10. Smack it with a rolled up newspaper. You may scare the heck out of the cat so be sure to tell her the newspaper is being used to smack the fly, not the cat because you caught her on the counter again.
9. Whack it with a shoe. I recommend a flat, rubber-soled Keds tennis shoe. It is much easier to scrape the fly remains off of the bottom of your Keds than the waffle treads of your trainers.
8. Hang up flypaper. Oops, that’s for the barn!
7. Snap it with a damp towel. This requires precision and a sharp wrist twist aimed toward an extremely small target. Plus you’ll have to wash the towel.
6. Trap it under an upended glass. The downside of this method is you will have to leave the upended glass on the counter until the fly dies. Before that happens, someone will see the glass (but not the fly) and put it away. This will happen while the fly has just enough life remaining in it to recover and pester you all over again.
5. Smack it with the paperback book you are reading. This will be a reflex response and you will probably regret it when you have to remove the fly remains from the page you are reading.
4. Slap it with a spatula. Ewwww!
3. Spray it with ant killer spray because that’s the only bug killing spray you have handy. Unfortunately, this will only stun the fly and you will be back to grabbing that spatula. Toss the spatula out after this because now it is not only covered in fly guts but also in poison.
2. Squash it with your hand. See number 4.
1. And finally, the number one way to kill a fly: remember that somewhere, but you’re not sure where, you own a fly swatter. Go downstairs and search for the flyswatter. Look under piles of magazines, under the sink, in the laundry room until you finally realize it is hanging on a hook normally reserved for the car keys. Go back upstairs with fly swatter at the ready to find the cat has captured that pesky fly and is enjoying a little snack! Munch, munch! And the best part is there is no mess to clean up!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
My Own Private Heartbreak Hill
For many athletes running the Boston Marathon, the biggest challenge of the race is ascending Heartbreak Hill. Located between miles twenty and twenty-one of the 26.2 mile historic race, the famous landmark has frustrated and defeated many. It isn’t the 88 feet of climb that hurts so much—it’s the fact that this climb is the fourth in a series of hills that begin at mile sixteen. Heartbreak Hill lies at the end of a very long race and athletes are fighting extreme physical and mental exhaustion.
We all have our metaphorical “Heartbreak Hill,” be it job we really want or a family issue. As runners, these issues may be less about metaphor and more about actual physical barriers that hamper our running. It may be an increase in mileage that has us shaking in our trainers, a plateau in pace that is causing frustration or an actual hill we are straining to overcome. In my case, it was a hill aptly named “Cemetery Hill.”
Cemetery Hill is the street that travels along the local cemetery, hence the name. While is does not encompass 88 heartbreaking feet of climb, it is a hill that does command respect, particularly for a beginner runner like me. I could have just as well been running straight up into the blue of the sky.
Because I live at the top of a hill, all runs begin going downhill! Most of my runs are pretty flat after that until it comes time to head for home—there is no way to go but up. I had two choices: tackle Cemetery Hill or circle the neighborhood like an airplane waiting to land on a busy Friday night at O'Hare Airport. I chose to tackle the hill.
I employed several methods to help with my ascent of Cemetery Hill. Thinking momentum would propel me up the steep incline, I would pick up speed on the curve leading to the hill. Arms and legs pumping, I would hit top speed (which is not that fast but every little bit helps) at the base of the hill. Before the halfway mark, I would sputter to a walk, legs trembling and lungs quaking. This method works much better on a bike!
My next method utilized music. I don’t run with an iPod. I sweat quite a bit when I run; the threat of electrocution via wet ear buds is something I prefer to avoid. Instead, I mentally hum song lyrics that come to mind. When I am really struggling, I have been known to hum out loud. U2’s Beautiful Day or even Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger would be great motivational songs that could propel me up that hill. The theme to Rocky is perfect—no lyrics to remember. I could just hum it! Instead, I think of songs from my childhood. Does anyone remember the Abominable Snowman’s song from the movie Santa Claus is coming to Town?
“Just put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking cross the floor.
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking out the door!”
Then there were the catchy tune and lyrics from the theme song of Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
“Always look on the bright side of life.
(Whistle, whistle, whistle)
And always look at the bright side of life.”
And no, I did not whistle the whistling part. I could barely breathe by that point. If I whistled, I would probably have passed out!
When the other songs failed, I resorted to the fight song for our local high school.
“Oh yes, we’ll fight, fight, fight for Badger High.
Oh yes, we’ll fight, fight, fight for her!”
Singing in tempo with my stride, I would trudge my way up the hill, petering out to a crawl midway, where the fight song slowly became a funereal-like dirge—rather appropriate for a hill called Cemetery Hill.
Again and again, I would attempt to run the entire hill. Again and again, I would fail, heart thumping in my ears, breath wheezing in my chest as I stuttered to a walk halfway to the top.
One day I listened to a pod cast titled Zen and the Art of Triathlon. Created by triathlete Brett Blankner, the pod cast offers stories of Brett’s own philosophies, trials and tribulations as well as ideas to help people become better runners and triathletes. His approach is as much about mental technique as physical strength and on this particular pod cast, Brett talked about Zen philosophy as applied to triathlon training.
“I see you hill!”
This is Brett’s way of naming a challenge. If we can give our challenge an identity, it will supposedly be easier to overcome. Hmmm. Sounded kind of new age weird but I was desperate! So I tried it.
On my next run, I rounded the corner. Cemetery Hill and I faced off. I’d had enough of defeat. I was going to climb this sucker, running the entire way. Instead of my usual thoughts like I hate hills and Jeez I really hate hills, I looked to the summit of pavement and thought I see you hill! I threw in an I LOVE YOU HILL for extra propulsion. Then I put my head down and ran.
“Just make to the next mailbox,” I told myself. “Just make it to that sign, that driveway, that light pole. I love you Hill...” I wheezed.
I continued this dialogue and bargaining with myself. Stride by shaking stride, arms pumping, hearting thumping, sweat streaming, breath rattling, I slowly conquered my nemesis, step by shaking step.
I ran the slight descent to my subdivision with a huge grin on my face. I had conquered my own private Heartbreak Hill!
We all have our metaphorical “Heartbreak Hill,” be it job we really want or a family issue. As runners, these issues may be less about metaphor and more about actual physical barriers that hamper our running. It may be an increase in mileage that has us shaking in our trainers, a plateau in pace that is causing frustration or an actual hill we are straining to overcome. In my case, it was a hill aptly named “Cemetery Hill.”
Cemetery Hill is the street that travels along the local cemetery, hence the name. While is does not encompass 88 heartbreaking feet of climb, it is a hill that does command respect, particularly for a beginner runner like me. I could have just as well been running straight up into the blue of the sky.
Because I live at the top of a hill, all runs begin going downhill! Most of my runs are pretty flat after that until it comes time to head for home—there is no way to go but up. I had two choices: tackle Cemetery Hill or circle the neighborhood like an airplane waiting to land on a busy Friday night at O'Hare Airport. I chose to tackle the hill.
I employed several methods to help with my ascent of Cemetery Hill. Thinking momentum would propel me up the steep incline, I would pick up speed on the curve leading to the hill. Arms and legs pumping, I would hit top speed (which is not that fast but every little bit helps) at the base of the hill. Before the halfway mark, I would sputter to a walk, legs trembling and lungs quaking. This method works much better on a bike!
My next method utilized music. I don’t run with an iPod. I sweat quite a bit when I run; the threat of electrocution via wet ear buds is something I prefer to avoid. Instead, I mentally hum song lyrics that come to mind. When I am really struggling, I have been known to hum out loud. U2’s Beautiful Day or even Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger would be great motivational songs that could propel me up that hill. The theme to Rocky is perfect—no lyrics to remember. I could just hum it! Instead, I think of songs from my childhood. Does anyone remember the Abominable Snowman’s song from the movie Santa Claus is coming to Town?
“Just put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking cross the floor.
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking out the door!”
Then there were the catchy tune and lyrics from the theme song of Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
“Always look on the bright side of life.
(Whistle, whistle, whistle)
And always look at the bright side of life.”
And no, I did not whistle the whistling part. I could barely breathe by that point. If I whistled, I would probably have passed out!
When the other songs failed, I resorted to the fight song for our local high school.
“Oh yes, we’ll fight, fight, fight for Badger High.
Oh yes, we’ll fight, fight, fight for her!”
Singing in tempo with my stride, I would trudge my way up the hill, petering out to a crawl midway, where the fight song slowly became a funereal-like dirge—rather appropriate for a hill called Cemetery Hill.
Again and again, I would attempt to run the entire hill. Again and again, I would fail, heart thumping in my ears, breath wheezing in my chest as I stuttered to a walk halfway to the top.
One day I listened to a pod cast titled Zen and the Art of Triathlon. Created by triathlete Brett Blankner, the pod cast offers stories of Brett’s own philosophies, trials and tribulations as well as ideas to help people become better runners and triathletes. His approach is as much about mental technique as physical strength and on this particular pod cast, Brett talked about Zen philosophy as applied to triathlon training.
“I see you hill!”
This is Brett’s way of naming a challenge. If we can give our challenge an identity, it will supposedly be easier to overcome. Hmmm. Sounded kind of new age weird but I was desperate! So I tried it.
On my next run, I rounded the corner. Cemetery Hill and I faced off. I’d had enough of defeat. I was going to climb this sucker, running the entire way. Instead of my usual thoughts like I hate hills and Jeez I really hate hills, I looked to the summit of pavement and thought I see you hill! I threw in an I LOVE YOU HILL for extra propulsion. Then I put my head down and ran.
“Just make to the next mailbox,” I told myself. “Just make it to that sign, that driveway, that light pole. I love you Hill...” I wheezed.
I continued this dialogue and bargaining with myself. Stride by shaking stride, arms pumping, hearting thumping, sweat streaming, breath rattling, I slowly conquered my nemesis, step by shaking step.
I ran the slight descent to my subdivision with a huge grin on my face. I had conquered my own private Heartbreak Hill!
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Running at the back of the pack
Last Saturday, I ran the longest race I have run to date. This 5-mile race was just one more step in the training plan I have in place for the half marathon I will be running in October. I looked forward to seeing how I would react to racing a longer distance than the 5K’s I had run in the past.
Since my training schedule called for an 8-mile long run on the weekend, I began my day with a 3-mile easy run. It made me a little nervous that I wouldn’t have enough energy left for the actual race but by the time I stepped up to the start line, I felt confident and prepared to run the additional 5 miles. The course was fairly flat and I planned on averaging around 10:04 per mile, something I had done during a tempo run earlier in the week.
“This is a training run. It’s not about the time,” I kept saying to myself before we took off from the start. “Run your own race.” (I talk to myself quite a bit when I run; one of the downfalls of not running with an iPod!)
There was the usual jockeying for position after the start gun but I finally settled in, set my sites on the back of the runner in front of me and ran. I even passed a few people. When I hit mile 3, which was the first distance marker in the race, I looked at my watch: 28 minutes and change! I distinctly remember thinking “Holy cow, that can’t be right!” I was running faster than my planned 10:04 per mile but I still felt strong. At mile 4, I again checked my watch. I was maintaining my faster pace!
I ended up running the 5 miles in 48:07, averaging a 9:37/mile. This was a PR for me and I was so excited to see that I had not only taken about 3 seconds off my last 5K mile pace but I had maintained that pace for almost 2 additional miles, while having run 3 miles before the race even began! I couldn’t wait to see where I fell in the standings.
I was at my parent’s house later in the day and I told my dad that although the results had not yet been posted, I figured I had finished somewhere in the middle of the pack. He reminded me that it is not really about where you finish in the standings—at least not at the point where I am in my running endeavors—but how you do according to your own goals. And I agreed with him, all the while secretly anticipating the posting of the results.
The results were posted by Monday morning and the euphoria that had carried me through the weekend was instantly deflated. I had finished 7th out of eleven runners in my age group (40-49). If the age groups had been broken down to the more typical grouping of 45-49, I would have placed second to last. Overall, I had placed 76th out of 107. I was not in the middle of the pack—I was in the bottom of the pack. To make matters worse, a woman three years older than me had won my division, averaging a 7:57 per mile pace. I felt horrible—I felt slow—I felt disappointed in myself. The sense of achievement I had felt earlier vanished. I wont’ lie, I complained a little, even felt a little sorry for myself.
And then I remembered what my dad had said about running really being about meeting or exceeding the goals you have set for yourself. It is an individual sport and in the end, you are competing against yourself. I thought about what my running goals are for this season: run a half marathon, run a 9:30 mile, keep a regular training schedule. The half is coming up on October 17th and I am right on schedule with my training. I am aiming for finishing in two and a half hours or less and this should actually be possible if I stay on track in my training and don’t get injured. And I am almost down to that 9:30 per mile goal, only seven seconds to go! Before the season’s end, I hope to be there.
When I was a kid and I didn’t do as well on something as I thought I should have, I remember my parents asking me if I had tried my hardest and best. If I had tried my best and had worked hard toward my goal, then I could take comfort in my efforts. I have said the same to my daughter about goals she has set for herself. When I think about how I felt as I crossed the finish line on Saturday, the 48:07 glowing on the timer, I knew I had dug deep. I had put it all out there, complete with a finishing kick.
I’m back to being thrilled with my performance on Saturday. I may not be the fastest runner out there but I am constantly moving toward my goals to become a better runner. However, if I can maintain my current pace by the time I am in the 60-69 age group, wow, then I’ll be fast!
Since my training schedule called for an 8-mile long run on the weekend, I began my day with a 3-mile easy run. It made me a little nervous that I wouldn’t have enough energy left for the actual race but by the time I stepped up to the start line, I felt confident and prepared to run the additional 5 miles. The course was fairly flat and I planned on averaging around 10:04 per mile, something I had done during a tempo run earlier in the week.
“This is a training run. It’s not about the time,” I kept saying to myself before we took off from the start. “Run your own race.” (I talk to myself quite a bit when I run; one of the downfalls of not running with an iPod!)
There was the usual jockeying for position after the start gun but I finally settled in, set my sites on the back of the runner in front of me and ran. I even passed a few people. When I hit mile 3, which was the first distance marker in the race, I looked at my watch: 28 minutes and change! I distinctly remember thinking “Holy cow, that can’t be right!” I was running faster than my planned 10:04 per mile but I still felt strong. At mile 4, I again checked my watch. I was maintaining my faster pace!
I ended up running the 5 miles in 48:07, averaging a 9:37/mile. This was a PR for me and I was so excited to see that I had not only taken about 3 seconds off my last 5K mile pace but I had maintained that pace for almost 2 additional miles, while having run 3 miles before the race even began! I couldn’t wait to see where I fell in the standings.
I was at my parent’s house later in the day and I told my dad that although the results had not yet been posted, I figured I had finished somewhere in the middle of the pack. He reminded me that it is not really about where you finish in the standings—at least not at the point where I am in my running endeavors—but how you do according to your own goals. And I agreed with him, all the while secretly anticipating the posting of the results.
The results were posted by Monday morning and the euphoria that had carried me through the weekend was instantly deflated. I had finished 7th out of eleven runners in my age group (40-49). If the age groups had been broken down to the more typical grouping of 45-49, I would have placed second to last. Overall, I had placed 76th out of 107. I was not in the middle of the pack—I was in the bottom of the pack. To make matters worse, a woman three years older than me had won my division, averaging a 7:57 per mile pace. I felt horrible—I felt slow—I felt disappointed in myself. The sense of achievement I had felt earlier vanished. I wont’ lie, I complained a little, even felt a little sorry for myself.
And then I remembered what my dad had said about running really being about meeting or exceeding the goals you have set for yourself. It is an individual sport and in the end, you are competing against yourself. I thought about what my running goals are for this season: run a half marathon, run a 9:30 mile, keep a regular training schedule. The half is coming up on October 17th and I am right on schedule with my training. I am aiming for finishing in two and a half hours or less and this should actually be possible if I stay on track in my training and don’t get injured. And I am almost down to that 9:30 per mile goal, only seven seconds to go! Before the season’s end, I hope to be there.
When I was a kid and I didn’t do as well on something as I thought I should have, I remember my parents asking me if I had tried my hardest and best. If I had tried my best and had worked hard toward my goal, then I could take comfort in my efforts. I have said the same to my daughter about goals she has set for herself. When I think about how I felt as I crossed the finish line on Saturday, the 48:07 glowing on the timer, I knew I had dug deep. I had put it all out there, complete with a finishing kick.
I’m back to being thrilled with my performance on Saturday. I may not be the fastest runner out there but I am constantly moving toward my goals to become a better runner. However, if I can maintain my current pace by the time I am in the 60-69 age group, wow, then I’ll be fast!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Swimming in the Shallow End
I sit at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the cold blue water. A sharp odor of chlorine tickles my nose as I fidget with my goggles, slowly rubbing circles of anti-fog drops onto each lens. I readjust my ponytail and stretch my swim cap over my head. I rearrange my fins and pull buoy and check my workout list. I rinse my goggles, tug them over my head and lower them onto my face. I set my watch to the stopwatch function and clear the time from my last workout. I tug at the leg openings of my suit. I adjust and readjust: goggles, cap, suit, ear plugs and then goggles again.
Other people are also preparing for their workouts. Some just cram on their caps, slap on their goggles, jump in and push off from the wall. Others loiter like me, delaying entry into the shallow depths. None of us are talking—it’s too early in the morning for animated conversation or commiseration. Canned Top 40 music echoes over the steady splash of arms and hands entering and exiting the water.
My pre-swim ritual is not born of superstition. Disastrous results will not plague my workout if all steps are not completed before I begin. This is not a mental session where I am visualizing how each part of the workout must go so as to reap the most benefits. I’d really like to use one of these reasons as an excuse for my loitering. At least it would give me a little validation as a serious athlete. But in the end, it’s really about putting off the inevitable. I have to get into a cold pool. I don’t mind the work but I really do hate getting into a cold pool at 6:30 a.m.
Sighing, I slide, inch by shivering inch, into the chilling water. As it reaches my waist, humid pool air is involuntary sucked into my lungs in response to the shock of the cold water reaching bare skin. Goose bumps prickle my arms. Another minute is spent playing with my watch while I mentally gear up for that moment when I will dunk the rest of my body into what is now feeling like the icy depths of the Arctic Ocean.
There is some more mental back and forth until finally, I can’t delay any longer or I will be late for work. I press the start button on my watch and push off from the wall. My face is the last thing to enter the water.
Other people are also preparing for their workouts. Some just cram on their caps, slap on their goggles, jump in and push off from the wall. Others loiter like me, delaying entry into the shallow depths. None of us are talking—it’s too early in the morning for animated conversation or commiseration. Canned Top 40 music echoes over the steady splash of arms and hands entering and exiting the water.
My pre-swim ritual is not born of superstition. Disastrous results will not plague my workout if all steps are not completed before I begin. This is not a mental session where I am visualizing how each part of the workout must go so as to reap the most benefits. I’d really like to use one of these reasons as an excuse for my loitering. At least it would give me a little validation as a serious athlete. But in the end, it’s really about putting off the inevitable. I have to get into a cold pool. I don’t mind the work but I really do hate getting into a cold pool at 6:30 a.m.
Sighing, I slide, inch by shivering inch, into the chilling water. As it reaches my waist, humid pool air is involuntary sucked into my lungs in response to the shock of the cold water reaching bare skin. Goose bumps prickle my arms. Another minute is spent playing with my watch while I mentally gear up for that moment when I will dunk the rest of my body into what is now feeling like the icy depths of the Arctic Ocean.
There is some more mental back and forth until finally, I can’t delay any longer or I will be late for work. I press the start button on my watch and push off from the wall. My face is the last thing to enter the water.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mom Knows Best
I was sitting in the saddle on a ticking time bomb instead of our typically placid, relaxed half-Arab mare. I could feel every firing muscle fiber vibrate from Whisper’s back through the saddle, igniting my own twitching fear. It traveled through my seat, down my arms to my hands now clamped on the reins.
I was 10 years old, heading into my first native costume class at an Arab horse show in Springfield. It was a summer Saturday night and the light from the indoor arena melted out onto the blacktop where groups of horses and riders were waiting for their class to be called into the arena.
A native costume class at an Arabian horse show looks like the set of Lawrence of Arabia meets the Hollywood strip. Sequins, spangles and jewels decorate upholstery-covered saddles, braided bridles, harem pants and capes. Horses are judged at a walk, canter and hand-gallop both ways of the arena.
It is a fun, glitzy class and I had waited not so patiently for my turn to show Whisper in a native costume class. My mom had shown her in the same class at other shows and the mare didn’t mind the glitz and glamour. She was an even-tempered, steady horse who gave you an honest ride. Not much rattled her. But she was rattled and scared on this Saturday night. Buggies and carts were rolling out of the arena from the previous class and Whisper was terrified of buggies. This might have been her worst nightmare come true… buggies and carts were everywhere around her. Poor Whisper!
My mom held the mare still while my dad boosted me up. As soon as my butt settled into the saddle, I could feel Whisper’s terror. And my mom, at the mare’s head, could see the fear glazing over Whisper’s eyes. With her hands gripping the reins, Mom moved the mare forward, which happened in a stiff-legged frog leap. Shod hooves clattered and skidded on slick pavement. When I dared to open my eyes and look at my mom, I saw a grim look of worry quickly masked by attempted calm cross her face.
“Get off” she muttered to me. “Get off now.”
Mom was scared, which didn’t happen often. But I, usually an extremely timid rider, squeaked a tremulous “No.”
I was terrified but I also had waited a long time to show in this class. I was determined that I would at least make a few circuits around the arena. That is when Mom did what moms do: she led me through the gate and instead of letting us go after passing through the gate, she continued to lead me and our frog-leaping mare down the rail as the rest of the class filled in behind us, far behind us, thankfully! The arena organ, normally pounding out “At a Persian Market” for a costume class, was silent. All eyes watched Whisper lurch her way down the rail, my mother determinedly in tow. The only sounds were the snorts blasting from Whisper’s nostrils, the thud of her hooves as dug into the tanbark for the next leap and my mom’s quiet repetition of “Walk, Whisper, easy.” Finally, when we reached the end of the straightaway, Whisper stopped her lurching and the judge calmly spoke.
“I think you can let her go now, Mom.” Mom didn’t say a word but turned her head and looked at me, eyebrows raised in question. She wasn’t letting go because someone was telling her to do it. She was going to be sure I was ready for her to let go.
“Okay.” I answered. I was still scared but I knew it was time. Her hands left the reins and she turned and walked out of the arena. I was on my own.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Fun and Lessons Learned at the Auction
I attended my first auction this past weekend—it was quite the learning experience! The location was a photography studio that closed after over 60 years of business. It was rather sad that a business that had been such a fixture in town for so long was shuttered and being auctioned off piece by piece. I heard the refrain “I had my senior photo taken here” uttered several times by auction attendees. However, I was familiar with the studio and needed some new props in my own studio so off my husband and I went to the auction to see what could be had.
I had initially thought I would only be looking to purchase photography and studio equipment but I got my feet wet with a $.50 bid on some blue glass Ball jars. I ended up getting not only the Ball jars but a bunch of glassware and coffee mugs... all for $.50! That got the adrenaline going pretty quickly. Before I knew it, I had my box of blue Ball jars, four boxes of glassware and coffee cups, a box of old light meters and flash equipment and a Mamiya 645 medium format camera. And I was still under $100. How exciting!
Then came the learning experience part. All of the props were gathered as one lot with the highest bidder getting to choose which pieces they wanted. Somehow, I interpreted that as the highest bidder got to take as many pieces of the lot for their bid price... so not the case! You get each piece for the bid price. So I chose six of the best pieces from the lot. I was so excited (inwardly, though, because it’s not cool to look too excited at these auctions!) Imagine the bargain I thought I had! Then I happened to glance at the auction sheet and saw my total. I about keeled over once I did the math in my head but it certainly was too late to put the items back. After I recovered my wits, I found my husband and told him of my new purchases to which he laughingly replied, “I thought you knew what ‘choice’ meant!” Ha, ha, so did I! I certainly do now!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I am a photographer.
I have worked other jobs and I have several titles in life. I am a mom, a wife, and a daughter. I’ve been a paralegal, manager of a retail store, aerobics instructor, cheerleading coach. I’ve worked as a data entry clerk, a secretary, a graphic designer. But one thing has remained constant throughout all segments of my life and that is my love of creating photographs.
It started with a Canon AE-1 that I “borrowed” from my dad when I was in college (he is still waiting to get it back!) I worked on the college yearbook and wanted to shoot some football. With AE-1 in tow, I stepped onto the sidelines of a game and I was hooked. I loved the action, the excitement, the blood, sweat and tears and I loved the idea that I could capture it all on film and relive it at a later date.
Today, I do portrait work, focusing on babies and children, high school seniors, pets and horses and occasionally, a little high school football. While the subject matter may have changed, I am still in love with the idea that I can borrow a small moment in time while capturing the emotions and personalities of the people or animals that I am photographing. Time stands still when I am on a shoot and all that matters is the subject I am focused on.
I see in pictures, even when I don’t have a camera in hand. Photography has made me stop rushing through life and look for a moment that makes me smile, tugs on my heart or takes my breath away. It is a bonus when I do have a camera in hand and can store that moment forever. That is why I am a photographer.
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