Ever since the day I was given an Asahi Pentax 35mm camera — my father got it for free but declined to give up the Argus C3 he’d bought at the Morrison Field PX in the ’40s — I’ve been photographing the world around me. Employing everything from simple Instamatics with Flashcubes to high-end SLRs with arrays of expensive lenses, adapting eventually from film to digital, I’ve captured a million moments.
I see everything as a potential image. That’s done wonders for my vision.
These days, despite having a closetful of fancy gear, I use my mobile phone’s built-in camera, and I mean almost exclusively. It’s imperfect but always handy, and I don’t mind its limitations.
I still struggle, however, with a couple of things all photographers inevitably confront — trying to capture a subject that defies the abilities of the imaging tool in my hands, and choosing to experience a moment without photographing it.
Such was the case this morning. For the second straight night we were treated to remarkably clear skies and breathtaking views of the heavens. When I walked Smudge at 5am today, I looked ESE and saw two stunningly bright objects in the black sky — a waning crescent moon and the planet Venus, right next to each other.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and, knowing full well that I’d be disappointed in the result (pictured), I banged off a few hasty shots. I did have the good sense to linger awhile, allowing my eyes to capture and my mind to record what technology could not.
That’s the ticket, I think — ditching the latter-day tendency to insert a phone between our eyes and a moment. Though the device preserves, it also impedes. It blocks the direct experience.
There’s wisdom in just putting the camera down.
Don’t get me wrong here, I’m still gonna take photographs. Lots of ’em. But I believe I’ll spend more time without a camera in my hands, if only to see what I’ve been missing.
I was introduced to “woke” at an early age.
It didn’t come from home, certainly — my upbringing was decidedly traditional, conservative, all-American. It didn’t come from the community or my schoolmates, products of blue collars and white farmhouses.
When I was very young, my family left the Presbyterian congregation in nearby Massillon, Ohio for a larger church of the same denomination in Canton, 13 miles away. It drew parishioners from more well-to-do (and often less conservative) areas of Stark County, and its Sunday services were broadcast live on a Canton AM radio station.
The church also operated a camp in Carroll County. I attended for a week each summer and participated in weekend retreats there.
After graduating from high school, I served on the camp’s staff.
Overall it was an essential part of my life experience. I learned a lot. I made lifelong friends. Quite literally, I grew up in that church.
The passing years, and the perspective they bring, have given me valuable perspective on how that church shaped me, or meant to shape me. What I came to recognize is that its culture was at odds with the way I was being raised outside its walls and away from its camp.
Though the sign out front said “Presbyterian,” the church’s youth ministry preached a socially conscious gospel and served up big helpings of liberation theology. Programs promoted a collectivist, progressive ethos — not damning in and of itself, at least from a religious angle, but also not without consequence.
Today, benefitting from the long view, I can see how it robbed many young males of their developing masculinity. Sensitivity was praised, while stoicism and hard work got barely a nod. Vulnerability was encouraged, displays of emotion rewarded.
Insidiously, impressionable boys were nudged toward the feminine. All manner of non-traditional behavior was accepted.
Today we call that “woke.”
I’d return home to a very different environment — with my family and at school, on the basketball court and in my Boy Scout troop. It made for quite the inward wrestling match, believe me.
It took me over 20 years to fight past the effects of that experience and make my way back to what I know is right. My personal passage wasn’t without wrong turns and rough patches, but I made it.
This current crop of American kids, along with their parents, fight the same battle. Schools are indoctrination centers. Virtually the whole culture has been poisoned. Giving these kids a fighting chance — especially institutionally feminized boys — requires parents to relentlessly reinforce traditional values, even if it means relocating or homeschooling.
The earlier the intervention, the less severe the damage. Take my word for it.
Maybe you’re under the impression that progress on The Mountain, specifically the task of building out our cabin, has slowed. In reality, we’re waiting on quotes from a plumber and a different electrician, and our backhoe guy hasn’t yet returned to run a drain line from the cabin to the septic tank.
The other dynamic at play here has to do with Deb’s injury. Her twice-broken foot not only prevents her from contributing to the work as much as she’d like, it also halted her search for employment in a job market that’s pretty thin anyway.
If everything went perfectly — and we’re old enough to know that nothing ever does — then we probably could keep rolling without a second income. But that’d cut things uncomfortably close, and honestly we’re still smarting from having bitten off more than we could chew earlier this year. We won’t repeat those mistakes.
And so, for the moment, our cabin-finishing funds are playing the role of financial backstop. It’s the smart play. We’re confident that it’s only temporary.
In the meantime, we’re doing what’s necessary, cheap or free (and there’s a whole lot of all three). Yesterday, for example, I worked on our power saws — assembling the new chop saw we got at a going-out-of-business sale and replacing the blade on the tired old table saw we found on Facebook Marketplace.
Finishing maintenance on the Ranger falls into the necessary-and-cheap category, too, and stacking cordwood (now that we’ve paid for it) costs nothing. Both will happen next week.
The bottom line, though, is that we’re here. Nothing changes that, and nothing can. Circumstances simply require that we be cautious and deliberate for a while.
Today, it’s raining.
And all that’s fine. Life is good.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB