THE THING ABOUT TREES

Trees

I’m writing down bits and pieces of my memories…life seems to have happened so fast I probably won’t remember to tell these stories to my kids or theirs…writing them down seemed the thing to do. I have a thing about trees and I wanted to tell them why that might be. I also did a video and voice over of the story which you can find by clicking this link. But here’s the transcript of the video.

THE THING ABOUT TREES

I was raised in the Great Plains where trees are rare, usually found only in city parks and around rivers, streams and lakes and in shelter belts. There weren't many trees in South Dakota and so all of them were very precious. Now I've never seen a redwood tree or any famous tree from so my view of trees is very well, pedestrian. Oh, I knew famous trees existed. Trees so old they predate written history. Trees so big they make photographic works of art. Trees so cool they are planted in sculptured gardens. But trees in my young life were just plain old trees at first. But then I met my grandparents’ trees and things changed.

My grandparents lived just six blocks away and had two wonderful apple trees in their backyard and that's where I spent most of my time or at least that's where I wanted to be. I loved to climb those trees knotty twisting limbs to reach their highest fragile branches(...) immersing myself in their winding grip. They challenged me, they guided me, they gave me their best fruit, the best climber, me. Other apple trees existed in other yards but these were the family trees. These were my trees and the apples. Oh my God. Tart biting crisp green pellets of energy and flavor. The first taste of the day. A trumpet fanfare on my tongue.

When visiting I'd sit with my grandparents and politely respond to the quizzes about school, friends, music and family. But I really wanted to be outside and climb in my trees. I would climb mostly year round but not in the winter and early spring when they were most vulnerable to breaking and climb I did. But I'd also sit a lot too and look and think. I shared my trees with lots of critters mostly squirrels and bees. The trees provided protection for all of us from the sun, from the rain when I could get away with it and from prying eyes. A haven, a safe place. I was pretty sure the two apple trees somehow talked with one another.  They seemed to know what I was doing and how they should help or guide me in my climb. My grandparents worried about me falling, murmured concerns for breaking branches and damaged fruit. But the trees, it was the trees. They showed me how to climb, where to sit, when to rest, where to notice.

The squirrels were my grandmother's bane. Grandma used all the apples we picked. Pies, jams, jellies, applesauce and on and on and on. She deeply resented any reduction in the harvest including my occasional sampling or so she said. In the fall the squirrels would sit just feet away from me or grandma. Chatter, bob their heads, dodge quickly to another branch and start to eat an apple, which would then fall to the ground. That's what made grandma mad. One bite, apple falls and then on to the next apple, another bite, another apple falls and pretty soon you have one bite apple strewing the grass under the tree and one mad grandma is muttering at the chattering tree rats.

I'd laugh and enjoy. Imagine being eye to eye with the grace and speed of a racing squirrel. They'd dance around me just out of reach, just far enough to not worry about me. Close enough to taunt me with their twitching tails and sharp focused eyes. The confidence, the ballet-like leaps, the strength. How could I not enjoy how they played in my trees? Grandma wanted grandpa to get out to 22 and save her apples with mass squirrel executions. Grandpa said it was nature's do and to let it go. I agreed with him.

Grandpa died. I discovered girls and rock and roll. I quit climbing trees.

Grandma moved. I moved. First to west Texas where a tree was just a non-moving tumbleweed. Then to Iceland where trees are only a concept. Then at last to the mountains where trees are plentiful. I reconnected after 20 years. But it wasn't all peaches and cream.

I'm not a camper. I don't like sleeping bags, tents, campfire, cooking or waking up to find a tree to be behind. Nope. None of it. But to reconnect with the trees I did it all. On one of my trips to Bridger Lake Utah, a place known for its “nowhereness,” I became convinced the trees talked with one another. Not sure how I came to that conclusion but the sensation of community the trees exuded helped me and reminded me of my apple trees.

I didn't climb those giant mountain trees. I just opened myself to their dancing shadows and reveled in the deep feel of their bark and leaves. Back then I hadn't heard the term forest bathing in Japan called Shirin Yoku. But with the help of my trees legacy, forest bathing is what I did many times. Many, many times.

But then I moved again and then again. And finally to a place with lots of trees but very little time to spend with them. Life was a moving target. London, Oslo, Sweden, Brussels, The Hague, Copenhagen and more.

And I lost my connection with trees.  I lost a bit of me too. In those years, forest receded and time blurred. People, places, relationships. A tumultuous torrent of everything. Fast, furious, exciting.

But suddenly I'm alone.

I don't think I noticed. And I didn't notice that I was missing the trees. Looking back, I know now I simply wasn't paying attention.

One day a friend asked me to go for a walk with her in an Ohio forest. We paused to sit on a bench and poof. Magically, the trees, the trees came back. I was connected again.

I don't live in the mountains anymore and most forests in my neck of the woods are on private land. But I still find the odd strip of accessible trees and I settle in amongst them. Climbing is right out at my age. But sitting, touching and even hugging a tree is perfect. I lean into the tree, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I connect.

Prison

Back Gate Cresson Prison

A few years back I visited Cresson Prison which was abruptly abandoned by the state of Pennsylvania in 2013. The prison’s sudden closure was a surprise to the employees and to the community and was swiftly carried out. So quickly that many of the fixtures and furnishings were left in place, literally right in place. As I walked through the dark cells and long hallways I admit I was creeped out…t’was truly a spooky feeling. Cafeteria tables, beds, chairs, cabinets…all in place. Well, not exactly in place, over the decade plus since its abandonment controlled access has been granted and so lots of stuff had been “repositioned.” But I wondered what it was like.

The place started in 1919 as a tuberculosis (TB) sanatorium on land donated by Andrew Carnegie, hence the resort like buildings that appear quite out of place on a prison campus. The “higher” ground of Cresson, PA, was thought to be beneficial to TB patients. As healthcare progressed (I’m guessing) the need for sanatoriums like Cresson disappeared. But…there was all this real estate with these “magnificent” buildings so in 1987 Pennsylvania jumped in to convert the property to a correctional institute for men and it stayed a prison until it closed in 2013. Newspaper articles say it closed because of the poor facilities and, BTW, a new prison had opened that could take all the Cresson prisoners.

I can’t imagine how the prisoners dealt emotionally and physically with the stark prison…this is one like you see in the movies…and not one of the high tech prisons. No. This was stark. I stood in what was sort of a gatehouse at the back gate and looked around. For heat, a half oil drum with grate, bars on the window. English style Tudor building abutting the 12 foot high fence. Door open to go out and inspect incoming trucks and cars. A pedestrian (prisoner) walkway with orders to “STOP HERE WHEN VEHICLE PRESENT.” And concertina wire everywhere. And just there on the very left, hidden by shadows but close to the door frame, a chest high button labeled, “ALARM.” Just sit with me in this spot and let your imagination talk to mine.

Grandpa Time

A POEM

Yesterday was a thousand years ago.
My mother’s gentle hands tucking me in
And a moment later smelling the
Innocent youth of my own baby’s hair
And suddenly her baby’s hair.

Memories rush to the front of my today’s brain
Like children’s faces to a Macy’s Christmas window
And blur my sense of what is

Now.

Season Greetings!

Cresson Prison & Sanatorium

This prison was closed many years ago and used to be open for tours, especially during this season. Not true anymore. As I walked through the cell blocks, the kitchens, the laundry facilities I wondered about the people who lived in and touched these walls. I was especially interested in what the inmates who sat in the dentist chair must have been thinking. Perhaps I will write an essay one day but in the meantime, you can enjoy a haunted walkabout with me on the linked video. Alternatively, you can watch the same video but all in black and white (with some audio changes), your choice!!

Waterford Walkabout

Yard in Waterford

Years ago a friend and I did a walkabout in Waterford…the autumn colors were magnificent and the stroll was a peaceful step back in time. We were almost alone in town, I saw only one other person during the two hours we spent walking the streets. The entire village was pristine, no leaves, no trash, nothing out of place…almost like a movie set. And quiet…wow, back in those days I lived in Northern Virginia and traffic noise was a constant…this was an island of silence, very cool.

I have been reinfected with COVID so am housebound again. This time, my symptoms are light and so I had enough energy to practice video post-processing using the old images from that walkabout, it’s posted on YouTube at Waterford Walkabout. I used Handel’s Water Music as background…I’ll add more in a future version.

COVID

Summer Bloom

After avoiding Covid for four plus years, we finally succumbed. Diane was down for two days last week; me for four this week…so far.

Diane tested negative today. I’m still positive with symptoms. For me, the worst is the constricted throat, like a noose, so tight I could hardly swallow. Well, honestly, the head splitting congestion and body aches aren’t any fun either. I am on Paxlovid but that drug has its own set of issues and there is a balancing act I have to monitor. And this illness was different than cases of flu and viruses I’ve had from years gone by…this illness didn’t seem to have a “story arc,” I don’t know how it’s going to end…there’s no sensation of getting better, just getting sicker. But today, I can swallow without wincing in pain so I must be getting better. Right?

What we have must be a sneaky variant of COVID. Diane tested negative three times!! And one test was the long test at the doctor’s office. We thought she had a “normal” virus so when I got the sniffles, we thought it was me catching her bug as well as the ragweed pollen that’s now so high. But we were going out so I tested, and tested negative. The day after I tested negative I woke up congested and tested positive, as did Diane. That was on Sunday. I spent Sunday through Wednesday in bed. Not having fun. Did I mention fatigue and foggy brain? Ah well. I sense some progress today since I’m out of bed and can swallow. The brain is still foggy but some say that’s just me. All the time.

It’s Raining Hats & Frogs

Carytown

I do love words and absolutely adore words accompanying images. I smile when “word thoughts” come to me triggered by some combination of objects, lights, or just happenstance, like this image. Walking into a shop in Carytown, Hats & Frogs just reached out and gave me cause for pause. And made me smile. In Oscar Wilde’s play “The Importance of Being Ernest,” Algernon says, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” Indeed, pure and simple seem to fade away and shimmer in the tribal biases we each carry in today’s social media driven world. Most of us believe what our “tribe” believes and we reinforce those beliefs by only listening to the truths offered by those in our tribe who believe what we believe. So, we don’t get the truth, we only get a feeling of warmth and self satisfaction.

Now we have AI, artificial intelligence, amping up the exchange of truths. AI accesses data collected about us and overlays the sender’s message with the tribal tones that will convince the listener of the sender’s righteousness. Big Data knows what we buy, where we go, who we talk to, who we give money to…well, pretty much everything we do is collected and made available to “Big Data.” Supposedly, our actual personal information is removed from Big Data mining activities, but think about it, how many other single data points (phone calls, destinations, spending profiles, etc.) are exactly like yours. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to correlate all that data into A+B+C(to the nth) = ME.

But knowing what resonates with consumer groups might not be the compelling reason to use Big Data, rather the most compelling reason might be that by connecting all the dots, Big Data users know how to push our buttons…get us fired up, to believe some story that’s actually a crock of bullshit. I have a vision of dark rooms in Russia and China lit only by dozens of computer screens, techs hunched over inventing fake news using an anti-American script to enhance political and social discontent in our country. Reagan may have won the Cold War by getting the Soviet Union to overspend on its military budgets, but now, Karma, as Russia and China feed the racial divide in America and constantly fan the fire of discontent. Most of what they send over here is a crock but people listen and believe. I guess that’s what people do.

Raining hats and frogs…that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. And that’s the truth…pthhhhhpt!.

Sunsetting My Website

Midday Carytown

No…not this one, the other one! For more than 20 years I maintained a website, first with www.toomagic.com which morphed into “www dot leehalvorsenphotography dot com” in 2017. The site was a hungry beast, always wanting more, never sleeping, never taking a break. I made social and political comments on the blog, losing friends and receiving hate mail. I fed the beast images and stories by going out often, usually every day if even for only a few minutes. I sold a few images, a few sessions, but just a few and I admit, I wasn’t trying very hard. My impression is to be successful with social media I had to invest several hours each day. That’s not me.

But I kept the site because it was hard to let go…a great deal of my creative energy was in the images and the writings. And, a lot of my life was described and photographed on the site. Our three kids grew up in the sites. Diane’s cancer was front page…Diane’s cancer-free diagnosis was banner headlines. A family history. An art journey. I enjoyed the creative process and the family was patient and inspirational. All of the children are quite tolerant of my constant camera. I think.

I’ve always felt the site’s name, Lee Halvorsen Photography, was a bit limiting, I’ve never had photography as my single artistic output so the name wasn’t as descriptive as I wanted. I’ve stayed the course, though, paying my annual bill but without content updates in quite a while (except for Sandy’s book). The web host will turn off the electrons sometime tomorrow night and that will be the end.

This site will go on, perhaps now with more focus since I won’t have to feel the guilt of abandoning my “showcase” website. Ah, the humanity.

Below is a screen capture of the front page…for posterity’s sake. At least until this site also fades away.

Celebrating the Lottery

INOVA Women’s Hospital, Fairfax, VA

Five years ago we won the Lottery of Life…Diane’s breast cancer surgery was complete! Her journey had been a long one, first diagnosed in 2013 she went through surgery, then radiation, then chemo. All was well for six years, then boom…it returned, aggressively. Slightly different routine this time…chemo with some new drugs to shrink the tumors, surgery to remove everything, and finally radiation as insurance. The surgery was done five years ago this month; the radiation was completed in October. Success! Now that’s winning the lottery. Huzzah!

Pillars of the Earth

Stormy Day, Arboretum, Washington, D.C.

Imagine…a country divided. Last Christmas I asked for and received, books from my family they’d read and found influential or interesting. I enjoyed each of them and initially thought I’d be done reading them in February, no later than March. But…not so fast. Ken Follet’s “Pillars of the Earth” 900 pages took me until June to finish. The book was fictional but grounded in historical “facts,” although facts may sometimes become a function of an author’s whim. “Pillars’” action takes place in 12th century England in what’s been called the “Anarchy” period…

My thoughts…

As the book starts, Henry I was King of England. His son and direct heir was lost in the Channel when the “White Ship” sank. After Henry died, two “siblings” battled for and traded claim to the throne for years. “Pillars’” plot centers around a community and its people. They built a cathedral and Kingsbridge, a busy industrial town out of a small, wooded, remote monastery. A stunning, world class cathedral was erected over decades in the social, economic, and governmental framework of the landed gentry surrounding the monastery. The changing politics, the weak-then-strong landowners, the piling-on cult like bonds of loyalty…all influenced the people in the story and the backdrop of the cathedral’s construction.

The Royal Courts of “Pillars” were intended to bring order and justice to the land and its people. However, Royal leadership changed often and with little notice. One day Queen Matilda and the next day King Stephen. True order and justice seemed unattainable except at the very lowest level, off the grid, and away from the Court’s center. Power and wealth were all that mattered…the Magna Carta was still years away.

Lesser Lords and knights would declare loyalty to whichever wannabe King was strongest at the moment. These bullies, Lords and Knights, would raid small villages and markets, raping and pillaging without risk of retaliation. No traditional justice was available because the rapists and pillagers were themselves the seats of justice. A fear of going to hell deterred some, however, the royals befriended priests who, also for power and money, would take the royal’s confession and forgive all…no matter what.

My present day naivete, my Pollyanna-like attitude, and my faith in justice-for-the-good were slowly squashed as I waded through those 900 pages. Imagine, inciting riots against the seat of government, reducing commoners to true pawns in a royal game of power, treating women like objects. Thank God we as a species have matured.