own.  We walked across the bridge, back when it had a steel arch capping it.  The pedestrian walkway separated us from the traffic, but I remember it being all metal–our footsteps generating a soft metallic clang as we made our way across.

About halfway, there was a sign that said “No Loitering.”  I asked my grandfather what loitering meant.  He made a garbled explanation, and then said “like this” and he sort of shuffled around in one place.  For months, I thought it was some kind of dance step.  I couldn’t quite figure out why you weren’t allowed to dance on the bridge.

We made our way over the river, stopping to look down at the water periodically.  We were probably loitering.

When we eventually made it to the other side, the water lapped slowly at the bank.  The ducks paddled towards us in the water, hoping for a handout from our mysterious brown bag.

We walked slowly, listening to the water, watching the light bounce off of it and the rest of the world disappeared.

Now, when I walk along the Tennessee River, the world gets bigger, brighter, and quieter all at the same time.  I look at the clouds that decorate the river valley.  I watch for the heron soaring along the banks.  I watch the people crossing the Walnut Street Bridge, silhouetted against the setting sun.  I listen to the water, the birds, the insects, and even the occasional shout from an exuberant teenager.  As a I look for images I want to frame with my camera and keep, I am in that moment enjoying the river and all is right with the world.

Broken Heart Birdsongs

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When Tisen and I go to the park, the Cliff Swallows buzz over our heads.  I took my binocs over with me one morning to figure out what they were.  They gave me quite a run for my money making me chase them with my lenses, getting just enough of a glimpse of their details to know for sure what category to place them in, what name to give them, what song to expect from them.

There is something about swallows diving through the air that makes me want to forget all about what kind of bird they are and simply join them in the freedom of flight.  The level of emotion I feel watching them is inexplicable except maybe, at an unconscious level, they connect me to my mother.

It was, after all, my mother who first introduced me to the wonder of birds.  Although the most exotic bird I remember my mother identifying was the American Goldfinch, her fascination with them was contagious.  My mother wasn’t really about identifying them or photographing them or getting up close to them.  She was all about birdness in its purest form.

She just felt joy when she saw a bird.  Any bird.  As long as it wasn’t in a cage.

Perhaps that’s what the swallows remind me of.  Because I was unsure of what name went with them, for weeks I watched them swoop and dive with the kind of delight my mother would have taken in seeing them.

I am reminded of a reoccurring dream I used to have as a child.  In it, I was running down the street I grew up on.  Running as fast as the wind.  Then, my steps would grow longer and I would soar through the air further and further between foot falls.  The feeling of flying between foot steps was so profound that when I woke up, I could feel the remnants of the dream physically in my stomach.  I so loved that feeling.

I wonder if my mother used to dream about flying?

There are times when her absence is still so painful I cannot bear to think of her.  Even though it’s been 13 years since her death, I so wish I could take her to see the swallows across the street.  I so wish I could point out the Eastern Towhee calling from the tree tops.  I so wish she could see the Eastern Bluebirds nesting in the bird house.  As if showing her birds might somehow make up for all the times I broke her heart.  As if a birdsong might heal the remnants of the hurt.

In lieu of sharing these birds with her, I share them with you.  Unfortunately, the swallows are too quick in flight for me to photograph.  But, having discovered their nests clinging to the Western side of the Market Street bridge, I can capture them there.  Frozen in a frame–I hope it’s not too much like a cage.

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Treat Me Right (Even When I’m 86)

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I have never seen B.B. King perform before.  When we saw he was coming to a small venue in Chattanooga, we had to go.  I am so glad we did.

B.B. King is 86 years old and still so full of life that you just want to stand where his light can shine on you.  He is so adorable that he could have just sat on the stage smiling and the audience would have been grateful.

I could not stop thinking to myself, this guy is the same age my aunt was when she died.  I cannot help but compare the sad shell of a woman my aunt was at the same age vs the belting-out-the-songs (albeit in short spurts) B.B. King.  What an inspiration.

I looked at Pat and said, “I wonder what it would be like to have a job you still want to be doing when you’re 86?”

What was really cool was the reverence the audience had for this octogenarian.  I think everyone there felt honored to be listening to B.B. King talk and play and sing.  I compare this to going to my aunt’s bell choir performance at her assisted living facility.  The attitude of the audience was one of amused patience; we were doing a favor for the performers by being there.

The B.B. King audience was there for the opposite reason–to have the honor of being in B.B. King’s presence.  That audience felt gratitude for B.B. King doing us the great favor of getting up on that stage.

I sometimes think about aging and what it means if, at the end of your life, who you are is taken from you in the form of dementia (something that happened to all four of my grandparents and half of my aunts).  I had a recent conversation with a friend about the Okinawa study.  There, the elderly are revered and good health reigns, even amongst centenarians.  And they have more centenarians than any where in the world.

My friend said the families there fight over who will get to take care of their aging parents.  It’s considered an honor and a privilege to take on this responsibility.

B.B. King made me feel honored and privileged; I have to wonder how much this ability contributes to the difference between a man who still lives life and a woman who sits idly in front of the TV while her memories slip away.

On a photographic note, the one disappointment of the evening was that I called ahead to make sure I could bring my camera, but when I got there, they told me I couldn’t take it in.  I should have tried a different security person because I met man with a very large point-and-shoot who said he was told just not to use flash.  I had to make do with my iPhone.  When I saw how horrible my pictures were, I understood why the promoters didn’t take away phones.

Dogs and Nomads

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It was a big day for Tisen.  We drove to Atlanta last night and stayed in a La Quinta (did you know they allowed dogs for free?).  Pat hung out with Tisen until my work meetings were over and I could take the rest of my meetings from the car while he drove us back home.

Tisen did not seem like he felt well from about an hour into the drive to Atlanta until we returned home today.  He was clearly nervous about traveling.

After returning home, we took Tisen with us to McKamey Animal Center to officially adopt him.  Nearly every staff member on duty came to see Tisen and to thank us for adopting him.  I’m not sure why they were thanking us–we are so grateful to them for saving him.

I have spent much of the evening with eyes brimming with tears, overwhelmed with gratitude.  Gratitude for the people who saved Tisen.  Gratitude for Tisen himself.  Gratitude that my sister-in-law fosters cats (which gave me the ides to foster dogs).  Gratitude that Anna introduced us to Tisen.  Gratitude that Tisen picked us as much as we picked him.

While we are at the shelter, Tisen flirts with a boxer/bulldog mix named Rosie through a glass door.  She has the opposite eye patch from him and they seem like they were made for each other.  She is so ridiculously cute, we are suddenly tempted to bring home a friend for Tisen.  But, when we do the “meet and greet” to see how they get along, Tisen will not allow Rosie to get any affection from any human in the room.  When someone starts to pet her, he dives between human and Rosie, making growly noises.  We decide Tisen wants to be an only dog, which is probably for the best.

After another stop at PetsMart for a couple of items we forgot last trip (which results in the purchase of yet another squeaky toy), we return home.  I cuddle Tisen on the couch.  He lays across my lap and sighs like life just doesn’t get any better.  As I sit here petting him, I think he might be right.

But, I am trying to write my blog.  Tisen seems to want to be between me and my laptop.  I tease him that he is both helping me write my blog by providing a subject and preventing me from writing my blog by physically interfering.  He doesn’t seem to get the joke, but he sighs again and readjusts, hoping for a belly rub.

As I contemplate the long-term commitment we have just made, I realize I might have to change my domain name.  We came to Chattanooga thinking we would live here 6-12 months and then move on to a new area.  Instead, we have extended our lease on our apartment, committed to lease a manufacturing space for 3 years, and taken in a dog.  So much for being nomads!

 

 

The End of Foster Care

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We’ve decided.  Tisen stays.

We took him hang gliding on Saturday.  Tisen ran over and start licking my face in the middle of a hang check and then follow my glider all the way down the big hill and back up again.  When I told the instructor he was a foster dog, she said, “That’s your dog.  He has claimed you.”  She’s right.  He is my dog.

It’s funny how this happens.  I wonder how a dog decides you are theirs?  And you cannot resist.  You find yourself committed until death do you part.  Except you’re committed to a well-behaved 3 year old with fur who will never be able to use the toilet.

Upon deciding that Tisen must stay, we immediately went to PetsMart to celebrate.  Since we are working on crate training, we, of course, needed a cozy matt to put in the crate, special chews to keep him busy while we’re gone, and a new squeaky toy since I’ve discovered he’ll do about anything for a squeaky toy.  He picks a bear for his squeaky toy, but then is so enamored with a ridiculous long, red dog that I cannot resist getting it for him, too.  It’s a good thing I don’t have children.

When we get home, he picks up the red dog and carries it in from the car, trotting along with his head held high like he’s won some sort of award.  The joy I experience watching him is well worth the extra $8.  When he gets to the living room, he plops his new toy in the middle of the floor and then pulls his stuffed squirrel out of the crate, laying them out on the floor side-by-side.  It’s hard to know what goes through a dog’s mind sometimes, but I have to wonder if he really just wanted squirrel to have a friend.

I pick up the dog and give it a squeeze.  Tisen starts poking at the dog with his nose trying to make it squeak.  Pat joins in and starts squeezing, too.  I grab my iPhone and try to get a shot (not having time to change lenses on my camera).  Tisen gets irritated with the flash, picks up red dog, and hides out in his crate.  I take this as a sign that crate training is going well.

Tisen’s obsession with squeaky toys reminds me of a story my mom used to tell about me.  When I was about 2, I was given a doll who would cry if you squeezed her.  Except, I wasn’t strong enough to get her to cry.  But, I figured out my own method.  I horrified a nice lady at the bank one day when she complimented me on my cute baby and I responded by throwing it on the floor and stomping on it.  My mother smiled weakly and said, “It’s the only way she can get it to cry.”  It’s really a good thing I don’t have children.

Separation Anxiety

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We want to go to dinner tonight.  Without the dog.  However, we haven’t crate trained him and so far he’s been afraid to even walk into the crate and check it out, so now is not the time to try the crate.

We decide to experiment before leaving.  Pat sneaks into the bathroom hoping Tisen won’t notice he’s there and I step into the hall.  I lurk in the hall holding my can of pennies, listening for any sounds of barking or pawing at the door.  When he scratches, I shake my can.  He stops.  I can hear him sniffing at the crack under the door.  I can’t tell if he knows I’m standing there or not.  After he’s been quiet for several minutes, I decide it’s time to reward him for being calm.  I go to open the door and discover I’ve locked myself out.

I text my husband and he comes out of the bathroom to let me back in.

Next, I decide to try 5 minutes to see how Tisen does.  I sneak back out into the hall (this time leaving the door unlocked) after getting him interested in his simulated dead squirrel toy.  I hide around the corner this time.  Unfortunately, I am across from a neighbor’s door.  I hope they aren’t watching me through their peep hole, wondering what I’m doing in the hallway holding a Christmas canister (my can of pennies is a small Christmas tin that Pat’s mom’s famous rum balls were delivered in).

Tisen is quiet.  Other than one loud sniff, I do not hear anything at all.  I look at my watch.  I get to 3 1/2 minutes and suddenly the door opens, my husband looking for me.  I go back in and learn that Tisen figured out Pat was hiding in the bathroom and was scratching at the bathroom door.  So much for that test.

Eventually, we decide to leave a note on the door with our mobile number so our neighbors can reach us if he’s making a lot of noise and head out for a quick dinner at Taco Mamacitos next door.

When we return,Tisen is having a conversation with the next door neighbor’s dog.  When we open the door, Tisen is frantic.  He leaps at us, nipping at our hands like he’s lost his mind.  He pants uncontrollably.  I wrap him in my arms, firmly push him into a sit, and talk to him soothingly to get him to calm down.  When he calms enough to let him go, I start getting ready for bed.  He follows me into the bathroom–a room he has avoided since his bath.

When I sit on the couch, he plops next to me and pushes so tight against me I fear my pants and his fur are going to merge at a molecular level.  Apparently I have gone overboard spoiling this dog–after 4 days with us, he’s having separation anxiety.  Sigh.  A new thing to work on.