My daughter, Brigid Louise, was graduated  Cum Laude from Wyoming Seminary in Kingston, Pennsylvania this weekend. 

This was the 166th commencement ceremony and was beautifully organized. It was chock full of traditions, some of which were lost on this parochial school graduate. They were not lost on the graduates and their parents, many of whom were multi-generational alumni.

Congratulations Brigid. 

And thanks to the teachers and Staff at “Sem”,  for her wonderful  education. 

 

The Mountain Laurels are starting to bloom in Pennsylvania.

    This is our state flower, and its emergence marks the point where our climate finally evolves from the fickle whims of April and May, to the soft summer weather of June. It is a moment of unconscious celebration for people who begin to open their pools, grill in the evening after work, and sit on the porches at night, listening to the distant call of whippoorwill.

   Here in the northeastern part of the state, we are beginning to see the delicate clusters of white blooms open up on the lower altitude woodland slopes in our region. By mid to late June they will bloom in abundance throughout the northern third of the commonwealth.

   I have for the last fifteen years, taken a week of vacation at this time, to wander the mountains, either by backpacking, or more recently, because of the burgeoning weight of my photo equipment, and a bad knee, car camping and day hiking. The laurels, and their cousins, wild rhododendrons, provide the forests their last splash of widespread color before they settle in to the monotonous green of summer. Arguably, it is the last time until fall, for a photographer to use wider lenses in the forest. After the laurels are extinguished,  longer focal  lengths become more useful to capture the later blooming wildflowers which are scattered throughout the woodland greenery.

I have several striking memories of this time of year involving Mountain Laurels:

   I first hiked the West Rim Trail of north central Pennsylvania in mid June, perhaps eighteen years ago. I was mainly a mountain biker at the time and hadn’t backpacked in years. I didn’t realize at the time, the different conditioning needed to carry a pack over distance. The rugged trail, plus the weight on my back played hell with my feet.  The weather had been wet, and I remember being extremely eager for the trip to end. I was getting close on the third day. The last portion of the trail diverts west into the Tioga State Forest, apparently to avoid Coulton Point State Park which hugs the rim of the” Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania”  in that location. Within the last four miles of its northern terminus, the trail leaves the woods to once again skirt the edge of the gorge.

   The Pine River gorge at this point is roughly 800 feet above the river, and the edges are swathed in laurel, which was in full bloom as I emerged from the forest on the path as it swerved to edge of the ridge. My jaw dropped at the beauty. White blossoms were everywhere, densely surrounding the trail. To my right was the spectacular vista off the ridge. I photographed it at the time but the small pocket camera and I were inadequate to the task, and the results were unpublishable. The memory of this, however, was worth every blister.

   A year later, I was on the Loyalsock Trail in the Wyoming State forest. This is a very vertical trail, laid out I am told by an Explorer troop, which must have had very sadistic leadership.

   I was in better shape that year and enjoying as I recall some wonderful June weather with blue skies, seventy degree days, and fifty degree nights. Hiking with several friends, we lugged our heavy backpacks up another of the seemingly limitless up hill climbs that mark the trail’s early miles.

    I remember cresting a hill, and looking down on a relatively old growth stand of trees on the vast wooded slope below. The canopy was quite high, perhaps 150 feet. There was a feeling of being in a vast verdant space. The forest floor was lush with white laurels, all in full bloom, a carpet that extended for as far as your eyes could discern. All of this was dappled with shafts of sunlight, occurring at random spots where the leaf cover was spare. No one could help but to stop, and stare. Though it was only 11 AM, we found a log on which to sit, and ate our lunch early.

June is a wonderful time of year in the eastern mountains.

 Perhaps God makes the Mountain Laurels bloom, just to remind us.

     

  In the eastern United States, where there are mountains, there will be streams.   

    It’s inevitable. Elevated terrain enhances precipitation, which is absorbed by the soils, gathers together, and then works to find the easiest route off the mountain. In the moist, temperate climate of Pennsylvania Appalachians, this means that thousands of cold, swift brooks cleave the earth in their gathering rush to the valleys below. Many start as tiny flows, emerging from the rocks at a point somewhat below the crest of the ridge. Depending on the vertical rise of the land and the watershed they capture, they gather speed and volume as they cascade off the mountainside.   

    Mountain streams serve as the punctuation for the many long wilderness trails scattered throughout the commonwealth’s wild areas.  In planning a trek through the wilderness, attention must be given to the availability of water at points along the planned route. Knowing the location of streams is essential to avoid carrying large amounts of the heavy liquid.   

    Many of the small mountainside brooks are seasonal, with no surface water present during drier years. Coming upon a parched stream bed when you were counting on replenishing your water stores is a distinctly unpleasant experience.   

     Where the mountains are steeper, the topography becomes more interesting. In the deepest draws of the northern mountains, the sun rarely penetrates to the forest floor. Legions of ancient hemlocks line the steep side walls of these eastern canyons, cut by eons of the action of water against rock. Glens form, where the land forms force the water to fall abruptly in altitude, increasing its hydraulic power. Ricketts Glen is just one example of this; there are many other spectacular falls and glens which are often quite remote and visited only by intrepid souls.   

    Hiking in the Tidaughten State Forest, deep in a within a mountain glen, I once found a mature American chestnut tree, blooming on a  spring morning. So remote was its location,  it was untouched by the blight, which kills its more accessible relatives while they are mere spindly adolescents.   

   Because of the severity of the terrain in ravines and draws, loggers in the past may not have had sufficient access for harvesting. These draw and ravines, deep in our state forests are wonderful places to experience true “Old Growth” forest. Here you can find four-to-five-hundred year old relics from our pre-colonial past, in this case White Pines and Hemlocks that tower two hundred feet and more over the forest floor.   

   The climate in these sheltered places is much more constant and gradual than on the nearby ridge tops. Shielded from the sun, snow lingers much deeper into spring.  It is cool here, even on hot summer days, especially where the streams run strongly into the warmer months.   

   On one of the more established hiking trails, such as the Loyalsock or the West Rim Trail, more often than not, a  stream crossing will have acquired a fire ring and informal tenting sites. These are generally fine places to overnight. On a clear winter nights, they can be warmer, the dense cover of conifers preventing radiational cooling.   

    Summer rain is shed initially by the hemlock canopy, making such places are a clever hiker’s refuge in wet weather. The rain comes down eventually however as the accumulated water drips slowly, over days, from the fine interlaced needles.   

  On a hot summer day, glens and ravines are cooled by the shade and the cold creek water. After the sun sets, cool air descends through the ravines from the mountaintops, clearing the air of biting insects, and providing a lovely sleeping experience.   

   Sadly, there is a real threat to these wonderful ecotones. An insect called the hemlock woolly adelgid is spreading throughout the state, threatening to wipe out the hemlocks that shelter these lovely places. There are efforts to control the parasites, but they have only partially successful. If they do not succeed, there will be a fundamental alteration of woodland and stream ecology in the eastern forest.   

 Visit these lovely places while you still can.

I was 12 years old when on AM radio I first heard James Taylor singing his song, “Fire and Rain”.

 This exposure was the first of many to a singer/songwriter that in many ways wrote and sang a part of the soundtrack to my early life.

 I loved his spare arrangements, and the plain but pure vocal performances. His style was unadorned but elegant. Plus, he wrote much of his own music.

In the intervening time, not much has changed.

I’ve seen him live on several occasions; he is a very consistent and professional performer who seems sublimely comfortable in his own skin. His expressions on stage seem to sometimes reflect a joy and  genuine surprise that he can make his large audiences so very happy.

I remember, years ago seeing this performance of “Shower the People”, with this unique way of providing vocal support.  I was delighted to encounter it on one of my late night rambles through You Tube. It’s fun for me to share it here with you.

 When I am out on the road to do photography, I generally travel alone, my camera gear on the passenger seat beside me. I will often drive somewhat aimlessly, looking for roads and lanes I have never before traveled.

  Because of this, I tend to keep a GPS available in case I get lost. The coordinates for home base, wherever I am, are programmed in so that I can plot a reasonable course at the end of the drive.

    I love to come upon a scene that compels me to at least stop, and consider whether it should be added to the files on my memory card. Obviously, in the digital world, there is little to be lost by shooting a few frames. But one hopes to have developed enough judgment to decide just what will work, and what won’t, and avoid photographing the latter.

   I spend a lot of time on backroads. On a Sunday morning in early April in Pennsylvania, I took a drive in the hope of capturing some early spring images.

   I encountered this little house, on a winding lane east of Berwick, on a country lane that first climbed out of the river valley through a lovely, remote, hemlock ravine, and then opened up on a plateau over the Susquehanna River. I pulled over, and turned off the ignition, to avoid letting the engine’s vibrations blur the shot.

   I rolled down the driver’s side window, braced the camera on the door top, and shot several frames.

    I have no wish to intrude on people’s privacy, but I was drawn to this house, and especially its outgoing motif. I wish I had encountered the owner, but from their display, I feel I understand the personality of the occupants.

   Obviously they are religious. From their devotion to the Blessed Mother, they are likely Roman Catholic. Probably they’re a little serious and devout. Maybe they were at Mass when I shot this image.

   On the other hand, it had been cold, with snow on the ground until several weeks before this was shot. The fresh tablecloth, the flowers in the vase, and the grill at the ready suggest a desire to embrace the joy of early spring sun.

    We have a tendency to admire stylish, stately, homes, professionally decorated to a fair-thee-well, and thus devoid of character.

   I like this little cottage, and I think I would like the owner.

The quality of images on this blog has been one of the few frustrations of working on WordPress .com.   

   

   I intended that imaging would comprise a lot of the site’s content. Unfortunately, the aggressive file compression used by WordPress  has resulted in blurred details on photos uploaded to the site.    

   However, their wonderful “Help” resources have given me a partial solution, namely linking to the photos URL on my repository gallery. Posted this way, images look better, though still not as good as on my Photo site. Glensummitimages.com.    

  Still, it’s a start.   

   

I have begun to update some of the posted images, but going forward the new method will be used exclusively.

   

    I think of myself as a Nikon/Fuji “shooter” yet I have always kept other equipment in my camera closet for use in situations where an expensive DSLR-lens combination would be at risk of loss due to dunking or dropping, or would be too heavy and or bulky to be practical.  

     For years I shot Olympus bodies in this role. These bodies were part of what was then a new system based on the Olympus/Panasonic “four thirds” standard: a sensor and lens mount designed to allow digital bodies to be smaller, yet to make better images. My Olympus bodies had nice image quality, were image stabilized, and there was stunning high quality optics available for the system. Even their “kit” lenses were sharp and very usable, but cheaply replaceable if damaged. The the body and lens were still fairly bulky, more so than was often convenient.  

     In January ’08 I acquired my first Panasonic G-1 a digital body of the new “micro four thirds” standard, an offshoot of the earlier specification. The same lens mount as was on the full “four thirds” cameras was utilized, but the lenses were much smaller and designed to focus on a sensor that was much closer to their posterior element. The sensor had a robust “live view” capability and the mirror and optical viewfinder was replaced with a very high quality LCD “finder” detailed enough to allow even manual focusing.  

  

     Because of this the overall package, with the kit lens was 20-30% less bulky than even the Olympus SLRs. The sensor at 12 million pixels produced highly detailed images. Though the sensor’s dynamic range was limited (see my Fuji article below) the electronic viewfinder allows exposure data to display as you compose the image (as opposed to after) that helps to optimize the exposure, and mitigate somewhat this limitation. The other attraction of this system is that it is very adaptable to lenses from other manufacturer. My Olympus lenses work beautifully with an adapter; so does some wonderful old Leica glass.  

    These cameras are seductive. I can carry the body with two stabilized lenses covering 35mm equivalent focal lengths of 28-400mm in a modest sized fanny pack. Without the camera motion that is induced by SLR “mirror slap”, tripods can be lighter. The system has limitations, but it can be a hiker’s dream.  

    Now I have acquired an upgraded version of the G1. The GH1 has a better sensor with more dynamic range and better high ISO capability. It sensor allows you to shoot in multiple formats without having to crop out pixels.  

It has one other new feature.  

The GH1 like several other new SLRs or SLR-like bodies comes with video, in this case, fairly seriously high-definition, 1080p video. There is an on camera microphone, capable of recording rather accurate digital stereo sound (sorry about the heavy breathing).  

     This extends the imaging capabilities of this device into dimensions I hadn’t previously explored. Sound and motion add a dimension to imaging that  as a still photographer I am just starting to grapple with.  

I think it’s going to be fun.

As always, the images can be better viewed on Glensummitimage.com

The You Tube addiction goes on…

 This time, here’s a video from a television show that  was filmed to promote one of my favorite Sinatra albums: Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim.

When you listen to this song, with its marvelous bossa nova rhythm, it’s easy to assume it was written in Brazil, perhaps by Jobim himself. The lyrics are fresh and contemporary. They are to the point, and elegant in their simplicity.

Surprisingly, this is not a Latin tune. It was written by non other than Irving Berlin, for the 1938 film “Carefree” where it was sung by Fred Astaire. Listen how beautifully it adapts to its new Brazilian identity.

 By the way, how about singing while smoking?  Not really a long-term plan for a vocalist. Still it was admittedly, very hip.

Adaptability is one of the attributes that makes a song a classic.

For fun, here’s the original. Sorry about the subtitles.

I hope that all of you Moms out there are treated to a happy work, and stress-free day by your adoring family.

I have posted this essay, which originally served as a eulogy for my own Mother, who died almost 6 years ago while she was still far too young.

Our family wants to thank all of you, who have come today to St. Leo’s, to honor the passing of our beloved Mother, Geppie Smith. In this beautiful church, the place of her baptism, we now give her back to God. We would like to share with you the flow of her wonderful life.

Mother was born, not far from this church, on Nicholson Street in Wilkes-Barre, to Helen and Joseph Williams. The youngest of five children, she was originally to have been named Virginia. It seems that the word came down from her Uncle George, who later became the bishop of Harrisburg, that she should be named after the saint on whose feast day she was born. This, unfortunately, was St. Gertrude, a name she was never comfortable with. Happily, her sister Jane, a toddler at the time, nicknamed her Geppie: a name that followed her for the rest of her life.

     Mom was educated, first here at St Leo’s, then later at St Anne’s Academy. Her time at St Anne’s included the first several years of World War II. She liked to tell her children that at the time, the students suspected that the German-speaking Christian Charity Nuns were hiding escaped Nazi POW’s deep in the cellars of that formidable old building.

    Mom ultimately was graduated with a degree in English from Marywood College. She was very proud of her education. Until the end, she was a strict grammarian and a ruthless editor of any written material we brought to her. She always knew the correct spelling of any word about which you would ask.

    Mom was apparently no wallflower, but during college, she met the love of her life, Henry (Gus) Smith an ex-navy man and student at the University of Scranton. They quickly fell in love.  So smitten with her was my father, that he allowed the wedding to take place on the first day of Buck season. Mom always said that Dad looked a little jealous on the drive home, as they passed car after car with trophies tied to the hood. 

    Dad worked at the time as a salesman for Armour Inc.  There was sadness early on. They lost their first child, Ellen, shortly after birth.  They endured a 6-month separation shortly after the birth of our Ellen when mom was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Happily, the new drugs just becoming available at the time saved her from what might have been a fatal illness.

   After this, things settled down a bit. Dad did well and won promotions. They built a lovely Cape Cod in Mountain Top, just up the street from the current homestead. Their first son, Henry Jr. was born.

   It was around this time that a close friend of Dad’s applied to medical school, and was accepted. This rekindled Dad’s lifelong dream: to be a physician. Despite the profound disruptions to their home life and finances that medical school would entail, Mom was always encouraging and supportive. They sold their home; Mom and the kids moved back to my grandmother’s home on Nicholson Street, Wilkes-Barre, while Dad attended Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia, coming home only on weekends. They endured, while apart, the loss of a second infant named Mathew Joseph, and celebrated the birth of a daughter, Mary Louise.

  In Dad’s third year of Medical school, Mom and the kids moved to Lansdowne, outside of “Philly” to an old rickety intern’s residence. To say that money was tight would be to vastly understate the circumstances. Our Mathew, and then in less than a year Elizabeth Anne, were born during that period. Dad worked extra hours while Mom found novel ways to make do with the little money they had. She never complained.

    Ultimately, Dad finished training and bought the current home on Spruce Street in Mountaintop. Not yet content with the five little miscreants already terrorizing the neighbors, they had two more, David and Moira. Dad’s practice flourished, loans were paid off and financial problems eased. By the mid-seventies, there was even some modest affluence. Mom became a rather accomplished cook, a passion that continued to this day.

    To be sure, Mom had her foibles. One was her somewhat “casual” approach to housework. This stood in sharp contrast to Dad’s tightly organized nature. This might have threatened a lesser marriage: so deep was their love that there was rarely a conflict. Dad confined his organizing to the garage, the basement, and his sheds. Mom’s clutter ruled elsewhere. In this wonderful happy household, they raised and educated all seven children with humor, discipline, and love.

   As we got older, married, and had kids and careers, Mom became the glue that has bound us all together. She listened to our problems, defended our shortcomings, and celebrated our successes. She was the conduit of communication for the family. She was intolerant of any conflict between her children and worked tirelessly to resolve them. She fully expected that her children and their spouses would emulate the love and devotion that existed within her own marriage.

    I think back to more recent times, specifically to my parent’s fiftieth-anniversary party. There was a moment while they were dancing that we were lucky to capture on film. Mom so comfortable in Dad’s arms is positively beaming; surrounded as she was by her beloved family and friends. In her long wonderful life, I doubt she was ever happier.

     Though she is gone she leaves us a powerful legacy: that true love can endure all manner of hardships and ultimately triumph. It is up to us to pass her love of God and family on to our children. She is undoubtedly in heaven; which for her would probably be the endless feeling of being in my father’s arms on that night in December, with her children, her family, and her dear friends sharing the dance.  

 Thank you for helping us celebrate her life.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I would of course, never forget my incredible wife, mother to our two wonderful (if slightly deranged) children. Happy Mother’s Day Cathy.

We had a forest fire here in Mountaintop, Pennsylvania earlier in the spring. It burned off several hundred acres, threatened several homes, and scared the crap out of other people who imagined that it would consume their properties. This is pretty much normal for April in our corner of the commonwealth.

I watched from the home of a friend, who has a deck with a spectacular view of the conflagration.  The action was perhaps a mile away, on the next ridge over.  Even from that distance, we could see the flames leaping far into the night sky, as though they would consume completely, everything in their path. As is usually the case, this does not happen. Millions of years of evolution have equipped trees and shrubs with the tools to survive wildfires; they tend to regrow rather stubbornly.

I drove through the affected area today.

Already, several weeks later, there are signs of healing with the green grasses and bracken ferns punctuating the charcoal forest floor. Some of the smaller trees as well as the less fire resistant species will die, but most seem to have survived. Much of the fire occurred on scrub barrens land, for which burning is the agent of perpetuation.

 Today, the chestnut oaks on the burn site are in bloom as though nothing significant had happened.

In a year, only the blackened tree trunks will suggest that there had been any forest disturbance here.

Nature, in this case fire, creates renewal. The results can be jarring when a favorite landscape is involved, but most often, the changes wrought by fire are natural and even helpful to the ecosystems involved.

 What is most disturbing is that a fire strips away the shroud that hides our human misdeeds. With the ferns and underbrush gone, it is the nonflammable human refuse that remains, revealing the obscene way, that at least here in Northeastern Pennsylvania, we tend to abuse our surroundings.

I have never understood what possesses a person to toss their garbage into the countryside.

If you don’t want to pay for garbage pick-up, find a dumpster somewhere, take it to work, to your parents, whatever.

 Please don’t do this.