Monday, December 9, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
From Internet Marketer to Christmas Wreath Maker
I
left the Marketing world in the spring of 2009. I had put in a solid 20 years
speeding down the Internet Superhighway and it was time for a break. I was out
of gas. After taking some time off, I decided manual labor would be a nice
change. I was hired at Skillins Greenhouses, a well-known and respected local
nursery. What I noticed immediately was how well I slept after putting in a long
day of unloading semi trucks of trees and shrubs. There was an overwhelming
relief of not having to return phone calls and emails. There were no deadlines.
I now punched in and out each day and packed my lunch in a lunch box. I liked talking
with customers about soil and sun and planting. I liked moving. I liked dirt.
During the holiday season at the nursery, we sell holiday boxes, decorated Christmas wreaths and balsam fir trees (Abies balsamea). We also ship our popular State of Maine wreaths across the country. (I am in charge of shipping…200 to date, and counting.)
When
customers enter The Christmas Room
they comment on the wonderful balsam aroma. While we no longer smell it, we
still smile and agree, “Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it?”
So,
during this holiday season, I leave you with some iPhone photos of me shipping wreaths,
as well as some of my decorated Katahdin
wreaths hanging on the windows of Stonehome Estate Jewelers on Exchange Street.
I’ve made it!
Happy
Holidays! Liz
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Mama Mia! Is that a Delivery Truck Stuck in that Alley?
It
is no wonder I love shooting in the North End of Boston so much; shop
windows filled with Sopressata, Cacciatore, and Salame; ricotta cheese stuffed
cannolis at Mike’s Pastry; waiters named Vinny and Manny setting tables for the
Saturday night dinner crowd, and Boston cops hanging out on street corners.
These are all sights I’ve come to appreciate and, in some ways, even expect
when I visit the North End.
Sometimes,
however, the best moments in life come when the unexpected happens. They are like
scenes out of a Spielberg movie, ones that only an experienced movie director could
re-create. What I couldn’t anticipate while strolling along Hanover Street that
lazy summer afternoon was catching a glimpse of a delivery truck stuck in an
alleyway out the corner of my eye. The drivers clearly thought they could
continue through the narrow space, but a lamp post and a street that looked
about 10 times too small for the large white box truck were obstacles that proved
too big for even the most experienced truck driver.
If
the delivery truck stuck in alley photo
opp weren’t enough, an elderly Italian woman hunched over her cane approached the scene just as I did. With determined curiosity, she shuffled down the street in her house slippers and poked her head around the corner. When she saw the
truck, her eyes widened. Mama Mia! Mama
Mia!, she repeated. She gestured to me for some confirmation.
I raised my hands in disbelief and repeated back to her wide-eyed, Mama Mia!
Along
with my quintessential nonna italiana, a couple of true blue Boston Cops showed
up to assess the situation. Behind the scenes, a sullen truck driver sat on the
curb awaiting the verdict. (He told me later he was worried he was going to get
fired when he got back to dispatch).
The
entire scene was Boston at its finest. One tough Italian grandmother, a few tough
Boston cops, and two not-so-tough delivery truck drivers.
I went to the North End expecting one thing and left with something quite different; something quite wonderfully different.
I went to the North End expecting one thing and left with something quite different; something quite wonderfully different.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
For the Love of God, Don’t Put Celery in the Stuffing
For
as long I can remember, I have hated, nope… detested, the taste of celery. That’s
right. Celery. I have no idea where it stems from. I have no early childhood memory
of an evil babysitter force feeding me celery, or eating celery soup when I
was home sick with the flu, or a traumatic holiday experience with peanut
butter filled celery. I just don’t like it. A lot don’t like it.
So
what exactly is it about celery that I find so offensive. It’s a combination of
bad. Part taste, part smell, part texture. When I tell friends of my strong
aversion, they universally come back with... What if it’s cooked? Doesn’t matter. Hate. What if it’s filled with peanut butter? Nope. Won’t do it. How can you hate it, it has no taste!? Sure
does. Vile.
In
a completely unscientific study of friends and family over the years, I have
found exactly 3 other people who hate celery as much as I do. When we first
discover our mutual displeasure of the stalk, we are like long-lost brothers in
arms who washed ashore together in Normandy. We have found each other. We
embrace, we cheer, sometimes we cry. We share celery stories. No one understands, we sniff. We hug
each other knowing that we have found someone else who knows the pain we’ve endured over the years. We are soul mates.
So, what does any of this have to do with photography? Absolutely nothing. But, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and frankly, I’m terrified about seeing celery. Cream cheese and olive stuffed celery, itty bitty pieces of celery in the stuffing, or worse: giant chunks of celery in the salad. Because, for me, celery is quite simply, the worst food ever.
post script: Thanksgiving was a success! No celery sightings. Thanks, Dave.
So, what does any of this have to do with photography? Absolutely nothing. But, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and frankly, I’m terrified about seeing celery. Cream cheese and olive stuffed celery, itty bitty pieces of celery in the stuffing, or worse: giant chunks of celery in the salad. Because, for me, celery is quite simply, the worst food ever.
post script: Thanksgiving was a success! No celery sightings. Thanks, Dave.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
The Day I Met Jack Nicholson on the Peaks Island Ferry
As
he walked toward me, I stared in disbelief, ‘Oh my God, is that Jack Nicholson? What on earth would he be doing on
the Peaks Island Ferry? I would have heard if he had a house on the island. Is
he shooting a movie on Peaks? Why wouldn’t I have read about it in the paper? Is
he visiting friends on the island?’
Then,
without looking up, he sat down on the bench beside me. My mind was spinning. I looked, I didn’t look, I thought it was
him, then not him, then got paranoid that I was looking too much, then looked
down, then looked away. After a few minutes of trying unsuccessfully to act both
cool and disinterested; I blurted out, “Excuse me, but does everyone tell you,
you look just like Jack Nicholson?”
“Yes,”
he replied, in a tone pure Jack. Quietly. Deliberately. His voice hoarse. His smile,
half Joker, half Caretaker of The Overlook Hotel. Then, in a gravelly retort
only Jack could pull off, he added, “I’m an impersonator.”
“Oh,
Cool!” I smiled, wide-eyed.
Turns out his real name is Ed Ezzard (which added freaky to freak, since I’m also a huge fan of British comedian, Eddie Izzard, so now I’m doubly fake-star-struck and only mildly confused). Before
changing careers to Jack impersonator, not-Jack was an IT Project Manager from
New York. Today, he has a thriving business and even has a web site, themainejack.com
(You can’t make this stuff up.) He explained that he does private parties, conventions, fundraisers, sales
meetings, photo doubles, and commercials.
Fifteen minutes after crossing
Casco Bay with Oscar-winning Jack, then IT Ed playing Jack, followed by Ed
playing himself – a guy who just happens to look so much like Jack he started a
business being Jack, we arrived at Peaks Island. He handed me his business
card: Ed Ezzard, Jack Nicholson
Impersonator. Well, ok then. I walked away smiling. I had, in fact,
just met Jack Nicholson on the ferry to Peaks Island. Well, sort of.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
A Game of Cat and Mouse
As it turns out, there really is a game called cat and mouse; one with a real cat, and a real mouse.
I know because I witnessed it from my purple couch one afternoon. Outside the bay windows, I watched as my neighbor’s rotund orange house cat darted up and down the street spastically chasing something that looked as frightened as a … oh, wait.
Somewhat fearful of the unfolding massacre I was about to witness, I headed out the door. Camera in hand, I tip-toed closer to the cat-mouse duo. There, on the edge of the road, a mouth-watering feline was cozying up to a wide-eyed, grey rodent. The cat had played with this mouse just long enough to get the mouse to trust it. They even shared a few snout to snout kisses, it seemed.
My instinct was to alert the mouse, “Run! Don’t trust him! He’ll eat you alive! I swear! It’s a trap!” But, then I heard the voice of Sir Darwin, “This, my dear,” the authoritarian, British voice in my head continued, “…is nature at its finest. Survival of the fittest!” At that moment, I wondered if Mr. Darwin had ever been chased across sub-Saharan Africa by a large cat, its fangs piercing Charles in the hind quarters mid-stride. I think not. Master Chuck Darwin, while a voyageur; knew not (at least not from first-hand experience) that from which he postulated.
As it turned out, there was no massacre; at least not one that I witnessed. Perhaps my neighbors had a present waiting at their doorstep later that night, I can’t say for sure. But, from my observations (and my best estimation), it was a playful game of a harmless neighborhood cat playing chase with a common field mouse. The cat endeared itself to the mouse, the mouse responded in kind, and a friendship ensued. It was a game of cat meets mouse, cat likes mouse, mouse trusts cat, mouse likes cat. At least, that's the story I prefer. Which story do you prefer?
Wikipedia:
Cat and mouse, often expressed as cat-and-mouse game, is an English-language idiom dating back to 1675 that means "a contrived action involving constant pursuit, near captures, and repeated escapes."[1] The "cat" is unable to secure a definitive victory over the "mouse", who despite not being able to defeat the cat, is able to avoid capture. In extreme cases, the idiom may imply that the contest is never-ending. The term is derived from the hunting behavior of domestic cats, which often appear to "play" with prey by releasing it after capture. This behavior is due to an instinctive imperative to ensure that the prey is weak enough to be killed without endangering the cat.[2]
In colloquial usage it has often been generalized to mean simply that the advantage constantly shifts between the contestants, leading to an impasse or de facto stalemate.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Feature: Nice Shot! What’s for Breakfast?
Photo credit: Roger Goun
Photography
is so many different things to so many people. I often wondered where I fit in.
After
years of sorting through the maze, I came to realize that, at heart, I’m a Meetup
photographer. That is, I love getting together with my Meetup group just before
dawn – at a lighthouse, in the old port, or at a nature preserve; taking
pictures for a few hours, and then going out for breakfast.
We’ve dined at Becky’s, The Good Table, The Portland Diner, and the The Port Hole. We share our favorite shots from the morning over hash browns and blueberry muffins. We talk gear and light and sometimes politics, but mostly just check in with each other’s lives. How are the kids? What projects are you working on? How was your trip to New Zealand?
We’ve dined at Becky’s, The Good Table, The Portland Diner, and the The Port Hole. We share our favorite shots from the morning over hash browns and blueberry muffins. We talk gear and light and sometimes politics, but mostly just check in with each other’s lives. How are the kids? What projects are you working on? How was your trip to New Zealand?
Now Open Under New Ownership!
We
eat pancakes, and French toast, and Greek omelettes with home fries and toast.
Over coffee, we like to chimp (chimping is when you look at your photos on your
camera and, with great delight, act as a chimp might – ooohhh, ahhhh).
Wiki: Chimping
is a colloquial term used in digital photography
to describe the habit of checking every photo on the camera display (LCD) immediately
after capture. The phrase is most likely derived from a comparison between the
sounds and actions made whilst reviewing images and those of an excited primate
(such as a chimpanzee),
e.g. "Oooh! Oooh! Aaah!"; or when a photographer is absorbed
in the act of analyzing, admiring, or displaying a photograph.
I
was close.
We shoot black and white. We shoot color. We meet when it’s 70 degrees and when it’s 7 degrees. We’ve travelled to Camden and Phippsburg, Freeport and Wells.
We are all levels of photographer. All kinds of cameras. From a point and shoot to a brand new Leica M Monochrom to, drumroll, film. The cool thing is, no one cares.
Sometimes
5 people show up, sometimes 15. Usually it’s somewhere in between. Some folks
have moved away, some have dropped out, some have recently joined. We’ve had
online arguments over ‘the rules’ of the group and even split off into splinter
groups. It’s all ok. It’s just part of the natural progression and cycle of
things.
We
had an immediate and natural bond. We all know instinctively that we’ll stop at
the crooked wooden fence just ahead in the path with the morning light hitting
it just right, or the white peony opening up before us, or the orange maple
glowing behind a moss-covered gravestone. We don’t think it’s weird to be
walking, suddenly stop, drop to the ground and lie down in the grass to get a
shot.
We
definitely like being silly and hamming it up for the camera (one person in
particular – hint: it rhymes with me). We pretend we’re the Beatles Abbey Road cover, we re-create high school class
pictures, and we do the forced group shot for posterity. We go to each other’s photo
openings and 50th birthday parties and weddings and Hanukkah celebrations.
We’ve met each other’s kids and grand kids.
After breakfast, we rush home to our computers and upload our photos to Flickr. We comment enthusiastically and generously. Great shot! Nice capture! Beautiful light!
After breakfast, we rush home to our computers and upload our photos to Flickr. We comment enthusiastically and generously. Great shot! Nice capture! Beautiful light!
We shoot together. We eat together. We talk about our passion for photography together. We met because of our love of photography and became friends over breakfast.
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