Singing the Blues
Fascinating evening at Oddfellas Cantina listening to Catfish Keith, a "country blues" singer and guitar player. He sings the blues all right and sings it well, along with some incredible guitar work. The only down part of the evening were the empty chairs in the back of Oddfellas. Those who didn’t show up missed a hell of a show.
No Need
When Mike Royko, the legendary Chicago newspaper columnist, was in his prime, Washington Post publisher Ben Bradlee came to the Windy City to try and lure Royko to Washington.
Bradlee offered Royko everything sort of the keys to Katherine Graham’s bedroom, but the columnist wanted nothing to with either the Post or Washington.
“Wouldn’t work,” he told Bradlee. “I don’t hate anyone in Washington.”
Thought about that today when an email arrived asking why I haven’t written a new column for Capitol Hill Blue in a while.
Word for Word
Spent a relaxing two-and-a-half hours listening to local poets and writers recite their works at "Spoken Word Night" at Oddfellas in Floyd Sunday evening.
Most belong to the Floyd Writer’s Group, a collection of published and unpublished writers and poets in the county.
Stories ranged from serious reflections on life to a belly-splitting tale about losing one’s virginity.
Most of the selections centered on personal experiences of the righters, which included Fragments from Floyd blogger Fred First, poet and potter Jayn Avery, acerbic political commentator-poet-novelist-writer Colleen Redman (right), who stayed away from politics, and several others.
Surprisingly, Fred managed to tear himself away from his new Nikon D70 digital SLR long enough to return to the printed word. Our gain. Photography’s loss (for the evening). 
I’ve been writing professionally for more than four decades now but don’t know if I’d ever have guts enough to get up in front of a group and actually read something I’ve written.
Generally always thought writing was something others were supposed to read.
Yet, watching this group of writers translate their words from paper to spoken word adds a dimension you may not get from seeing those words printed on processed wood pulp.
Most displayed varying degrees of emotion that added to the effect of their words. Many made me want to read more of their writings. As with so much else that has happened in Floyd County in recent years, the growth of writing talent is a pleasant surprise.
The Fog of Morning
The view through the windshield was all fog this morning as I drove from the farm to the studio.
Fog to the left of me, fog to the right of me…stuck in the middle again, heading for work on a Sunday morning.
Looked like the beginning of a dreary day but then the fog lifted, the sun came out and Sunday turned into a reasonably nice — if a little steamy — day.
Traffic through The Jacksonville Center was steady, mostly curiousity seekers. Nobody ready to whip out their checkbook and pay to hang an original photo on their wall. This studio business seemed simple enough back when we started. Take pictures. Print pictures. Hang pictures on wall. Sell pictures. If you photograph it, they will come. They will look.
They will comment. But when, oh when, will they buy?
After the Storm
I love the light after a storm passes, which is why we stopped on I-66 on the drive from Arlington to Floyd to capture this late afternoon scene near Front Royal.
Breaking Point
“I’ve noticed,” the email writer said, “that you don’t update this site daily. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a blog?”
Hell, I don’t know. Even though I’ve been doing web sites since 1994 (which makes me one of the ancients in Internet terms), I’m relatively new to the blogging thing. And, when I started this site earlier this year, I underestimated how much time it would take.
Blast From the Past
Yes, the Woodstock days are, indeed, gone.
Over the weekend, I printed a photo from the 70s, a shot of a voluptous, clothes-optional flower child showing it all to the world at the Mississippi River Festival in Edwardsville, Illinois (just outside of St. Louis). That flower child is probably a grandmother now and hoping her grandchilden don’t stumble across that photo.
Mama?
Spent the weekend printing and framing a collection of black and white photos from the 1970s. Like most newspaper photograpbers of the era, I shot mostly in black and white, almost always with Kodak Tri-X Pan film (grainy as hell with an ASA rating of 400).
The grain didn’t matter, though, because reproduction in most papers was marginal at best and — in many cases — the grain added drama to the photos.
Ah, Sunsets
OK, I admit it. I’m a sucker for sunsets (and sunrises). And Floyd County boasts some of the most spectacular sunsets (and sunrises) you will find anywhere.
This one caught my eye on the way home. Just enough clouds in the sky to add color as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.
One of the reasons I’m usually late getting home stems from just stopping and gazing.
When the moon is full, the rising and setting of that old lunar sphere also adds to the beauty of nature and I’ll stop on any road, crowded or empty, to photograph that beauty.
Such is the nature of photography..and the photographer.
Those who suffer from an addiction to capturing such moments understand it. Those who don’t understand are just plain losing out.
Tax Day
A fine, somebody once told me, is a penalty for doing bad.
And taxes, she added, are a penalty for doing good.
Checked my oneline banking this morning and, sure enough, Uncle Sam took his pound of flesh out first thing. Even in this age of technology, the only sure things are death, taxes and automatic deduction from your bank account.