A toad tale

Joshua and the plague of toads.

Remember the story about Moses and the plague of frogs - like that could ever happen, right?  I was very impressed by the show of nature on this early summer's day near Bend, Oregon.  My kids were swimming with their mom, and I was out meandering about with my camera.  As I approached an oxbow lake, created by a stream some years ago, I was taken aback by what I witnessed.  There, stacked thousands upon thousands, were young spadefoot toads which had just matured from tadpoles into small adults.  There were massing for their dispersion into the great beyond.

It was a remarkable sight, and I knew what to do immediately.  There is nothing like a show of nature to really impress young minds on how wonderful life it.  I left for the pool and told my family that there was something they had to see, but I did not tell them what.  It was to be a surprise, and I suspected that it would remain with them forever.  So I gathered everyone up, hand in hand, the swim not yet finished, and we headed for the pond.

As we approached the shoreline, I instructed everyone to spread out.  Holding hands and stretching out to form a line, we proceeded slowly down the embankment.  Then it happened. The edge of the pond moved. Another step and the result was the same, only even more pronounced.  For thirty feed in both directions, parallel to the shore, an enormous hoard of toads (called a knot) moved away from us.  Thousands, ten of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands strong, they hopped away a foot or two then stopped.  As we got closer their hopping frenzy escalated.

Then, when he could stand it no more, my son broke ranks and dove into the swarm.  He plunged his hands into its midst and extracted a double fistful of the creatures (inset).  Pleased as punch he was, that in one svelte embrace he managed to capture a number of toads that could have been listed in the Guinness Book of Records.  His sister was much less enthusiastic about the affair, although she remembers the event well.  She was probably only five or so at the time. 

What I love about this story is that it was an experience we all shared and that we all remember.  It was a testament to the wonders of nature and a unifying event for the family.  Who knew that the simple toad could do that.

Have a beer at the Green Dragon

Charles says, "Won't you join me for a beer."

The familiar pub, is also known as the bar, watering hole, public house, tavern, and my personal favourite, grogshop.  There are another half dozen synonyms for the place you go to cut your thirst and drown your sorrows.  The term saloon conjures up images of the old west.  More refined is the term cafe, being somewhat European in origin.  Way down south, where Spanish is the main language, cantina is the favoured term.

Hobbiton, of Middle Earth, has its own drinking establishment called the Green Dragon.  Although it is designated as an inn rather than an ethanol consumption social club, it bears the markings of one.  Casks of ales abound and the proprietor is only happy enough to serve your choice of a distilled liquid.  For the non-imbibing, there is a rather pleasant cinnamon laced apple cider.  Whatever your beverage of choice, you are bound to enjoy the drink, surroundings, and the company.

There were no dwarfs, hobbits, or elves present when we sauntered into the place.  It seemed that the age of man had come and all the rest had departed for other lands.  Sad in a way, but exciting that they left such a rich heritage and selection of brews.  The above photo shows my friend Charles offering up a glass of grogg in salute to those that came before us.  Then we toasted them all and downed the glasses of comfort, relishing its deep, rich flavour.

I was thinking about the time and effort it must have taken to develop the beverage they serve.  Each iteration providing some direction towards the final product.  The worst one, however, ended up being useful as a steak sauce.  They named it "Worst in Shire" sauce.  Over the years, the name has been bastardized somewhat and the resulting familiar condiment resulted.  Just think of all that hobbits have given us.  Steaks would just not be the same.

How colour works

A sunset enhanced by increasing saturation.

Have a look at the sunset above.  Notice in the top right corner that there are four coloured dots, each one numbered.  One is black, 2 red, three yellow, and 4 a bluish-purple.  They are small sections of the scene which were copied and moved up to that corner.  You could, in fact, move each one to its original position, and it would disappear into the spot where it came from.  Each dot is made of a collection of pixels of very similar colour.  What is interesting is that the image is not saved as an actual picture the way a negative is, rather it is a sequence of numbers.

Any one colour on the screen under normal circumstances is made up of three sets of numbers.  One number represents the red channel, one the green channel, and one the blue channel.  There are 256 different possible shades for each colour.  Each of those numbers is stored using a byte of data; a byte is made of 8 bits.  A bit is just a 1 or a 0, but 8 of them in a row allow for 256 different combinations.  The numbers go from 0 to 255, where 0 represents the darkest shade of that colour and 255 the lightest.  It takes 3 bytes of information to store 1 pixel, each byte coding for one of the three colours (channels) making it up.

Colour 1 (black) is red (0) green (0) and blue (0).  Colour 2 (red) is made up of red (155) green (25) blue (20), so we could say it is mostly red with a bit of cyan and a titch of green in it.  Colour 3 (yellow) is red (253), blue (175), green (103).  Lastly colour 4 is red (118), blue (76), and green (140).  This seems all a little tedious and unnecessary I am sure, but what is interesting here is the fact that there can be quite a range of these colours.  It turns out that, with each colour being represented by 256 shades of three different colours, that a total of  16,777,216 different combinations are possible. 

You may think that this represents such an enormous palate that it wouldn't be a problem.  But if you look closely at the picture you would notice that the transition from one colour to another is not perfect; there is a bit of colour banding taking place.  This is because there are actually not enough colours present to allow a seamless transition between different bands.  This is why some photographers use colour with a greater bit depth.  We call the colour the above shot is in 8-bit colour for obvious reasons.  If you want more colour options then you can choose 12 bit or 16 bit colour.  16 bit colour has 281,474,976,710,656 different shades.

The reason a picture takes up so much space is because of the fact that it takes 3 bytes of memory just to code for one pixel.  A 20 megapixel image then needs 60 megabytes of room to store it.  Fortunately this space is reduced because of the compression scheme used by JPEG creation algorithms.  That 60 megabyte image may only take up 12 or so megs of space - a lot to be sure but a lot less than 60.  That pales in comparison to the 16 bit colour image, which cannot be stored as a JPEG.  If stored as a TIFF, that one image would take up a wopping 120 megabytes of space - you could only fit 5 images on a CD.  Put another way, it would take about 86 three and a half inch floppies to save it.

Anyways, I just think it is cool.

Feeling broken.

Broken down and old - but useful?

I can identify with this barn.  When I was young and filled with life and the excitement of living, I had a purpose and others appreciated what I did for them.  Now, though, after life's events have weathered away the paint and peeled off the shingles, I lie around and wonder what has happened to me.  Life used to abound inside of me; now only weeds live there, and maybe mice, which have been an eternal constant.  The difference is cats used to keep their population down, but now even the cats don't come.

Days come and go without much meaning.  The only changes I see are the seasons.  They are not as kind as they used to be.  Winter is cold, its chills are no longer kept at bay because the doors are broken.  Summer is too hot.  There is no one to open the shutters.  Spring and fall just remind me that the life has gone out of me, literally.  No more animals to house, no more births to witness, and no young to see grow into adulthood.  I feel abandoned and empty.

As I look around me I see new things.  The house is kept up and a family lives there.  Their laughter comes morning and night; especially at night when the cool air enhances the distance sound can travel.  Sheds house what I used to.  The nature of those things are different, but their function and relationship with the people the same.  Cars instead of horses.  Electrical devices instead of belt driven machines.  Worse of all are the things adorning the walls, no longer carefully placed on my beams. 

I hear them talking about me.  It's old, and been around here forever.  No longer useful, and an eyesore to be sure, but still part of the place.  Like the trees and the creek, except that those get stronger with time.  Things need to be fixed, but why bother?  Maybe the boards are worth something.  Iron is only bringing in $0.02 per pound, so it is not worth the effort to even recover that.  A crew could come in and dismantle the whole thing; be done in a couple of hours.  Then we wouldn't have to think about you any more.

I look around at the people I love.  Age has a way of eroding the very fiber of their being.  I think of my own life and contemplate the things I have endured.  Today the scares are still there, like the hanging door, only not so visible to others.  I myself have not escaped the ravages of time, and the life that once excited and stirred in me now casts me down as I battle the demons of harm which still try to crawl up to daylight.  Occasionally they succeed in finding that which they seek.  Fortunately, the people that I love, love me too.  They can forgive and forget.  They still see use in this old building.  And for them I am always there, even though my roof is worn and my paint is faded.  No, my time has not yet come.

Where is Charles?

Can you find Charles in this picture?

I love this photo, not because of its quality, but because it depicts who my buddy is.  When out and about I will occasionally take a photo of a sign I like.  Sometimes it is just the sign, sometimes it is the sign in its environment, and once in a while I will ask someone to be in the shot to give it a more personal touch.  Now, most people would wander on over to the sign and be a compliant subject, get their photo taken, and get on with the day.  Not my friend.  He likes to exert his character, which often means being silly.  Not only did he go hide behind the sign, which is not what I wanted, he stuck his hat on top of it.

Now, at this moment, as the photographer attempting to have some say in preparing a shot, I have two choices.  I could complain and turn a light-hearted gesture into an act of rebellion, or I could go with the flow.  To be honest, I laughed.  This was my friend.  A big guy with a playful side, and it is part of who he is.  This photograph shows that character, and whenever I see it I am reminded of all the silly, wonderful times we have had.

We ended up having a good day.  We saw lots, I got many great shots, and we all had fun.  It is not always easy going down a particular path when the desired outcome is elsewhere.  But sometimes you end up in a better place.  Having control is not always what is meant to be.  I think of that scene with Indiana Jones and the guy with the big curved scimitar.  He pulls it out to begin a lengthy battle, all eyes expecting chaos to follow, and "Indie" pulls out his trusty revolver and shoots the bad guy.  The truth in the scene, as far as I know, is that Harrison Ford needed a washroom break and thought it would be a way to get it.  It wasn't in the script, but Lucas and Spielberg loved it.  It wasn't the plan, but it ended up in the show.

That is what this moment was about.  Not what was planned, but what came about.  It was great, it was my friend, and it was perfect.  My buddy, Charles; the Indiana Jones of the moment.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

USS Texas - a Dreadnought story

Eric and Charles at the USS Texas in 2014

It was early in 1914 when the USS Texas was put to sea.  She was huge for her time, sporting ten-14 inch guns, each one capable of firing a 640 kg high explosive projectile a distance of 21 km.  Built for war, and designed to bring peace, she was afloat when the first battle cries of "The Great War" began.  The US did not enter the war until 1917, when it was the source of the first American shots to be fired.  Later known as World War I, the great ship fought with distinction and was responsible for saving many lives.

It also served in World War II.  Then being 27 years old, it would be considered obsolete by some.  Yet, she once again proudly protected the lives in her care and saw few casualties of those living within her steel fortifications.  It was retired from service in 1947.  Today it has the honour of being the only battleship to exist which has served in both world wars.

My friend Charles and I visited the floating legacy in 2018.  We were there the day before the 100th anniversary of its launching was celebrated.  It was the first battleship I had the privilege of visiting, and I was in awe of its floating armaments.  Even at 100 years old, it was a spectacle to behold.  The power, history, and sheer might before us.  We arrived early and were fortunate enough to be some of the first to view it all.

It seems that BB35, the USS Texas,  still had some history to share.  There were some veterans who came aboard, 32 of them, who served on the venerable floating fortress during its service in the second world war.  They were there the same day as we were, and were given access to the lower parts of the ship which others did not have permission to access.  There, one of the war time sailors, now an octogenarian, went to his old bunk.  In his reminiscing, he found something he had tucked away all those years before, still waiting for him.  A letter.  Addressed to him.

I do not have proof of this, only words I have heard while on board.  I do not know if they are true, but the story is amazing.  What's more amazing though is the legacy which the craft has given, and the fact that in all those years of service only one serviceman lost his life aboard.  Now that's something to celebrate.

https://battleshiptexas.org/          ericspix.com

Chris Demarest

Chris Demarest putting the final touches on his painting.

One of the things I like about photography is that you never know what sort of things you will find when you are out and about.  When traveling, I expect to come across landscapes and creatures and events, but I was quite unprepared for what was discovered on this day.

We had made a trek to Palm Springs in the spring of 2015.  It was March break and the time off was perfect for heading out to the gem of the Coachella Valley.  We met some friends there and enjoyed the stay at our timeshare.  Good weather, good friends, and lots of things to do; it was excellent.

One of the events we took in was a trip to the Palm Springs Air Museum.  They have a large number of vintage planes, most in working order, and I am always up for such an adventure.  My dad was an aviator in the late 50's and 60's, and we always enjoyed watching those classic WWII movies together.  Instead of being entertained by colourized film, there was the opportunity to see the real deal; it was something I could not pass up.

While there exploring the collection (go here:  https://palmspringsairmuseum.org/aircraft/) we came across something that reminded me of Norman Rockwell's prints.  The difference was that the fellow responsible for them was currently at another one.  It was amazing to see him work.  Pain staking attention to detail, minute movements intense with purpose, and doing a great job to boot, he was focused on his latest creation.

I found out his name was Chris Demarest, and he was doing a painting of a WWII scene.  He had other works of his on display.  Each one showed his commitment to excellence and his well practiced talent.  We chatted, although I don't remember the conversation.  Whenever I do this type of photo I always ask permission to shoot.  I also wrote Chris by email (yesterday) and got permission to post this picture in my blog.  I want to thank him for both opportunities.

I call this a character shot - it is a photo more of who someone is rather than what they look like.  I always enjoy character shots as they unveil things about a person you may not already know.  The shirt, the hat, his concentration and attention to detail, and the images present in the background all speak about who Chris is.  I would like to think that he would approve of the shot.  I can imagine him saying, "Yes, that is kind of who I am." 

Thanks for reading.  www.ericspix.com