Like most people, I lust for the newest and best, whether we’re talking about cars, computers, smart phones or of course, photo gear.

I absolutely lust for a Leica S2, the new 37.5 MP, near medium format DSLR that, sadly, with a single “normal” 70mm lens runs roughly $28,000 dollars.

   Likewise for a Nikon D3x the 24mp DSLR which body only can be had for a more reasonable, but still rather princely sum of $7400. Given the state of the economy, and a kid going to college, it’s just not happening.

D3x Image by Nikon

   Having huge amounts of real resolution on a very high quality, big pixel imager has wonderful advantages in terms of maximum print size, and allows the photographer great latitude in terms of cropping. With so much data, you can crop away half the image and still make a respectable print.

Bodies such as the Leica and the  D3x are built for professionals and can tolerate a lot of abuse in the field. They handle wonderfully, and are designed to facilitate rapid changes in settings, mainly through external buttons and controls.

  With these wonderful attributes, there are also demands placed on the photographer who uses such wonderful gear. High resolution imagers require high quality glass.  You can’t just slap on the 18-55mm “kit lens” you got with your D40 on a D3x. In fact, that particular DX format lens will only illuminate a portion of the D3x’s FX format imager. To utilize the power of this fine instrument, you will need excellent quality full frame lenses.  Price-wise, think $1500+ for Nikkor zooms, though excellent primes can be had for much less. Leica glass is much more expensive.

  A second issue has to do with technique. High resolution means that fine detail is visible in the image, particularly the  details of how you screwed up. Failing to prevent minute camera movements caused by clumsily stabbing the shutter and/or by so-called “Mirror Slap” can reduce the preservation of details to the point where the capture resembles a much lower resolution image. Factor in to the price of the camera, the cost of a very high quality tripod and head, sturdy enough to handle this heavy camera body/lens combo and perhaps a remote shutter release, and you can easily add $800 to the price tag.

  Nonetheless, do I want these cameras? Yes, I do.

 Do I need them? Probably, I do not.

 First I can only print photos in my studio at 16”x22” or smaller. I have never been asked by a client for a print larger than 24”x 30”. High quality 12 MP imagers, well utilized, can provide very nice files for such prints.

 Enter another Nikon body… the D2x.

    I already own one of these, having purchased it roughly three years ago as a “Factory Refurb” for about 3K (it retailed for around $5000). Much to my chagrin, I now see them “lightly used”, on EBay for $800-$900.

The D2x was introduced in 2005. It was hailed at the time as a breakthrough product, and brought a lot of pro shooters back from Canon to Nikon.

 The body design formed the basis for the current D3 series cameras and thus is very similar in design, and equally stout.

It looks to be the last of the pro-level DX format cameras which means that it can utilize all of the lenses I own, whether FX or DX. Because of the 1.5x crop factor, it makes makes the long zooms shoot even longer. Dx imagers also have increased apparent depth of field compared to larger sensors which is great for landscapes, but can be a problem at times, for portrait work.

    Wide angle lenses on DX are another story, as they inconveniently get longer too.  There are however, some wonderfull 11-12mm wide zoom options available for DX format, getting us down to a 17-18mm field of view (full frame equivelent). 

    Another piece of good news for DX: their smaller sensors utilize only the center portion of a full frame lens. This tends to make good lenses shoot great.

IThe D2x has a cropped mode shooting 7MP files (more than enough for most photojournalism) at 8 frames per second, or it will shoot a full 12 MP image at 5ffp. This performance lags behind current pro Nikon offerings, but who cares…8 frames per second sounds like a machine gun.

It has extremely fast and accurate auto focus, and very reliable metering. It is compatible with Nikon’s newest flashguns using the i-TTL system.

  And, when used thoughtfully, it captures beautiful, detailed images. I tend to use it for landscape photography, but it is particularly useful for shooting sports in outdoor venues where the light is good.

It’s big disadvantage has to do with low light shooting. It produces nice work up to about ISO 800, when noise begins to set in. Later Nikon DX offerings like the D-300 do better with this, and the FX Nikons, such as my D-700, do much better. Happily, the noise seen in high ISO D2x images has a nice fine luminance noise (rather than blotchy color noise) that resembles the “grain” in old high sensitivity black and white film.

It’s really well built and sealed. I’ve stood on the sideline of a football game in heavy rain shooting the D2x paired with the equally rugged Nikkor 70-200mm VR with nary a worry about the equipment. When the rain stops, you just towel everything off, and keep shooting.

There are lots of other features that make “pro level” Nikons so wonderful to use.

So why talk about an old camera?

  If you’re a talented amateur, or person getting started on a pro career in photography, you may not have the $4500 to blow on a current Nikon pro body. $800 will barely by you a D-90 which is a very nice plastic bodied 12 megapixel DX camera, but no where near as capable, tunable, or rugged as a D2x. Nice as the consumer Nikons are, is there is an intangible joy to owning an instrument as nicely built and designed as a D2 series camera.

I will admittedly, continue to lurk on EBay, watching for D3x prices to fall into my range. It may be a long wait.

For now however, I’m very content with the Nikons I already own.

 

 This is an Editorial from the fall 0f 2009 as published in the Wilkes Barre Times Leader, on a diagnosis , that from the veiwpoint of a Pulmonary/Critical Care/ Sleep physician, is starting to overwhelm medical services in the United States.

It was written for a local Northeastern Pennsylvania perspective, but I think it applies to most of the US if not the bulk of of the developed world.

Although it is often mentioned as a cause of rising health care costs, I’m not sure that the average person understands the true impact of the epidemic of obesity on the healthcare system.  The statistics on obesity are available and sobering; 2/3^rd of US adults are considered to be overweight.  33% of adults in the US are categorized as obese (Body mass index greater than 30 kg/m2), up from roughly 12% in 1962. Twenty years ago, when I started my practice, perhaps twice a year a patient would present that was too heavy for my 350 pound capacity scale. Now it would easily be twice a week; the scale in my office now accommodates 750 pound patients.  I have personally cared for folks as heavy as 650 pounds.

Our affluent society has given us extraordinary access to high caloric foods. Fast food makes up an increasing percentage of our diets, and purveyors, keep inventing larger and more caloric offerings to entice us.  Foods high in sugars and carbohydrates tend also to be the least expensive which partly explains why obesity rates in the US are higher among the poor.  People are often just not aware of what they’re eating. A dozen chicken wings can actually equal a person’s total recommended caloric intake for the day. “All you can eat” buffets encourage a pattern of eating that can be potentially lethal to the wrong person.

We also lack perspective. When all your friends weight around 300 pounds, it may not seem terribly alarming to be approaching 400. I encounter this denial issue all the time. We sometimes have to confront people with the extraordinary degree of their obesity problem. It is not uncommon to have to remind a patient that they are three times their ideal body weight. Young people can be the most difficult to convince. When you are young man, you can manage a 300-400lb body without too much trouble. It is only later in life that such patients will develop the respiratory, back, hip, and knee issues that can be devastating.

It is well recognized that obesity leads to increased rates of diabetes, heart disease, malignancy, arthritis, and other health issues. A problem that is specific to my specialty (Pulmonary and Sleep Medicine) in the obese patient is Obstructive Sleep Apnea, a condition where breathing is interrupted during sleep by collapse of the patient’s airway. Treatment usually requires the purchase of a CPAP device, a small ventilator that pressurizes a patient’s airway during sleep, preventing this. This is expensive technology.

More expensive yet are the power chair and “scooters” increasingly provided to those whose weight, along with the inevitable arthritis of the knees and hips, makes them unable to walk.

At their “end stage”, patients become essentially immobile, unable to walk because of the orthopedic and respiratory problems. And because of their extreme weight, and complex medical problems they are often not considered to be a candidate for elective surgery such as joint replacement, because of the multiple risks associated with surgery in this population.

The respiratory system is affected by obesity in other ways. First, excess weight is an additional inescapable burden that must be carried about, increasing symptoms in anyone with an impaired cardiopulmonary status. Obesity tends to increase the severity of Asthma by both mechanical and metabolic effects.

Some obese patients will develop Restrictive Chest Wall Syndrome, which occurs when excessive soft tissue envelops the chest and inhibits the patient from utilizing their total lung volumes. An extreme form of the latter problem is referred to as Obesity Hypoventilation Syndrome. Also called “Pickwickian Syndrome” (named for a character in the Dickens novel The Pickwick Papers), the condition is usually linked to Obstructive Sleep Apnea, and in  occurs when chest wall restriction is extreme, and the patient hypoventilates to a degree that they retain carbon dioxide in the bloodstream and can literally be “smothered” by their  own adipose tissue. They will often respond to positive pressure therapy at night (similar to CPAP), and of course, significant weight loss.

Obesity has profoundly altered healthcare in hospitals. The obesity epidemic has forced healthcare facilities to purchase new, so-called “big boy” beds, chairs, lifts, and other equipment to deal with the burgeoning dimensions of our patients. Nursing staff bear s much of the burden of the epidemic. It is increasingly difficult for a single 150 pound female nurse to provide care to patients who are often more than double her weight.

Simple procedures such as even intravenous lines become difficult. Procedures such as central venous lines are even more problematic. These larger intravenous lines, often used in emergency situations, are placed using anatomic landmarks for guidance. As those landmarks are obscured in the obese patient, ultrasound imaging is now often necessary for successful placement. Even more troubling is that at some point, patients can become too heavy to undergo diagnostic test such as CT scans, for fear of breaking the scanner’s gantry, which could delay care for other patients.

Recently at John Heinz, morbidly obese patients were noted to be an increasing percentage of our inpatient and outpatient Pulmonary Rehabilitation Programs. This prompted us to create a unique Bariatric Respiratory program, utilizing our resources in Physical, Occupational and Respiratory Therapy, Respiratory Nursing   Pool Therapy, and Dietetics. It is available to obese patients who have respiratory diagnoses such as those mentioned earlier in the article. Patients can be enrolled as inpatients, usually in transfer from an acute care hospital, or attend as outpatients. The program consists of special joint-sparing exercise training, education, occupational therapy and an intensive program of dietary counseling with the goal of improving the patients cardiovascular fitness, increasing muscle mass, and thus metabolic rate, and planning a diet for slow, healthy weight loss.

  At Mercy Special Care Hospital, a Long Term Acute Care Hospital in Nanticoke, Pennsylvania, we have run a successful  ventilator-weaning program for the last twelve years. There too, we have seen a  shift from patients with diagnoses such as Acute Lung Injury, or end stage lung diseases such as COPD, to increasing numbers of patients whose ventilator dependence is due to Obesity Hypoventilation Syndrome.  Over the last several years, we have had great success treating obese, ventilator dependent patients by using a rather simple protocol. We carefully control their caloric intake, using precise metabolic monitoring, and begin aggressive physical therapy to make these bedridden patients ambulatory once again. Generally, once they lose 15-20% of their body weight, and begin to walk, they can generally be liberated from the ventilator.  Once liberated, they can be transitioned to home, or to the programs at John Heinz.  Such patients, if they participate fully, can have literally life altering results.

If you are struggling with weight issues, there is help available. Besides the programs mentioned above, there are numerous resources on the web including sites such as Web MD and freedieting .com.  The latter site has a calculator to establish your Body Mass Index, a rough guide to determine the need for weight reduction. Your physician can arrange a consult with a dietician to help you plan an appropriate weight reduction diet. Commercial programs such as Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, and Nutrasystem can be very successful for the right individual. Finally, bariatric surgery is increasingly seen as a useful tool, offering long term health benefits to properly chosen patient’s that undergo it.

If we are truly control health care costs in this country, then recognizing obesity as a serious epidemic and effectively addressing it will be an important component of the solution. Recognition and treatment of the problem for individual patients can help them avert their own personal health care crisis.

Sadly, after January 2010, Medicare, in their infinite wisdom, restructured reembursement for pulmonary rehabilitation to  only those patients who carry the diagnosis of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (cigarette-related airways disease), essentially eliminating outpatient rehab for obesity-related respiratory problems.  We continue to try to find ways to help this burgeoning patient population.

 

The new  photo above, was taken at one of my favorite local places: Hickory Run State Park, which is located at the very western border of the Pocono “Mountains” of Pennsylvania.

   It depicts the “Old Stage Road”, which runs through the park as a hiking trail but converts to a public road at the park’s border.

  Hickory Run is a fascinating place from a geologic standpoint. As I understand it, the park is situated on land at the very end of the  ice sheet that formed over North America 18,000 years ago

    The glaciated, “Pocono” portion of the park on the east is actually a high flat plateau with a mix of woodland and barrens species and the locally famous Boulder field (depicted in a photo published with the “Mountain Laurels” article”). As you travel west, the land falls off and with it, multiple streams tumble off the heights,  through a succession of lovely glens, and over countless small (and some large) waterfalls,  all flowing inexorably  towards the Lehigh River at the park’s western border.

  At places on the property, very dense pockets of second-growth hemlocks block out sunlight even in midday. This helps visitors to this park understand the descriptions  by early settlers quoted in in park’s brochures of the “shades of death” they encountered here.

   This was the description by colonists who travelled this wilderness centuries ago, fearful of attack by predators or aboriginal Americans, that they imagined were lurking among the vast groves of  white pine and hemlock, many of which may have been 2-300 ft tall, and 500-hundred years old.

Those trees are long gone now, logged out in the 18th and 19th centuries for timber and tannin. They have been replaced by ancestors that are by comparison, mere adolescents. Nonetheless, as you pass through these dark verdent sections, you can easily imagine the anxiety of travellers riding on open wagon, in a stage coach, or worse, on foot as they traversed this dark, seemingly endless forest.

But I digress.

  Unfortunately, the method I use to bring higher-quality images to the site does not appear to be available for the header image. I am stuck with less than crisp images at this location on the site.

  I’m working on it.

Sometimes , performances speak for themselves.

So it is with this video of the stunning German pop artist, Helene Fischer, whose voice , when applied to Franz Schubert’s Ave Maria, is a rare tribute by anyone in the entertainment community, to the waning traditions of European Christianity.

Though she is not an operatic singer, her tone and clarity are striking, which helps to make this gorgeous liturgical music more  accessable to this public audience.

Such a lovely and talented lady.

  

 I have always loved the Fourth of July holiday here in the USA. 

  I will say, that the holiday’s proximity to Memorial day in late May, always makes it seem that the summer is rushing by. Summer, after all, is very precious in the Appalachian mountains. In truth, there are two months left before Labor Day backstops the summer vacation season. After this we will have at least 6 weeks of glorious fall weather before things get brown and chilly. 

  Obviously this holiday marks a profound event in American history: the moment a people decided to stand against taxation and non-representative government. The risk taken by those involved, from the militiaman that stood side-by side against the indomitable British Army, to he founders themselves, are I think, severely under appreciated by modern Americans, save perhaps, those that currently risk it all in the service of our armed forces.

God bless them.
 

  At my home, high in the Moosic Mountains of Pennsylvania, we celebrate the holiday with great enthusiasm. I live in an old Victorian resort community with big old cottages, most built with multiple bedrooms so to accommodate family and friends in the summer months when the houses were open.
On this weekend in particular the houses fill; every one of the little summer bedrooms has a suitcase and rumpled bed; the sound of adults who grew up here, playing with the their children is pervasive and lovely as one walks in the afternoon. 

Since the 1890s, people come here for the same ends: to revel in the summer warmth, but sleep comfortably in  the cool night air, to swim in the lake, hike the trails, ride bicycles, play a little tennis, and to sit on the front porch for a cocktail before dinner. 

The climate is extremely unpredictable in early July. This year it’s going to be brightly sunny and around 90 degrees, though we’ve had years where the temps stayed in the fifties. On that holiday, the only one outside was the griller; the rest of us were inside, gathered around the fireplace. 

We also have a parade. I’m not sure how long it’s been going on, but apparently for 40-plus Fourth of Julys by the accounts of some of the older residents. 

The event starts at one pm sharp, so starting around eleven, we gather at one of the larger driveways in the community. A diverse group of vehicles participates, from bicycles, to tractors to ATVs, convertibles, and pickup trucks. The children descend, with tape, and crepe paper ribbons, little American flags and red white and blue pinwheels, and bunting. The children are very enthusiastic, they sometimes fail to understand that in order to drive a vehicle you have to be able to open the door, or see through the windshield. A little parental modification is sometimes necessary. 

Eventually with issues corrected, away we drive, to our community center, where we are met by the Fairview Township Volunteer Fire Department.
The department is very capably managed by several community residents who I think worry that our huge old wood frame homes are likely to be potential future “clients” for the firemen’s services. Happily for us, the department’s massive and impeccably maintained equipment rivals that seen in big cities. Their efforts in the recent past have saved at least one of these historic structures from complete immolation. 

The fireman help as young children and their parents are loaded aboard the pumpers and ladder trucks. Then we line the vehicles up, and the parade begins, on a route through the network of gravel roads designed so that all may participate. 

Now I have always tended to be a “parader” but there are others who traditionally serve as “watchers” standing by the roadside in little knots of people with flags and perhaps a camera, waving as the parade goes by. After all everyone can’t be a “parader”. The “watchers” tend to congregate in the same places year to year, ducking as candy rains down opon them, thrown by the gleeful children in the trucks and fire engines. 

It takes about twenty minutes to do the route, then return to the community center and disband. It’s then on to the lake for a community picnic, and later, hopefully, fireworks.
  

  In truth, it’s a small event in a small community in Pennsylvania. 

I love it, because in this neighborhood, we draw together as a community rather than sequester ourselves in our own fenced-in backyards, isolated from our neighbors. I would rather be here no matter what the weather, than at the biggest celebration in New York or Boston.

Undoubtedly, I’d have to be a “watcher” there. 

  After all, I am a “Parader”.

   

  Every summer for the last several years, when school lets out, I pack my children in a vehicle full of photography equipment and outdoor gear, and head out into the northeastern US.   

I do this for several reasons:  

 One reason is to attempt to bond with my children, who tend otherwise to be illuminated more by the LCDs of a video screen, than by any remaining wisdom their father may have left to impart.  

  I also do a little photography.  

It started in 2004 as a trip with my son Gus, driving around Pennsylvania to capture spring/summer images for what became Pennsylvania Seasons, a book of Commonwealth images with poetry contributed by native authors. My nine-year-old son put up with my prattling, carried my tripod, hung around as I planned out shots and fiddled with equipment, and endured the days we spent together. He was a wonderful companion.  

He thus made a huge mistake.

  After this, it became a tradition. The next year Brigid was added. My loving wife, who I think is grateful for a week of solitude and peace, is happy to stay home.  

   I love this trip every year. We camp, tour new places, hike, and at times, visit my relatives and old friends, particularly those that have children of similar age. We have visited the deepest old growth areas of the Allegheny National Forest, whitewater rafted on the Youghiogheny River, explored the baseball museum in Cooperstown, NY, toured the battlefields of Gettysburg on horseback, did the “rock scramble” at Mohunk Mountain, and visited the aquarium at the Inner Harbor of Baltimore. Last year, as we ate dinner on a deck in Annapolis, we watched as a line of historically severe thunderstorms pummeled the town.  

 I vainly try to keep it interesting.  

The family tradition is that the kids hate the trip. It takes them away from the refrigerator, their computers, and their friends. They began very early on, referring to it as “Bad Dad’s Summer Camp”. They claim to consider it to be something to endure, so that they may enjoy the remaining summer.  

   Despite this, I love to spend time with my children, watching them interact with each other. I am lucky that they are close, and enjoy each other’s company. They seem to spend most of the week laughing.  

   I am proud to say that both of my offspring are experienced campers, with strong backpacking skills. “Car camping” is thus a breeze; one of my joys is watching my kids as they set up in the evening ( I generally sit in a comfortable chair, eating corn chips with a nice spicy salsa, with a cold drink close at hand). Of course, I critique their efforts as any good parent would.  It is rewarding to watch one’s children demonstrate competence in skills that they will undoubtedly pass on to their offspring (though they adamantly deny that this will ever happen).  

   I admit to some issues. I do snore… apparently, in fact, loudly. We bought Gus a backpacking tent a year ago for use at the Philmont Boy Scout Reservation.  He now demands to sleep in it, on our trips, as far from where I am sleeping as the campsite will allow. Brigid tragically, is stuck in a two room tent with me. The dividing wall is made of nylon which offers little in the way of sound insulation. She sleeps, no matter what the temperature, with her head buried in the “mummy bag” groaning at me occasionally when I reach a crescendo.  

  Like most teens, my kids have a delayed sleep phase, preferring to “sleep in” for the morning. This has begun to work out for me as I can’t seem to sleep past the first bird call in the morning, which as it turns out, in the first weeks of June, happens about 5am. Now that the kids are older I am more comfortable leaving the campsite while they sleep.  I arise before the sun, my gear already prepared in the car.  When the weather is right, this can work out really well.  

In Vermont, several weeks ago, we had pitched on the shores of large lake on what was already an unseasonably cool night.  

A front passed, dropping an hour’s worth of rain just after we had retired to the tents. The sky then cleared and the temperature dropped further, ultimately into the low 40’s.  

 I knew on awakening that the atmospherics would be interesting… and they were. The lake was shrouded in a fog that moved deliberately over the water. A more subtle mist clouded the atmosphere elsewhere, leaving heavy dew on the marsh plants of the boggy wetlands that were a prominent feature of this state park. I spent the hour or so around sunrise walking on the lakeshore and exploring the surroundings, shooting with both the Nikon D700 and the Panasonic GH1 to a soundtrack of flutelike birdsong and distant loon calls.  

   Finally with the passage of time, the sun angles became less interesting and the fog very suddenly dissipated. I trudged back to the tents, the kid’s rhythmic breathing signaling that for now at least, they remained oblivious to the beautiful day evolving around them. It still being chilly I restarted the fireplace, zipped up my fleece and made coffee, then settled in with a book, waiting for them to awaken.  

  With Brigid on her way to college next year, I don’t know for sure for how many years I will have this time with them in June.  

  I love this trip.  I really hope we have at least a few left.

 

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.

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.